The God Machine

Watched BBC's Beautiful Minds: Richard Dawkins, and was driven, this morning, to pen the following. To my religious friends, of all faiths, this is not meant to denigrate your beliefs, simply to clarify mine. Enjoy, and be open.

The God Machine

There dwells, deep within our minds,
a thought that, in many ways,
we share with our ancestors,
way back in caveman days.

Our lives were short and brutal then,
as we struggled to survive:
we grasped at anything that might
just help us stay alive.

Our elders wove fables
of supernatural beings,
who directed our fragile lives,
all-knowing and all-seeing.

We took all of our wise men,
prophets and visionaries,
and lifted them to godhood,
with the zeal of missionaries.

Gautama was the first to go,
with his gentle ways and thought:
his acolytes worshipped the man,
not the wisdom he had brought.

Sweet Jesus, with his love for all,
and message of personal peace,
was elevated to the godhead
by greedy Nicaea’s priests.

Muhammad, the great unifier,
and social engineer,
was glorified by united tribes,
who listened but did not hear.

Thus it goes, on and on,
passed down through the ages:
we disregard the message,
but deify the sages.

We possess a mighty intellect
but are condemned to perdition,
by disdaining common sense,
and embracing superstition.

~James Douglas Fanning, 23 May, 2012 at Greyhavens

Flirting With The Past

We all speak of the way things were,
the way things used to be,
but we must beware distortion
in the lens through which we see.

Events and people in our past,
coloured by passing years,
are glorified by love and respect:
we forget their pain and fears.

Those people and events define
who we’ve become today,
and tint our thoughts and actions
in each and every way.

Consider though, they were like us,
and products of their age:
they struggled, loved, lived and died,
each of them, rogue or sage.

The danger is to glorify
those who have gone before;
to think that things were better
in those distant days of yore.

They gave to us genetic gifts
so we’d evolve and grow,
and walk proudly in this future
that they would never know.

To yearn for return to a simpler past
is dangerously atavistic,
and dishonours those genetic gifts
with a view far too simplistic.

Like Biblical talents, our inheritance
should be to honour our traditions,
and not be buried, deep in time,
but to better our conditions.

Remember fondly those who have passed,
and love and praise them well,
but what atavism sees as Utopia,
may have been a personal hell.

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.