Cartoons

Alone

Alone

the longing
to belong
appears from
nowhere

I want
to lose myself
in something bigger
than myself

religion
can bite like that
church and altar
feast days
incense and candles
confession
repentance
forgiveness
then sin again

I am not religious
not in that sense

nor am I militant
right arm raised
goose-stepping
in a parade
each step in time
with every one else

if that’s the meaning
of belonging
I guess I’ll continue
to dream alone

Commentary:

Moo thinks that Princess Squiffy, out at the front of the parade, a solitary cat, all alone and on her own, would be perfect for this poem. I am not so sure. Everybody is so happy, so engaged, except for Princess Squiffy aka Vomit, who is vanishing into the woodwork – about to plan and execute her next act of sabotage, I guess. Yes, Vomit! She’s the one who throws up in my chair.

The meaning of meaning – such a simple phrase, such a complicated philosophical history. How does one ‘belong’? In what ways can one ‘belong’? Does one yearn to belong or long to belong? And what does it mean – to belong? Does my cat belong to me? Does my dog belong to me? Cat and dog are long dead now – so how can they belong to me? And when I am gone, all my belongings will belong to someone else. A strange world, eh? And yet I long to belong in it for as long as possible.

The two most dangerous words in the world – thine and mine. Cervantes wrote that somewhere. For thine and mine are possessives. They teach us to possess things, to claim them as ours. My house, my garden, my trees, my flowers, my lawn. With the drought that has occurred this summer and into the fall, I can no longer say my lawn, my flowers, my garden, for they have all dried up and marched along, privatim et seriatim, – a touch of Kipling there, Storky and Co. if I remember correctly, and I don’t, because I just checked and it’s Stalky not Storky! – into whatever happy gardens dead flowers and gardens inhabit in their after life.

I think one of the most dangerous games ever invented is Monopoly. Make no mistake, I love my Monopoly set – especially the top hat and the flat iron – but what do we learn from Monopoly and from all similar types of game playing and role modelling? Why, to gather everything into our hands hands and possess everything on the Monopoly Board. At least when we play chess, we defeat an opponent by check-mating his / her king. We don’t have to accrue all 31 pieces on our side of the board leaving the poor king alone on the other. Even Fox and Hounds – and that’s an impossible game to win when you’re the fox- doesn’t humiliate anyone in quite that fashion. Ah well, the meaning of the meaning of Monopoly – Happy Canadian Thanksgiving – we can all have a good rant about that one.

Clepsydra 16-17

Clepsydra 16 & 17
Click on the following link for the previous stanzas
Clepsydra 14 & 15

16

… would this be the beginning
     or the end

men and women
     on the street
          hands out
               fingers splayed
                    panhandling

their eyes
     black holes in empty faces
          not brain dead
               just drained of hope
                    brains deadened
                         by blow after blow

loaf after loaf crisping
     blackening in life’s oven
          fit only for preacher crows
               flitting from tree to tree

descending on garbage day
     to feast on desperate souls
          marooned kerbside
               for garbagemen to find …

17

… no soul allowed
     to weigh more than forty pounds
          each one swaddled
               in a plastic garbage bag
                    that serves
                         as a winding sheet

dust to dust
     to grey-faced ashes
          wound up by brawny arms
               swung flung skywards
                    into the truck

then ferried away
     to that place where crows
          and hunch-backed vultures
               gulls and humped eagles
                    wait for merciless ferries,

they cross into the shadow lands
     who was the one who found me
          who untied the ties that bind
               freed me from my cell
                    the shell of myself
                         and set me free …

Commentary:

Poetry explains itself.
If it doesn’t, it’s inexplicable.

Monkey Visitsthe Chimpanzees’ Tea Party

Monkey Visits
the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party

Dressed to the nines in their gala outfits,
they have come here for the tea party.
Hairy penguins, they waddle back
and forth across the temple,
then lunge for a table with its jumbo shrimp,
smoked salmon, scallops, baked oysters.

Faces slashed from ear to ear
by enormous grins,
“Food’s free!” they say
and stuff themselves
regardless of the consequences.

Serviettes tucked into collars,
they scoff lobster and crab.
Birds of Paradise, subtle delicacies
flown in from half a world away,
decorate the tables.

There is something about them, though,
these chimpanzees,
gripping cup handles
between finger and thumb,
enormously pleased to be the centre of attention,
however clumsily they walk,
in their hired-for-the-occasion,
ill-fitting, black and white penguin suits.

Commentary:

Moo apologizes. He hasn’t painted any chimpanzees, but a long time ago (2018) he drew and colored this cartoon. Pink and Purple Penguin Parade with Grand Marshall, Princess Squiffy. You can just see the end of Princess Squiffy’s tail as she vanishes out of the cartoon, encouraging the Pink and Purple Penguins to follow behind her behind. Oh the joys of leading the parade. Not everybody wants to do it though, many are content not to lead, but just to follow. Perhaps we should have called our cat MacNamara. After all, he was the leader of the band. But I don’t think Princess Squiffy would rather be anything other than what she is – a princess.

This poem, from Monkey Temple (of course / wrth gwrs) reminds me of Parents’ Day at my Boarding School. After several weeks of scarcely edible food, the tide would suddenly turn. Thursday, prime rib roast beef for supper. Friday, roast chicken with all the trimmings. When our parents arrived on the Saturday, all we could talk about was the wonderful food we had been eating for the last two days. Cunning, eh? We all had to dress up for Parents’ Day. Sunday starched collars, collar studs and all, and nice clean Sunday School ties.

Tea on the lawns in summer – unforgettable. A marquee, in case it rained, but otherwise tables laden down with a variety of skillfully cut sandwiches, little triangles, with no crusts, followed by endless helpings of strawberries and cream. The boys served their parents, fleeting back and forth to full the rapidly emptying plates. One boys father, I won’t say whose, devoured 12 bowls of strawberries and cream before the headmaster call the son over and begged him to beg his father not to eat all the strawberries and cream as some other parents’ would like some also.

Griffin Hunting – not a typical public school sport but one in which my school most certainly indulged. Our school symbol – a griffin – woven with gold thread on a dark blue background symbolized for the younger boys the perfection of the Prefects. To Hunt a Griffin was to behave in such a way as to attract the attention of older boys (already Perfect Prefects) and the school masters so that one became a candidate to climb the ladder and become a candidate for Griffin-hood. Some of us, myself included, preferred the anonymity of Robin Hood and were happy in our chosen roles of outlaws in Sherwood Forest and agents provocateurs and anarchists. Not for us the gentle counting of innumerable sheep. We chose rather the perils of after-dark transistor radios and the joys of Radio Luxemburg.

I remember being caught out of bed one night, on my knees, in a corner of the dormitory. All the dorm occupants were squealing and making a terrible noise. This attracted the attention of Perfect Prefect Plod – and in he came, threw the door open, and switched on the light. “You!” he pointed at me. “What do you think you are doing, out of bed?” “I am catching a mouse, Prefect Plod,” I replied. “You are a nasty little liar,” said Prefect Plod. “There are no mice in our nice clean house.” “Oh yes there are,” I replied, and I showed him the little mouse that I had cradled in my hands. “Give that to me,” ordered Prefect Plod. So I did. And the mouse took an instant dislike to him and immediately sunk its sharp little teeth into his thumb. I remember Prefect Plod running out of the dorm screaming “Matron! Matron!” and the little rodent swinging back and forth and hanging grimly on.

Those boarding school days ended 63 years ago. Hard to believe, really, but I still have such vivid memories of them. And of the Perfect Prefects, gripping cup handles between finger and thumb, enormously pleased to be the centre of attention on Parents’ Day, however clumsily they walked, in their spruced up for the occasion, Sunday Suits and Shirts, with their Golden Griffin ties. I always think of the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party when I think of the special performances of that little lot ‘for a Prefect’s lot is not a nappy one, nappy one.’

Dog Days

Dog Daze

1

A dry storm lays waste the days that dog my mind.
Carnivorous canicular, hydropic, it drinks me dry,
desiccates my dreams, gnaws me into nothingness.

At night a black dog hounds me, sends my head spinning,
makes me chase my own tail, round and round. It snaps at
dreams, shadows, memories that ghost through my mind.

Tarot Cards and Tea Leaves are lost in a Mad Hatter’s
dream of a dormouse in a teapot on an unkempt table.
Hunter home from the hill, I awake to find my house
empty, my body devastated, my future a foretold mess.

Desperate I lap at salt-licks of false hope but
they only increase my thirst and drive me deeper
into thick, black, tumultuous clouds. Dry lightning.
The drought continues and no raindrops fall.

Dog Daze
2

The drought continues and no raindrops fall.
Desperate I lap at salt-licks of false hope but
they only increase my thirst and drive me deeper
into thick, black, tumultuous clouds. Dry lightning.

Tarot Cards and Tea Leaves are lost in a Mad Hatter’s
dream of a dormouse in a teapot on an unkempt table.
Hunter home from the hill, I awake to find my house
empty, my body devastated, my future a foretold mess.

At night a black dog hounds me, sends my head spinning,
makes me chase my own tail, round and round. It snaps at
dreams, shadows, memories that ghost through my mind.

A heat wave lays waste the hopes that dog my days.
Carnivorous canicular, hydropic, it drinks me dry,
desiccates my dreams, gnaws me into nothingness.

Dog Daze
3

The drought continues. No raindrops fall.
No fresh water. None at all.

Dark clouds gather in the sky.
No rain falls. The ground is dry.

Grass all burned. No more hay.
How much livestock will they slay?

No rain comes, but a flash of light
sets the woods and fields alight.

Home from the fields, some farmers confess
their future is an unpredictable mess.

Desperate farmers are losing hope.
Out in the barns, they keep some rope.

The roof beams are sturdy and built high.
One little jump and problems good-bye.

Commentary:

Dog Daze 1 is a reverse sonnet. Instead of being structured 4-4-3-3 it moves in reverse 3-3-4-4. What fun to pretend to be Milton Acorn, and to turn my sonnet upside down. It should rhyme, but I abandoned rhyme in favor of metaphor a long time ago. Was I right to do so? What, if anything, catches you unawares in Dog Daze 1? Does it work for you? What would happen if we turned it upside down? You be the judge.

Dog Daze 2 is more or less the same sonnet returned to its normal stanzaic shape 4-4-3-3. In what ways has the poem now changed? Clearly there is a structural difference. Obviously some of the lines and images have changed. Is the poem stronger? Weaker? Does each one affect you in a different fashion? Do you prefer one version to the other?

Mission Impossible – How many more adaptations can we make to this poem and how would each one affect the poem and the reader’s reception of it? For example – Dog Daze 3 sees our sonnet turned into a poem composed of seven rhyming couplets. Couplets are easy to rhyme. But do they simplify the thoughts too much? Is the poem now too dark? Can you lighten the mood? How? Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to rewrite the poem in seven non-rhyming couplets. That will make a change from the Daily Sudoku and the Cross-word puzzle. If you do take up the challenge, let me see what you do! And remember, you can make it personal to you, your life, and your garden.

This Vessel in which I Sail

This Vessel in which I Sail

Trapped in this fragile vessel, with the pandemic
a passenger waiting to board, I drift from port to port,
looking for a haven, safe, to have and to hold me.

No harbour will let me dock. “No room at this inn,”
they say. “No haven here.” They wave me away.

Now I have no destination. Aimless, I float and every
where I go the message is: “No vacancy: no room at all.”

Unwanted, abandoned, I wander with wind and waves,
my only friends seals, porpoises, and whales.
I walk the whale road, leaving a frail, white wake behind.

This vessel has become a gulag now, a prison
camp where I exist just to survive. Each hour of each day
endless, boundless, like this shadowy, haunted sea.

Today there is no motion, no goal. What is there to achieve
but survival? Each day’s journey is sufficient unto itself.

Commentary:

Moo’s cartoon, Naval Gazing, dates from 2015. That year I spent eight weeks in Moncton at the Georges Dumont, gazing at my navel while waiting for my anti-cancer radiation treatment. Naval gazing / navel gazing, indeed. Good one, guys. You make a great pairing.

The poem dates from 2020 when Covid stalked the streets and we wore masks when we were not confined to our houses. I thought of the tour ships, wandering the seas, with the disease on board, and no port wanting them. It was a strange time.

Golden Oldies, then, both poem and painting. There are signs, small at present, but still visible, that such days are on their way back. We must each ask the question – What is there to achieve but survival? Hopefully we will come up with a similar answer – Each day’s journey is sufficient unto itself. Journey well and journey safely, my friends.

Hello again – our old friend is back!

Hello again – our old friend is back!

Co-[vidi]-s
17 March 2020

I saw time change with the clocks
and my body clock
is no longer in sync
with the tick-tock chime
that denounces each hour.

Hours that used to wound
now threaten to kill.
They used to limp along,
but now they just rush by
and I, who used to run
from point to point,
now shuffle a step at a time.

Around us, the Covidis
thrives and flowers.
Wallflowers, violets,
we shrink into our homes,
board up the windows,
refuse to open doors.
We communicate by phone,
e-mail, messenger, Skype.

Give us enough rope
and we’ll survive a little while,
fearful, full of anguish,
yet also filled with hope.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie, written on 17 March 2020, St. Patrick’s Day.

Only yesterday, I read that Covid is back once more, in a new and mutated shape. Masking is once again demanded in the local Horizon hospitals especially in areas where patients and the public gather. I lost a couple of good friends to Covid last time round. I hope I don’t lose any in this new session. Guess I’ll be continuing to get my vaccinations and keep them up to date.

Whoever is reading this, I wish you all the best. May you stay Covid and illness free. May you also enjoy a long and happy life with sunshine days – and enough rain to keep the forests cool, the trees happy, the flowers flourish, and the wildfires at bay.

Clepsydra 14-15 – Clowns clowning around

Clepsydra 14-15
Clowns clowning around

14

… walking life’s walk
     grey jays in the ash tree
          fresh snow on the ground

at night
     deer track out of the woods
          moon’s dead skull
               chalking its slow path
                    westwards

snow falls
     white upon white
          whirling our world
               back to its cratered life

nothing needed
     other than moonlight on snow
          to ignite us

a white wall of water cascades
     earthwards from the moon
          waters of renewal
               waters of life
                    waters that restore us
and save us
     from the moonbeam’s slicing knife
          that amputates all life …


15

… it is scary tonight
     inside the topsy-turvy
          big-top of my circus world

carnival time
     clowns clowning around
          turning my life
               upside down

is my mind
     a spider-web
          spun by worry and doubt

I remember how
     they pushed me around
          kicked me out
               always the anonymous they

they abandoned me
     told me I was unwanted
          surplus to purpose
               forced me to exit

they told me to forget
     those amniotic waters
          that water world of comfort
               that illusion of reality
                     they had created
                          then threw me onto the street

    I left behind
          their stultified personalities
               with all their stupid rules
                    and blinkered minds
                         that stopped them
                              from seeing straight …

Absence in Presence

Absence in Presence

Just before her flight left,
she came up
from the basement,
her cleaning tasks
complete,
and smiled at me.

In the background, music,
a Golden Oldie,
the Rolling Stones playing
‘This could be the last time.’

Present in her eyes,
and in my heart,
the thought,
more than a thought,
the knowledge
that those words
might actually be true.

Why do you blog?

Why do you blog?

Good question. And there’s no easy answer. I guess, in my case, that my computer and my teaching (I have been retired for 16 years) were closely linked. I used programs like Blackboard and WebCT to teach hybrid courses, online and in the classroom. The online factors – chat groups, info sharing, course analysis – backed up the in-class material and gave students a space in what was, back then, late 20th Century, a new, but rapidly developing teaching space and style.

I found the development of a web page allowed me to preserve course notes, to construct class material, to allow students to access material (in their own time and space) and many found this useful. I also encouraged students to build their own web pages (and this was in the twentieth century, remember!). I also told them that they would probably, long term, find the web page building more important than the material that I was teaching them, for my material, like that of many other teachers, had a limited shelf life, and was not carved in stone and everlasting. This was particularly true as rapidly changing times, methodologies, and students – often from different cultures and with different styles of learning and levels of knowledge – spelled the end of the single course outline imposed, top down, on all members of the class.

When I retired from teaching, I kept the web pages I had built. Then, some five or six years after retirement, I decided to start a blog, rather than just have a webpage. Now, blogging has become a habit. Not an incurable one – just this year I missed four months ‘blog time and space’ on this web page / blog of mine.

But is this web page of mine a blog? Not really. I don’t sell anything on it, rather I give my books away to friends who wish to read them. I don’t charge for accessing my ideas, my thoughts, my creativity, my poetry, my photos, my paintings, my philosophy. My oh my, look at all those ‘my -s’!

At this point in time I am wondering whether to continue blogging or not. I have been approached by many people who wish to enrich themselves by enriching my webpage so I can then enrich myself. But I neither want nor need that. Rather, I follow the philosophy of Miguel de Unamuno, the great Spanish philosopher. “If I can reach out and help just one person,” he said, “I will not have lived in vain. And I guess that’s why I blog – to reach out on the off-chance that one or two of my words will touch someone in a meaningful fashion and help them to understand the world a little bit better and even, maybe, to help reshape their lives.

Clepsydra, Poems 2 & 3

2

… who closes
     the museum doors,
          locking away its memories

dark descends,
     waters heard but unseen
          time unmeasured now
               until the coming of candles

each with its symbol
     lines that mark time
          an hour here or there,

never accurate
     seldom on time

a time that quickens
     in a whisper of wind
          the flame flickering
               time traveling faster

one candle tilts
     its waxen cataracts
          tumbling time
               cascading down
                    entering the void

that empty space
     left by the spent flame
          smouldering

where did it go
     the light
         I’d like to know
               how and why

a lifetime
     like a fire-fly’s spark
          flits away …

3

… fifteen eighty-eight
     the Spanish Armada
          its crescent glistening
               gunfire sparking
                    fireflies of flame

ponderous time
          spaced out
               relentless and slow

an unstoppable juggernaut
     on and on
          tides turning ebbing
               ever-flowing

hill beacons burning
     church bells
          ringing out their warnings

God blew
     and gusting winds
          took them away
               to the sand-dunes
                    off the Lowlands coast

flashes of flame
     fire-ships launched
          fire on the flood
               the rigging ablaze

quickly cut anchors
     now watch them go
          shepherded
               by sheepdog ships

 on Ireland’s rocky coasts
      ships and men
          their time up
               torn from the light
                   
swallowed by night’s
     dark throat …