Father's Day

Father's Day

The subtle chime of the Westminster clock echoed another hour as the light in the evening sky slowly fell from the living room window into the shadows of early dusk. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the clock, but the old man’s thoughts were very much alive with the moving silhouettes of children, laughing from chasing games they played so long ago, like, “Beware the Claw!” and “The Roaring Monster”!

Memories, all with happy endings, play out in his mind like old black and white movies as he sits comfortably in his shapely wooden chair passed down to him from his grandfather.

Content in thought, a smile trembles on his lower lip with a far away gaze that is captured in the mirror across from him with the last rays of light from the sky. It’s Fathers Day and the children will surely call.

Would they remember the silly bedtime stories that never had an ending, the summer campfires roasting marshmallows, or stargazing in the country from lawn chairs till sleep took them. The walks in elf forest, and coming home with the plunder of the elf’s little treasure chest full of old coins found in the hollow of a tree. Would they remember the winter magic of jumping in snow drifts ten feet tall, the toboggan runs on the village hills that were filled with hearty glee and laughter or the ice rink behind the house that lit up the trees and young imaginations after supper… It’s Fathers Day and the children will surely call.

Thoughts then turn to his own father, a man that took life by the horns and made everything right. A hero who fought on the side of good in World War II, a man who became a community builder, a coach, mentor and role model. The father who drove his son around on his Sunday paper route in a four-door powder blue Plymouth Fury III with perfectly folded newspapers he stacked in rows on the front bench seat ready for delivery by a ten-year-old boy.

Memories wisp and billow through his thoughts to then open up to a place in time when he was gently woken by the aroma of freshly buttered toast, coffee, and the busy sounds of CFCF radio 600. Dad was always the first one up and prepared breakfast for the family.

Time then jumps to hockey games in the winter, soccer in the summer and football in the fall. They all echo the old man’s shouts of encouragement from those halls of yesteryear. Exciting moments from early days that encompass the smiles from a boy now past his father’s age.

The clock chimed another hour and still the phone was silent…no worry, today is Fathers Day, and the children will surely call.

Thoughts go back to a hospital room where his old man battled a terminal illness. A cold numbness remains from the day he passed away; it was the day before Father’s Day and the family was there with him.

He recalled the helplessness of the moment, standing beside his hospital bed as he watched his father die in front of him; the black blood that came up when he coughed, just before the life slowly left his eyes. He remembered trying empathically to pull him back from the river of death that claimed him, and wonders still, if his father heard his words in his transit towards the light, “I love you Dad”! It was the first time in his life that he was able to muster the courage to tell him.

…And just as thunder startles life on the earth, a knock at the door shakes the old man to the present, as the hallway fills with the merry sounds of children and adults. They fill the room with their smiles, energy and life, “Happy Fathers Day Grandad”!

“Go put your things away or the claw will come to get you!” said the old man’s son to his giddy happy children. He then turns to the old man and says, "It’s so good to see you Dad, Happy Father's Day"!

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Edit Date:  20240616

One Spring Morning

One Spring Morning

Morning breaks shadows night,

returns the color to our sight,

in crimson red, orange and white,

gale clouds pass into to light.

Orchid purples, pinkish skies,

as morning yawns an early rise,

old lilac blooms on robust breeze,

to mask the acrid air we breathe.

Clouds of grey in auras blue,

moving quickly, the sun shines through,

brilliant color in rainbow hue,

with solemn promise to renew.

Golden sunrays reveal dawn,

in forest greens on yellow lawns,

where lion weeds begin to spawn,

with flowers dead and florets gone.

Pods emerge in swollen display,

such perfect spheres in every way,

concedes the secret, suns array,

in calm before they’re washed away.

Operit winds wake apple trees,

with blight now present on their leaves,

their flowers waiting for the bees,

that shiver’s fever in the breeze.

Broken raptness robin’s thrill,

nourishment captured in her bill,

as thunder rocks the morning still,

and rainfall brings a misty chill.

Factory skies now cleansed by rain,

as earthen tears begin to wane,

a breath of air to ease the pain,

and flush the poisons down the drain.

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*Note: Lion weeds refer to “Dandelions”. The seed pod of the Dandelion has always fascinated me. When I look upon their fluffy white spheres, I see them revealing the hidden secret of a star’s energy. (Operit means Operatic ~ Opera)

Economy

Economy

Bottom drops from under foot,

loathing eyes are hollow,

panic paints declining streets,

civil unrest will follow.

Markets fall at margin call,

employers close their doors,

bankers call in all their loans,

to plunder from the poor.

Cargo, freight and traffic stop,

long line ups at the store,

speculators want your gold,

inflation starts to soar.

Accelerate the banknote press,

to feed the population,

rations made and then declared,

to ward off our starvation.

Tensions rise across the world,

coups n’ sanctions taking place,

terror wars with robber masks,

feeds the doomsday race.

All because they want control,

ownership through the banks,

oil backs their currency,

they take it with their tanks.

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Stories for the Masses

Stories for the Masses

Stories for the masses,

censorship by the news,

with half truths unveiled,

and an enemy to accuse.

Lazy population,

believe what they are told,

apathy on steroids,

are simple minds to mold.

Shock and awe on repeat,

our outrage is their plot,

stories for the masses,

to steer a crooked thought.

Even though revealed,

people believe the lies,

bathed in propaganda,

false knowledge in disguise.

With the world on the brink,

the country is at stake

stories for the masses

hypnotic stares won’t break.

American Freedom

American Freedom

Those damned Americans are at it again,

another country down the drain,

a nation tried to claim its autonomy,

a moral right to sustain its economy.

But the Americans frown on independence,

so they refuse to allow a nations ascendance.

That’s why our days are filled with wars,

and all away from American shores.

How is it they have this right?

…this judge and jury, with military might?

They force a country to its knees’,

by theft of resources and the assets they seize.

U.S. wars start by sanctions,

plans that culminate into a coup,

and in this choke hold, if a nation persists,

the U.S. military, blast their way through.

Targets then in disarray, cities consumed by fire,

crushed by American freedom and their greedy desire.

Economic slavery is all that remains,

of a once proud people, now in chains.

Culture destroyed, population in famine,

all to please American Mammon.

What will happen when they’ve claimed them all?

each nation enslaved in the overhaul.

One thing’s for sure, a dictatorship has amassed,

for the days of freedom, have long since passed.

Replenishment

Replenishment

Weighty days compound my sorrows,

they build uneasy themes,

impounding all my tomorrows,

they seep into my dreams.

I close my eyes to block it out,

reach for positive force,

where flow of light removes my doubt,

and connects me with the source.

My essence gathers in the light,

a shrine in time and space,

to energize with great insight,

reset my earthly pace.

Where prescience guides my memory,

to themes I was before,

they envelop time and rhythm,

with mana that restores.

While the imprint of my program,

replays the task at hand,

connects with hidden memory,

I bear and understand.

Proof is given by inner sight,

to dream is all we need,

we’ll find ourselves within the light,

where consciousness is freed.

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3rd Edit April 10th, 2021

Across the River Styx

Across the River Styx

Misty mornings, coming to,

subconscious world on a ridge,

forest dead where once it grew,

above a rickety bridge.

The road ahead, where life must go,

through mists of truthful meaning,

a meeting place of life and death,

where the bridge of Styx is leaning.

Treading narrow paths of vision,

over raging rivers of before,

one missed step could spell your end,

and plunge you through the door.

To a meeting place where essence churns,

and truth may be revealed,

into the waters where memories burn,

and the ego is unconcealed.

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Amends

Amends

Peace and contentment,

answers in the rain,

washing sorrows from us,

to ease us from our pain.

A new day rises,

from the one that's fallen apart,

while darkness wanes to shadows,

comfort confirms the start.

It is a time of new beginnings,

a season of old ends,

a reason to remember,

a time to be with friends.

...and there upon the crest of dreams,

where conscious thoughts do flow,

awaits for you the golden key,

that makes your essence glow.

For in a world of new beginnings,

is a place that never ends,

internal, it is calling,

for you to make amends.

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This Poem was inspired by “Carillon”, a beautiful song by David Ian Roberts

A New Year's Message for the World

A New Year's Message for the World

Life is but a fleeting moment, a short period of time where everyone is engaged in a lifelong journey to seek the answers and reasons for why they are here. At the same time, it is important to build the foundations for a better world, to secure a future for our communities, which can only be achieved through unity.

We have yet to find agreement on the procedures on how to get there collectively even though the map is in everyone’s hands…

We learn from our mistakes and from each other, but today we are focused in trying to destroy each others illusion’s instead of building a bridge for our common bond in compassion, morality and vision of building a better world.

Patience…patience with the heart of empathy for all life, is the ultimate lesson we must learn if we are to lay the foundations of our future.

…and so, another year begins with an open mind in anticipation that the world will come together as one; to rebuild our communities with moral common sense and vision for the future as we eradicate the illnesses of greed and power that plague our minds.

One day we will return to the empathy that connects our essence to each other and the stars in the night sky…and on that day, everyone will understand and smile.

Happy New Year everyone!

Weeping Windows

Weeping Windows 

Existence saunters in the frost, 

growing spires on the edge of glass, 

it mists upon a window pane, 

and builds its perfect mass. 

As winter’s breath does fill the air, 

a microlithic world is born, 

its grasping hold does sudden flair, 

with diamonds that adorn. 

Virtues revealed in the storm, 

in weathers plan through shining light, 

it crests and glitters uniform, 

and peaks at darkest night. 

In waiting for the sun to rise, 

to evolve another day, 

foundations start to crystalize, 

and crown their fine array. 

Divine existence comes to shine, 

casts its brilliance across with flame, 

where weeping sculptures then recline, 

to diminish from whence they came. 

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2nd Edit Oct 25, 2020

About this Poem: Have you ever watched a window frost over during the course of the day and see its eventual masterpiece, only to see it melt out of existence by the warmth of a new day? In life, we also experience storms and are formed by the weather; only to have our hardened edge melt over time by a spiritual awakening that guides us back to where we came. *wink*