The park,
an oasis of green calm
threatened by a desert
of office towers,
was the place,
favoured
by the avatars
of the fiscal god Chaos,
for a quick lunch
and smoke.
Precisely
at one-o-five
he would shamble
to his special bench,
across from the
pigeon toilet
that resembled
Robbie Burns,
and sorted contents
of the green bin
into three piles:
lunch,
refundable cans or bottles,
and unusables.
He shared
his recycled,
second-hand lunch
with pigeons, sparrows, squirrels,
and the odd curious seagull.
His guests were
frequently frightened away
by the strength and violence
of his repeated cough,
as his advanced infection
brought this urban
Saint Francis of Assisi
daily closer
to his lonely martyrdom.
His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.
The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
mind more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.
Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into the traffic.
The stiffness of the morning
will s l o w l y
work its way
out of tired joints.
Bland breakfasts
ensure
regularity,
a welcomed monotony.
Well-planned days
permit
no dismal contemplation
of tomorrow.
We are Yesterday’s children,
remembering too well,
the heat and the passion,
the beauty that was ours.
Hearing echoes
of past glories,
we sojourn here today,
until,
like dreams
and memories,
we gently
fade
away.
You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.
You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating,
ethereal
movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.
They drift
quietly,
gently,
on the edge
of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.
If we chance
to pause,
to peer beyond
the drifting veil,
we see,
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.
It hung on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
Quick access for a visit to the “outer world”,
that mask fit my soul like a kiss.
Unexpected door bells caused panic and confusion
that sorted themselves,
as the mask told me what I must do.
Inside was stark,
with rooms both bright and dark,
horrible, yet ecstatic,
threatening, yet titillating.
In one spartan tower
the poet suffered
the sure and certain knowledge
that he should never write again.
In the ballroom, the grande dame
told all what to believe,
how to behave.
The lower level prison
held one who had forgotten
all he ever knew.
The madman smiled,
striding corridors of opportunity,
and planning...planning...
The hermit meditated,
becoming something completely strange,
and different,
from his enlightened self.
The acceptable mask
awaits on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
The occupants are restless:
which shall don the “acceptable” mask,
and face the world?
Grey wrinkles on a pallid face,
eroded by the wearing pace
of life,
and the arrow of time.
Deep pathways carved by tears
for loved ones gone for years:
in memory
living proud and strong.
Captured on our aging skin,
echoes of love that dwell within
carve deep
our sense of loss.
Ancient canyons wrought by grief,
as time rushed by us like a thief:
a monument
to loss, and love.
I have never had looks,
and have long had no hair.
My feet are malformed
from a childhood of wearing
small shoes, for too long.
Struggles with my weight
have always been with me,
and my eyes are failing,
as my hearing fades.
Rosacea blots my wrinkled skin,
and my eyebrows are bushy, unruly,
and white.
My faults are self-catalogued,
and I’ve learned to embrace them,
and have come to accept
who I am.
What I have going for me,
that gives me much joy,
is a Mensa entry test
in top one percent.
My vocabulary,
though archaic, and dull,
is vast, relentlessly controlled
by grammar police within.
My quest for knowledge
is constant, epistemologically based.
Ontology is a recent friend,
with whom I spend much time.
Philosophy, cosmology,
and quantum physics
vie for my fickle attention.
So much to think about,
and so little time,
that I often become overwhelmed.
So when you say that my musings
may be considered grandiose by some,
I think your horizons are nearer than mine,
and you have no idea just who I am.
I feel the chill wind
of irrelevance
drafting under the door
of my reality.
Trapped in the slipstream
from the cannonball of time,
I am swept along,
battered by objects
that I cannot avoid.
A frail transparency
envelopes me,
and the strength of my youth
is but a memory
that smells of past summers.
My focus fades,
as dark clouds block the sun,
and I am unable to recover
a smile that has been missing
far too long.
Tomorrow will be different
I say, wondering as I speak,
if I can escape the vortex
of today, to bask in the light
of a sun just faintly remembered.
Looking in a mirror
I see an old man
who is almost translucent,
and not quite here.
It is easier to have a routine,
but easy is an ugly word,
and my life has never
been routine.
Walking the dog
through snow-clogged lanes,
I dance between
Northern Ontario,
and the mountains
above Srinagar.
Treading lightly,
I walk through the pines
of Desierto de los Leones,
above Mexico City,
and walk the treeline
at Popocatépetl,
stunned at being,
amazed at being here,
overwhelmed at being here, now.
Dog and I return,
through our own pines,
and check the bird feeders.
A time lurch,
and I am on the verandah
at the Asa Wright Centre
in Trinidad,
watching the birds feeding:
neon colours on wings.
Glitch...and I silently watch
a dancing peacock
in Yala National Park,
in Sri Lanka,
only a kilometre away
from a beach where waves break
in an ocean that stretches
to Antarctica.
Inside, with fresh coffee,
I am shifted to a hotel
on the ski slopes of
Ceausescu’s Romania,
drinking a cappuccino
the taste of which
I shall never forget.
It is easier to have a routine,
to stay focussed on the present,
but easy was never the name
of the highways
upon which I have travelled.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
