The Night That Music Died

On February 3rd, 1959, Ray Greene, myself and another friend of Ray's were spending the weekend at Rays's home in Whitefish, Ontario, just outside of Sudbury. I had the weekend off from my night watchman job at Algom Nordic, and Ray and his friend were working as cleaners at a Crawley McCracken construction camp at the new Elliot Lake Hospital site.

We were rocking and rolling at a local dance, when someone walked in and told us that Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper had just died in a plane crash. We were devastated...we knew the words to every song that both Buddy and Richie sang, and just loved J. P. Richardson's "Chantilly Lace." In true 50s' style, we pooled our resources and went to the nearest bootlegger where we purchased, and consumed, a mickey of Captain Morgan Black and a mickey of Tradition Rye Whiskey.

We stumbled back through the winter night to Ray's home singing the complete repetoire, albeit not very tunefully.

By the time Don McLean wrote about "the day the music died" in his 1971 song, American Pie, I had travelled far afield from the mines of Elliot Lake, and had lost touch with Ray. Rock and Roll, however, still lived on through several incarnations.

Rock on, Buddy, Richie, and J. P. Rock and Roll will never die (although presently it may be said to need a transfusion).

Suddenly Senior

Suddenly I’m old,
and this mind,
that feels the same as when I was nineteen,
struggles with that fact.

How did this happen?
I was just living my life,
dealing day to day
with the joys and pitfalls of our Path.
I tried to be a good friend,
a helpful neighbour,
a dependable father,
a sensitive lover,
and I suppose old age sneaked by me
when I wasn’t looking.

Oh, I am happy and content
with my life:
I wouldn’t change it
should some magic djinn
grant me that wish.
It is just that age surprised me
while I was otherwise occupied,
and I resent that
just a bit.

There are things left for me to do
that are more difficult for the elderly,
so I shall just have to try a little harder,
be a little more determined,
than the youth I thought I was.
I’ll continue to work out with Joe Weider’s help,
and take long walks with my friendly beagle,
and find excuses to run up and down stairs.
Watching my diet is fun,
and isn’t it amazing how much garbage
manufacturers put in processed food;
astounding how many chemicals
find their way onto our tables?

I’ll stretch my mind through contemplating
the Universal Balance.
I’ll try to understand why
so many of us just will not see
a larger Picture,
and work to make life better for all,
rather than blindly consuming, hating,
and seeking, rather than Enlightenment,
instant gratification.

I’m a senior now: I am old,
but that does not mean
I must become a neo-conservative,
and wear polyester trousers,
hiked up around my chest.
I do not have to abandon
my nineteen year old heart.

Tomorrow I’ll be older,
but in this joyous Now
I still am me.

Winter Dreaming

Winter Dreaming

I dream a dream that is my life,
and reality exists solely
within that state.

I awake each day
into a world that changes little of my Truth.
My pathway stretches before me,
but I am careful to examine
only those surroundings
that are defined by Now.
This Dharma-road may, I could surmise,
consist of a linear infinity
leading to Forever.  It might, instead,
be as Natraj’s flaming circle
of birth, destruction, and rebirth,
in which the old is forever renewed.
It may, however, be like
a Mobius Strip sketched by Escher,
leading me always 
over the same anguishes and ecstasies,
forever new, but the same.

In this Universe of immeasurable distances,
of unfathomable mysteries,
in which our feeble understanding
causes us to create
mad deities, hungry for sacrifice,
for punishment,
for obedience,
in return for their protection
from an eternal darkness
that even they
cannot understand,
I dream my dream.

I dream a dream that is my life,
and reality exists solely
within that state,
     and that reality is Now.

Existence as an Ant on a Mobius Strip

What if? Why not?
In our journey through an existence where so much is a mystery so vast that we cannot even begin to skirt the edge
of understanding,
a little imagination cannot be a hindrance.
To close our minds to what may be
would confirm our existence
as an ant
on a Mobius Strip.

Christmas Holidays

Grey follows grey,
cascading through November
into December:
washed-out days
falling like the pages
of those animated calendars
in old B movies
indicating
passage of time.

Rain and sleet
driven by persistent easterlies,
chiselling at the foundation
of human patience,
seeping insidiously
into our pleasant equanimity,
and fogging soggy reason.

Relief then,
as suddenly the Season
is upon us.
Friends call,
relatives visit,
and festive lights
create magical spaces
enhanced by holiday smells
of spiced wine,
and steaming puddings.

Familiar music soothes tired soul,
and the laughter of children
brings fond remembrance
of absent friends,
of departed loved ones
whose presence is still strongly felt
in this time of love shared.

The temperature drops,
and pregnant clouds deliver
a gift of pure
and silent snow:
a vignette of Peace
in a season of Joy.

Early November at Greyhavens

Autumn Morning at Greyhavens

The Barn Watches

Window Ablaze

Southwest 1

Southwest 2

Green, with variations of Grey(havens)

Barn Burning

This is one of those wonderful fall days, with drizzle in the air, the wind from the south, laden with the smell of salt and the far-off tropics. On the verandah it is like being on the bridge of a ship in a gale, plowing through a seascape of pines, hills, roads, and grasses.

Greyhavens Morning: October 9, 2008

Tai Torii: Harmony Spirit Gate

Father and Son

Oh I know that I provided 
the mandatory basics:
food, clothing, shelter.
But it goes beyond that:
it’s about the wonder
of observing development,
watching the dawn
of understanding.
And feeling your delight and joy,
aching with your pain, 
and waiting with your anger:
about trying to give
some small insight
into me,
so that you could, knowing me,
recognise more of you.
And keeping a constant supply
of love for you,
stressing its vital importance
in life.

But we never played sports,
(I was not that kind of dad)
and I fear that I neglected
to give you choice.
We never spent close time together,
(you were as solitary as I)
and I feel we missed something
that we were too privately busy
to find together.
And, in asking what you thought,
I listened, but never really heard,
the marvel that is you.

You were older than I thought
in your life,
and,
now that you have grown,
I find myself searching
for your lost youth.
And wondering if the pain 
of our separation
will ever fade.

Brahman’s Blossom

If I have made
my mark on you, my child,
and instilled within your heart
any of that brave stuff
which is my essence,
   I have done that which I was placed
   in this time to do.

If one seed has been planted
that blossoms into knowledge
it took so long to glean;
one kernel of eternal Truth
that arrived in me so late,
   my long fallow has ended,
   and my stewardship is done.

If eternity approaches
and I return my Brahman spark,
leaving some small word
that I have spoken
to flourish in your life,
   then that Spark will glow brighter
   for having sheltered within you.