New poem: "The Way"

 

The Way

 

Every way is the right way,

and every way is the wrong way,

because every way is the same

way; and that’s the mystery.

 

Some people find the way, most

don’t; but whether we find

the way or not, everyone

lives the way.

 

PERIOD.

New poem: "It's a Catch-22"

 

It’s a Catch-22

 

They’re damned if they do,

and damned if they don’t; but

what are they to do? They said

they will do OCTOBER 7 again,

and again, and again to avenge

their oppression; but what good

will that do? They bomb to wipe

them out, but they’re imbedded

within their own people; so, what

are they to do? It’s a catch-22;

and—devil be damned! — they

will do what they have to do

to save their people,

New poem: "A Desperate Man"

 

A Desperate Man

 

In 24 months, his father died, his wife’s mother

died, his mother died, his wife’s father died,

two of his cousins died together in a small plane

crash on a weekend fishing trip, and his wife

suddenly fell out of remission and died of cancer,

lucid to the end; but nothing ever dies, he said;

energy just changes form. He couldn’t speak fast

enough, pouring his life into every word; but

his voice betrayed him. He believed in physics,

because his wife’s close friend and family doctor,

with whom he was having an affair, had a scientific

tradition to uphold, and he fought back his tears.

Fear stalked him. Doubt was more convincing

than his heart, but he could not dispel his soulless

conviction and listen to the voice within, “The

only death is the death of ignorance.”

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

New poem: "The Train Station of Life"

 

The Train Station of Life

 

We had coffee again. He was standing

on the station platform waiting for his train.

I had come and gone two, three, a hundred

times since our last cup of coffee, but he was

still standing there waiting for his train. He

talked of fixing his fence again, but his mind

was torn between cedar posts or pressure

treated lumber. “If I go and cut cedar posts

they’ll be good for the rest of my life; but

that’s a lot of work, and I don’t have a truck.

On the other hand, treated lumber costs an

arm and a leg, and I can’t afford that right

now. My train pulled up and I got on,

leaving him standing there again.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

New poem: "The Self I Never Was"

 

 

The Self I Never Was

 

It’s not a very nice thing to say,

but the world has to find its own way;

not that I wish for it to be this way,

it’s in our spiritual DNA; —

 

Born into a world that spares no one pain,

I grew into the person that I became;

because I was destined to find the way,

and free myself of karmic shame; —

 

From one lifetime to the next, an endless

repetition of much the same, the world

became too heavy to bear, and I had

to find a way to ease the pain; —

 

Many tried, and many failed; but some

did climb out of Plato’s cave and saw

the light of day; and those were they

who showed me the way; —

 

Gurdjieff came first, blazing the trail

for others to follow, and one way-shower

after another, I followed the scent

wherever it went; —

 

And the more progress I made in my quest

for self-awareness, the straighter the gate

became, and I had to abandon all hope

for the material life I craved; —

 

But the more I let go of what I was not,

the more I became who I am; and

now I lavish in my true nature, the self

I never was but always am.

 

Wednesday, November 23, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "Telegram from God"

 

Telegram from God

 

Steadfast and courageous is he, who

having overcome woe and grief remains

alone and undaunted; alone I say, for to be

otherwise would hardly seem possible,

for one must bear one’s conscience alone.

He must fight the battle, and he must win

the battle, odds or no odds. He must win

to establish the equilibrium tranquility

of body and soul, and sooner or later

he will erupt as a volcano of unlimited

confidence which will purpose his life

thereafter; and having given birth to such

magnificence, he will no longer be alone

alone, but alone in society, and he will

see the mirror of his puerile grief in

the eyes of his fellow man.

 

Composed in Annecy, France

November 21, 1968

New poem: "A Mother's Confession"

 

 

A Mother’s Confession

 

She had five children in all, but Bobby,

her youngest, had Down syndrome, and

she devoted her life to his care.

 

Many times, she prayed to God to take Bobby

home when her husband was away on the river

drive; but God kept Bobby safe and sound.

 

One by one, her children left home for university,

and soon she was all alone with her youngest

child, and fear brought tears to her eyes.

 

She never learned to drive a car, always depending

upon her husband, and seldom did she go anywhere

because Bobby needed her constant care.

 

Over time, she accepted the burden of Bobby`s life

as a test from God, and every morning she prayed

to Jesus Christ to help her through the day.

 

Bobby taught her patience, kindness, compassion,

and understanding, all the virtues of a saint;

but the years took a toll upon her life.

 

She loved Bobby dearly, because he was so special;

but had she the choice to make today, she would

abort her beloved child.

 

It came as a surprise to her priest, but in the darkness

of the confessional, alone with her conscience,

she unburdened her tired soul.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

 

 

New poem:: "A Keeper of the Secret"

 

A Keeper of the Secret

 

He polished his boots until they gleamed, proud

of his new career as a rookie officer in the Ontario

Provincial Police force. At twenty-seven, he served

five years in the navy, earned a commercial pilot’s

license, and worked for IBM for four years where his

father worked as head of security before joining his

uncles in the police force; and now he’s a proud owner

of his first house on a street overlooking Lake Superior

in the northwestern community of St. Jude. His mother,

a realtor from southern Ontario, made the deal for him,

and his retired step-father helped him renovate the living

room and kitchen, his electrician buddy doing the wiring,

and in a month’s time he would be getting a raise of six

thousand dollars because he passed his probation. He got

his house for forty-four thousand, but he had Sears install

new windows and vinyl siding; so, with the renovations,

he more than doubled the value of his investment, and

this put him ahead of the game. Life worked well for him,

like it did for his father, his two uncles, and grandfather

in Scotland; and wherever he went, he knew who to see

and what to do to beat the game of life, and it showed

in his quick blue eyes and ready boyish smile. A decent

young man, his ethics were for real, and they would

continue to propel him to the top; but his morality

was self-serving, because he had been weaned

from the cradle to be a keeper of the secret.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

New poem: "The Same Holy Ground"

 

The Same Holy Ground

 

I’m not a political creature, never

have been; survival has always dictated

my behavior, from the earliest days

to the present: finding work, making work,

and always writing, a never-ending struggle

to support myself and tell the archetypal

story of soul’s destined purpose, a journey

from the atom of God in the Great Ocean

of Love and Mercy to the birth of nations,

one tribe vying with another for the same

holy ground, endlessly contending for

what’s only there for us to grow in love

and understanding in the wholeness

of our divine nature.

 

Monday, October 30, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "The Hades Tree"

 

The Hades Tree

 

The spruce tree was in the gully standing tall, alone,

and inviting. This big tree would complete my cord;

but my pile was on high ground, and I had no choice

but to cut it down and haul it up piece by piece in 8-foot

cord-pile lengths. I notched the trunk in just the right

place, planning the fall close to my pile. My cut went well,

the tree fell, and I limbed it from the bottom to the top;

then I sliced the chain saw blade of my heavy Pioneer 620

through the tree, my hands vibrating violently, and severed

seven lengths to top off my second cord and 14^th day

of summer work. It was a sweltering, breezeless, pesky

black and deer fly infested bush-hot dry mid-July T-shirt

drenching day, but my Javex jug full of ice water, which

I replenished every evening and kept in my mother’s

freezer for the next workday, was still cold, and I gulped

down the temple-throbbing spring-like water for new

vigor and began to haul the logs up the hill to stack onto

my pile. I started with the thinnest, lightest, and closest

piece to my pile, and with each log that I hauled and heaved

with my hand hook onto my cord pile, I grew as strong

and confident as the mythical hero with the bull upon

his back; but with each descent to my fate, I felt the greater

weight of the thickening logs and my steps became too

burdened to bear, and I called on Sisyphus to set me free.

Young and full of zest (piss and vinegar, the old timers

said), I would not submit to defeat, and I summoned all

I had to up-end the penultimate piece up the hill and stack

it onto my pile. And when it fell into its destined place,

I felt as good as the man who mocked the gods, and with

a joyful heart I descended to embrace my fate once more.

But the butt of the tree was too heavy for me, and my spirits

sank with dejection. I drank some water, warming but still

refreshing, and I resolved to roll the last 8-foot log up the hill

and give my life symbolic meaning. I grabbed my hook

and commenced the task that set the pattern of my life`s

quest. I refused to be defeated by a piece of wood too heavy

to lift, and I rolled my fateful log inch by inch until I made

 it to the summit and my pile, and I called upon the mythical

man of willful defiance and hoisted the final piece of the Hades

tree onto my stack. Then I looked up into the clear blue sky;

and with salty sweat and tears in my eyes, I smiled at all

the capricious gods in heaven.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

 

 

 

New poem: "The Pustula of the Middle East"

 

The Pustula of the Middle East

 

Fate has pricked the pustula of the Middle

East, an irritating pimple on the soul

of mankind; and not until all the pus has

been drained, will the healing begin.

 

We, in our comfortable corner of the world,

take quiet offense, not near enough to smell

the dread of the pus draining; and some

of us judge the right from the wrong.

 

But it’s not a question of right and wrong,

only the growth of soul; and not until

the world sees this, will the irritating pimple

on the soul of mankind be healed.

 

Saturday, October 14, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "As God in Heaven Deemed

 

As God in Heaven Deemed

 

It’s too terrifying to even think, but every

few years (every few weeks lately) it comes

to mind, the idea that the most known, the most

loved, the most worshipped being in history,

did not die on the cross for the sins of the world,

but to short-circuit soul’s evolution and quicken

our destined purpose to spiritual self-realization

wholeness; but how dare I, a content, little-known

poet living in quiet seclusion in Georgian Bay,

Ontario with no worldly credits to my name, save

my own journey of self-discovery, presume to even

think that the world’s greatest teacher’s ignoble

death upon the cross was to teach the world

that self-sacrifice, the soul-making way of dying

to what we are not, makes our worldly ego self

and inner soul self into one self, indivisibly

whole and complete, perfect as God

in heaven deemed?

 

Saturday, October 7, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "The Day Will Come"

 

The Day Will Come

 

The day will come when we’ll look

back and smile at all this gender identity

confusion that’s tearing society apart,

the day when we will have grown enough

in our soul self to know that there is only

man and woman in the human race; but not

until religion has served its purpose and

awakened our soul to its divine imperative

of making our inner and outer self into one

self whole and complete will we know that

we are both what we are and what we are

not, both the ego and soul of the divine

process of our own becoming.

 

Wednesday, September 20, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem...

 

Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes

 

I didn’t know why, and I languished

in my ignorance watching all those videos

of my old hometown people in the early

and late autumn, with most in the winter

of their lives, reminiscing for the historical

archive on their lives in my old hometown

in Northwestern Ontario, christened in fiction

after the patron saint of hopeless causes,

remembering this place and that business,

people come and gone, some memories fresh

as yesterday and others nearly forgotten,

but everyone’s life so forgettably ordinary

that a heavy sadness possessed me for the

terrifying burden that they all bore for

simply being who they were.

 

Wednesday, September 27, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "The Hamlet Question Today"

 

 

The Hamlet Question Today

 

“To be or not to be, that is the question,”

said Prince Hamlet, Shakespeare’s most

conflicted character, who speaks for every

soul condemned to choose which life

to live: “to suffer the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune,” or stand tall

and “take arms against a Sea of troubles,

and by opposing end them?” Sad, but true;

we all are called to the Hamlet question

today; but what to do? Where to go? Who

to seek for solace in woke times like these

when even our gender is in question? That’s

what the Hamlet question beckons today,

and no one knows what to do. Torn betwixt

the being and non-being or our paradoxical

nature, we do nothing. “Thus conscience

does make cowards of us all.”

 

Sunday September 17, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: "The Lady Who Loves to Gossip"

 

The Lady Who Loves to Gossip

 

Twenty-five years ago, a little old day, Alice

was her name, told me about her co-worker

at the Domtar office, a cute young lady fresh

out of high school, who loved to gossip. Every

morning when she went to work, she would

say to Alice, “Have you heard any new gossip?”

as though the salvation of her soul depended

upon the latest scandal. Alice died, and Brenda,

that was the young gossip’s name, got married;

but her much older husband was not a very nice

man. He drank and beat his wife and screwed

around on her, almost as though all of that juicy

gossip that Brenda liked to talk about with Alice

had come back to haunt her. Brenda finally got

divorced and now lives with a much younger

man, but her son turned out to be like his father

and is in and out of jail; and her daughter, who’s

only twenty-three, got divorced for the second

time. Brenda is still working for Domtar, but not

one day goes by at the office that she does not

ask her co-workers the same question she used

to ask Alice every morning twenty-five years

ago, “Have you heard any new gossip?”

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

New Poem: "The Good Psychologist"

 

 

The Good Psychologist

 

Oh, what a stink in our sink today! But

the Good Psychologist has pulled the plug,

and our putrid sink is beginning to drain;

but he’s already paying the price with public

shaming for his Olympian defiance of gender

dalliance. Did JBP know what he was doing,

this steak-eating Jeremiah called by Life,

God, the Universe, and the implacable Lords

of Karma to drain the woke waters of these

catastrophically inane times?

 

Friday, September 1, 2023

Georgian Bay, Ontario

New poem: `"The Man Who Loves to Talk"

 

The Man Who Loves to Talk

 

I saw a man the other day walking his chest;

his wife held the dog by the leash. and he held

his stomach in as they walked down Main

Street on their way to the marina. He just turned

forty, and if he chose, he could retire and live off

his investments; but he loves the service business

that his father passed on to him. He has two,

three employees, depending upon how busy they

are, who do all the work; he gets the jobs and

frequents the coffee shops, because he likes to hear

himself talk. He’s a very bright man whose mind

clamps onto details like a vice, and now that he’s

on the Internet his mind is about to explode with

all the information, and it’s impossible to converse

with him because he never stops talking, as though

he’s driven by a demon to fill a bottomless hole

with everything that he knows.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown: 1990-2000

New poem: "The Happy Poet"

 The Happy Poet

 

“I am, and life is merely something that I do,”

said the Happy Poet, on the occasion of his lover’s

mother death, revealing the deepest mystery

of his life, the journey to his true self; —

 

Not in entire forgetfulness did he come from God,

who is our Home, but with the divine imperative

to be whole and complete; and from life to life,

he returned to grow into his true self; —

 

An “I” of God, whole and complete unto himself,

as choreographed by the divine imperative of the way

of what is to come; and the Happy Poet can now sit

on his front deck and sip on his glass of sherry,

because he is what he longed to be.

 

Composed in Georgian Bay,

Tuesday, August 22, 2023