Points of View

Thus must it always be:
all points of view converge in me.

My view holds currency:
it is correct.
In other views
veracity is suspect.
You prattle about vision,
while shaming the truth;
but your message is crude,
with crafting uncouth.

With the strength of right
I ignore what you say.
Your ideas are wrong:
now just go away.
Facts you state
are known to be lies,
while my point of view
is all-knowing and wise.

Just think, and you will surely see,
the mantle of truth is worn by me.

Sun Dapples On Maple Leaves

The October sun paints
with a stained glass brush
upon majestic orange maples.
The trees themselves
are preparing,
through divesting foliage,
for winter meditation.

The gentle tapestry
reminds of the innocence,
the joy, the love,
embraced by many,
oh so long ago,
in the Sixties.
The dapples bring to mind
the visual pleasure
of paisley,
of day-glo,
of sandals,
and tranquillity.

The westering sun
ushers evening’s chill,
as the old man remembers
a world that was not quite ready
to give peace a chance.

(Poetic Series:  Cannabis and Creative Cognition:  strain Durban Poison)

Skirting the Void

(umm)

(umm)

Heaviness assails senses.
Thought becomes static.
Alternatives do not exist.
Hiatus becomes eternal.

(umm)

Gravity envelopes.
Sensory acuity falters,
diminishing to infinity,
as concept redefines reality.

(umm)

A slow, heavy return,
girded by renewed intentions,
bolstered by the exhilaration
of skirting the void.

(Aum)

(Part of series: Cannabis and Creative Cognition: Bubba OG)

A Contemplation of the Wind

Consider for a moment:
a primordial sludge,
undisturbed by the evolution
of life.
Imagine, if you would,
the movement of air
across the lifeless planet.

Nitrogen reigns supreme,
and moving air
contains that same nitrogen
that was wafting
over a young,
but fecund,
planet.

Part of that wind
shook the banners
of Alexander the Great,
ruffled the robes of Gautama
beneath his leafy Bo,
and gave K'ung fu-tzu
pause for thought.

The winds that refresh
our every breath
have been shared
by others
who have fallen
to history’s march:
but the breeze continues.

Let us learn from the wind,
moving endlessly
through the lives of others.
Like a gentle soothing breeze,
let us offer succour,
relief and comfort,
and move, quietly, on our way.

Note:  Part of series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition, Strain:  Flowerbomb Kush

Thunderhead

The heavy stillness
is tempered only
by an errant breeze,
confused by its direction.

The birds are unnaturally quiet,
except for one radical crow,
whose warning goes unheeded,
unanswered.

The trees are solemn,
paying witness to another day,
in days filled with green
and the message of renewal.

The man and his dog
contemplate a society
in which hate and bigotry
seem a global canker.

Corporations rule,
and educate populists
incapable of learning,
but longing for the yoke.

Politicians don their jackboots
to march to the corporate anthem
their masters play:
“Of the people, for the people” is a joke.

The man knows lightning will strike:
it will be random;
it will be unexpected.
On his hill, however, tranquillity protects.

On the horizon,
every day now,
or so it seems,
darkness builds, and threatens.

Note:  Part of series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  Inspired by Bubba Kush

The Panic Room

When the dulling din of populism
assails me with the hate;
when the plastic politicians’ words
affect my mental state;
I lock myself in my panic room
before it is too late.

Each day we’re assailed
with broadsides of dumb,
and volleys of drooling stupidity:
I’d better run before brain is numb.
The locks are strong and they should hold
before the assault that must come.

What ever happened to peace and love,
altruism, and high ideals?
The fierce anthems of tribalism
resemble lemmings’ squeals.
In my soundproof room I shall be safe
while the bell of bigotry peals.

I’ve been here for some time,
and supplies are low,
so, thinking here in the quiet,
I decide that tomorrow out I shall go.
With kindred spirits we’ll shape a world
where empathy and reason can grow.

Illusory Correlation

Our senses state this must be so:
has it not always been this way?
Media confirms that fable is fact,
it is happening every day.

When misperception is encouraged
through repeated misrepresentation,
the lines are blurred between
the truth, and complete fabrication.

We live in a world where hate abounds,
peopled by believers in superstition.
Why doesn’t love and peace become
the default human condition?

So nothing is truly as it appears,
and facts may present as illusions.
Our species isn’t evolving:
we just can’t draw sound conclusions.

Catacombs

Cool and dark,
smelling of age,
and death.
Ossuaries stacked
with the remnants
     of dreams,
     of pain,
     of potential
          unattained.

We are all
keepers of our crypts;
and attend faithfully
to the remains
of that which
     has gone,
     has passed,
     has disappeared
          into time.

We must take time,
make the effort,
and rise to the light,
leaving dust and death
to entomb themselves:
     we would shine;
     we could triumph;
     we would wonder
          in the bright new morning.

Living on the Edge of the World

There is no view forward
from the edge of the world;
it is obscured, with shimmering grey.
It is only through looking
behind us
we can make the end go away.

Behind are plastic politicians
polluting our heads
with ideals of destruction and hate.
Receptive masses do not understand:
comprehension will arrive
much too late.

The scene behind us is directed
by those who serve only themselves:
their manipulations are vast.
The puppets respond with violence,
intolerance, and brutish pride:
time for reconciliation has passed.

It is comfortable here,
at the edge of the world,
but we continue to look behind.
We seem unable to learn
from our bloodstained tale:
we must now accept what we find.

Fragmentation

Clouds, soft and fecund,
punctuate a sky relentless
in the pink promise of evening.

     Humidity hangs like a shroud,                                         The past presents a poignant pain
      giving shelter to myriad bugs,                                             neither cured, nor improved,
    and encouraging fantasies of sun.                                            by the medication of time.

The dead road-kill crow
offered visual recompense
to the folly of life.

   One sole loon laughed sardonically                                       The spaces between jackpine
       at the thought of carefree fish                                         and populist spruce guard access
              only metres below.                                                           to a mossy living magic.

In a random and chaotic universe
expecting the unexpected
guarantees nothing.

                                                      There is a lesson to be learned
                                                  or perhaps a moral to be discerned,
                                                    but interpretation is left to Janus.




NOTE:  This poem is part of a series, Cannabis and Creative Cognition.
The inspiration came from Cookie Puss.
See link for strain and genetics.
https://cannasos.com/strains/hybrid/cookie-puss