Apathy

Posted on May 27, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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Do you know what the opposite of love is? Apathy. If you don’t care about someone or something, you ignore them. That has the effect of denying them the energy which is necessary for health and happiness. You know what it’s like to be snubbed, so, if you want to be appreciated and loved:

‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

 

Apathy

 

The impassive face of the marbled lion

Looks down on the world with all of its crime

And shows no feeling for bleeding and dying.

 

The wheezing snore of the sleeping bear

Shows conclusively that he is unaware

Of what’s going on, nor does he care.

 

The unconcerned gaze of the contented cow

Shows a mild interest in “what’s happening” now:

She doesn’t care why, nor does she care how.

 

The grunting snort of the porky-plump pig

Says she worries about nothing, not even that she’s big;

She flops down for her piglets, snapping one like a twig.

 

The silent purr of the well-fed cat

Shows her indifference to where she sat

And who is around her, unless it’s a rat.

 

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Time Defined

Posted on May 26, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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In the early 70’s I was working at a men’s wear store in Barrie, Ontario. Some days there was hardly any sales traffic, which made the time pass very slowly. To relieve the boredom, I wrote the following little ditty.

 

Monastic Meter

 

Time

Passes

So Slowly

That souls

Become holy

By dipping their fingers in wine.

 

But

Somehow

The

Silence

Sets up

A defiance

So that my own thoughts are not mine.

 

And

Then the

Controls

Go

When singing

The soul’s woe

For all of the feelings aren’t fine.

 

But

What does

It

Matter

If former’s

Not latter

As long as we’re able to dine?

 

Over time, I realized that my poetry had an organizing theme: time. So when I went to bring all the poems into one volume, I gave the manuscript the same title as the following poem.

 

Time Defined

 

Seconds fly

Minutes skip by

Hours die

And days slip by without a rest.

 

Crowds hurry

Leaves scurry

Snows flurry

People worry about tomorrow’s test.

 

No one walks

No one talks

Watching clocks

As a fox would worry for his life.

 

Cooking’s timed

Speeding’s fined

Cheques are signed

Debts combine to increase the daily strife.

 

Noisy beats

Busy streets

Tired feet

Schedules to meet constitute what’s known as a pace.

 

Peacocks with hats

Night-life bats

Sleeping cats

Are all rats that run day after day in the same race.

 

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Meditation Hour

Posted on May 26, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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I think one of the hardest disciplines to master is meditation. One’s mind is so full of noise that to try to sit still is nearly impossible. But with practice comes surprising success, so keep at it until you break through to the ‘other side’.

 

Trust More Than Yourself

 

Memory is an inexact record.

Even life’s bright spots are clouded with haze.

Deep recesses of your mind hold the cord

Intact: the veil stays shut; a lab’rinth’s maze

Takes you this way and that, until you stop

All attempts at discovery, and rest…

Then, when your spirit can sense a pin drop,

Intuition overshadows your quest.

Once the process starts, you must stay alert:

Nothing must distract your concentration;

Hang up your physical form, stay inert

Or you’ll come face-to-face with frustration.

Universal Truth will become your right:

Regardless of your sin, you’ll see the Light.

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My Father’s Heir (Hair)

Posted on May 26, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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My Father’s Heir

 

My father’s heir, my father’s heir,

No one to claim

My father’s name;

No one’s my father’s heir.

 

When I was born, my father moved

Away somewhere up north.

He took a job, which he then proved,

Would give him much more worth.

 

My childhood ears heard tales of this

And adding so and so

Came up with why I must him miss:

He’s died in North T.O.

 

My father’s heir, my father’s heir,

He felt such shame,

He was the blame;

So, too, my father’s err.

 

All through my youth I dreamt of him

As if he were a star.

To honour him, I called him Jim

And promised to go far.

 

I got good marks in school, at home

I’d help mom with my sis,

So that he’d see, from Heaven’s dome,

How I deserved his kiss.

 

My father’s heir, my father’s heir,

I did not claim

The Miller name;

I had my father’s air.

 

When I grew up and had a son

I saw a strange obit:

James Stewart died, but the best one

Was my mom’s name on it.

 

I called her up and we did laugh

At synchronicity;

The missing link I’d missed by half

I’ll tell now: it’s witty.

 

My father’s heir, my father’s heir

My childhood name

Was not the same

As was my father’s heir.

 

My mom sent me a page or three,

This made my face a frown.

It seems that he’s in Sudbury

And so I tracked him down.

 

By asking for his telephone

I got his address, too.

I wrote a note, a little moan,

And asked, “Can I see you?”

 

My father’s heir, my father’s heir

O’ercame his shame

And found his name

To be my father’s heir.

 

My father’s hair, my father’s hair:

I’m really game

To take his name;

I’ve got my father’s hair!

 

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You I See, and Me

Posted on May 25, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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In 1978, I moved my ‘new’ family to British Columbia, At the same time, I transferred my Unemployment Insurance claim from Ontario to BC. It took the longest time to get it sorted out. We had to live with Mom during this period of time. When my frustrations boiled over, I wrote this poem.

 

You I See and Me

 

Until I quit my last job, I’d

Never known what others had to

Encounter when they attempted to

Make ends meet. But it does no good

Pretending that money is a

Luxury meant only for the rich.

Out in the cold, where the wet wind

Yowls and howls, are many of the

Men who’ve tried to provide the bare

Essentials of life to those who are

Near and dear to them, only to find

That they’ve been disentitled, cut off.

 

I have not been cut off, I hope.

Not that it hasn’t crossed my mind:

Such things have been known to happen to

Unsuspecting individuals.

Rarely can justice be done in such

A case, for someone, somewhere, who is

Not entitled to assistance,

Cancels another’s benefits to

Equalize an inequality.

 

Computers, on the other hand,

Occupy a place in life to

Make it better for many of the

Multitude who depend on speed

In receiving their bi-weekly cheques.

So, why must I be left in a lurch,

Standing penniless at the bank,

Ineffective in feeding my own?

Only Man can create systems

Not programmed to do a good job.

 

Ask me what I’d like to have: just the

Necessities to house my two

Dependents, that’s really all.

 

Maybe on judgment day, they must

Explain the delay; but “Not today.”

 

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A Hazy Point of View

Posted on May 24, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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More of my militancy from the early 70’s…This was especially evident in Hamilton when I was training there with the Bank of Nova Scotia. If you left a car out overnight, it would be covered in a dull film of ash by morning.

 

A Poll You Shun

 

In the midst of the day,

When the moon isn’t bright,

The sun’s shining away

But it’s still out of sight:

It is almost as if

The day had become night,

Cause you can’t ‘tell the diff’

Between dark grey and white.

 

One can huff and a-puff

With all of his, er, might,

But it would not be tough

Against this sorry plight:

His breath would come quickly,

As his chest became tight;

His face would look sickly,

Though not from any fright.

 

It might seem a bit pale,

Almost a little white,

Could you make head or tail

With such a feeble light.

Tall people should be glad

That they have any height,

Cause I think it’d be sad

If no one saw my kite.

 

It may be said I’m sick,

That what I say is trite,

But the soup feels so thick

That I can barely write.

Though the chances of living

Seem awfully slight,

I know that we’re giving

Pollution a firm fight.

 

But ‘till we change the sky

From dark grey to blue-white,

We might just breathe and die

Tomorrow;

Well, not quite.

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Death of a Family Friend

Posted on May 24, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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In the mid-1970’s I visited my Mom and sisters when they lived in Aldergrove, BC. While there, the family cat was found dead. Evidently, he had sought shelter from the cold in the undercarriage of a parked automobile. To comfort my sisters, I wrote about him.

 

Bert’s Untimely End

 

Bert came today to his untimely end,

Not intending to create harm or fright,

But only to find a warm place last night

Out of the wet and wintry cold to spend.

 

It was as if the car Bert did offend

Which then struck back with all its metal might,

Cutting off his life, thus ending his right

To pursue happiness untouched, un-penned.

 

A member missing from our group portrait,

He left while we all slept in cozy beds:

We’ll miss his purr, meow, and feline arts.

For vision of “Puss” we must all await;

He ‘is but a little ways above our heads’

But he will be forever in our hearts.

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De Mock Race, He!

Posted on May 24, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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I must have been a precocious teenager. I wrote a lot of poetry, most of which was about relationships (mostly failed ones) and a few poems about social issues.

The following poem strikes me now as being especially precious:

 

De Mock Race, He!

 

In this life, we are judged, not by our acts, but by what we deed:

By what we want, not what we need;

Good news is denounced, bad news we’re instructed to heed;

We’re told to follow, while others lead.

 

We come into this world naked, but we leave denuded,

Cause we’ve learned to live for today, so we can be constantly looted;

We’re informed to mind our own business and not be rude,

Thus, if we talk, we’re told we’ve intruded.

 

When we think of a good idea, it’s reported that we’re demented;

And, when we try to do some good, we’re almost always prevented;

The things we have, we don’t own, because they’re only rented;

Good old sweat is deodorized, ‘cause now it must be scented.

 

We’re awarded driving points which are labelled demerit;

We’re taught not to raise a child, but only to scare it;

We’re conditioned to spend ‘till there’s nothing left to inherit,

And, if we’ve any buried treasure, we’re ordered to declare it.

 

Our laws are deformed for others to bend,

And our cars are destroyed for others to mend;

Our worst enemy is supposed to be our friend,

Because, to his lower level, we’re supposed to descend.

 

Thus, ‘though we seem alive, we are deprived of our heights of

Happiness, debarred from the gates of freedom, and, in conclusion,

Left derelict to die in solitary by our society’s decision,

DEMOCRACY.

 

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Reciprocal Maintenance

Posted on May 23, 2014 by cdsmiller17

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Over the years, I’ve come across a lot of different ideas that seemed strange at the time, only to be confirmed by other peoples’ observations and writings. Gurdjieff was one such individual whose work made me sit up and take notice.

What he said was the angels may in fact be aliens who feed off our energies. If that seems to turn the world upside down, please try to understand that the world IS upside down: To get a deeper appreciation of this idea, I would recommend that you read Gurdjieff’s book “Meetings with Remarkable Men”. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Gurdjieff

 

Gurdjieff’s Trogoautoegocrat

 

And as the world continues to spin and

Run new thoughts come forth to fill up the gap

Ere down life falls to cosmic lows, as sand

Can make all desert life go, just like zap.

Iao asks Samael for help – a hand;

Pan invites Nature to lift hers and clap;

Red needs White to help make a barber’s band;

Oro tempts Poor to fill an empty lap.

Can everyone not see it was all planned,

And not, at least, feel the sudden sharp slap?

Tis always there behind the hidden strand:

Its never far beyond the final flap.

Our conscience worries about the fence,

Not else: Reciprocal Maintenance!

Sonnet XVIII

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Family Reunion

Posted on May 18, 2014 by cdsmiller17

 

barrie bus maple open 1956

Too Many Years

I’d been waiting at the depot for the Sudbury bus

To meet my real dad, years ago:

He’d answered my letter to meet this one time

And I felt there was so much to know.

But he hung up the phone before I could ask,

And now we will meet in this place:

He’d been dead for so long in my young memory,

I could not even picture his face.

 

Would I recognize him, would he remember me?

Or would we be strangers that day?

It’s been too many years, with too many fears

And I wish he had not gone away.

 

Years later, I flew into Pearson to visit my son,

He’d just had a boy of his own:

I was aware of the time that had passed since I’d left,

I knew there was much for which to atone.

Would he forgive me my absence for all these long years?

Would we even know what we should be?

Can one really be sure that this hurt can be healed?

I’d done to him what’d been done to me.

 

Would I recognize him, would he remember me?

Or would we be strangers that day?

It’s been too many years, with too many fears

And I wish I had not gone away.

 

And the echoing years have come yet again

As I think of those times way back then:

Can I turn back the clock to what might have been?

Will I be part of my new kith and kin?

 

I’d been trying for years to make contact with them

And doing some research, while online,

I found one wee thread which brought me in touch

With cousins related to my father’s line.

In London, I’d gone to one male cousin’s home

And he’d set up this visit for me:

To meet all my clan at a home barbecue

So they the prodigal could see.

 

Would I recognize them, do they know about me?

Or would we be strangers that day?

It’s been too many years, with too many fears

And I hope as a family we’ll stay.

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