Lockdown

...and I have become
more threatened
more enfeebled
more focussed on the micro
letting the macro monster roam free
and out of my mind

...and I have developed mechanisms
whereby
I do not think ahead
I do not anticipate
I do not speculate
but by this diverse,
and constricting,
route
I avoid tomorrow

change will come
but it will be a nuanced change
a change of social consciousness
a change fomented today
while we are locked down
in our various ways
in our varied lives
waiting
to go slowly forward
into 
our 
shared
tomorrow...

Washing My Hands

It all comes down to this, then.
Manic hand cleansing:

no beseeching of the uncaring gods:
no besmirching of immigration policies:
no longing for other days that
forever
have passed.


We share, with our cleansing routine,
a commonality 
that long has been lost,
if
     it
          ever
                    existed
at all.

The parameters have been reset.
The future is ours
for
     the 
               making.

Be secure in your loneliness,
knowing,
                 paradoxically,
that you are not 
                                                        alone.

Count to tomorrow,
then simply
scrub
again.

Repeat.

The Ripple Effect

If life is
but a pebble in
this eternal  ocean of time,
how can we ever really begin to know
upon what exotic, strange and wondrous shores
the effect of our actions will roll towards, and expend?
Just a simple splash, a random wave, and the ripple begins.
Speeding ever outward, seeking resolution in harbour or shore;
the change that we have wrought will become, perhaps, catastrophe,
or vibrant inspiration, in ways we cannot know as we struggle
to keep afloat.  Perhaps this distance amplified breaker
will attain tsunami strength and speed, and crash
upon some quiet beach, bringing change
and pain.  Or, from some peaceful bay
the wave prisms radiant sunset,
offering solace and refuge
from a busy world
that simply
does not
care.

The Sentinel

It stood,
as duty
demanded.
The timeline
stretched
back                            back                     back
to verdant,
to other
times.

It stood,
as mute
witness
to devastation.
Time changed,
and millennia
became centuries
became decades
became years.

The sentinel
witnessed
those fleeting
those tragic
those final
moments,
until it fell,
and
      the
           timeline


ceased.

Constellations

Each point of light
a sparkling memory
brightening existential night.
Friends and foe,
and nemeses abound,
in a shimmering cosmic glow.

Family, present and past,
brighten our galaxy
with loving stellar cast.
Memories of pain
eclipsed by love,
sparkle again and again.

These twinkling recollections
guide us through the dark
with the warmth of our reflections.
One wonders if they will be gone,
in the rapidly encroaching
inevitability of dawn.

The Web

A captive there,
compelled to stay,
transfixed by arachnid multi-gaze,
he could not look away.

Vibrations spoke
with eternity’s voice,
and a frozen calm
removed all choice.

Here, then,
at the very end of time,
his reality
is symmetry,
is perfection of design,
and the final beauty
of each moment.

Stepping Back

It is easy to become involved,
but hard to step away
from something important to you
that you encounter every day.
With deeper contemplation
confusion simply grows,
and your cognitive dissonance                                         Free from emotional baggage;
offers credence to your foes.                                         away from conditioned response,                                                                                                       truth has a way of illuminating,
Remove yourself from the burden:                                           and of changing
step back and look away.                                                          all who can see.
Find a light and happy place,
and forget the eternal fray.
Free from constant involvement,
logic will weave its spell
and the sudden light will clarify
the shadows, dark and fell.

Into The Mooning Glow

When life overwhelms me,
and my spirit is low,
I seek shelter and solace
in the mooning glow.

Security and comfort
are in the silver light,
as Selene sails serene
through the magic night.

This nocturnal haven
commands that Chaos cease:
a mantra of reflection
ensures continued peace.

The splendour of the night
points where I must go:
into the shining temple
that is the mooning glow.

Venerating the Past, and Seasonal Affective Disorder

At this time of year, many of us are affected by memories of the past, of the way things were, of how great it was in the good old days.  It is past time to examine those memories, and, rather than long for those days, appreciate them for the contribution that they made to whom you are today.

Get over it!  We live and we die.  In between we do the best we can with what we have, but to dwell on a past that we have built up to be the epitome of what things should be, is fallacious, and subtracts greatly from the here and now.

Enjoy your memories, but live in the present!

The Textures of Autumn

The cedar rocking chair
on the south verandah
is cooler to the old man’s touch,
but the effortless rocking
is unchanged.

The jackpines reach
for a layered sky,
where the blue,
though darkened
by the westering sun,
has a solidity that allows
passage to legions
of graying cumulus clouds.

The orangeness of the late-season light
provides impressionist contrast
to the silhouette of the leafless maples,
the last leaves crumpled
in a root-blanket beneath
the dark, slim, naked branches.
A lone bluejay laments,
from the torii,
the passing of the light.

The beagle finds a warm place
by the brick chimney,
safely clear of the man’s
rocking meditation.

Down the harbour
the palette knife
of the November breeze
plays Marc Chagall
to merge a vibrant sea and sky.

There is an anthem in the wind:
a triumphant paean
to change, to death, to renewal.
The man acknowledges
the lessons of the scene,
sighs,
and takes the dog inside.