The midnight smiles.
I write words.

Pockets of emptiness,
sealed symbols.

Absence does not make
the heart grow fonder.

It lends distance,
and forgetting.

Love, so much
over-used.

Love is, in truth,
really love for self.

A moment, this
is what I have.

A small space of
time that I claim.

It is mine, to waste
or to cherish.

A noise outside.
Not sure what it is.

Something abusive,
something harsh.

The midnight smiles.
I write words.

(Inspired by St. Matthew 6:33)

Seek first the Kingdom of God,
and His righteousness, and all
good things shall come to you.
Too much time fretting over
the affairs of the world can
take away our peace inside.
Drifting foolishly in the stream
of the material world leads
us only set on folly to folly.
It's a constant struggle to
find the peace within when
we look for it without God.

Every leaf on every tree
grows to glorify Christ.
Through His blessed love
all the earth revolves in
a perfect circle of harmony.
Focus on the happy things
that calms the bitterly bad.
Blessings stem from what
we surrender to the Lord.

His ways can be our ways
if we abandon our pride.
Nothing else means a thing
when we lose sight of God.
He promises perfect union
with the promise of life.
With opened eyes we see
the illusions fall away.
Praise be always to the
happy lives to be ours.
Seek first the Kingdom of God,
and His righteousness, and all
good things shall come to you.

The soul would have no rainbow
if the eyes had no tears.
Our wasting time would be useless
if we allow an explosion of fears.

We must exist, as best we can,
in this bothersome realm,
of dropping hints and
suggesting possibilities.

Rumours arise, like
dropping snow on
the sidewalks.
People walk upon
these cement lines,
looking down at
the tracks they
are making.
Counting their steps,
in an effort to be
significant.

We should look up, those
walking people and I,
at the snowflakes dripping
with the heaviness of change.

A new world, a white one,
is emerging in this place.
Dirt and grass covered.
Truth easier to ignore.

The soul would have no rainbow
if the eyes had no tears.
Our wasting time would be useless
if we allow an explosion of fears.

Fears, they come strong and fast.
Dominating the mental plane.
Creating new hostilities that
war like armies in the field.

We thrive in hated disasters,
creating boundaries to control.
But we control nothing, really,
but the direction of our hearts.

We must seek better directions.
Easier ways to co-exist
as we dash and flash
upon the city streets.
Eyes misted.
Hands cold.

Be quiet, for a second.
Listen to nothing.
Grow. Think.
Let the snowflakes
pattern themselves
into transformation.

Nothing of this world
is worth stressing about.

The soul would have no rainbow
if the eyes had no tears.
Our wasting time would be useless
if we allow an explosion of fears.

Shaded maple hallways, leaves abundantly growing.
Majestic storming waterways, holy as Holy Water.

These are part of us. These help define.
Glass and steel accomplishments jumble like

edifices of hope in cities of gloating pride.
We are these cities. We are these shapes.

History written and history being written
of yesterdays, now and tomorrow.

Cold of Winter and hot of Summer,
placid Fall and anticipating Spring.

So many Illusions, so many soft dreams!
These too are wrapped in our myth.

Canada, our Canada, once again
celebrates the escaping vowels

of national delight. We are humble
and yet we are arrogant in pride.

We are one people united under one Crown,
one stumbling picture, one dabbling future.

Merchants and priests. Politicians and
ordinary workers. Poets and dreamers,

these are also our definitions. We surprise
and we are surprised. We surrender to

our tossing hearts, we gesture with hope
to images of our future. Oh dear land

of contrasts and similarities, we live for and
in you. Shaded maple hallways, leaves

abundantly growing. Majestic storming
waterways, holy as Holy Water.

I listened to my favourite Beatles album.
Closed my eyes as the harmonies glistened
           in my ears.
Remembered when I bought the album, the LP.
      Sign of my old age.
I miss those days. I miss not being tired,
      uncomfortable, disorientated.

I watched a man nearly die today. He lay
        in a bed near to mine.
Apparently he felt the luxury of ingesting
      who knows what illegal drugs.
Foolish man.
Stupid man.

I almost wish he could trade places with me.
That he could feel the aching of disease.

That is what this is. A disease. An abhorrent
series of bad growing like weeds in a garden.

      If they pull the weeds,
      if they are successful,
      I'll change lots of
      choices I've made.

Choices. There's a thought! To be free again
        to make choices.

I have none now. I'm victim to the needs to
      cure the body.

A nurse mentioned to me that faith was
      an important factor
      in the healing process.

"Of course", she said, "I personally don't believe
      in God."
And I thought,
    "Ah, another person
    with the luxury of choices.

Was so glad to get home. To put on this album, this CD.
    That's the modern term.

This disease is my enemy, my rope around my neck.
      It does not
      care
      how
       beautifully
    John, Paul, and George
     harmonized.

I dared to dream of heaven, as if it was
a place I might arrive. Celestial Kingdom
of a merciful God, where I could live
without the illness in the body. Turned
thoughts to friends and family gone
before me, possibly waiting to welcome
me there? Of course, there are also the
friends and family not yet dead. They
too might wish to welcome me to the
possibility of continuing to stay alive.

I prayed to God to provide His healing,
knowing that it is vanity to so assume.
Still, He does promise to attend to
our healing petitions and to comfort
those who suffer in spirit or body.

This body, consuming itself with the
poisons growing, is just a place where
my soul resides. Yet, it is the only
vessel I have and so in humility I
wish it to survive. Without the soft
weakness would be a blessing, a
relief of considerable importance.

Resurrection is promised by God's
Church and in His Scriptures. This
I cling to with weakened faith, to
match the weakness of the believing
that sometimes defines my thoughts.
In truth, one must adhere to some
sort of spiritual comfort. So in this
hope I shall remain in adherence.

If I should die before I wake, I
pray the Lord my soul to take.

I hear the whispered knocking of the
pre-dawn wind as it strives to curve
around the house. So subtle it seems
like a distant memory that was shoved
back into my mind.

With coffee cup in hand I turn inwards
to re-connect to the dripping blood
that flows within my veins. I am a
forgotten moment of dissent washed
away in a stream of dropping pretence.

I used to wonder why I felt so alone
in the company of friends. My words
a carefully studied indifference that
masked the naked need I resented.
Suspecting that I am only as alone as
I allow myself to be.

Still the morning light

will find me questioning the situations
of the coming day. And though I age
with indifference I am different from
the boy I used to be. That shadows of
past illustrates the foundation of
today
which I
shall accept as my perspective
as I refuse to grieve for faces lost
along the way. Tears may flow,
and surely they have been here before;
but I shall suppress them and hate
the weakness they represent. I understand

only that I am victim to no-one but
myself. A breath in and a breath out,
and yet still I cannot find the courage to
confess the tinge of emptiness that should
be wiped away from my mind. Gently I
allow the pre-dawn world to wrap itself
around the tissue paper of my convictions.

I am strong, but the weakness within
will be my undoing.