A Slippery Slope

Why do the best of us succumb to hatred? What drives us to consider ourselves, or our ilk, better than the rest - and therefore, deserving of more? When did we, as human beings, decide to abandon humanity and replace it with a corrupted version of "Survival of the Fittest"?

Xenophobia is so common around the world that it has found acceptance in mainstream political agendas. Thousands fleeing persecution are being denied asylum in places as far apart as Central Europe and India; while elsewhere, an overgrown child's tantrums have resulted in real walls across the width of a continent. Countries in Africa that have developed strong human rights policies to correct a horrible past still continue to fail to protect refugees. The United Nations is toothless and can only protest in the strongest terms while the world's powers and the big businesses (which obviously profit from it or don't care enough to do their research: run an internet search for Louis Vuitton's Ghana Must Go bags gaffe) hold it shackled. Human Rights groups like Amnesty continue to be underfunded and disorganised - their only response to every atrocity being a inefficient mission to somewhere near the affected region while far & few unpaid volunteers try to appeal for charity on the streets of the first-world countries that don't even know where on the map the country of focus is.
Religious intolerance is the foremost teaching of many self-professed megalomaniacs who continue to gather demented followers at a rate far greater than a motionless stone gathers fungal growth. Religious cleansing is as old as written history itself, often advocated by those in power in order to pander to the majority or to ensure the centre of power remains within grasp. From as far as back as the ancient Roman empire feeling threatened by new religions and the crusades in the middle ages; to the forced atheism in Communist regimes and the quest for Aryan supremacy that mutated into the holocaust, persecution of certain unfortunate groups has been a recurrent theme. Even today, atrocities continue - the Bahá'í faith is defamed in Iran, Christians are lynched for proselytising in Muslim-dominant nations and China enforces the ideological conversion of Falun Gong prisoners. Independent journalism and organisations like the International Crimes Tribunal have proven instrumental in creating awareness and ensuring justice in some cases. Unfortunately, the powers that be continue to remain untouchable. 
Homophobia is frowned upon and hushed up to such an extent that the Queer community had to come up with most colourful flag possible just to be heard. While it is good to embrace one's sexuality and bask in it, we have gone overboard with it - new definitions are being coined day in - day out to address everybody's secret fantasies as more and more people try to jump on the bandwagon just to get in on the craze. Do we really need "self-partnered"?

One the one hand, population levels are soaring in tandem with pollution; while on the other, wealth gaps and groundwater levels are dropping. Ozone layer is depleting, Ice shelves are melting, fossil fuel dependency is increasing - renewable energy is unable to cope up with the sheer volumes of established industry. On the one hand are middle-aged fat cats incoherently declaring global warming a myth, while on the other are the environmental fanatics who have a slightly autistic, angry-looking, young teenage girl as their poster child.

Global initiatives, wholeheartedly supported by the world's governments, are the need of the hour. People need to realise what the end goal is: not the betterment of a single country, but, the protection of the entire planet and the human race. Some changes may not be reversible, but if we can work together, we might be able to avoid a catastrophe and show ourselves in a better light than we have in the 6 million years so far. Right now, we're all human-lemmings marching ever so slowly towards the world's edge, towards the mass suicide we've committed ourselves to.

To Suffer in Silence

patience

/ˈpeɪʃ(ə)ns/

Learn to pronounce

noun

noun: patience

1. 1.

   the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious.
2. 
   
3. - Oxford English Dictionary

Patience is a virtue, they say. They say also, that good things come to those that wait. An internet search will show you there are no end of adages to extol the virtue that is patience. Now me, I'd like to think I am quite a patient fellow since I often exhibit forbearance and self-restraint when faced with vexing situations. Most of the times, I concur with the opinion of that worthy, whoever they may be, who made the now famous analogy of sticks and stones with names. Because of my temperament, and my inaction at the dangling of the bait of anger; I have been variously equated with a St Bernard, a practicing psychologist, an inadvertent psychopath and a heartless bastard. Such a precious few! Those of the creed of the intelligent speculator, the factual pundits, and even the plausible dreamers. 

I admit it takes a lot of self-control to tolerate some of the people we're forced to deal with as a daily happenstance: Some tend to be living proof of the inverse ratio between the sizes of the mouth and the brain; others, targets of Wanda's famous "I've worn dresses with higher IQs!" quote; while the remainder are just clever, but obstinate curmudgeons that refuse to concede a point. Conducting oneself with stoicism in the face of absurdity and acute astute-adversity is an art in itself: 

Persons who let their mouths run faster than their brains are easy to deal with - they're probably paying even lesser attention to us than they are to their thinking muscles. It takes some practice - which is thankfully easy when we're surrounded by so many specimens to do so - but, in time, some of us learn to quietly ignore the unnecessary spouts of verbosity and pick out the few sentences that are worth replying to; all the while making sure our far and few responses are steering the conversation to the logical conclusion we want it to reach. There is a certain satisfaction to be had when you arrive at that point and you're the only one involved in the exchange who knows that you're exactly where you wanted to be since the others are still wrapping their heads around thoughts that formed a minute ago. When everyone's caught up, all that remains is for you to summarize the discussion and thank everyone for their participation, while pretending that everyone contributed equally. 

The evolutionary dead-ends that sometimes manage to pass for human beings are often tougher to handle. The frustration of having to deal with these troglodytes sometimes bubbles to the surface; especially when one is aware they have attained their current position and status in society only due to the position and status of their guardians - probably because of whom they ended up having tossed-around upstairs to begin with. They usually exhibit a certain child-like innocence or an awe-struck amazement for statements and solutions that others would consider the norm of normalcy. One needs to be aware of the fact that they are bargaining with souls that are truly incapable of grasping the situation at the level one is. One needs to also be aware that there are bigger fish with better brains than oneself - it is a vast ocean. It is best to assume an advisory role and firmly, yet gently, guide them to the right conclusions. Appropriating the benevolent guise also ingratiates the self with the powers-that-be and makes them extend their advantageous hands brimming with bountiful short-cuts over our heads as well. Sometimes, it is worth having an instant "influencer" in your corner. 

Dealing with pigheadedness is altogether a different ballgame and often inconclusive. Not because for lack of trying on our part, but for the obstinacy on theirs. More often than not, it is best to let the argument stew in itself and approach it again when the mulish debater is more amicable. Contrary to our unspoken opinions of such contrary personages, the recalcitrant lot are ordinarily quite coherent and lucid in their thoughts.
The trick to successfully engaging with people is to understand that everyone's point-of-view are their own, and that they are all entitled and welcome to them. Agreements and compacts are just transactions in which weights are thrown and compromises made. Its only business - with emotional & logical barter. 

At times, its understandable to be at complete odds with the world around us - "Good times never seem to last", lamented Neil Diamond to his Caroline. Whenever we go through a bad phase time seems slowed down, everyone seems against us and the rain never seems to stop falling down. Some choose to extend the cloud overhead to others around them, while others choose to withdraw within and encase themselves into cocoons. Neither, though, is the best course of action probably.
On the one hand, not many companions are usually found during times of trouble - we profess ourselves surprised to say the least when all the many friends confess they were only of the fair-weather type. It is best to keep an open mind and an open heart and hope for the best:

• Know that it isn't everyone else's fault that we are feeling down;
• Know that everyone else doesn't need to join us in our misery;
• Know that we can only appeal to comrades or to higher authorities in higher planes of existence; 
• Know that responses need not be given - from confidants or supreme beings; 

If help does come, we must stay true to those soul mates. If help doesn't come, we must ask - for we shall receive. The human race isn't that bereft of morals and humanity. The Universe in all its vastness, cannot afford pettiness. It must, therefore, be impartial. In which case, we aren't being selected for scapegoats. We've only been given random opportunities to strengthen the stuff that makes us. Philosophers have, since time immemorial, theorised that the good times and the bad are cyclic - and neither lasts forever. 

Probably the most important patience of all is the ability to be considerate with the Self. Despite the greatest of our expectations with ourselves, we have our limitations. We will not, at all times, succeed - it is an imperfect world, and though we may refuse to see it, so are we. The discontentment we feel for ourselves is what we project to the world as bitterness. The lack of an ability to forgive the Self is what leads to crushing disappointment and, if unchecked, to physical self-harm and mental anguish. The one true path that leads out of the quagmire of crushed dreams and the river of black thoughts is to dispassionately evaluate one's situation:

• What's wrong?;
• Who can help alleviate?;
• How did it happen?;
• What does one do (and need) to fix it?;
• When will it get better?;

Perhaps the most important question of them all - "what needs to be done so that one never has to experience this exasperating feeling again?". Answer all these, with help from bosom companions, if necessary, and one will find oneself on the road of profound self-awareness and on a journey of continuous self-improvement. The capacity to say "mea culpa", but at the same time pardon ourselves for failing is what will drive us to empathise with our fellow man and truly comprehend humanity.

"Patience", after all, has Middle English origins with Old French roots stemming from the Latin prefix "patient-", meaning "suffering" - not a word, but a prefix. In other words, whatever the language, the very intent of "patience" is to inherently teach us that all suffering must be endured, but never alone. 

The Unbending Will

Oft have we wondered -
Of the inevitable course,
Of the immovable object,
And the unstoppable force.

Oft do we ponder -
Why those portents' mock,
What of the hard place -
When the proverbial rock?

Yet we may speculate -
Where the recourse is,
When Scylla is the former,
The latter, Charybdis.

Everyone has choices,
To tear down or to build,
In the face of perilous options,
Unbending Will won't yield.

Existence is fraught with dilemmas,
The conclusion, even as we live -
Though neither may have the answer,
Still something has to give.

The Man at the Crossroads

   The man in Apartment 322 woke up to the shrill tone of the digital alarm clock sitting on his nightstand; angled so that his outstretched arm while fully prone, on his stomach, in his bed, would smartly rap the snooze button on the very first attempt - always. The man opened his eye warily and noted with satisfaction that the clock face lit up a dull red "06:00". He opened his other eye and, propping himself up on his elbows, allowed himself a quick, jerky, self-satisfied, self-congratulatory nod of the head. Pausing a second, he decided such punctuality warranted a perfunctory moistening of his dry lips and jabbed his tongue about in practised ease. When the right-most set of LEDs on the clock face switched from "0" to "1", the man cleared his nostrils with a "Humph", flipped over onto his back, rolled off his bed and slipped his toes into his fluffy bedroom slippers while raising himself to full height - all in a single motion fluid enough to shame a Olympic-level gymnast. The scrupulous being went about his stretches and exercises, speeding up the blood in his veins to the muted tempo of a grunted "a-one-an'-a-two-an'-a-one" chant. At exactly "06:13" according to the clock, he swept himself to the bathroom. For the next 10 minutes, there was silence enough to hear the dust motes execute their Brownian paths in the sliver of morning sunlight streaming from the slip of gap between the screened curtains on the windows; that and the rather tuneless humming accentuated by the regular sploshing of splashing water. Having completed his toilette, the resident of Apartment 322 proceeded into the kitchen, his slippered, but still wet, feet slapping against the lacquered floor tiles. Watching the inhabitant of Apartment 322 - though why anyone would voluntarily put themselves through the trouble - one would logically suppose that the worthy in question was a severe and punctilious hermit; and one would have supposed quite correctly.

   From the kitchen came the sounds of a coffee pot put to boil and clink of the milk bottles being brought in the backdoor. From the back wall, directly above the backdoor hung an analogue, circular-faced, white-dialled and black-handed wall clock mounted on a peg. As the minute and second hands raced each other past the dot positioned at "6", the backdoor slammed shut. It was with obvious consternation that man in Apartment 322 turned his back to the kitchen door - tucked underneath his left arm was the usual rolled-up newspaper, clutched in the fingers of his left arm were the usual couple of bottles of milk; but his right hand clutched an unusual, small, stubby, wide-mouthed glass bottle showing its cheery red contents at taut arm's length and beady eye level. All was still, except for the unnaturally loud ticking of the wall clock as he confusedly set the milk bottles next to his breakfast plate at the table and deposited the newspaper in the fridge. Still staring at the jam bottle - for that was what the label said - in his hand, oblivious to the fiercely bubbling coffee, his trembling fingers - now free of the milk bottles - made their way to the square, brown tag made of coarse, handmade paper tied to the jam bottle's squat neck in brown twine rather like a cheap piece of jewellery: "Season's greetings! Thanks for being an esteemed customer!", it proclaimed in a green, spindly, eye-sore of a cursive font. He set the bottle down on the kitchen counter in a jerky, quick motion. Arms akimbo, he stared at it in a rather unfocused manner until the coffee pot began spewing out a black tar-like substance over the stove, awakening him from his trance. Shaking his head and mentally kicking himself, he hurried about his breakfast trying to make up for the lost seconds.

At exactly 06:50 according to the kitchen clock - for that matter, also according to the digital clock in the bedroom, or even the wristwatch on his hand - the man from Apartment 322, smartly shut the main door behind him as he prepared to launch himself into the early morning multitude of tradespeople fording the streets on their own ways to their own places of business. Everyday, our acquaintance took exactly 22 minutes to reach his workplace which was a little corner-store at a busy downtown intersection that prided on stocking everything from greeting cards to parkas. Today, however, it was nearly 40 minutes later that he arrived at his shop - having been jostled thrice, tripped twice (of his own accord) and even having taken a wrong turn once - very flustered. His mood did little to improve itself as the day progressed: he had set the dailies in their racks - but definitely out of order since the sports pages were turned up, he dropped a box of soda cans over his foot, disturbed a display of cheap jewellery whilst hopping up and down in pain; and had to twice apologize to customers for miscounted change.

At 19:00, he gave up and pronounced his life "dead" and noted the time of departure in his mind. With a sombre face and a matching slouch, he walked home in a daze. On absentmindedly opening the door and letting himself in, his eyes nervously darted to the kitchen; and through the open door, at the off-white refrigerator which housed the aberrant jam bottle since earlier that day. He gnashed his teeth with a frustrated annoyance that was quite strange to his demure demeanour and stomped into his bedroom to get changed for a one-man war council. Twenty minutes later found him back in the kitchen, pacing to and fro in front of the counter. Occasionally, he clicked his fingers and followed through with imperceptible little nods and shakes of his head. He continued in this manner for an hour and then sighing enormously he headed off to bed like a defeated Atlas burdened with the weight of the skies.

Next morning, things went awry even before breakfast. The occupant of Apartment 322 woke up late - fourteen minutes late, to be exact. He hurried through his ablutions and was very cross with himself by the time he left for work - nearly twenty minutes behind schedule. The rest of the day went just as badly as the previous one with his daily routine upset and his concentration often broken with his mind on the jam bottle in his refrigerator. It was a severely frayed looking person who let himself in to Apartment 322 that evening. He hurried to the fridge and fished out the jam bottle and quickly set it on the counter-top as if it were poisonous to the touch. He shook his head worriedly and went to get changed. Again, he dragged himself into the kitchen for his war council for the innocent looking jam bottle had wreaked havoc with his ordered and bland life. As he continued to debate his conundrum, he realised there were noises of some heavy things being dragged around outside. He whipped around and went up to the front window and saw that he seemed to be getting new neighbours. He watched with interest as the movers unloaded the truck - out came large boxes and furniture and into Apartment 321 they went. As he studied the steady flow of material from the truck to the building, a greasy taxi cab drove up to the kerb and deposited a middle-aged couple. The man was well-built, though gone-to-seed a little around the midsection; with closely cropped peppery hair and a matching moustache. His companion was a little wispy lady clutching an over-size handbag. They looked at Apartment 321 and glanced at each other with joy writ large on their faces. As the last of the boxes went into the building, and the movers packed up their equipment, the neighbours made their way into their new home hand-in-hand.

As the movers' truck pulled away, a proverbial light bulb lit itself in the cranial region of the man in Apartment 322. He gave a strangled squeak of delight and ran pell-mell to the kitchen. Scarcely stopping, he grabbed the jam bottle, executed a U-turn while skidding over the foot-mat and ran out the front door. He made his way next door and smartly rapped on the door. As he bounced on the spot in his bedroom slippers, the door opened and he found himself face-to-face with the new Mr & Mrs Apartment 321. Soon they were making small talk; laughing politely and nodding patiently while each party introduced themselves and explained their lots in life. As they said their goodnights, the man from Apartment 322 thrust out the bottle of jam and welcomed Mr & Mrs Apartment 321 to the neighbourhood. A very surprised Mrs Apartment 321 smiled and graciously accepted the unexpected gift.

It was, once again, the old inhabitant of Apartment 322 that re-entered and closed the door behind him. He let out a huge sigh of relief and noted that it was precisely 11:30 PM. He smiled to himself as he made his way to the bedroom for some well-deserved sleep.

Bacchanalia

She waits in eager anticipation of revelries to come. Standing in the circle, a slip of a hand tightly en-clasped in her each of her sisters'; fingers white with the constricting grip; faces pale in the oppressive heat of silent hope. Their foreheads with wreaths a-bound in rustling haloes; glistening with tiny, sparkling, pearly, beads of sweat. Their shift-like gauzy dresses wrapped in fawn-skin shuffling with the occasional sigh of a restless wind suspiring after the sea and speculating to itself the reason it had gotten all the way up to the hilltop.

The harsh stillness cracks at the clash of cymbals. From her right - towards the Occident comes the mellifluous cacophony of flutes, drums and pipes adding to the tinny monotone of the cymbals. An intense jolt of zeal interspersed with elated passion runs up her spine - through their connected hands she feels her sisters shiver in excitement beside her. The thiasoi were beginning the celebrations!

Slowly, in time to the sound of the beats, she feels herself swaying. Rhythmic, languidly, awaiting the delirium she knows will come. As the sun drowns himself in the wine-red brine, the brackets along the walls of the rock-lined arena flickers to life in a steady stream of yellow bursts in the periphery of her vision. As the beams at the horizon completely blink out, thwarted and extinguished once more by unhurried and impassive waves; the bonfire in the middle of the undulating ring flares up with a hissing roar threatening to burn the very ceiling though the heavens seem far and cold with their haughty stars no more the cold pinpricks on velvet field.

More of her sisters appear with jugs and amphorae. She reaches out with her hands and gratefully accepts a golden goblet. Tilting back her shapely, brown curls, she drains the blood-stained ambrosia - all the while vacillating from side-to-side in synchronous harmony with the rest of the cluster. She passes the chalice around the ring and awaited its return to her. Time seemed sluggish - slow; yet the goblet is already thrust in her hand. The libations are never-ending. She thanks the Gods in an alleluia that is taken up gladly by those around her. The music throbs, the pace quickens, her eyes dull and fevered stare out across the scene. The dancing firelight throws shadows - the circlet of veering and keeling figures form a undulating serpent swallowing its own tail. She smells the sweet fragrance of wine on her lips. Her knotted hair, now undone still has the scent of the oil she coiffed it with. There is a hint of burning incense and rosemary in the air. She feels the pulse of her sisters' hands quicken. She prepares for the gay abandonment of staid decorum she knows will soon come. She herself expects to begin dancing in earnest soon; after all, her mind knows the edge of the precipice of sanity when it senses it.

She starts sensing everything in detail. The sounds of the harmonious instruments, unruly stamping feet, the whitecaps crashing into the rocks below overwhelm her. The lurid colours of the gathered masses in sharp relief by the fire-glow and the dark, lush felt of the night sky above them dazzle her. The sweet, acid tang of the wine and the hint of salt in the bracing night air impress her like they never have. The concept of time ceases to exist. She ceases to exist as a being. She gives herself up to the mystery of it all.

Quite suddenly, she finds herself on another plane, without. She sees herself still dancing and whirling among the women. Yet, here she is observing all of it from up on high. She finds herself enveloped by beautifully shaped, gloriously shining, sublimely god-like figures. The Gods! She bashfully looks up at them with slanted eyes - not daring a direct glance. She notices a smile before she succumbs to the will of the rapture. Her spirit body is aflame, awash with ice. She feels the constant, tingling sensation running up and down her spine - yet she dances on, on the ground below. She spends an eternity suspended in the vacuous expanse surrounded by the very beings she was celebrating. She witnesses all there has been and all there is to be. Then her world goes black.

She awakes to the faint rosy glow in the Levant sky. She finds herself lying in the mossy bank, deep in the woods on the leeward side of the hill. She stands up to notice a few of her sisters from last night nearby in a stupor. She brushes the last vestiges of the torpor from the corners of her mind, adjusts her clothing and hair; and makes her way downhill to the town and her life.

Drinking from the Saucer

I've never made a fortune,
And I'll never make one now
But it really doesn't matter
'Cause I'm happy anyhow

As I go along my journey
I'm reaping better than I've sowed
I'm drinking from the saucer
'Cause my cup has overflowed

I don't have a lot of riches,
And sometimes the going's tough
But with kin and friends to love me
I think I'm rich enough

I thank God for the blessings
That His mercy has bestowed
I'm drinking from the saucer
'Cause my cup has overflowed

He gives me strength and courage
When the way grows steep and rough
I'll not ask for other blessings for
I'm already blessed enough

May we never be too busy
To help bear another's load
Then we'll all be drinking from the saucer
When our cups have overflowed

-John Paul Moore

The Standard-bearer

A roseate sky to greet the sun,
Below the tall, greying mountain,
Blood-soaked sand crunch beneath men,
As they march through the noisome fen.

The carrion fowl circle the sky,

Early come; ranging far and wide,

Lowering now; as the armies cry,

When men war in senseless pride.

Their frenzied mob in fevered awe,

A hush pervades as the Captains halt,

A cry bursts forth the Leader's maw

Eager soldiers begin their assault.

Banners waving; the Cornets bawl,
The army gathers in the Flag's thrall,
The Ensign forth; brave and tall!
Proud his slogan; heed his call!

Forces clash with ringing steel,

As helms split and shields yield,

Red rivers flow as the sands beal, 

Brothers fight on for the sallow field.

The Ensign leads, the loyals charged,

A halberd unseen, his gut enlarged,

The Standard planted, his duty discharged.

Dead eyes behold the pennon, love writ large.

When the battle is over and all is done,
And the old wails for the fallen son,
And voices shout that peace is a mun,
The pennant stands still; alone it has won.

The Travel Companion

He wasn't a regular passenger – she knew pretty much everyone on that route. She took the bus everyday to the paintball arena where she worked. Day in, day out. She enjoyed working – sometimes when the customers didn't have enough members on their teams she got to play to make up the numbers. Consequently, she was a decent marksman; in her own words - “wicked cool”. She knew the driver and the conductor. She knew the young boy and his father who ran the butcher shop down by the market. She knew the two old women who ran the little clothes store a couple of blocks down. She even knew the short, muscular young man who was no doubt going home after another night guarding the bank near the bus stand. No, he wasn't a regular.

She had just managed to settle down on her seat – not that the bus was crowded so early in the morning. But she had her favourite seat right in the middle of the bus where the creaky leaf springs still afforded some sort of shock absorption. It was by the window so she could look around both forwards and backwards during her journey. She never tired of her beautiful little town. It was a matter of perspective, she surmised. The smoke from the heavy, lumbering vehicles left over from the American invasion she studied about in school; the filth accumulated in piles behind the street markets and the alleyways where tourists could satiate their desires for the right price. In stark contrast were the temples and pagodas with their serene, gold domes; the gently flowing river with blossom-leaden trees dipping in their heavy branches in time with the whistling breeze and the happy people going about their businesses in their colourful clothes. Her town was a happy place all in all. Which begged the question as to why the stranger had a frown. He wasn't a regular passenger for sure.

He got on the bus at the stop next to hers. He made his way past the first few seats acknowledging the passengers with tiny, jerky nods of his head and made his way to the middle of the bus. Hesitating a moment, he set down his bulky frame in the seat opposite her. Curious, she studied him surreptitiously. He was a heavyset man in his early seventies. A two-day old stubble crept around his cheeks. His clothes were, while shabby, not decrepit and seemed to accentuate his slumped shoulders. In his hands, he carried a bouquet of fresh garden flowers that didn't boast of arrangement by a practised hand – he had made it himself, she surmised – and a white plastic bag that didn't seem leaden. His eyes were dull & listless and his lips were pulled down in a spectacular frown that made him look like he had been burdened with all the many evils that were once stored within Pandora's famous box. Quite suddenly, as if he was aware of her scrutiny, he turned to look straight at her. It was so unexpected that she sat there frozen, their gazes affixed. She felt her skin heating up as her cheeks coloured. The man's eyes slowly brightened and his lips slowly pulled up until his frown became an indulgent, avuncular smile. 

Pretty soon, she was talking with him like she had known him for ages. He was a factory worker at the canned goods company near the docks. He had saved enough; he would soon retire and live a quiet life running his very own souvenir store near the floating markets. No, he didn't come this way often. He had a daughter who he was going to visit. The flowers were for her. There were sweets in the plastic bag – her favourite kind. He told her stories of the war, of how he had been a scout during it. He spoke of the many regimes and rulers of the past. He seemed so animated when he had someone to speak to. Yet, during intermittent moments of silence he succumbed to his dour countenance once more. He was such an enchanting old man that she didn't even realise how the time flew. 

A stop before hers, the old man raised his prodigious bulk out of the seat and announced that he had to get off. She wished him well and asked him to pass on her greetings to his daughter. He smiled again and thanked her for her companionship. Collecting his belongings, he alighted from the shuddering vehicle. As the bus backfired and trundled ahead, from her window, she saw him amble slowly; head downcast, shoulders drooping; into the cemetery.

The Universal Perspective

The Bubble

I exist. I suddenly came into being. I was.

A gentle breeze on a hot summer afternoon lifted me from the plastic womb that formed me. A child, laughing, breathed me into shape. I was floating; carried this way and that by the rising currents of warm air. The warmth - it held me; surrounded me; willed me into my rotundness; made me feel lighter than a feather.

I am. I am, but a wispy, film of soap and water. I am beautiful - I know I am. I see the children pointing excitedly at me; My ballerina-like movements bring unfettered joy in the eyes of the old woman defiantly plodding in the wake of her dancing granddaughter. I sport a rainbow all around me: the iridescence promising infinite, unfathomable possibilities. The colours clashed and melded into patterns that defied logic and the imagination of the crowd that had gathered around me, admiring. I see an older boy draw near. His appreciation for me seems to know no bounds. He is reaching for me. I glow extra-bright with the adoration.

I wasn't. I suddenly winked out of existence. I ceased to be.

An Allusion

Meandering the paths of manic reflection,
Pursued by insomnia's muted suggestion,
Overwhelmed by guilt; the feeble natation -
A snaring of the senses; panic's vaticination,

A gathering of the distraught; fears' prehension,
The erosion of reasoning; mental denudation,
Hate & discord entwined in social isolation -
With hopeless regret; an emotional imbrication.

Diquieted by the disgrace of dread's desolation,
Uncertain of the absolute; anxietic abduction,
Mired in apathy's dispassionate subjugation -
A constant whisper; of suicidal solution.

A vision of frailty; fraught in illusion,
Born of the mind's disconnected seclusion,
Ends with the single, inevitable conclusion -
Of grandiose deception; a fractured delusion.

Wraith-song

Let malice confound the mind with vigour
Like a spy beguiling many foes,
And hurt and loss inconsolable -
A path to death straight and narrow,
A chill that freezes the yellow marrow -
Affect all but faithless roues.

Let darkness enshroud the bleak morning sun
Like fog upon the black river-bank,
And despair take the onlooker -
A gladiator's last stand,
A bite on breaded hand -
That espies the drab and dank.

Let calamities afflict the human race
Like flies fly to ointment sweet,
And health and strength prove less mighty -
A cacophonous cadence of frail heart,
A unnerving fear rending it apart -
Than canker festering in blood and meat.

Let strife be commonplace once again
Like winged birds the Winter fleeing,
And united stand made impossible -
A treacherous and base warden,
A poisonous snake in First Garden -
By faithless courage your being leaving.

Let evil rise and raise a call
Like shepherd to the bolting flock,
And may no one heed the goodly leader -
A liar that nobody believed,
A burden never relieved -
His hope forever under keyless lock.

Awaken Suffering; O sleeping child!
Arise Anger; bring forth thy hates!
Stride forth, Rancour and Rapacity,
With Envy and Lust, thine parlous mates!
Then shall all fail at Heaven's gate,
And draconian labours be their fate!

The Hope-kindler

[1]

In the earliest of time when all was void,

When naught was old and old was new,

The world took shape from Chaos’ mind,

The world, ethereal and nascent, grew.

The primordial forces, outward they flew,

Of Ouranos, the Sky – Gaia, she knew,

From them sprang forth the first god-fold:

The Meliae fair; the Titans bold;

The Cyclopes violent; The Hundred-hand fold;

The Giants large; The Furies cold;

And the beauteous Aphrodite –

Who came from him alone.

A dozen they reckoned – the Elder Titans,

A dozen that reflected Cronos’ glow,

A golden rule over Grecian shore,

As gods to those that dwelt below.

Among them one – Iapetus, the piercer,

Favourite of Cronos and of craftsmen,

The reminder of mortality to all humans,

Easer of loss whether hill or in glen.

His consort was Clymene, an Oceanid fair,

Four tall sons he had to ease his care,

Two were called Menoetius and Epimetheus,

While renowned were Atlas and Prometheus.

[2]

Well-learned was Prometheus,

A teacher of all mortal men,

Of arts, sciences and healing,

He showed and taught them.

With knowledge and learning civilization thrived,

The humans grew powerful and strong,

While up in the Heavens Titanomachia raged,

And Cronos paid dearly for every wrong.

The war above seethed for an age,

As both sides for control sought,

The Olympians proved victorious,

Aided by Prometheus’ forethought.

Then did Zeus display his might and power,

And to chthonic depths his enemies banished,

Hypotartarioi they became – the gods of old,

From folklore and song, soon they vanished.

[3]

At Mecone – Sicyon of old – was held a gathering great,

Of new gods and mortals alike,

To debate over the apportionment of foods,

To dispute about sacrifice.

Then did Prometheus commence to slay a great ox,

Its entrails he proceeded to divide,

At one hand was meat shrouded by unsightly stomach,

Shining, fat-drenched bones the other side.

Verily as he forethought, Zeus made his choice,

He picked the shimmering bone-pile to be the gods’ share,

While nourishing meats hid by bloated gut,

Was forever mankind’s he deemed, and so did he declare.

Much rejoicing there was at the end of the meet,

And all of humanity celebrated with many feasts,

Joyously they hailed Prometheus with toasts,

To Zeus they sent burnt bones of the beasts.

Sorely vexed was Zeus with the transgression,

And mankind faced the Jovian ire,

For the part they played in the Trick at Mecone,

He denied them the use of fire.

Blessed as he was with foresight and wisdom,

Prometheus came to the aid of humanity,

So stole he to the wondrous forge of Hephaestus,

And came upon the eternal Fire of Divinity.

He set the flame to fennel-stalk,

And slipped away to mortal lands,

Acknowledging not praise nor thanks,

Set the kindling in mortal hands.

Olympia fumed as people honoured,

The fire-bringer by fire-glow,

A mighty storm Zeus raised and,

The winds he set to blow.

[4]

The gods did then gift Pandora a cleverly-crafted box,

They bade her keep it safe and never to look inside,

But curious was the lady and as the gods knew she would,

She cast the box open to see what it would hide.

Out leaped fork-tongued Malice and his brother Strife,

Followed closely by gaunt Suffering and her sister Sin,

One by one the Horrors were let loose upon the earth,

Until only Hope was left; completely trapped within.

The Titan-son the god-king bound to rock,

High atop Kazbek,

His liver Zeus opened and bid his eagle,

Forever to peck.

Thus doth mighty Zeus have revenge on all that disobey,

Hope’s loss was the cost; for in the box it lay,

Prometheus stands alone, defying the gods for his part,

Through his selfless deeds, bringing Hope to mortal heart.

A Child of the Universe

[1]
He jerked suddenly, awakening. His wiry, knotty, body sluggishly unwound itself from its curled up position with almost serpentine grace beneath the spiny, sparse tree that somehow clung to life - like an old miser clinging to the last vestiges of sanity just so he could finish counting out his hoard of coins - and offered scant, yet welcome relief from the scorching afternoon sun. He sat up and looked about him rather stupidly, eyes pouched and gummy with sleep. Slowly, his eyes took in his surroundings and images he saw seemed to register in his brain. He reached out a finger to rub his eye as he yawned. Awareness came back to him languidly, gradually. While one hand was busy massaging his eyes, the other lethargically reached into the front of his half-unbuttoned shirt and rummaged around for a bit. It came out clutching a small plastic bag. His child-like features formed a scowl - empty! He needed his "upper" - and fast. With an alacrity that was most uncharacteristic, he stood up to his full 5-foot frame and fairly ran across the camp.

The camp was a motley collection of hastily erected mud huts and goat-hair tents. There were about 350 of them and they all had to share whatever passed for facilities in the camp. He ran past the shoddy buildings and their shoddier inhabitants. A clutch of chickens took evasive action with angry clucks to avoid his careless bounds. He stopped at what seemed to be his destination with his short, curly hair glinting with sweat droplets and his dark skin glistening like burnished copper over his frail, heaving chest. The ramshackle hut he stood in front of seemed like any other at first glance. Then one noticed the wooden door barricading the entrance - the only door in the entire camp, aside from the ammunition store - and the electric wiring going in and out through the porthole-like window to one side. He raised a hand and knocked, "Kabtanka! Kabtanka!"

The door opened and a young girl, little older than himself peered out with dark, dead eyes - one of the Kabtanka's wives. He knew her - like a haze lifting off a fog-bank, his mind remembered a buried memory - they had been in the same village, long ago. They had played together. They had been...friends? The word seemed unfamiliar, almost alien. She clung on to, what seemed like, at first glance, a bundle of rags as if it were her only link to reality. He stared at it again as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior behind the girl. Why, it was a dirty, moth-eaten, rag doll! He knew it too. He had been there when she had first received it. It had been a present. A birthday present for her eighth birthday. From her mother. From HIS mother! She was his sister then. His elder sister.

His mind pieced together these bits of information in a methodical, sterile way bereft of emotion. He had had no emotions, not for the last three years, not since "The Youth" had come to his village and rounded up all the able adults. His village was small and poor even by the standards of his country. The number of recruits was insufficient for "The Cause", they said. The Youth had then begun to turn the huts inside out and herd the children together. He recalled being one of the "picked ones", while his sister had not been. He had then laid eyes on the great Kabtanka who had personally given him his gun. He was then shown how to work the trigger. He had shot for the first time that day. Yes, he had even gotten his first kill that day. They had asked him about his family and he had pointed them out. They had kept his sister with those children that hadn't been picked, but his parents, they'd pulled out of the fold. They had knelt them in front of him and had made him shoot. He hadn't known what would happen if he pulled the trigger. He had found out too late - as he watched the life ebbing away from the bodies that had once been his parents. It didn't matter now. They say The Cause was all that mattered. To him, The Cause meant nothing. To him, family meant nothing, not anymore. The only thing that mattered to him was his "bubbles" - and the Kabtanka was the one who would give him some.

The girl continued to stare at him passively. "Kabtanka!", he reminded her. She gave the briefest of nods and held the door open for him to enter. The inside of the hut seemed to reflect his sister's life - drab, dank and dreary. In a far corner stood a small camping refrigerator. There was a curtained doorway leading to an inner chamber through which the girl vanished. The only furniture in the room was a dusty wooden table and two, equally plain chairs. He stood by the table, twitching in anticipation like a greyhound on leash. The curtains flicked back and a tall, beefy man entered. His bullish frame seemed about fit to burst from under his ebony skin. Beetling brows framed a pair of jet black orbs that seemed to discern and strip bare all they cast their gaze upon. He wore camouflage trousers and vest with boots to match. He was the all-powerful Kabtanka, their chief. "Well?", growled the bear of a man, he was a busy man with a Cause and had no time for his foot-soldiers. The boy, as always, was filled with awe in his presence. "Bubbles", he stammered. The Captain laughed cruelly, "Not until after the job tonight, Cabdalle! You must earn it!", he admonished. Cabdalle wheedled for just a tiny amount, he would take less than his normal share afterwards. The Kabtanka looked the boy over and retreated into the backroom. He returned in a few seconds and placed a small plastic pouch of white powder in the boy's eagerly upturned palm. Cabdalle nearly tripped over the chair in his hurry to get back to his spot under that tree of misery. As he ran, he fished out a roll of thin cardboard fashioned into a pipe. His Cause was fulfilled, for a while anyway.

[2]
He jerked awake, suddenly. The world was dark, but there was a terrible tumult around him. He squinted into the inky blackness and made out faint shapes of jeeps and soldiers - some adults, some like him. "The job!", he jumped up and ran towards the vehicles and stopped - he needed his gun - he ran back towards the buildings. Someone called out to him and threw him a automatic rifle. For a twelve-year old, he caught it with practiced ease and gave the safety and the cartridge a once-over. Cabdalle backed up again and headed to the trucks, pausing only to pocket spare cartridges off a table. As he climbed into the back of a rickety old truck - a vestige of another time, another war - the convoy began to move. He lost his balance, what with the gun weighing nearly as much as him, and was about to fall out when a sinewy hand shot out and grabbed the back of his shirt. The ragged cloth rend some more and nearly gave way, but not quite, luckily for him. Cabdalle leaned back against the truck's metal stomach gratefully and muttered a whispered thanks to his saviour. He looked up and saw it was Xassan. Xassan was about his age. They had both been recruited around the same time, both "picked". It had been a relief to have Xassan next to him during those initial days of hell until "bubbles" took them both. He hadn't seen him in a while - he forgot how long - anyway, he didn't know to count beyond his fingers and toes. He had never even bothered to find out if he was still alive. It hadn't mattered. Nothing mattered, but for "bubbles". But still, it was...comforting...knowing Xassan was alive and standing beside him again.

The jeeps and trucks trundled along ill-maintained paths in the sub-Saharan night. A dull, unhealthy sliver of a moon poked out from behind a cloud from time to time. Inside the truck, there was no sound save for the raucous thumping of the diesel engine and the clinking rattling of an assortment of loose nuts and bolts. The occasional creaking of the chassis springs kept time. After a long time, when Cabdalle's high was almost gone, they stopped to sudden and complete silence. The boy peeped anxiously out from around his fellow soldiers. They were in some town. Low, whitewashed, single- or two-storied buildings stood in eerie, silent rows as far as his eye could see. One of the big men got out of the truck. The child-soldiers waited within. The man came back and motioned for them to disembark. Cabdalle followed Xassan out the back of the vehicle and ran into the welcoming shadows of a narrow side-street. Others followed suit heading off in different directions, into different shadows that swallowed them up enthusiastically.

[3]
One of the men in the front pointed out toward a large building. Cabdalle nodded though no one could see him. They didn't need to. Everyone assembled there knew what they were doing. They didn't get to stay alive if they didn't. The building was a high-walled, large-compounded affair. Cabdalle guessed there would be guards with dogs about. It didn't matter. There was a flash from a dimmed torch. As one, they all began to move. Cabdalle's brain shut down unnecessary functions. It told him there would be "bubbles" later. For now, he just had to follow the others and shoot. They burst through the gates and into the well-kept lawns, shooting; as always, the adults hung back letting the child-soldiers forge ahead. The children surged ahead unmindful of the danger, their thoughts on the amphetamines and the marijuana back at the camp awaiting their return. Some fell to enemy fire, others took their place. Cabdalle was firing at anything that moved in the distance. He bumped into a shoulder. He turned and looked into Xassan's face. Then something wet exploded into his eyes blinding him. He dropped his gun and fell to the grass instinctively and began rubbing the sticky liquid off. Some of it was in his nostrils - it smelt acrid. He finally opened his eyes - his hands were wet with water. No, water wasn't red - it was blood! He looked down - Xassan's body was lying unmoving. Xassan's head was mostly missing. Cabdalle felt a tiny twinge of...something within him.

Someone roared something unintelligible in his ears. He was roughly hoisted up. His gun was thrust back into his arms. The gun's familiar features allowed pure habit to take over. Cabdalle pulled up the barrel to point it forward and cradled the butt in his armpit. Suddenly, he felt a pounding shock in his gut. He gasped as his breath was physically expunged from his lungs by the force of the blow. As he bent over, he realized he was staring at his torso - or rather what was left of it. The left side of his hip seemed shattered. Parts of his shirt and his flesh were dangling, tattered and shredded. He was leaking blood by the gallon. He fell over backward in his surprise. He fell down hard and the pain began. It was intense and blinding. He supposed his eyes were still open but he could only see intense whiteness - it hurt. There was a buzzing sound in his ears - no more gunfire - it was such a relief. He coughed and tasted blood - his own, he realized. He blinked - once, twice. The white smog cleared a little. He was lying on his side in the grass - it had been freshly cut, green, and smelt nice, thought Cabdalle. He was lying next to someone. Someone familiar. It hurt to think, so he stopped. It didn't matter if he couldn't think. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

He closed his eyes again. He would not open them again - they hurt too much. He coughed again and more blood welled out. Around him, the battle raged - all quite pointless. Cabdalle felt his mind growing smaller and smaller. The whiteness in his head was going gray - and then black. Quite unbidden, an image formed. The last image Cabdalle would ever see. Unconsciously, his lips formed a smile. In his head, Cabdalle saw a dirty, shabby rag doll.

An Alliterative Anecdote

An abnormally active arachnid ambuscaded me,
Beguilingly buried between the sheets and bed,
I contemplating catching, or chucking him in the can,
Devious devil! Descended deftly, afore I doomed it dead.

Ere I exclaimed at its existence, it exited the eiderdown,
Forging forward on the floor to the fastness beneath the futon,
Grouchy and grumpy at the gossamer-spinner's gag,
With hazy head of hibernation holding, hampering hate,
I immediately inspired myself, imagining impaling it instead.

Jumping and jerking to a jig was jolly-jack attercop,
Kill it! Too kind; I know - put the kibosh on its kine!
Like liquidating the lot of them by leaching them in lye,
Maddened thus I maneuvered myself to maul it with a mop.
Now the nasty Anansi nipped 'neath the door in a nick,
Obviating all obstacles, not at all omphaloskeptic!

Puffing, pausing for a breath, I pursued the poisonous pariah,
Quivering and quackling with a quabbing heart, I quagswagged.
Raving, ranting in a red rage, I ran behind the rascal,
Shouting swear words that surely would cause a sailor-scandal,
Till at last, triumphantly, I tricked the trickster in turn,
Ultrageously trapped it under a upturned umbraculum-urn.

Vaingloriously and velociously, I vaulted over the vallations,
And walked over to the wame of the weeds by the water,
I bent to end the spider and drown it in the lake - when, hey!
A yellow-bellied flycatcher snatched it and flew away.

The Mermaid's Tears

The sea-birds break their vigil and head for the shore,
The tiny plankton in the waters light up with their neon glow,
The rolling Wind calms him down and utters a last whimper,
As the Sun drops to the horizon with nary a sighed whisper.

The sailors let the anchor down aboard their sailing ship,
The frothy white-caps surge ahead to signal the period of neap,
The crabs on cue, form a queue and come skittering out of their holes,
As the Day-bringer paints the seas in hues of burning coals.

Beneath the skies of burnished copper and clouds of blazing gold,
Amid the peace and serenity unchanged from days of old,
Alone, in the middle of the sea, betwixt the coast and Aubade,
Sat despairing upon a desolate rock, the disconsolate sea-maid.

Clothed in green-glimmering scales and alabaster skin,
A beauteous face and full of grace; she seemed Aphrodite's kin,
With wind-swept locks of shining silver and cheeks stained with her tears,
She wept and sobbed; and wailed and called; all to unheeding ears.

She cried out to the lofty albatross and the departing gulls,
She called out to the prancing dolphins and the walrus bulls,
She pled the setting Day-keeper and the rising Moon,
Could they help her with her plight; would they grant her a boon.

A task of no great magnitude for such illustrious beings,
An errand they could perform; to alleviate her grieving,
She implored them to bring her news, from their travels far and near,
Of the fate that befell the mortal man; the one she loved so dear.

Everyday he would row his boat to that lonely isle,
To sing of his love for her and sit beside her for awhile,
But a year had passed since he last; had helmed his sturdy boat,
A year she scryed the horizon for a sign of his hat or coat.

Now she feared and fretted the worst had come to pass,
She cursed and blamed her own fate for the romantic impasse,
She worried and vexed his wandering ways had but led him afar,
She  damned and curst herself for letting her heart be touched by char.

She reckoned her Love locked away and wasting in a tower,
Unheard, unseen by any, but for the ivy on the bower,
She imagined her fair sailor shipwrecked and lost at sea,
Encompassed by miles of water as far as his eye could see.

She prayed he wasn't aboard a merchantman besieged by privateers,
Or caught up in some terminal illness that brought life to all his fears,
She hoped he hadn't hurt his crown and roamed the land unmindful,
Or had fallen to the winsome charms of some witch wicked and powerful.

But try as she might to try ease her plight, the creatures paid no heed,
Nor the luminous orbs in the skies, agreed to do the deed,
For they all knew the fate of the one for whom she bore her penance,
But Fear turned their tongues to stone and they spoke not a sentence.

A year ago, as they knew, the young sailor set to sea,
For to meet his mermaid fair; his tryst with destiny,
He knew not his voyage was doomed; that the Ocean bore a malice,
That He, the Sea envied lovers and had drunk from Jealousy's chalice.

The rippling, stormy Ocean yearned for the calm, sturdy Land,
And sent His waves again and again just to touch Her sand,
But try as He might, since dawn of time, He could never be with his Love,
For such is the fate of the Sea and the Shore who earned the curse of Jove.

Eternally and for all time, His frothy horses charged the beach,
Ever and anon He tried; but She seemed always beyond reach,
He longed to hold Her to him and cover the Land with water,
To be as one, and not sundered; without a corporeal border.

But to His sorrow, He failed always to gain that which He desired,
For all His attempts with his tides, the Land always seemed higher,
Thus He bore unquenchable hate for all who had found Love,
And tried his best without a rest to thwart winged Cupid's bow.

That fateful day as the birds and the beasts watched with abject terror,
His sent his wave to engulf the boat; not by chance or error,
The waking Helios stood aghast as downing Selene wept,
As Ocean grasped the poor seaman and sent him off to Death.

Time, it seemed to stop awhile as the mariner struggled on,
On him, the pitiless Ocean, proceeded to bear down upon,
The Seafarer sank to the depths; no hold on breath or Life,
And fell to Darkness' bosom, bereft of Hope or Strife.

There among the rainbow corals and the brilliant fish-stars,
There between the glistening pearls in their oyster jars,
There amidst Neptune's treasures, as just a conquered jewel,
Lay the youthful sailor, undeserving of an end so cruel.

Silently, the beasts and the globes, tried to give her comfort,
Yet the siren held on to Misery, despite all their effort,
She swore her lover would show and he had never lied,
So she vowed to stay on the rock till the day she died.

Now still She waits, years untold, a speck in the heart of blue,
Adamant and trusting in her love, unaware of the Sea's coup,
The waters rolls as Ocean laughs at the mermaid's tears,
Reveling in his defeat of Cupid, just one of his many in a year.

Pattern

The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.

Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.

From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.

And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.

- Paul Simon

A Weary Traveller

He sat on unmoving like a stone monolith,
He looked just as huge and gray.
Glancing frequently at the wall-clock above him,
Peering from beneath his frayed hat's brim,
Wishing time would would speed up for him.


He was an hulking old man - way past his prime. Swathed in a gray, pin-striped coat and trousers of some unfathomable shade of color that had clearly seen better days just like the figure they clothed, he waited in a corner, seated on a plain metal seat painted a drab black that was now mostly scratched off by years of impatient passengers beating a tempo against it while waiting for the infinite buses to take them to destinations all over the country.


The face - a palette of sun-burnt colors,
The skin - wrinkled and veined.
The eyes, hard-set and of unfathomable black,
Now dull, now piercing like a boxed-up Jack,
Like embers glowing new life within an old sack.


The old man sat almost patiently - like one already dead. There was no discernible movement in his big frame. There wasn't even the telltale signs of the rhythmic rising and falling of the thorax with the breathing. If one wasn't actually focusing on him, one's glance would jump from the potted plant on one side of his seat to the Navy recruitment poster on the other. Only the eyes seemed brimming with energy - black and burning with curiosity and impatience.


For hours they moved erratically, searching,
For signs that he alone knew.
Each ebon orb beneath a beetling gray brow,
Peering this side and that, so fast and yet slow,
Till they finally alighted on the timepiece, a-glow.


As if on cue, the loud-speaker crackled to life and a tinny voice announced boarding for all destinations South. The mountain in the corner rose suddenly like a God of the Old that had been slumbering for ages now awoken. He hoisted a duffel bag that no one had noticed over his broad shoulder. As he made his way towards the exit, his eyes caught mine watching him - and he smiled. Then, he was gone. It made me happy to think a man such as him - who looked so defeated - could still smile.

Maybe it was because he was headed South for the winter.

A Spiritual Experience

As the cold set in and winter drew near,
I found myself bundled up one eve drear,
With the fire in the hearth dancing merrily,
In tune with the wind that blew so eerily.

There came a moment when silence was complete -
It seemed that sound faced a prospect bleak,
But the creak of a floorboard did the tension break,
With such suddenness - putting my sanity at stake!

A thrill of foreboding seized my mind,
The fire dimmed, I seemed blind!
Across the sea of darkness I glimpsed a shimmer,
Through the solid walls, a specter a-glimmer!

The apparition hovered, a pale-greenish hue,
I dared not to breathe - my countenance now blue,
Not a word it uttered, silent and grim,
Whilst Fear clasped me and filled me to the brim.

The mute Phantom floated, arms outstretched,
While I lay frozen; whimpering in my bed,
From outside came faint sounds of revelry,
The silence lay broken, and the devilry.

The Wraith and I have never met since then,
Nor have I mentioned our tryst to mice or to men,
For soon after that encounter that December day,
I moved out and found myself a new place to stay.

Those that have it Easy

With small peaks of hope and great valleys of despair,
Fate is a miser and Life, unfair.
Long is the journey ere an apex is reached,
Even delicate flowers must bloom after winter's breached.

Grudge not the blessed, for they are strong of heart,
For Destiny rewards us if only we play our part.
For those that have it easy and have their places under the sun,
Have earned their places for their work is done.