The Silence at the End of Time

Note: Leibniz and Kant postulate that time is part of a fundamental intellectual structure (together with space and number) within which humans sequence and compare events.  Without humanity there is no time.

No ranting pastors preaching hate,
and exclusion without Jesus.
All quiet from the imams teaching
religious violence frees us.

Black Friday long has passed,
we’ve consumed it all away:
our depleted planet barren
in the light of a sadder day.

The one percenters’ struggle
to have it all has failed,
and society’s poor can no longer see
injustice against which they railed.

There is no birdsong spreading joy,
in this orb so bleak and sere:
and no inuksuk now remains
to say that we were here.

Corporate and military adventurists
crumbled into karmic dust;
as policies of greed, and depletion,
untempered by empathy must.

We refuse to plan for tomorrow;
instead we wallow in our waste and grime:
our arrogance ensures our species shan’t hear
the silence at the end of time.

It Must Be Me

Surely the headlines every day,
and the carnage that we see,
are fictitious misinformation:
     or it could just be me.

So much anger, betrayal of trust,
dislocation, war, calamity,
with no sign of social enlightenment:
     but that could just be me.

Politicians telling lies,
messages saying we are free,
just shop until you drop, and take your pills:
     then perhaps it is just me.

Flags flying, heroes, martial music plays,
while we sip our coffee, drink our tea.
Military adventurism rules:
     or is it all just me?

Has the mountain of evolved society
shattered into tribal skree?
Are we capable of making a better world,
     or does it only bother me?

So I shall continue to hope for the best,
and see what tomorrow may be.
We could make our world a paradise,
     if we stop thinking “me.”

Against the Wall

  

The crypt coldness 
of the alley walls 
always bothered her 
even more than
the bad breath 
of her furtive clients.
Her thin shoulders 
were bruised and scraped 
by the bricks, 
as the speed of fiscal passion 
abraded foreplay.

Her working clothes 
were a hentai fantasy; 
short, with slits 
and scoop;
and a mile of leg 
disappearing 
into leather micro. 
Her eyes held that look 
of reflective knowledge 
found only in the better work 
of a few Dutch Masters.

The mind-place 
she visited while working 
was an old friend 
from a lost childhood:
a place to which 
she continued to be drawn, 
even after learning 
her test was positive.

On the Passing of a Friend

We all have our moments
when, perusing the past,
we chronicle our lives;
sorting events and changes
from first to last:
our friends, our mistakes, and our drives.

We all have our moments,
when a friend has been lost,
to reflect on what we could have said;
perhaps to have given more of ourselves
not counting the time nor the cost:
now that friend, like that moment, has fled.

We all have our moments,
when tears have been shed,
with regrets and remorse tucked away.
We can smile in remembrance
of things done or said,
and be with him then, each day.

Liturgy for Social Media

Breathe.
Ignore ignorance.
Do not become depressed
by the lack of societal empathy
reflected here.
Breathe.

Breathe.
Do not be sucked into the morass of false news.
Forgive stupidity, and do not respond to it.
Avoid the slimy vortex of hate posts.
This is a product of conditioning,
and is used by governments/corporations to mould
the audience that they would enslave.
Breathe.

Breathe.
Do not be drawn into policy statements:
your opinion will never change the ethos of a closed mind.
Do not invest anything of yourself.
Breathe.

Air Vent Requiem

His muttered dialogue with Jesus
was apologetic and respectful,
politely drawing that Deity’s attention
to cosmic oversights.

The supermarket cart,
full of strange lumps and extrusions,
seemed a natural extension of self.
His eyes never viewed
a potential acquisition directly:
they fluttered, like children’s wishes,
skirting the object of desire,
until, overcome by belief,
he would pounce.

The temperature drop,
that negated the meagre warmth
of the hot air vent that was his home,
temporarily interrupted
his celestial conversation.

In the thin morning light,
the cart stands guard
over the still and huddled body,
like some alien monument
commemorating a battle
few have known.

October Changes

Waking this morning, I felt
that all my nerves
were dangling,
quivering
like the last leaves
of some ancient autumnal oak,
awaiting the quick
sharp
merciful
breath of a north wind.

Later this morning, I felt
that all my senses
were growing
pulsing
like the first buds
of some young and vernal oak,
quickening in the warm
sweet
fresh
winds of spring.

Extrapolating this afternoon,
good humour recovered,
chuckling,
chortling,
at my germinating metaphor
on the oak of life:
my brain an acorn green,
small,
fragile,
but still to grow.

Not Unlike A Fruit Loop

(New to series:  Progression: These Are The Best Days Of My Life)

You can’t bring me down
with your tiny mind,
running around its hamster wheel.
You can’t harsh my buzz
with derisive words
of hate and dogmatic zeal.

You may think that you’ve found
an answer or two,
to invalidate all that I’ve said,
but your answers are stock,
without substance or proof:
now begone!  Get out of my head!

You tire me out, and I can’t make sense
of most of what you say:
your grammar and syntax abused.
Volume can’t replace content,
nor can myth replace fact,
but simplicity keeps you amused.

I am reminded of a fruit loop,
composed of nothing real,
and bright colours artificial:
one could eat the whole box
and be left with the thought
that this really is nothing special.

So I’ll just walk away and salvage
what little remains of my reason:
I’m not sure that you’ll know I have gone.
You will find some other ear to bend
and prattle away until it bleeds:
in the end, you will stand all alone.

Letting Go: The Lesson of the Mandala

(New to series:  Progression:  The Best Days of my Life)

Realities change:
the arrow of time is random
and chaotic.
Aging changes, often drastically,
the notion of self,
and to dwell upon what was
contaminates the joy of Now.

Release those acquaintances
who cannot become friends;
Cease endless dogmatic dialogues
containing faith, belief, and prayer.
Set free the essence of the young adult
you were so long ago;
Let go innate politeness
that makes excuses for the rude.
Dispense your focus on societal sadness,
embrace both love and peace.
Liberate your mind, controlled too long
by corporate Newspeak.
Unchain the propaganda
preaching tribal exclusivity.
Just let go
to Become.

Impermanence is the foundation
upon which each life is built,
and acceptance is to understand
the fullness of what is.
Letting go does not subtract,
but fulfills, enhancing
who you are.

Theoretical Paranoia

Sometimes, awake at night,
I fear that I shall find
my synapses all firing
in someone else’s mind.

As solid sleep eludes me
I can’t leave it unsaid,
through quantum entanglement,
I’m in some other’s head.

Or perhaps I could be walking,
just strolling with my dog,
visualizing strangeness that exists
in this quantum fog.

Is that a bird that I see,
or a leaf?  But then again,
it may be a weirdness peering
from a multi-dimensional brane.

With vibrating strings humming
through all that I’ve learned,
connecting the unseen and bizarre,
I’ll admit I’m a trifle concerned.

So many hypotheses in my thoughts
make me so tired and weary,
I’ll contemplate the Mandelbrot Set,
and switch to Chaos theory.