the moments pass

 the moments pass

as we dwell on some interest

the moments pass

when we are distracted by floating junk

the moments pass

regardless of whether we are there for them

or in some daydream world

the moments pass

and they don't return.

Modern Times

once, life was simple

you had to find food

pick it or hunt for it.

you went hungry or felt fed.

you slept in the cave or the hut

went to the stream for water

enjoyed the warmth of the sun

and shivered through the wintry months.

your babies died, some survived

same with the mothers.

From time to time the emperor's

or nearest tribal king's men

came round and either killed you

or took your adult sons to war.

Sometimes they came back

often not.

Life was painful, hard

but we still had moments of love, laughter, joy.

and we knew how things were.

We knew how things were.

Now everything is available

though not to all.

to eat you have to have money

and for that you have to work

in the machine

or rely on something called the state

or charity.

The emperors who rule are not like before

where the most gruesome aggressor wore the crown.

Now, in some of our places, we vote for them

though we don't know what we are voting for.

Now we don't try to find food for our families

now we don't know where the food comes from

or how it is made

or what it is made of.

Nor do we know how the country runs

or the technology that makes everything work.

We vote if we still have any sense of hope and trust,

and think we are choosing our decision.

But everything is so complicated

there's no way for anyone except a professor

to really assess the options

and reach a rational conclusion.

And so it is,

eight billion people,

bewildered but unaware that we are bewildered,

cogs in cogs in cogs in cogs

sensing that we are still autonomous beings

but really we are not authentic any more.

True, there are moments, snatches, words, songs, a tale or two

that, offered, brings back a scent of reality amongst the insane clutter

of the megalopolis

which stretches from LA to Tokyo and Oslo to Dunedin

and it is these glimpses of what truly nurtures us

that reminds us of what it once was

to be human.

Pinballed

pinging around like a pinball

in a machine

not of my directing

though of my making

too many conflicting bumpers

accelerating me this way and that

my hands tense on the flippers

but rarely do I get the chance to use them

and sometimes when I try I miss

and the ball goes down the hole

out of the conscious world

then a second later something - me?

pings it back into the game

and it all starts again.

Field

I walked on a field that wasn't there

floated in darkness, breathed thick air

no birds sang, no flowers fair

I walked on a field that wasn't there.

I died in a loch that was dead already

the fish decayed, the rainfall heavy

houses ruined all around

no birds sang, no, not a sound.

I walked on a field I'd walked before

my footprints bloody, my red eyes sore

nature lay ruined all around

no birds sang, no life was found.

No life was found, just you and me

and we are memories of a sea

that once comprised most every thing.

and worst of all, no birds sing.

No birds do sing, no birds do sing

can you hear the grief

no birds do sing.

What is war?

what is war

what is the environment

when they blow up the city centre

is that an effect on the environment

do humans count as part of the environment

we are the storm

we are the tsunami

we are the flood

we are the wildfire

I have been to Hiroshima

it's a beautiful city

I have been to Warsaw

it's been rebuilt too

both to say

we will not be a historic ruin

like Bothwell Castle or Melrose Abbey

I have walked in places where the remnants of the Caledonian Forest remain

I remain to be convinced that we matter on this planet

but we are matter on this planet

and our wars

from a row in the living room

and fireworks exploding on 5th November.

to the mud-wrecked fields of France and Belgium in 1916

(of course there was no war further east as those countries didn't matter)

our wars, our glorious wars

the heroes named in memorials.

How many horses, cattle, sheep, badgers, foxes, hedgehogs

blown up in these wars

unmentioned in dispatches

though they were of course dispatched

collateral damage.

who counts among the dead?

what matters?

where are we going?

Dad's birthplace

There were twenty-five or more farms here

wee farms filled with orchards, berries, hazel trees,

veg, grain

cows sheep pigs

horses

and semi-wild cats

Wolves howled in the distance at night

in western Ukraine when it was part of Poland

though the animals weren't to know that

after the deportations

then the massacre of those who weren't deported

they burned down all the houses

chopped down all the trees

hungrily ate all the animals

and when the communists formally took ownership

of the land

they turned it all into one giant grain field

it was hard to imagine it as it once was

when my cousin and I visited it

before the war in Ukraine,

easier to imagine the deportation and massacres

as they are being re-enacted on film in the news

in our own time.

I am particularly pleased that my dad and his two sisters

died before the current invasion.

War on Nature

 There's a new housing estate being built nearby

between Hamilton and Strathaven

not far from the one that was built last year,

both built on fields that once formally housed sheep and cows

and, informally mice and foxes and badgers and all sorts of birds.

They come now to our back garden

pushed from their centuries-old homes

our back garden, beside our house

that was built thirty years ago

on a bing that was cleared

to make way for houses

after a century of coal mining

on what was once fields

where mice and foxes and badgers and all sorts of birds

once had their home.

war is what you conceive it to be.

Direction

Am I tomorrow already today?

Am I forever, there's no way to say?

Even the future's not always the way

So should I look forward to yesterday?

I am Friday

I am Friday

unperturbed by the days of the week

I am last day

working hard to end with ease

slipping into slipper eves

ready for existence slow

ready for the final no.

Eons

sometimes it takes eons

to experience a moment

Reborn

I am opening up again

after a time away

a time away from time and place

a time away where dark worlds enclose around you

with a heartache that knows no rules or boundaries

I am stepping foot back in the realm

that crumbled me into ashes and dust

dust and ashes

fireless brimstone

spent existence

I am reborn

me

but me?

do I have to find out again

who I am

or who I might become?

to what end

to what end

this path?

does it matter so long as we enjoy the steps?

Choosing What to Wear

 I awoke to a fine sunny morning

in early July

but, this being Scotland,

I didn't know whether it was warm sunny

or deceptively cold

so I pondered what to wear

as so many Scots do every day.

I chose a not-quite-olive green gym top

but fearing the cold

- as I was going for a short walk -

I also took a zip-up fleece,

sort of Sherwood green

like the ones the local rangers wear at Chatelherault Park.

Then I heard the sound of sweet music in the distance,

flutes,

and I realised what it was,

confirmed by the louder bangs of a big drum.

Och it'll be nothing, I thought,

thinking of my choice of clothing.

I changed to my trusty old slightly-grey blue jumper

and it was fine.

And yet.

The Complainant

They complain in their head

and complain in their bed

when really they should

do something better instead

but they're wired to moan

and they all love a groan

when they're with their good friends

or when they're alone

They're happy with this

a complaint brings them bliss

and all things considered

they don't know what they miss.

They Blah

they blah the blah

to sound profound

but all that comes

is blah and blah

they blah the blah

but blah too hard

and all that comes

is fake blah blah

they blah the blah

for reputation

but all that comes

is blah dumb dumb

all these books

 all these books

on the overfilled shelves,

a vast, restless search for answers

for meaning and purpose and how to live

when all they contain

is a vast, restless fumbling for answers

no one ever getting there

well, not quite no one

but very few

and no novelists

no poets

no history books

lots of clues

but rarely the one that stands out

so clearly to me just now

stop buying books

if you're looking for answers

in them.

Mindful the Observer

The observer observes the object

absorbs it whole

becomes the object

replacing the observer

with the observed

and then the observer returns

to observe its next experience

Three Poems: Ghalib Mix Experiment

 the fragrance of a rose

better to live the life we know

take the world by storm

beautified by emerald tints

enjoyment of the view

itself enough to fire

you will not treat me unkindly

a want of things to grieve about

before it can become a pearl 

Frame of Mind

frame of mind

am I blind

and this world

is so unkind

brothers loss

sister too

what do you

want me to do?

simple words can't express

bizarre feeling

helplessness

neither up

nor quite down

we don't swim

nor do we drown

frame of mind

crazy kind

all we see

is cos we're blind

What is peace?

 

what is peace?

it is the absence of war

the absence of hate

the absence of ill-at-ease

what is peace?

it is the presence of love

the presence of contentment

the presence of non-harm towards all things

this is peace

somewhere in everyone's mind

in everyone's heart

it exists

waiting to be developed

until it becomes the dominant aspect

of everyone's way of doing life.

not capturing anything

so what is this then?

this thing that I see before me?

it's not a dagger

it's not a vision

it's not a dream

and yet it is

it's the famous "present moment"

that we're all meant to notice now

and yet it's slippery like ice that's melting

you try to notice it and it's gone already

you try to make it still it and it won't be still

you try to see it

but you realise that the human eye

doesn't see things for real

then you think about that

how a crow and a blue tit

are radiant with ultraviolet

but we petty humans

only see black or blue

and all of a sudden

you're in the land of intellect

posturing, conjecturing,

surmising

all those words that mean the same thing

but we say them to show how intelligent we are

yet we aren't

because we can't even be in the moment

and flow with it as it slides its momentary

thinginess

for ever

because we are thinking about

momentary thinginess

so we miss it

and mess it all up,

this thing called living.

thankfully a next moment

comes along and says "try again"

and peace becomes once more a possibility.

The Wrong Path

are we nearly there yet?

Infinity.

Surely not too far.

what's the time now?

Is it eternity yet?

Surely it'll be then soon

where are we going?

when will we get there?

who is driving

and what is the vehicle?

bed time

time for bed

almost

time to gather thoughts

to put them to bed

time to be grateful

I've had a day

time to wish

for a new one tomorrow

bed time

the time when we disappear

from ourselves

and go to a mysterious space

a strange place

from which we hope to emerge

and return to normal

long after bed time

commences

A Hotchpotch of Chance

Scottish yet not Scottish

neither there nor here

nor Polish

nor Irish

nor British

European of a sort yes

but my philosophy is the East's

my core from China and Japan

Poland is in my heart

because of my father's woes

and his family's despair

but I am not Polish

I am from Hamilton

of Hamilton

in Hamilton

with Hamilton

We are legion

let them emerge

each in its own turn

and not dwell too much

on the confusion of identity

which is after all

just a hotchpotch of Chance

the meeting

I have a meeting

I have to attend

I have to attend to myself

whatever myself is.

Perhaps the purpose of the meeting

is to understand who myself is.

the rain she pours

the rain she pours

and does not stop

always she pours

and, warm inside,

shelter safely

but the little robin

on the tree outside

who will care for her?

quiet afternoon

in the lull

peace

after the busy spell of work

time to simmer down

time for green tea

time to be still

footsteps

footsteps

on the kitchen floor

the noise of food being prepared

the scraping of knife and butter onto toast

meow of a cat

it's hungry too

demands service

what is a moment?

what is a moment?

see? it's gone already.

wait - there's another.

damn, I've missed it.

moments are things that pass us by

while we are trying to notice them

and do something in them.

moments are the Holy Grail

they will only appear

if we don't look for them

they will only be useful

if we stop searching for them.

This morning

this morning

appeared

as

a miracle

to me

I breathed

awoke from whatever sleep is

and became me again

whatever me is

whatever awake is

whatever morning is

whatever breath is

Morning post

 good morning my morning

good morning my day

good morning my moment

good morning my life

good morning my world

good morning my mind

I hope you produce good thoughts

and feelings today.

I hope we get on

and do good for this life

and others in this new day.

Let's try to work together

for what is nurturing and healthy in this new day.

Heritage

I write this in tribute

to my father

who overcame tragedy

and loss

to live a full rich life

to my grandfathers

who overcame suffering and strife

to live rich lives

though cut short

too short

and to myself

who, outwardly privileged

and stable

have undergone my own painful battles

inner and personal

but move on to the light

and the places of peace and joy

made available to us by Chance.

and to the mothers who made me

and my father and my grandfather.

One broken

all hardworking and hardworked

they kept the fire of life burning

in themselves

and in those they gave birth to,

raised, and loved.

To them all, and to myself

I pay tribute,

and to Fate I give my thanks

to have the privilege of experiencing life.

January

In January many years ago

my son was born.

In the labour ward

when giving birth to him

my wife nearly died.

Iain was delivered in a

brutal, primitive, lightning-speed

emergency operation.

he was rushed away

to an incubator

not breathing

not stirring.

we found out weeks later

that he had an APGAR score

of one out of ten

APGAR, being the measure

of ten signs of life at birth.

So I'm standing in my wife Christine's blood

which covered most of the floor of the room

she unconscious

her fatally low blood pressure indicators

slowly rising again

because of the three litres of plasma

being pumped into her

after a nurse had sprinted out of the room

to get it for her,

my son somewhere else,

to all intents and purpose

dead

as far as my eyes could judge

then he is returned in an incubator,

alive

and my wife comes out of her slumber

alive

then I'm standing there

holding him

alive and not blue

and it's January

and it is always January in my heart

because despite the cold, 

the dark, 

the wind, 

the rain

this is the month when the miracle of life

presented itself

and imprinted its message

through every cell in my body

and the angels in that room

who saved my wife and son

that day

remain forever in my heart

January folk

who brought warmth and light

into the deepest darkness

in two souls

who almost slipped from my failing existence.

Science poem (from a NS article)

 ocean people

no matter where they live

find hope

the wild sea

extracted and exploited;

the high seas

brought low

mental well-being

in the new economy

a digital revolution

a powerful indictment

measure, rank, process

shifts in moral opinion

automated social inequality

judgements that really matter

using cold logic

we lose, we gain

through unintended consequences

welcome to the human plight.