Old Man, At Peace

In this winter of my life
I have no need to seek
relief in tropic climes.
RVing to Arizona
is not where I would be,
for canopied visits with my peers,
none of whom think like me.
Neither a golfing trip
to Florida with fellow codgers
driving bellies round groomed tees,
nor a visit to the Legion
to relive foreign wars,
reviving ancient wounds.
Tearing through pristine wood
on an ATV, whose energy output
would power a third world village...
not the life for me.

Instead, the introspective way,
reflection, thought, and peace,
where seasonal winds speak
in my pines, 
and sunsets break my heart.
Exploring walks with my dog,
through alternate realities,
and reflecting on where we are,
compared to where we could be.
Family and friends visit here,
and leave as much as they take away:
warm memories, and a sense of “us”,
sustaining through our days.

I stand here, in a cosmic Now,
with illusions as my friends,
contemplating the possibility
that Reality never ends.

Life Cycles

Swirling leaves of autumn,
death that follows birth,
Natraj’s ring of fire,
the spinning of our Earth;
frigid deep December gales,
the flowers of early June,
our seasonal trip around the sun,
the phases of the moon:
lives wrapped in cyclic ritual,
counting off our days,
trying to find meaning
in our karmic haze.

Given the shape of circles,
this conclusion’s not profound:
when you cut away the dogma,
what goes ‘round comes around.

Chronological Paradox

Conditioned by optimism,

we look on Time

as a forward progression.

“The march of time,”

“Here today, gone tomorrow,”

and other aphorisms

sprinkle our languages,

offering folksy wisdom

to guide our lives.

Yet as we age,

and friends, relatives, current events,

calamities, and catastrophes,

march inexorably into a past

that regresses at a logarithmic speed

away from our static present,

we are confronted daily

by Time’s ultimate paradox:

we sprinkle away our grains of time

frivolously, reflecting on yesterday,

fretting about tomorrow,

when all we need,

all that we are, and,
ultimately,
all we really have

is Now.

All Roads Are Taken

This is a tribute to Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken”, with a nod to the amazing laws of Quantum Physics

All Roads Are Taken

A fork in my Path appeared ahead,

and with quantum physics as my guide,

I suspended logic, and, with little dread,

used multi-worlds theory in its stead,

and followed both branches, as yet untried.

In this Reality, I continued on,

while another me trudged the other way.

As time passed, the branch was gone,

and, without regret, I walked alone,

but think of other roads each day.

Other choices would, I knew, appear,

and I’d travel each, as another me.

I’d face each decision without fear,

knowing, that, while I stay here,

different horizons my “others” see.

With this Illusion passed away,

peering through the undergrowth,

another me will stand and say,

“I’ll save this route for another day,”

but will end up travelling both!

Aspects of Peace

One aspect of Peace

is a dark and cloudy day on the Harbour,

with the fog not quite hiding

a glimpse of Eternity

just beyond the Mackerel Islands,

with the chilling westerly breeze

seducing the pines with a whisper.

One aspect of Peace

is the bird tracks

across the lap of the Buddha

sitting in my south garden,

and the scattering of sunflower seed husks

creating a winter Rorschach

on the snow beneath the feeder.

One aspect of Peace

is the persistence of my beagle

reminding me that it is time...

time to walk, time to explore,

time to revel in the magical world

where time and illusion are suspended,

and we walk in the underlying Reality.

One aspect of Peace

is the knowledge that,

in a Universe of infinite possibilities,

all outcomes are available,

and sometimes it takes

the determination of my dog

to sense the Path through Now.

Viewpoint

From the nexus
of multiple realities
each of us surveys
our own unique universe.

Compassion softens intersections,
while ignorance crystallises
fault lines
that shatter Cosmic balance.

Brahman’s Blink

Once upon a time-space continuum
an illusory universe flickered briefly
into existence.
In a distant corner of that illusion
there was a small blue-green planet
onto which evolved a life-form
that thought of themselves
as the centre of that universe.

Simultaneously, and separated
only by a mathematical concept,
endless other universes existed,
in which infinite illusory probabilities
played their variations
on a cosmic theme.

On the small blue-green planet
people invented gods
that gave power and control to some,
and death and servitude to others.
The various gods demanded exclusivity,
and abhorred tolerance,
preferring instead
sacrifice, obedience,
blind acceptance, and, often,
death.

Death was eagerly embraced,
and seen as an entry
to the magical kingdoms
of the multitudinous gods:
rewards for the faithful.

The history of the god inventors
was filled with strife,
with war and persecution,
with demonising of others,
with marginalising of many,
with famine in the midst of plenty,
with hardship for billions,
while thousands lived
a fantasy of obscene luxury.
A few controlled,
while the mass bowed servile heads.

One day Brahman blinked a cosmic blink,
and our illusion brushed against
one of the countless others,
and everything changed,
as Reality dawned
in a better Now.

A Senior’s Moment

Not the cane,
nor the shuffling gait;
not forgetting the day,
and often the date;
not the glasses,
nor my dimming sight;
not those dreadful times
when memory takes flight:
     these are not me.

Not the prostate,
too large for too long;
not forgetting the name
to my favourite song;
not missing the words
that my loved one says;
not the memories that crowd
from younger days:
     these are not me.

Not the wistful smile
upon seeing my reflection;
nor the amount of time I spend
on deep introspection;
not the sensitivity
to every new ache and pain;
nor the knowledge that
I’d do it all again:
     these are not me.

The real me is witty,
and alert, and bright;
that me can always find
the word that’s just right.
That me could converse,
and could dance all night long;
and knew the words
to every song:
     I remember me well.

So I go on aging,
day after day,
and sometimes forget
what I’m trying to say;
but that’s really not me,
for deep down inside
another me enjoys life
with eyes open wide:
     that’s who I am.

Diminished Responsibility

Her pregnancy, only minutes from term,
gave her the look of a tumbleweed
as she stumbled
through killing December cold.
Sally Ann band on windswept corner
marked the passage of one whose experience
was the cosmic opposite of their celestial joy:
''...crib for His bed
the little Lord..."

With labour pains almost constant
she turned into the alley,
sheltering in the shadow of
a green dumpster, which exhorted
a more affluent society to
"Keep our City Clean."
She squatted as her water broke,
and cursed her most recent companion
for throwing her out
when her condition
invalidated her use to him.
She blasted her last two rocks
in the lifeline of her pipe,
and suddenly
“God!”
it was done.

The investigative team
discovered the icy creche
near the area where
the Paras had found her,
collapsed,
in the street.
The rookie swore
when he opened
the dumpster,
quick tears freezing
on his cheeks,
while in the distance,
the Army concluded their ministry
with "O Holy Night."

The Christmas Tree Box

We have a plywood box that we had made in Abu Dhabi in 1984.  We use for storing our artificial tree purchased at Eaton's West Mall, Nepean, in 1983. We used the box (about 4 ft x 2 1/2 x 2 1/2 ft) to take with us in our 15 ft Piranha boat. We had a sponge cushion made so the box could act as a seat. When we left Abu Dhabi for Guyana, we packed our tree in the boat box.
Our tree had a home that lasted until this moment.
We unpacked the tree in Guyana in 1986, 87, and 88.
Dublin was home for two unpackings, in 1989 and 1990.
1991, 1992, 1993 saw the tree unpacked at our house on Orchid Lane, Diego Martin, Port of Spain.
1994 and 1995 saw the festivities at Craig Henry, Nepean.
1996, 1997, 1998, saw the tree unpacked in New Delhi. First at D7/9 Vasant Vihar, then in SQ D2 on the Canadian High Commission compound on Shantipath.
1999 and onwards sees our tree well set in its routine of jumping into the box after the Season is over, and resting quietly, while it thinks of distant Christmases, departed friends and family, and loved ones and family around the world.

Our tree doesn't dream of the baby Jesus, nor choirs of angels.
Our tree doesn't dream of little match girls, or snowmen flying through the air.
Our tree dreams a strong and powerful dream of Peace, and each year when we unpack that tree, Peace prevails throughout Greyhavens.