The Populist Palestinian Reckoning

 

Palestinians living in Gaza are burning tires

and throwing rocks in protest, not against their

usual target but toward registering their deep

discontent with a tyrannical rule that Hamas

has ensnared them with to represent a living

arsenal of hatred and violence against Jews in

Israel they have been incited to blame for their

misfortunes, a diversion from identifying and

revolting against a rule that has diminished 

their lives and their livelihoods, a blame-device

as old as history itself used and abused by

historical governments mismanaging the

affairs of state while persuading their citizens

the fault lies with Jews. The old blood libel

to instill hate flies in the face of the reality of their

children used as pawns, taught the rudiments of

guerrilla warfare, sent to the front lines of the

conflict Hamas keeps alive even as their children

face death as they attack the targeted soldiers

of the Jewish state. Deprived of their young

and of the basic civic amenities of civilized

life apportioned to supporters of the rulers

they despise, they gather to express their outrage

against a government whose sole mandate is

the destruction of a neighbouring state, the

well-being of its own population irrelevant.

Canada Awokened

Let it be known far and wide that Canada

has progressed in hitherto-unimagined ways

under the steady hand of a First Minister who

has led the way to the future for other nations

wishing to attain the ultimate state of perfect

balance between government and the services

it magnanimously offers its most fortunate of

citizens, and always with their best interests

top of mind while bringing the country to the

brink of social perfection. A signal program

of cost-cutting while providing an essential

service has Canada offering MAID assistance

to the ill and the elderly soon to be extended

to those of mental frailty and astute children

who choose medical assistance in dying over

a universal health system inadequate to their

needs. Ah, a boon to those valuing mood

enhancers, the legalization of marijuana yet

teetering since users prefer the pricing of the

illegal marketers. Oh of course empathy for

the drug-addicted where service centres offer

good-quality opioids and all the paraphernalia

required, but puzzlingly overdose deaths remain

on the increase. Love of children has led this

government to lead the way in enabling swift

gender transitioning in an aura of LGBTQ-2+     

eminence uplifting in its dedication to pure

equality. There are times when governments

are hard pressed to serve their citizens but if

a deadly pandemic strikes lockdowns and

censuring of vaccine deniers serves the public

interest and those who resist dictates served notice

they must repent, as racists and homophobes.

Violent crime perpetrated by society's unfortunates

must not be criminalized in perpetuity for such

is abandonment of human rights to life and

liberty. Any among the populace who find

fault with this impeccable Trudeau formula

know their place; in the dungeon of dudgeon.

 

 

The Gardener's Dream

 

In idle moments the thought may occur that

the greatest artist the world has ever known

searches endlessly beyond time and the span

of any human life to identify the latent talent

of those with a propensity to muse on the

beauty of nature's other offspring and to them

she confers an unspoken and subtle guidance

in the art of gardening instilling in their

subconscious a nurturing love of creation

guiding plants to thrive and produce the very

essence of life. These ardent understudies

gifted with aesthetic and tender regard for all

that is green view themselves in the ultimate

conceit as Mother Nature's starring pupils.

 

 

The Self-Flagellation of White Society

The worm has turned ... to become a

venomous serpent, its tongue spiked with

spite as it circles its victims with derision

and blame for historical human failings

that reach back just far enough to loath

the white imperialist slavers who took both

inspiration and assistance from the worm's

coevals skilled in tribal warfare and slavery.

The misery of victimhood and the infamy

of slavers have bequeathed gifts upon the

inheritors of another rite of human history

where now the victims glory in their Black

suffering and the inheritors of their white

persecutors are doomed to penance while

society at large shifts a burden of guilt on

one and the pleasure of exacting vengeance

on the other, turning the lance of steely

condemnation to cauterize the wound and

inflict it now upon the censure-absorbing

descendants familiarly known as supremacists.

There is no escape from the accusations in

this era of equality, inclusion and diversity.

You are either a liberated victim or an odious

unreconstructed white supremacist. There are

no agencies of society, academia, commerce or

government that have not committed to erasing

white privilege. The raging fever of victim

and wronged in its reversal is remorseless.

 

 

 

To The Exalted, With Anguished Appeal

Who, then, might have imagined that the

omnipotent might have need of a personal

therapist to nod in empathy and recommend

avenues of recovery from the disequilibrium

brought upon his sensibilities through the ebb

and flow of human misadventure calling upon

his auspices to favour the exploits of yet

another pathological warmonger while the

victims, valorous in their response but yet

quavering and wavering over a painful outcome

call out for justice in the name of all that is

sacred. Authorizing the executive prelate of

the Russian Orthodox faith in his exalted name

to praise deadly attacks on the faithful of the

Ukrainian Orthodox Church the Almighty has

chosen to forsake both to the Angel of Death

delegated to referee the Game of Life's Disposal

in essence washing His hands of the blood shed

so generously, favouring non-interference in

humanity's dramas that engage the Holy Spirit.

 

 

Maligned and Misruled

Hosanna! Canada has been transformed

at long last to the cherished status of

a benevolent dictatorship courtesy of a man

raised and nurtured in the bosom of the

divine right of familial succession to rule

and divide. One born to the role of raising

a nation for its own good from the muck and

mire of delusional normalcy as a democracy

to a vaunted post-national state where honour

is gained by deploring the benighted culture and

verities of the past, declaring them racist and

unworthy, embracing in their stead the inclusion

equality and diversity long established through

the nation's constitutional Charter of Rights and

Freedoms now embellished with contemptful

recognition of its historical white privilege 

mandating cringing acknowledgement of the

racist divide in the most multicultural country

the world has ever known. Yet belaboured by a

prime minister who sneers at those he labels as

racist, misogynist, homophobic, anti-refugee while

methodically and with purpose unravelling all

that has made the country the pride of its citizens.

Ravening, Rapacious, Rampaging Nature

Migod, the unspeakable misery
of this mountainous kingdom
by the sea offering haven to the
hapless dross of humankind.
Nature indifferently, unhesitatingly
sacrificing the helpless to the
unremitting fury of her earthly
devices, unleashing hurricanes,
volcanic eruptions, earthquakes
and hugely inescapable tsunamis.

Migod, the pathetic cries of the
injured, the trapped, the elderly,
the infants, crying piteously, and alone.
Migod, salvation from painful,
lingering death. Children, injured,
fearful and exhausted, trapped and
sleeping fitfully among the mass of
decomposing bodies that once were
their parents, grandparents,
uncles and aunts, assuring life.

Migod, the atrocious meaninglessness
of it all, the horrendous outcome,
this disaster of inanimate, inexorably
drifting, crushing crusts of this Earth,
manoeuvring endlessly under
this globe's vast, depthless oceans.
The unspeakable tragedy of those
so frequently assaulted, living
precariously, penuriously, bordering
starvation, felled now, utterly.

Migod, the world looks on stunned,
thankful themselves to have
escaped that dreadful calamity,
frantically mustering human and
material life-saving resources:
"something must be done!" to
assuage their own guilt, and to
proffer humanitarian aid, even while
the afflicted, needs unmet, wander
dazed, amazed and seeped through
with sorrow and dread.

 

Way Cool

 

What could be cooler than a new
touchscreen cellphone? Not much, as
evidenced by the wheedling anxiety
expressed by a grandchild whose
original cellphone was in dire physical
straits a mere year-and-a-half into
its meticulous ownership. Fatigue, the
grandparents nod to one another
knowingly; any device used unsparingly
to send thousands of silly little text
messages signifying nothing, would
be guaranteed to collapse into itself.

Even cellphones are prone to exhaustion
evidently. And as objects of utility,
entertainment and communication, they
must be replaced often and upgraded, in
recognition and obeisance to their due.
Anything, she pleaded, she would forego
anything at all, if granted her heart's desire.
And so, reluctantly, the pathetic shell
of the previous marvel exchanged for new.

New cellphone finally in hand, pleasure
and gratefulness spill forth in equal measure
as cool new advances in technology are
unveiled with the whispered passage of a
finger over the light-featured screen.
Deeply absorbed in the ritual of discovery
and the entry of contacts, the adventure of
gleeful possession punctuates another rite
of passage, an emerging litany of potentials.

 

 

Being An Other

 

I may be old now but I too was once young and

I remember.  I remember 80 years ago that I

wasn't certain I wanted to be a girl and flirted

with the notion I was a secret boy and could

do anything I wanted that a boy could, why not?

It was a secret between me and myself and

one that came complete with choreographic

episodes distinctly ungirl-like that gave me

satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment.

I could do it, I could be whatever I thought I

would want to be! Girls couldn't be rough and

tumble about, but I could and though no one

remarked directly there were some sideway

glances and soon I was named a Tom-boy

perhaps the next best thing to being a boy. I

could retain my inconvenient identification

as a girl yet develop my personality as a boy.

I swaggered when I walked, and surreptitiously

looked around to see whether anyone noticed

my duality, looking like a girl but being a boy.

Then it happened, suddenly I was 14 and I

wanted to be a girl when I met a boy who

looked and behaved exactly like the one I

dreamed of but never succeeded in being.

 

 

That Universal Bloodlust

There are simply some human instincts

beyond appraisal and explanation. When a

fallacy becomes a passionate belief belying

reason it asserts itself as a mass paranoia

a sociopathology whose firm visceral

presence motivates believers to emote

their hostility in words and measures that

cannot be mistaken for what it is not. It is not

the result of experience nor necessarily of

personal direct knowledge. It is not an antipathy

based on observable reality. It has, in its

morbid stealth infiltratred receptive minds to

the rank message of exclusion and savage

parody. In its most recent manifestation it sits

securely in the subconscious of committed

progressives that the harbinger of all ills

lives among the innocent of the world, and

must be expunged. A viral campaign of resolute

cancellation, first appearance and persuasion

and then an incisive collective dismissal aided

by declarations of an intention of obliteration

inadvertently interrupted and perhaps the time

has arrived to mount a new and more effective

method of excising that ancient enemy of

humanity from its traditional podium of 

influence in manipulating the world order.

Just Kidding Around

 

The well-drained bottle stood on the night table, beside it their two drained glasses from last night. He lay on the bed, naked, splendidly masculine. The early morning light escaping tentatively through the folds of the sheer window draperies illuminated his taut, muscular form. How she’d wanted him. With, it seemed to her, an urgency never before experienced. Something special about this guy and she had been so certain of his response.

She raised herself, resting on an elbow. Watched his slow regular breathing, chest rising in regular motions emphasizing that depression between stomach and chest. She reached over, stroked his groin area. No response. She leaned over him, kissed his forehead. Then slipped her face down over his, leaving kisses along the way. He groaned slightly, turned on his side and she sat up.

She padded over to the bathroom, and back. Insinuated herself beside him, spooned her form into his and gyrated. He mumbled something about feeling hellish. Screw that, she told herself. She turned back to face him, nuzzled his chin. No response. A little playful game might help, she told herself. She slid off the bed and passed into her kitchen. A little jab, she said to herself, selecting one of the knives in the drawer. That would make him sit up. They’d laugh, a joke. He would find it amusing, he would tease her for the level of her determination.

She’d loved it when a former lover had whispered to her how mad he was for her ‘raven’ hair. Now that was odd, made him kind of stand out since most of the men she’d been with hadn’t hesitated to rave about her breasts, her long, curved legs, her satiny-smooth skin. There was even once, briefly, a foot fetishist. She adored having a lover cup her breasts, her buttocks, get really hot beyond self-control. She liked the variety every bit as much as men did, and why shouldn’t she?

She’d known women that even she had admired. And those women were so uncertain of themselves, so enfeebled by the thought that no one would love them for anything but their physical perfection. They wanted to be appreciated for other things. They envisaged themselves being abandoned once youth had lapsed. She’d known others who hadn’t cared, just concerned with making the most of what they had while they had it.

She was in neither camp. She had abundant self-confidence. She was more than prepared to live life her way. Didn’t look forward to anyone telling her how that way should be. It didn’t bother her one iota that there were no marriage prospects, since she wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship. She’d had lovers who were, and who were clearly disappointed to discover their aspirations weren’t met by hers. What did bother her was that, now in her mid-30s, she had to face the fact that there would be fewer modelling assignments coming her way.

Not that she looked her age; anything but. She was graceful, slim, her skin endowed still with that dewy freshness that exemplified youth. The hair, her gleaming black hair, it was the only traitor. When she brushed it back off her forehead, off the sides of her head, she noted emerging grey. She’d hardly visualized having to colour her hair so soon, and she resented that.

He was obviously younger than her. After he’d revealed his age - a casual revelation relating to his recent MBA graduation, she just let him go on thinking her age matched his. She’d never before met a man with thick, curling eyelashes, wavy dark hair against a dark, smooth complexion and perfectly symmetrical facial features. He seemed as casually unaware of the effect his appearance had on others as she tried so hard to project, herself.

First time she’d seen him there, and she’d been there often enough. Often enough that she felt comfortable, relaxed about approaching him. Gratified to see the usual response lighting his eyes. They talked, shared a few more drinks, and she invited him to her apartment. They walked, it wasn’t all that far, and it was a pleasant, early fall evening. There was a cooling breeze, they kicked dried leaves off the path as they entered the park close to her apartment. She remembered talking about her regret at leaving university, even though at the time she felt it was the right thing to do for herself.

He was easy to talk to, didn’t seem to feel at all awkward, as so many guys did, being with someone like her. They always, at first, treated her like a porcelain doll. As though they couldn’t believe their luck, picking up this dish. Gloating at envious glances. Other guys watching them as they left. Where to? Well, mostly back to her apartment.

It was a nice apartment, in a good part of town. But then money was no object. Apart from what she earned there was always her family; father to be precise. Her mother constantly worried about her daughter’s finances, knowing nothing of her former husband's generosity. She always told her mother that her finances were her own business and she divulged nothing about her savings, let alone what her social life was like.

Her mother hadn’t exactly been the very best mentor. At least that’s what her father had always hurled at her mother. As though she’d have been different if her exposure to her parents’ lives had been different. Fact was, they knew absolutely nothing about her, and she preferred it that way.

All those years, oblivious to her needs as a kid, now they’re suddenly there when they’re no longer needed. Her father sending those regular guilt-assuaging cheques. Her mother’s irritating calls to tell her how lonely she was. Guess the young studs weren’t quite as available. Move in with her? Not likely, not bloody likely.

“But dear, you don’t have to work!” her mother complained. "You don't have to live there."

“But Mother, I love my work. Why would I give it up?”

“Virginia, you love being noticed, you love flaunting yourself. Modelling isn’t the only way you can achieve that satisfaction”.

Now that infuriated her, that her mother would make the assumption that what motivated her also did her daughter. There was more to her than that. She had a brain, she could think for herself, make responsible decisions. Unlike her mother whom her father always upbraided for being a brainless twit.

Besides which, she’d had a tutor in personal relationships, one who took an interest in her. Who’d given her that encouraging start in making choices. She was thirteen when her father raged and threatened her mother over her truly stupid indiscretions. He’d never bothered when she slept around with men he didn’t know. It seemed to bother him when she had had a month-long fling with the son of one of his business partners.

Uncle Geoff made her feel a whole lot better. About herself. About everything, all the shit that went down in her life. He was really good about it. She was the one in control, not him. If she said stop, or not now, he'd never press her.

It was only natural he’d be the one she would call.

“Geoff, it’s something awful, horrible, I don’t even know how to tell you”, she babbled, words running together.

“Gilly” he said, in that cool detached way he had, “pull yourself together. I can hear you’re in trouble, but I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happened. Try again. Talk slowly, take a big breath, and get everything together”, he ordered in his sane way. The kind of controlled saneness that got him where he sat today, a government bigwig.

She shuddered, forced back her panic, breathed heavily, and sighed relief. “Right”, she said. “I’ll give it a go”. And she explained in rushed sentences, with pauses between each, to give her time to put her thoughts together, trying to inform him in such a manner that he might not outright condemn her for stupidity.

“Geoff, I’ve got this guy in my bed. I invited him. I really liked him. I was preparing for a good time. We were going to have really great sex. And we did, we had a great time… You know… ” Her long pause brought an encouraging response.

“All right, Gilly, so what’s wrong? What happened? He’s still there?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. He’s still here. He … he’s dead, Geoff”.

“Dead? What do you mean? Some young guy, and he’s dead? What happened?”

“I … I … I don’t know how to say this, Geoff. It was an accident, I can’t remember how it happened. I had this knife, see, and I thought I would just fool around, prod him with it. He was lying in my bed, doing nothing. I couldn’t get him aroused. I was confused, Geoff.”

“Confused?” Ginny, you were pissed off? Were you drinking?”

“Yes, that’s it. We were drinking. We met in that pub over the way, you know, the one I took you to last time you were here?”

“Okay, Gin, take it easy, you’re starting to sound a little hysterical. What happened?”

“What … happened? I guess I kind of lost it. I don’t remember, but that must have been what happened.”

“Lost it. All right. You were angry-drunk. You’re sure he’s dead? Did you try to take a pulse?”

“He’s dead! I know he is … he’s dead. What do I do?”

“Now listen carefully, Ginny. I’m not sure what happened with you. And it’s fairly clear that you don’t quite know either. You were drunk, not in full possession of your faculties. That’s kind of extenuating … circumstances.”

“Yes!”, she sobbed. “I don’t know what happened, I really liked the guy. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was like that knife had a life of its own. I just meant to kind of poke it at him, gently, you know? I did, I just touched him with it. He sat up, looked at me with those big deer eyes, I could see he was fearful. Geoff, that made me feel kind of good, seeing him like that. I guess I must’ve just kept going.”

“Kept going? You mean you really stabbed him. Where?”

“Um, oh God, this is horrible, I can’t take it. This is killing me”, she sobbed.

“Where, Ginny, where did you stab him? Get yourself together. C’mon, let’s hear it.”

“In … in his chest. I guess in his chest. Maybe a little lower down, too. More than once, you know?”

“I see. Now listen to me, listen carefully. You’ve said you don’t remember.”

“Yes, I don’t, not really. I must’ve blanked out for a minute or two. When I came to, I saw him lying there, blood oozing. He wasn’t breathing. His chest was absolutely still. His eyes were still open. He still looked scared. It was horrible. It is horrible, he’s still there!”, she lapsed again into sobs.

“Ginny, now listen. First thing, don’t touch anything. Leave everything the way it is. Leave him alone, don’t touch him.”

“As though I would! I couldn’t touch him if I wanted to!”, she cried.

“Ginny, stop that. You can’t afford to be hysterical. Here’s what I want you to do. Call 911.”

“911?”

“Yes, just as soon as you’re off the phone with me. I’ll be coming … no, I can’t. You can’t let it be known that you spoke with me. You’ve got to let it appear as though the first thing you did when you became totally aware of what happened, his condition ... that you dialled emergency. Call them, and it’s all right if you sound a little out of it when you do, because that’s understandable. Under the circumstances.”

“All right Geoff, I’ll do that. And then what do I do, what do I tell them?”

“You’ll tell them everything, everything you told me. Emphasize your grief. Make certain they’re aware of your … innocence of intent. That it was an accident. You're utterly distraught, contrite, horribly upset. That you hadn’t intended to kill the guy. He’s nude, you said?”

“Yes, he is, yes. We were making love. Only it didn’t happen. That’s why, I guess … “

“Never mind that!” he said sharply. Don’t speculate about why you reacted as you did. Just describe the situation. The knife, where was it? In the kitchen? Say you brought it into the bedroom for a practical purpose.”

“Practical? Like to use it for something else? Like kind of to pry the cork out of a wine bottle kind of?”

“That’s my girl! That’ll do nicely. That’s your story. Got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it. Geoff, thanks. You know I wouldn’t go to anyone else for advice. Geoff, it’s horrible. I must be a monster to have done something like that! I feel awful. He’s got parents, he’s only a kid, he’s only 20. What’ll I say to them?”

“One thing at a time, kiddo. Just play it as it goes. First call emergency. Then you’ll have to deal with the police. There’s plenty of time before you’ll have to face his parents. That’ll likely occur in court.”

“Court? In court?”

“Ginny, there’ll be a trial. Sorry kid, but you’ll have to go through with that. There’s no way this can be covered up. Someone’s dead. You killed the guy. But ... there’s extenuating circumstances, you’ve got to play that card.”

“Yes, right”, she said.

 

The Tyrant Syndrome

Cold, merciless vengeance strikes to compensate the

rage a tyrant feels when his ambitions are thwarted 

and there is no force of nature or humanity to tweak

the barest remnant of conscience in a man who saw fit 

to dispense with it long ago in his aspirational scheme 

to restore pride in a nation that had once humbled and

diminished the pride of other nations by usurping their 

sovereign authority affixing it squarely under its own 

reigning with the pretense of a benign unity while looting

the resources of its hapless satellites and slaughtering 

en masse any who might protest. The inheritor of the 

tyranny himself disposed to usurpation of his neighbours' 

liberty as a hegemon whose purpose is to 're-unify' the

trembling others under his command as a ruthless autocrat 

never shirks at using any stratagem of violent coercion 

to amplify his power and ambition. No daintily humane 

and universally recognized wartime inhibitions give him

pause as he lethally assaults civilians and their puny 

shelters and civil infrastructure. And nor is humanitarian 

trade meant to succor lesser nations from the despair of 

cold and hunger beyond his reach as he orders the destruction

of foodstuffs meant to sustain far off nations in famine.

The Fullness of Time

When all else seems lost 

in the push and tug of time

the ebb and flow of our lives

there is left to us memory

and there are those treasured

albums not only in our minds

but those we so carefully

arrange chronologically as

photographs, an accounting

of joy and happiness when

fortune smiled and all was well.

Once young and vibrant,

expectant and hopeful,

living and loving our days

and finally arriving at the future

to discover the new reality

of deprivation when life turns

to loss and grief seeks proof

that happiness and the 

comfort of expanding time

once sweetly housed our dreams.

 

 

 

Bread and Circuses

It is a venerable site, a fabled destination of 

grisly entertainment for a people who turned

out in great numbers to enthusiastically

choose favourites among the slaves, the

conquered prisons of war, the criminals

among them for whom freedom and life

would be granted if they succeeded in combat

defending themselves from the equally

desperate criminals, slaves, prisoners all

seeking the award of thumbs up and liberty.

This, in the splendid city of Rome, the center

and beating heart of the Roman Empire

whose Emperors sent their centurions their

legionaries and tribunes to pacify the savage

tribes seeking to free themselves from

Roman occupation, like the Judaeans in

the province of Syria-Palestine when a revolt

was punished by Rome destroying Solomon's

ancient edifice in Jerusalem and exiling the

troublesome indigenous Jews. Now there are

vandals in modernity, where the amphitheater

witness to gory drama and bloodshed of

animals and humans, a shrine to epic history

is now defaced by heedless tourists in their

ignorance of history and heritage; for shame!

Assessing the Public Temper

The world is not a place of anguished

moral desolation, we are assured by

psychologists recently publishing their

studies, where research has established

to their satisfaction that world news of a

dismal nature highlighting the atrocities

committed by psychopaths on an unwary

public has a blighting effect on sensitive

minds while if such news is tempered by

the presence of morally elevating acts of

kindness by others, that bleak mood is nicely

moderated, convincing the empathetic that

it is but a meager few that commit acts of

senseless violence, amongst the greater balance 

of a law-abiding public. One may therefore 

conclude the world is a good place overall 

quite cheerful news. Somehow, however

failing to incorporate a much wider view of

the world on a different plane, one where no

public outcry of anger and horror convinced

governments at war with the Third Reich

that forceful actions must be taken to prevent

the deliberate annihilation of millions of lives

of children and adults targeted for death as

unfit to live, a decree whose wild success in

the deaths of six million Jews still fails to

register in the disinterested minds of the

global public whose attention was focused

elsewhere in the past and remains so now.

Fireflies' Idyll

 

During daylight hours I nurse the illusion 

that the garden I planted so lovingly 

so long ago, is mine, though never loathe

to share it with hummingbirds and bees

toads and butterflies, mice and chipmunks

as they flit from flower to flower, the

very picture of a garden nourishing all

Earth's creatures. Robins and cardinals

feathered in the colours of the garden take

flight like sudden-winged blossoms and

their early-morning, dawn-greeting songs

pierce the new day's calm like the fragrance

of roses and lilacs wafting on the perfumed air.

In daylight hours when a cooling breeze

stirs the flowered tendrils of vines and the

sun kisses Morning Glories awake, trees

overhead cast their shade, a cooling haven.

The darkness of night reveals the presence of

sprites not otherwise seen, as tiny dancing

lights of bioluminescence take flight in a

magical display of nymph-like possession.

 

Expunging Creation

She sits, unchallenged in her lofty throne

the creator of all that was and all that ever

will be, her fearful powers of existence

never resting, roiling a universe whose

present is its distant past forever changing

charged with a dynamism that devours itself

even while it combusts fragmenting into new

compositions of matter in an ordered but not

orderly transition of particles and gases forming

worlds unknown and one well known whose

solar-driven purpose sustains living organisms

utterly unalike to the substances giving rise

to their haven within a vast and desolate

infinity of timeless dimensions and fearful

possibilities in a time-studied field of hydrogen

wasting itself in that endless churn of destiny.

Little Black Sprite

 

We cannot begin to know
nor to understand what haunts
this small black presence so familiar
yet so distanced from us by
biology, but linked to us
through long years of shared love.

She has become other than
what she once was, but then don't
we all, as we inevitably age well
past adulthood and into agedness?
Patterns once recognizable and
reliable have suddenly muted.

Gradually, and for prolonged periods
some presaging element we cannot
know overcomes her. She stands
motionless, head alert to some sound
we cannot detect, as though being
called somewhere we cannot go.

Obedient to this mysterious malady
that has expunged her memory she startles
and removes herself from our company.
Restlessly pacing from room to room
refusing to be placated and comforted
she remains aloof and we distracted.

Forgotten, it appears, routine and
etiquette, as she becomes submerged in
some mysterious alteration we can only
hazard as emerging dementia and we
are silent also, but in grief, believing
her to be preparing to leave us.

She is, after all, fully seventeen years.
A dishevelled-looking miniature
poodle mix whose years with us
illuminated the potential for shared joy;
humankind and domesticated animal.
We are not prepared for her to take
her leave of us, and emphatically tell

her so. It seems that our message
may have been heeded. She now seeks
comfort in our presence, finding solace
and companionship with us once again.
Recalling the imperatives that were
observed, and according to her sterling
physical health, banished the

dank evil spirits brooding at the
entry-way of her mind, her character.
She is slowly shedding the symptoms
of disorder, once more assuming her
vital role as care-taker of our sunny moods.

 

Readin' Writin' & 'Rithmatic

 

Later, when the young girl with the curly hair 

got back home after school 

she texted her grandmother:

Hello, im so frustrated with Mrs.Mccauley

i swear im going to kill her she got all mad

at me today for a million little things where

i dont know what i did wrong like during math

lunch, crafts and dance. (gym) Then theres

this girl darby who i almost murdered today

she kept kicking snow at me because i wasnt

wearing snowpants so she thought that was ok.

then during dance/gym she kept screaming

in my face so i told her to stop and she got louder

so i pushed her away and of course she did it again

so i slaped her and once again for the millith time

she came back and then people started to kind of

pull us apart thank god because i was about to kill her

Her grandmother sat there, staring at the message, aghast. 

All those spelling errors. What were they teaching 

young people in school, these days? 

 

 

Companions

They're a balm for the spirit,

an antidote to isolation

and loneliness, an

absolute spur to laughter

and sheer enjoyment of 

life's little pleasures. Their

warmth and trustfulness,

fidelity and sweet dependence;

love unconditional

in their puppy-antics,

ears aflop and legs

flying in hot pursuit

of anything, anything at all

that moves, inspiring attention

transforming them into

avid adventurers, elfin

whirlwinds of puffed fur,

sniffing snouts, eyes

detecting movement,

ears isolating sound no

mere human can identify.

 

Disarming The Ramparts

He is sly and manipulative, combative

and threatening, combustible and resolute

in his passion for the faith he inherited

and the country he rules as an obdurate

tyrant, appealing to his electorate as a

modern-day Caliph, explaining Islam to

those outside the faith with the memorable

phrase: 'Minarets are our bayonets, domes

our helmets and mosques our barracks'.

He has funded and built massive barracks

in non-Muslim countries where Turkish

expatriates have long taken up residence

authoritatively posing as their extraordinary

guide and mentor alienating them from the

customs and values of their host country.

His rages and hatreds for any who oppose

his elevation of Islam over all others an

object lesson in obedience to the Koran.

And while he berates and threatens any who

equivocate over Islam's role he cannily sees

opportunity in joining Western alliances for

economic and protectionist gain. Legendary

in his volatile denunciations as a grasping

opportunist, he flawlessly plays both ends

against the middle, a strategic craftsman who

in another day and age might have delivered

incomparably sage advice to Machiavelli.

Command Performance

 

Hot and humid again. Overhead clouds hang

low, angry and dark, circling and moving on.

The thickened air heavy with the carbonized

acridity of burning forest, a haze that lingers

on the atmosphere, a peculiar light piercing

the forest canopy. You know, you can feel

rain is imminent, but the forest calls and you

respond, shunting aside thoughts of its densely

treed interior, the canopy that will afford little

relief when the sky breaks its impasse with the

clouds. Penetrating the forest, wind sways the

steeples of tall old firs, tearing foliage from 

poplars and willows, but its cooling nudge is

an antidote to the raging heat within. Your boots

slide on the cracked and parched trails descending

to the ravine's forest of pines and willows

spruce and oak. Stop, watch awhile as the trees

lean to the bellowing wind, the stream below

rampant in its whirling gush downstream. Take

your time in the pollinating meadow where 

wildflowers thrum with the presence of bees and

hoverflies. Then ascend to the lip of the ravine

and thank the forest for its hospitality. Amble

down the street to where you left your home and

garden just as cooling bursts of rain explode.

 

 

Everything Old Is New Again

 

One alone among all others throughout human

history has been the universal stranger that

none others would accept, ascribing to them

all the sinister motives that humanity is known

to be capable of. Their presence considered

a threat to be identified and destroyed lest the

dreaded diseases of cupidity, control and sacrilege

infect the lives of others among whom they

creep in a subtle and furtive campaign of world 

domination. When civilization was yet young

stringent efforts to subdue their ambitions by

campaigns of subjugation failed to suppress the

evil within for even as their homeland was

destroyed they struggled to endure enforced exile

quietly flowing toward foreign landscapes yet

their identity was not withheld from suspicion

their mere presence reason enough to accuse of

plotting against the social weal wherever they

settled, a threat to the greater community which

chose to excise the interlopers in bloody measures

of extirpation. But these are different times, times

of enlightened civility where even now the ancient

people suffer unmitigated enmity where the crude

mockery of a mission to defend themselves from

threat and violence has been adapted to their 

current persecutors' campaign to penetrate and to

violate their equality status among equals in a

bid to enlist the furtive elements of the subliminal 

mind in a popular accord of expressed antisemitism.

The Puzzling Nature of Human Nature

There is no denying the simple fact that

humankind is fascinating in its multifarious

variations. More than that, it is transfixing

to discover the difference between humans

in their orientation as humans and so we are

invariably drawn to note that though we are

basically designed by nature in sharing major

biological characteristics, the formula is not

completely infallible, as wondrous as it is.

One can live a lifetime without encountering

the reality of an alphabetical diversion from

the certainties and verities dividing the sexes.

Who might ever  have suspected -- not I -- the

very existence of those who fit into such

perplexing categories as 2SLGBTQQIA+? 

Accounting for a portion of extended humanity

constituting a biological mystery to the eternal

acknowledgement of male and female..full stop.

Now that society is made fully aware...shrug.

We are what we are, all reaching out for health

and happiness and good luck with that. As for

sexual orientation, preferences and demands;

take care and caution; no one appreciates being

force-fed to celebrate that which is of no moment

to them. If 2SLGBTQQIA+ bespeaks a condition

of alter-normalcy so be it. Prudence in flaunting

that normalcy as a condition of pride in garish

flamboyance is unappealing to those prepared 

to live and let live. A mutual U-turn of discreet 

respect for others' sensibilities has been too long 

in waiting. Mutual respect is there for the taking.

 

 

Creation, Time and Space

 

r 24, 2013

An imposing cathedral of

unparalleled beauty sheathed in

crystalline grandeur lifts its

imperious grace to the ceiling

of the sky velvet with approaching

night, a halo of moon and the

boldness of stars impassively

observing a landscape unlike

their own of frozen gases and

ancient minerals. The one below

with its living atmosphere

responds to the distance of its

sponsor-sun in a frigid pause

of the clamour of growing

things unlike the inert nothingness

of cold and distant space. This

most familiar place of time and

seasons, liveliness and curiosity

a highly specialized experiment

by nature in randomized creative

adventure. And so, her creations

look up and peer beyond the

darkness of the unknown, certain

of discovery and revelation.

 

 

The Vestigial Brain

What a priceless resource nature has endowed

us with, an organ of high intelligence capable

of reasoning, of divining reality from fantasy

an instrument of rationality, unless neglected

and housed in a body disinterested in the higher

function of human capability preferring to use

the brain creatively, inventing their own reality

vastly prioritizing and preferring an unexamined

belief, enshrining it as a proud cultural artefact

for the ages and honouring it from generation to

generation, fuelling suspicion, grievance and hate.

In their best of all possible worlds that simmering

hatred accounts for all the wrongs they encounter in

life, their personal tragedies, all ascribed to the malign

presence of a clan and a religion not their own which

conspires toward their downfall, and they thirst for

revenge to assuage their permanent state of victimhood

snarling with the rage of unfulfilled destiny. Not their 

fault that providence ignores their plight and so the 

solution is to keep the embers of hate aflame in

psychotic encounters of deadly violence, butchering

one after another of the transgressors in an endless

cycle of fanatical detachment from reality; an idle brain.

The Youthful Executioners

They are the most willing of recruits in any

conflict for youth revel in action and violence

believing themselves invulnerable to consequences

such that striking fear into others, pillaging and

destruction satisfies a deep-seated loathing for

authority and discipline other than that imposed

in a field of combat. To the indoctrinated and

habituated to solving problems with physical

violence there is no need to justify psychopathy

nor is there a thought of restraint from harming

the innocent regarded as disposable shields when

the attacked respond in like kind endangering

non-combatants whose deaths become another

deadly arrow in the quiver of blame cast on others.

Visualizing themselves as heroes they pose fully

armed with high-powered submachines across

their muscled chests, champions of death, able

and aching to deliver vengeance for imagined acts

of historical disadvantage they have been tasked

to remedy. They prowl among their tribe's quiet

civilians, ingratiate themselves as heroes, amass

weapons stores and assault centres within schools

hospitals and mosques, attacking the enemy then

fading into sheltered safety leaving the mass of

civil old and young to face the consequences they

evade in a never-ending cycle of psychotic chaos.

 

 

The Trolling of the Victim Legionnaires

There they are -- lurking, hidden shadows of lost 

souls torqued by suspicion, resentment and hatred

fearing the impact of the full and open expression

of their dark, visceral grudges against the world

the misery of their lives steeped deep in the dismal 

dissatisfaction of knowing their future will never 

surpass the status of their present misery. They shun 

detection yet their personae and the reflection of 

their intimate being is reflected in the facial grimness 

that attend their lives, alerting others to the presence 

of a sociopath better skirted. Satisfaction is not entirely 

lost to these gladiators of emotion-fuelled rage for their 

victimhood spurs them to ventilate their rank antipathy 

to all that is humanly shared in equality and justice

for the welfare of others that bypasses their self-induced

role as victims whose specialty lies in the malicious little

messages dripping with defiance left on social media

championing the cause that fulfills their thirsty souls.