Putting The Decorations Away

The festive season has passed,
and, although echoes
of the love,
the togetherness,
have fallen victim to time,
warm memories remain.

January shivers through my soul,
but sparks vivid cameos
of Christmases past,
and of the people
who once decorated
other trees,
unwrapped other presents,
and bestowed
heart-felt hugs
on my awestruck youth.

In the bleak mid-winter freeze,
the memory-box is unpacked,
and each of the contents examined
through the lens of love.
Relatives, both near and far,
living and dead,
are remembered fully,
in glorious colour,
with their wondrous idiosyncracies
in full and loving view.

The mind-rush continues,
through poignant thoughts
of growing children,
finding their way,
and sharing their laughter
and their light
as, inexorably,
they march towards
who they are today, fortified
by the sense of together.

The decorations have gone
for yet another year,
but the memories
of seasons shared
will never
be forgotten.

Anger In The Street
a poetic series
by
James Douglas Fanning

Bouquet For Anger

Please take your anger
and just walk away:
your righteousness is not a cure,
and injustice still prevails.

Please don’t diminish me,
in your rage:
you have no idea
who I am.

Please take your outrage
to someone
who cares less about the cause
you proclaim to espouse.

Please know you are right,
from your point of view,
and all others are wrong;
your chorus is off-key.

Please set aside your tantrum
and instruct, not berate,
people want to understand,
not through demonization.

Please take a breath or two:
breathe, and release:
we are not your enemies,
but travellers on tomorrow’s march.

Loss of Concentration

Sparkle!
Whoops, here I go
                              again. 
The shadows
     of the maple
          contrasting the torii
               on this cold
                    this crisp
                         this perfect
winter day.
                          Twinkle!
Oh no.  Not another link
to research
on the far reaches
of the InterWorld.
“Will it enhance my life?”
I always feel it will.
All knowledge is

Enhancement

fills this moment,
anticipates the next,
and chronicles the past.
Sort of a sparkly,
                                     distracting,
existentialism,
but with
(wait for it)
enhancement.

The Kaleidoscope of Truth

(Series: Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  Ref: Leafly “AK-47")

The sparkle is compelling,
like dew on a pitcher plant,
and it calls
in a siren’s voice,
and changes
yet again.

Twist the tube,
and another shimmering version
transforms the verity
of the cylinder:
yours is different
from mine.

(and this is where attention strays
and wanders
amongst the mirrors:
so many reflections;
shining interpretations
of individual truths)

The scope drops,
and mirrors shatter,
leaving only glittering shards
of realities that are
anathema to all
but one.

A December Fog

Droplets of fog hung, expectant,
in autumn air scented
by composting leaves.
The dog kept to his duties,
marking anew a territory
that, to his doggy mind,
stretched far beyond
this strip of road.

Time stopped.

The droplets are metaphors
for the contents
of the poisoned cornucopia
that spews

fake news, hate, bigotry, manipulation,
tribalism, nativism, exceptionalism,
entitlement, greed, cruelty,
and other rotted products
of a devolving species

daily on the paths of our lives.

Dog trots happily
on our path
through this young December day,
while across the bay
a pallid sun
brushes away the fog.

Landscape, Without Perspective

(Cannabis, and Creative Cognition series. See Leafly.com “AK-47"
with a sprinkling of kief)

Today’s reality is
shaded, altered, and perverted
by the ignorant haze,
by the brutish hatred
that surrounds the jackboots
of populism.

The strident voices
of demagogues
deafen reason,
while martial music
and patriotic memes
excite the simple.

Our resources,
our jobs, and social progression
are being dismantled,
as we are told
that the magical sleight of hand
trickle down effect
will bring betterment for all.

Our planet is dying,
populations on the move.
Wars and economic adventurism
cause feeding frenzies
for the one percent,
while migration becomes
sole alternative to decimation.

Today’s reality is
dirty, cruel, and self-serving.
Traditionalists all,
we cling to a past that
did not work for us,
while praising gods and people who do not care.

Mea Culpa

Mea culpa,
and responsibility is mine.
Species disappeared at my hand.
It is my fault.

Mea culpa,
as industries turned
the skies to grey,
and the rains to poison.

The fault is mine,
as my god demanded hate,
not love:
patriotism loves a parade.

I take the blame,
but have waited too long:
I should have questioned, but now
the answer is here.

The guilt is mine,
and the near future looms
as a sere and lifeless globe.
Mea culpa.  I am humankind.

Dancing Naked To The October Moon

(Series Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  
Ref: Leafly.com “Sour Nuken”)

Well perhaps naked is too strong a word:
my moccasins saved my blushes.
The south garden, under my jackpines,
was no more a garden
than I was naked:
we were both clothed in the chill light
of a soaring Autumn moon.

And the song of the pines
spoke to the pagan in my genes,
telling me all to be known
is enthroned in this light
and sung by the west breeze
with promises of renewal.

And if there were more to be said,
it would be stylized by my outstretched arms
embracing moonlight
on a vibrant hill
overlooking the Atlantic,
just down the silver reach.

October Processional

(Part of the series:  Cannabis, and Creative Cognition.   Reference Leafly.com "Romulan")

The flight of a lonely seagull, crying,
across a westering sky,
seems a cosmic metaphor
with the meaning not quite clear.

The clarity of the harbour’s reach,
bending with lodestone truth
towards a hidden sea:
frozen moment in a transient beauty.

Thoughts skip to and fro
across a multi-dimensional Rorschach,
sometimes winning credibility:
more often not.

It seems that Autumn has arrived.
She brings her own time,
and colours her personal agenda
with crisp memories of peace.