Goodnight, Paris. I Love You.

November 13 2015 Windfall 033

“Goodnight, Paris. I love you,”
My daughter Lillian said
After I tucked her in.

Like me, she knew not
The names
The weapons
The ideology
Or the details.

And like me,
She knows only love.

And, like her,
I knew that
Who they were
didn’t matter.
What they used
didn’t matter.
What principles
they espoused
didn’t matter.
What religion
they followed
didn’t matter.

I know who they are,
having seen them
so many times
before on my path:
Always different
in some ways.
Always the same
in just one way.

And, like my daughter,
I know exactly how
to deal with them.

Goodnight, Paris.
I love you…
Sending in The Angels.

Barbeque with a Side of Poetry (Hold the LSD): Halloween 2015

October 31 2015 Windfall 077

Ribs,
Pulled pork,
Barbeque chicken
Filled my plate, my stomach.
My ears were filled by
The Eagles singing
About living in
That fast
Lane.

A
Paper
Tablecloth
Was my Tabula Rosa,
A
Crayon
Was a pen,
Was then MY pen.

Barbeque with poetry
(Hold the LSD):
My soul, gut
Full.
I smiled,
Seeing words
Dancing across
The brown paper.

Was
All so
Funny, so
Nicely surreal.
A blissful journey:
Barbeque and poetry
(That was now my LSD).
Muses dancing with
Me in Callears as
I ate, indulged
With these
Folks.

The
Quiet
Couple
At the next
Table, enjoying
Their Texas Briskets
As I watched their meal,
Watching their hands
Talk with forks
And nodding
Their heads
(A “Yes”
Now).

There’s
The family:
Dad, Mom, Sis,
And Sis gazing at
Their menus. Sis One
Has a Smartphone and
Is again checking
For some thing
Soon ignored
As Mom
Talks.

And then
The Eagles sang,
The background music
Like a lyrical invitation
For my crayon pen
To dance out
Words.

Whilst
My world
Was prepared
For Halloween,
For Smartphones,
I was just living poetry
And looking beneath
The masks all over
My world today
(Again, again)
As I ate ribs
And was.

My
Poetry:
My mask.
My worlds:
My salvation,
A perfect balance.
Writing is straddling
Both waking and dreams
Both thinking and feeling
Both movement and stillness.
Barbeque, tunes, and poems
Amidst plastic plates
Will eternally
Kick ass.

When My Inner Wind

October 31 2015 Windfall 060

When my Inner Wind
Is no longer yelling
And I’m no longer
Pulling at this world
With all my letters and words.

When my hands
Are reaching for the sky
And I watch my fingers
Turn into sparkling dust
Woven into the rainbows.

When my lungs
Fill with more than air
And my thoughts stop
Stopping me.

When I become my dreams
And my prayers become buffalo
Bringing me abundant lightness.

When I see The Angels dancing
Just beneath my bedtime ceiling
And my eyes become otherwise useless.

When my minutes and hours mean nothing
And I am pulled away
From all those titles, histories
And objects that had defined me.

When my soul’s eyes open
Infinitely within each moment,
Seeing the subtly of the
Inner child inner breeze
And I allow all worlds
To flow through
Me one letter at a time.

When I am the loyal dog
To me and those on my path
That I may sound warning barks
As strangers approach
And I embrace their scent.
When innocence returns
Like a cascade of future recollections
And now empty past predictions
Moving beyond my intuitive self.

When meanings becomes meaningless,
Thoughts become music, and
Work evolves into whimsical play.

Then, and only then
Will my Inner Wind
Gently embrace you,
Gently embrace the many me
Without either of us knowing it.

Then is only here and now.
See The Hierophant
Is upside down…

Hitler or Jesus Poetic Quiz (Laughing Buddha Knows)

January 2015 Pics Videos 1536 Laughing Buddha

Hitler or Jesus:
Which are you?
(Laughing Buddha knows.)

Shall I
Choose to lie at your feet
And
Worship
The Fuehrer
Or
The Savior?

Will your miracles
Reign
Only over men
Or
Over all of creation?

Hitler or Jesus?
(Laughing Buddha knows.)

Can you save my eternal life
Or
Just my bank account and lifestyle?
I gotta know.

Tell me:
Is your Holiness
All
Self-proclaimed
Or
From God?

Have you ascended from Hell
With mere moments until your final descent
Or
Have you descended from Heaven
With an eternity to spend there?

Hitler or Jesus?
(Laughing Buddha knows.)

Do your words bring truth, love, and salvation
Or
Are they merely deceptions manufactured
To allay my deepest fears?

Do you command vast armies
Or
Battalions of Angels?

Are you motivated by desire
Or
Of salvation and rebirth?

Hitler or Jesus?
(Laughing Buddha knows.)

Laughing Buddha tells me.
He
Is not fooled
By the deceptions
Of
Your followers,
Whether they are working
To
Sanctify your evil
Or
Quoting scripture
To
Justify their own evil.

Montreal (Stuck)

October 28 2015 Windfall 091

Montreal (Stuck)
By John David Higham
Traveling to Montreal in dreamland,
I lived a life of possibilities then;
Of a spacious home in which I wandered about
In the early morning light
As the sun arrived, illuminating mansions and skyscrapers.
Meals were made as my family gathered;
Stories and jokes retold.

Then, morning arrived
Bringing in the mundane waking world
As annoyance rapidly blossomed.

Stuck:
A thousand times yes into maybe into no into never, never, never
As possibilities dropped from the sky as if leaden flocks of birds
That brought their lifeless heaviness into my heart.

Stuck
So quickly the ground beneath my running feet softened,
Swallowing me up to my waist,
My every movement hastening my inertia.

Ones are bad now and I see them all around me:
Tasks daunting, even the pleasurable ones.
People annoying, even the intriguing ones.
Obligations overwhelming, even the simplest ones.

Stuck
Stuck
Stuck…

Might I be still and surrender to the quicksand of my thoughts
Creating perfect reasons to become even more daunted, annoyed, and overwhelmed?
Going neither left or right, forward or backward?

I embrace this muck clinging to my soul;
My mind continues producing multiple webs
Of knotted tangles that form a dark soaked fabric
Now covering my head as I submerge further into my living grave.

Who has done this to me, I wonder.
How did this evolution take place?
Such useless questions give rise to nothing.

I am nothing when stuck.
I am not serene, I am not alive.
Stuck is not stillness, but freezing.
Freezing is not surrendering,
But the soul’s suicide.

I go back.
I go back to Montreal,
Returning to the feeling I was
When I looked out and watched the sun begin
The city’s day; the dream world’s breakfast
Filling my senses with anticipation of nourishment.

A stir of amusement passes through my consciousness like a leaf drifting by on the wind.
I am the leaf.
I am the wind.
I am the muck…

And, then my soul breaks free;
It dances
As my poem makes the birds
Once again fly and returns me
To Montreal…

Love and Gentleness (The Day Before the Day Before)

October 23 2015 024 Cropped

The
Day before
The
Day before,
As
I sat in my den
On
My meditation pillow,
A
Deer visited
Me
During my daily card reading.

A
Totem
Of
Gentle heroism,
Of
Tenderness
And
Patience,
It
Eased into my soul.

“Be gentle to you,”
She
Said as she stood
In
My mind’s eye.

Gentleness:
Patience
Fully embraced,
Love
Sprinkled with tact.

Ah, love!
The
Same morning ritual
Directed
Me to embrace
The
Overflowing Chalice,
The
Endless gifts of love,
Its
Eternal power
To
Heal, bond, evolve.

“Why, of course,”
I
Reasoned to myself,
“This
Is how I live!”
These
Cards were affirmations
And
Nothing more.

Oh, that
Day
Before
The
Day
Before
Soon
Brought upon my path
So
Many varieties
Of
Frustration
(From
Both self and others)
As
I felt my pulsing rising
With
Self-blaming
At
Not having accomplished
All
I had set out to do,
All
I had determined to do,
All
That had to complete.

Frustration
Upon
Frustration
Built
As calls went unanswered,
Things
Broken stubbornly refused repair,
And
All plans slowly froze
Into
A crescendo of nagging inertia
And
Incompleteness
As
Too many clocks kept ticking.

Those cards, reminders
Of
That morning’s contemplation,
Sat
Near my meditation pillow
And
My peripheral eyes
Did
Catch sight of them
As
I hurried past in the hall.

Instead
Of giving myself
Into
Further disappointment
Or
Allowing assertiveness
To
Flare into self-aggression,
I
Stopped.
I
Stopped
And
Sat on the meditation pillow.
I
Meditated
And
Recalled the lessons
Of
The overflowing chalice
And
The still deer.

Thus reminded
Of
Myself beyond
The
Niggling waking world,
I
Allowed myself
To
Be an imperfect human
And
Feel rejoice (AGAIN)
In
The perfect gifts
Of
Love and gentleness.

Embracing laughter,
I
Visited my logic
And
Realized
I had accomplished
Much;
I had done all
That
I could given
All
That filled my path.

I must endeavor
To
Allow myself
To know
Love and gentleness
As
Lasting gifts
From
The
Day before
The
Day before.

Morning Arrived Cold

October 1 2014 053

Not quite Saturday,
Sunrise was late.
Dreams faded away.

Morning arrived cold.
Leaves now brown,
Grass dew-soaked.

Dishes needed cleaning.
Fatigue’s surprise visit
Paused The Matrix.

Poems were incomplete,
Essays partially read.
Meditation only contemplated.

Morning arrived cold.
Time of without,
Of no longer;
Not of loss,
Not of wanting,
But an intermission.