Her eyes shone,
bright with anticipation,
fuelled by
the wondrous thought
of six perfect hours
at the mall.
Proud and bouncing steps
punctuated her chatter:
makeup colours,
heels and straps,
trademark sensitive,
and, "Did you see his hair?
It's just, like, soooo academy."
Or, "I'm so like, totally
not taking his Text.”
The thrill of belonging,
with her own kind;
the thought of being
devastatingly witty;
the certainty of being
so understated, cool;
the fact of “in”, so
absolutely now:
foundation feelings
for a fragile psyche.
She just totally detested
the filth of the side street
leading to the mall:
she and her friends
stepped carefully
around the sidewalk urchins,
and tiptoed gracefully,
on fashionably shod feet,
past the scattered detritus
of a world she would not see.
To view a mossy forest glade;
to linger in a jackpine’s shade;
to taste an icy mountain creek,
and wish with all your heart
that you were on that mountain peak,
and that you were a part
of the solitude.
To walk a dusty country road;
to know a bullfrog from a toad;
to watch the waves break on the beach,
and taste the wind-blown spray,
and stand beyond the breakers’ reach
until the end of day.
And the wind was warm.
To lie there in your upstairs room;
to smell the summer’s sweet perfume;
to ponder on your passing youth,
and hum a mournful song,
but still you just can’t face the truth
that the days aren’t quite so long,
for now it’s autumn.
His thin shoulders
hunched
against the chill
evening mist,
he surveyed
the oncoming cars
with a weary look
of superior
disdain.
The weariness
within
belied
his sixteen years.
He longed
for the peace
of his shabby room,
the distracting noise
and diversion
of his Xbox.
The Audi slowed...
stopped.
Power window lowered,
terms and conditions
discussed.
The boy noted the tie,
the service club
lapel pin,
and hated the man
nearly as much
as the abusive father,
now
far
away.
Some of us stay,
to watch planes fly overhead,
and feel the surge of transfer season wanderlust
once again.
Others leave,
and take one final look at people and places
in a location that they had briefly
called home.
Some friendships forged,
some personalities clashed:
and we were all part of each other’s lives
for this short time.
Years from now
Personnel will publish names:
transitional changes. And we will all
remember today.
Underneath
the glossy veneer
of attitude,
the cracks,
wrought
by imposed
self-doubt,
g r o w w i d e r.
The anger,
long hidden
by sadness
and confusion,
g r o w s:
the cancer
infests
yet another
young
s
o
u
l.
She
sits quietly,
near the window,
eyes nervously
tracking
remembered pain.
She
does not know
where
she will go
when
frugal municipal funds
force closure
on her shelter.
She
still believes
if she had tried
harder,
if she were
a better person,
he would never
have hurt her.
A kaleidoscope of colour and sound:
here, a grove of bamboo poles
waving strips of bright cloth
call for the blessing of revered
and ancient Gods
on an East Indian wedding;
there, the explosion of Stabroek Market
scatters vendors’ stalls across
the old Dutch square.
Papaws and mangoes vie
with books, tee-shirts,
music tapes and CDs:
the sound of Bollywood
competes culturally with
urgent soca and hip-hop
as stall-owners musically flaunt
their ethnic roots.
Beyond the Clock Tower
the Demerara flows in muddy splendour
patiently supporting
motley bum-boats, freighters,
fishing boats, and
the occasional Amerindian dugout.
The ghosts of the Jonestown dead
wander here, betrayed
by their leader’s selfish view
of Heaven.
The Seawall protects this small city,
where a system of dykes,
and drainage ditches
return high tide seepage,
the skill of the Dutch founders
still evident today.
With wooden buildings,
and gun-carrying diamond miners,
this frontier town offers temporary shelter
from the encroaching, and pervasive jungle,
that waits just miles away.
As custodians of this beautiful,
resource-rich country,
these descendants of African slaves,
of indentured East Indians,
have blended their collective experience
into unique forms of politics,
art, music, cuisine,
and a melodic language
that baffles and delights
the foreign ear.
Part Caribbean, part South American,
these capable people
take the best of both worlds,
and make it unmistakeably
their own.
Smiles flashing,
like memories
of some distant sun,
they pursue
the soccer ball
with feral glee.
Their communication
is joyous,
a staccato burst,
an ethnic melange
born of the urgency
of the streets.
They are aware,
but do not see
the syringes, condoms,
empty bottles;
an alternate reality
from another world.
Dealers, junkies,
pros, and winos:
all known and greeted equally
by these small,
energetic
dreams of tomorrow.
HMCS Bonaventure, 1966,
off Montevideo,
alone on a darkened flight deck
watching stars cascade
into a southern sea.
Bergen, 1963,
standing on Mount Fløyen,
amazed by the tiny city below,
gazing down the fjord,
protected by green hills.
Srinigar, 1986,
the shikara driver
poled his craft slowly
along the quiet water streets
beneath the bowing chinar trees.
Flying over the Alps, 1980,
proud, iconic Matterhorn
not far beneath our wings:
mountain sentinels fearlessly protecting
small verdant Switzerland.
Valetta, Malta, 1985,
old fortifications framing
the perfect harbour
rimmed with small boats,
talismanic eyes painted on their bows.
Rishikesh, upper Ganges, 1997,
with the scent of local charas
providing an olfactory mantra
for pilgrims off-loading bad karma
in the holy river.
Greyhavens, Jeddore Harbour,2016,
the old man and his beagle
listen to the birds in the pines,
sensing other horizons, shimmering,
just a reality away.
* Brain Damage, by Pink Floyd
“In physical cosmology, the Planck epoch (or Planck era), named after Max Planck, is the earliest period of time in the history of the universe, from zero to approximately 10-43 seconds (Planck time), during which, it is believed, quantum effects of gravity were significant. One could also say that it is the earliest moment in time, as the Planck time is perhaps the shortest possible interval of time, and the Planck epoch lasted only this brief instant.” ~Wikipedia
We wander, confused, through our lives,
involved, concerned, and seeking.
We hope for clarity, and wisdom,
but struggle with depression,
and doubt.
So much is beyond our feeble understanding
that we feel inadequate, and lost.
We work for routine, to carry us forward,
and to provide a solid foundation
for dreams.
Our lives seem to stretch to forever,
but a chaotic and random universe
constantly surprises, and defies planning,
and often proves how brief, how flickering,
is our passage.
Considering all that happened
in the brevity of the Planck epoch,
our lives seem eternal,
and our accomplishments
are mundane.
Given the vast timeline of our lives,
we must conquer chaotic expansion,
and focus, not on the Planck constant,
but on each fleeting moment
that remains.
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
