I listen to whispering voices,
telling myself to breathe, just breathe.

I take pleasure that now
I am just a breeze
that blows by
as it goes it's own way

Not bothered by
dysfunctional memories.
Putting them away.
Locked in attic, ignored.

Irritated by nothing
because I've stuffed
glue into my ears.

Screams for help
shot like broken arrows
from your broken you.

I whisper in harmony
with the voices.

We are pretending together
that your need
is not greater
then mine.

I love you.
Or at least
I used to love you
before you found
your broken bow
to stop the wind.

Blowing by
on broken breezes
caressing myself
as the whispering voices
tell me to carry on.

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

The sea today is rough.
It shakes his ship like
the rumbling of lava
filtering fiercely
from a volcanoe.
The sailor thinks
he is not in fear.
He knows this is
only a covering he
employs
to help his ship to sail.

There are other ships
on his ocean. Other
sailors on the same
shattered journey.
Together, they form a
small fleet of larvae
hoping to burst from
the sea in a glorious
splash of redemption.

Ah, redemption. Strength.
That is the treasure the
sailor seeks on the
bloated waves of the
foaming waters.

His eyes look ahead.
His eyes looks behind.
His eyes look inside and out.
Searching as a single cell
the truth he needs to find.
The other travellers may
not be of any help to him.
They may be travelling on the
same sea, but they are
looking for their own
hoped for miracles.

Oh restless sea, let him be.
Free him from your
rocking and swaying.
Let his ship land. Land
back to the steady shores
of hope and positive living.

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.

She pleases herself.

Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.

She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.

She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.

One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.

Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.

She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.

She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.

He'd leave his wife and family.

She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.

Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.

Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.

How could she do that?

There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

Morning finds the wind beating softly
                           against the rising sun.
Wraps my scarf around my neck
                       as I watch the squirrels
dancing on the hydro lines.
They do not feel me watching them.
The spinning shade hides my presence.
My thoughts have finally reached
                   decisions of withdrawal.
The forgotten distance everyone
will become is some sort of comfort
              as I stretch my arms towards
              the infinite eye of surrender.
Nothing changes in an atmosphere
                 of constant repercussions.
Just like the hiding moon,
                  all of the doors are both
                              open and closed.
I will only state my point of view
          to the hollow shadows that
speckle like underwear wrapped
             too tight against the body.
Somewhere a siren is wasting time
               blasting its noise against
            the heat of the rising day.
Inside my ears I also hear
the angry words of so many
                        different tongues.
It is a struggle to keep
my composure, for I want
         to scream my anger back
                                      at them.
But this would be useless gestures
of compliance. It would be
giving in when I already have
            decided to give up instead.
Even the sky seems to walk
                              away from me.

She sat at a bus stop,
tracing brick-loads of doubt
                      with her finger.
She waits.
She is not waiting.
She is not sure what she is doing.
Were there ever pink candles
                       on a birthday cake?
A little girl skipping
.                   with other little girls.
Another standing still memory of
.            impeccable social standing.
Too many bothersome thoughts
                      prickling in her head.
"I used to like to dance", she shares
          with a picture of her husband.
Stupid man.
He only loved her when it suited him.
"That's alright", she whispered,
          "He saw me in a whole new light
              when I drove my knife into
                                                  his *****."
She wondered how much longer she'd have
                     to wait for him to bleed to death
                                         on her kitchen floor.
Hopefully soon.
She had dishes to do.
Laundry to fold.
She could do for a
        nice cup of coffee.
She stretched out her legs.
It looked like it would rain today.

When blue turns to grey,
walk gently into the fog.
Let the dimness open
the
avenues
of
renewal.
We are all circling
the same decisions.
Bleeding with the blood
of our ancestors in our veins.
One connected road
that
is
populated
with
similar
beginnings.
The end for each
is the only
different journey.
Circle the wagons
and
draw the blinds.
Enter the secrets
of
a million years.
This cleansing is
quenching
the
breaking
wood.
Enclose the pictures
of other scenes
into the frames
of
grabbing
snares.
Trapped. Locked in.
Nothing can
drive
the
doubt
away.

I just want answers.
I just want answers.

The sun sets.
I'm meditating with myself.
Silence now replaces
the hectic craze of the day.
I celebrate the change.

A flag droops limply.
It remembers, perhaps, when
it fluttered like a dagger in the heat.

My soul weary form slumps on a seat
and considers the ongoing tension
that seems to be the mark of existing.

From the window comes the
night sounds, eager to begin.
While overhead a daring moon
removes the sunshine trauma.

I surrender now.
I'm finished.
It's been a day, and a day again.
A ton of living to fill one up forever.

Tomorrow it might be just the same.
No matter.
The sun sets.
I'm meditating with myself.

The river runs slow today,
as do my thoughts.
Continents of ice collide and separate
over a grey green field of quiet water.
Snow falls at random.
Flakes swirl or streak as God wills.
As uncontrolled as my thoughts,
which drip around like scattered
pin holes in a lost and formless day.

I rage at self inflicted wounds.
Afflicted with terminal incompleteness.
I feel the cold of an empty being,
yet also the warm solitude of self.

I sense the labyrinth that leads to clarity
I reach for it, grasp for it, joyfully.

The river runs slow today,
as do my thoughts , thankfully.

I sense the touch of God
     when I pray my rosary.
His presence strong in
   the chanting of the words.
I know that He is here
       by the peace that I feel.

Words intoned so ancient,
            beautiful and serene.
Comforting me in
           ways I can not explain.
Through Mary to Jesus,
         my salvation ensured.

God provides solace
       to those who seek Him.
In the echoes of despair
     He brings me assurance
of blessings and hope
            which He restores.

So many moments
   lost in useless ventures.
So many times I
         tried to be supreme.
Only with God do I
   triumph in my dreams.

Heavenly Lord, Father,
    thank you for your words.
I pray my rosary in joy,
        loving every holy word.
May God, the Holy Trinity
        continue to be with me.

Brown eyes - waterfalls.
    Drips and drops of H2O.
Sad life - rain clouds.
    My oh my - the night is lonely.

Raindrops - glistening in the
      glow of the moon.
One man - walking,
      working out his
        contradictions.
Lone man - brown eyes.
     seeing into his
       own reality.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

Sleeping - he walks in
      night dreams.
Creating images of himself
     to present to the world.
Distance - endless wandering.
     What circles lie ahead
       for him to draw?
He walks in silence,
     remembering the sunshine
       that once filled the day.
Brown eyes - intently thinking,
     directing the energy
       he wants to have.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
        at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
             caresses every
              blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
          resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. Leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
          slip apart
            like
             cracked glass
             about to
              shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.

End. Stop. No more.

Unable to agree on a concession,
unable to meet eye to eye,
we squat on our
opposing buttocks
and hurl
insults at one
another.

The flowers grow,
all around, every Spring.
The warmth circles
and
lingers.
Even so, the algidity
has become us.
We are ever
so much
the products of
somebody's
drunken evening.

Air surrounds, and
though we inhale,
we manage still
to cross
no imaginary line.

I'm thinking.
You're thinking.

Yes, we will
leave one
another alone
one day; but
this is not that day.

I look past
you
and see
another you.
One that called
me friend.
I suppose that
for every
pleasant memory,
we'll now
spend our time
finding new
ways to abominate
one another.

Unable to agree on a concession,
unable to meet eye to eye,
we squat on our
opposing buttocks
and hurl
insults at one
another.

Ah, the new day displays
       such cascading colours.
Eternally fostering hopeful glances
in the direction
        of tomorrow.

We are victims to our needs
     which makes us greet
each day with sun-glassed eyes.

In trust, we burn our souls
        in ever-glowing flames
of socially acceptable conversations.

Ah, how easily we perform our
          mundane tasks.
Creating swirling metaphors
to disguise our lack of direction.

Pretending that the sunlight is
          our brilliant guide
to new avenues of pleasure.

We are yes and no at the same time.
Neither aware nor absent from
        our cups of steaming liquids.

In confusion, we solicit understanding
        from the telephones that never
cease ringing in the shallow
        shadows of our empty minds.

Ah, the new day displays
       such cascading colours.
Eternally fostering hopeful glances
in the direction
        of tomorrow.

we tiptoe,
stepping through
stories of lives past
watched by a cascading
hologram of
mists and possibilities.
the first step
we enter leads
us like leaves dipping
in the rain to
white fences and
stop signs, red lights
and caution.
waking up or
falling asleep, we never
notice the patterns
to our weaving webs.
we imagine and we
pontificate, making
noises of promises
we will not keep.
slipping footfalls
that walk in
circles, and when
through, begin again.
we tiptoe,
expecting to not
be notable, and so
in doing same,
we leave
yet
do not
arrive.

Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.
Never let a
moment go by
when lips
may pray.
Over and over
the same
hoping clings
to the heart.
Is it even
worth the effort
to carry on
with the words?
I think these
shall be my
final statements.
My ending, my
time to stop
the fingers from
typing. There
is only one
joining left
to explore;
that of me
in new places,
absent from
the world.
Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.

Fear not, my lovely young women.
Everything will work out as it should.
I love you for what you have been.
I love you for what you've become.
I will love you now and always.

Learn life as you travel its path.
Embrace those wonderful talents
that inhabit the both of you.

Daddy will always be there,
in one shape or another.

Smile often, laugh even more.
Let the energetic strumming
of your hearts be always
focused on what is good.

When it seems that worry
and pain dominates ,
remember that Daddy
is always hugging you.

Daddy's here. Daddy's here.
I might not be seen, but
if you listen, I'll be felt.

I sense your concerns.
I know of your worries.

Words may mean little.
They are like taps
with water running.
Ignore them, instead
hear only emotions.

These will guide you.
Give you strength.

In a thousand million years
nothing will ever change.

Daddy loves you. Always shall.

Grandsons, yes, I'll hug you.
Hug you and hug you and hug you
until you say
"Grandpa let go!"
But I won't, not ever.
Never, never, never.
I watch you boys sleep.
I watch you boys play.
I watch you fight,
Cry, yell and scream.
I watch you laugh and giggle,
and run like the demons are chasing you.
But even if they are,
they'll never catch you,
because Grandpa is here.

I listen to your chatter and reply in kind.
Hear your tales of invention flood
from your little minds.
Stories and adventures,
A little boy's world.
Grandsons, dear Grandsons,
You fill the hours of the day.
Grandsons, yes, I'll hug you.
Hug you and hug you and hug you
until you say
"Grandpa let go!"
But I won't, not ever.
Never, never, never.

Lonely man, living like
a drifting ******* crumb
floating
in
a
bowl
of
soup.
The table is filled with
ice cream hearts
melting
slowly
into
oblivion.
It will come, this death.
It will proclaim
its victory
as if it was
a triumphant
gladiator in the
arena
of
goodbye.

And still they say that every day
is the best medicine to swallow.

Xenophobic androids
bleating
their
inconsistent
beliefs.
Change is real.
It defines
who we have been.

And one wonders why the
scratching bees are silent?

Have they lost their focus?

That must be it.
The focus.
The never staying
hum-drum of
placating
the
masses.

Grieving man, who
sits at the table
and
pounds
his
hands
into
the
fire.

Let the burning begin.

Put on the tombstone,
"Not here anymore."

I watch the foul blood
drain from my wounds.
Clean it from my skin.
Apply a band-aide. Pray.

I watch them take blood
from my arm to test.
They do not flinch.
I do.
It is their job.
It is my life.
Different perspectives.
Different views.

I listen to doctors' talk.
Telling me what to expect.
I hear the words,
the serious words.
The words spoken
in formal empathy.

Mouldy bread,
left in a plastic bag,
has a very peculiar odour.
It smells of decay,
of wasting away.
Strong hope
now
scattered
and
left
undone.

I watch the blood drain.
I watch the yellow ****
flow out with the red.
Diseased tissue.
Diseased flesh.

I will hear nothing more.
Wipe the mess away
with
a
tissue
paper.

Rain falls on the ground. Drizzling water.
Television turned on. Angry rhetoric.
New plans proposed. Armies marching.
Please, please, please
                  pray for peace.

Skies black with hate. Lazy yelling.
Fish swim back and forth. Danger unaware.
Tribes gather and they scold. Malicious vibes.
Please, please, please,
                  pray for peace.

Watching children learn. Violence dominates.
Corporations preach and burn. Insipid parasites.
Grass grows in tones of brown. Dying atmosphere.
Please, please, please,
                  pray for peace.

Water runs fast and slow. Strangers shouting.
Trees shade and have no leaves. Corporate hello.
Moon rises naked in the sky. Sun is empty zero.
Please, please, please,
                  pray for peace.

Churches empty as stores open. Religious tolerance.
Dinosaurs gone but more to come. Media harmony.
Up is downwards and down is up. Confusing immoralities.
Please, please, please,
                  pray for peace.

Let peace be on our lips.
Let peace be in our hearts.
Let peace be our only word.
Please, please, please,
                  pray for peace.

Transparent seconds tick away,
mumbling their progression.
Filtered cigarettes and coffee,
both staining fingertips.
Enough time has passed,
yet still sober thought
circulates in such a way
that I do not feel the blades
of the fan in the room.
A facade has been erected.
A sort of wall, a kind of defence.
Pretending that limitless
possibilities are open for me.
Privacy I once cherished
is a memory no longer
active in the daily reactionary
tones of being in this prison.
In and out, and out and in,
the professional experts
affirm and stipulate the
terms of my existence.
Prodding, touching, measuring.
Advising, compelling, warning.
Their repetitious bleating
draining the spirit.
I glance with longing
at the passageway of doors,
knowing that all but one
is locked and firmly sealed.
Hope. Yes, have hope.
Be the glass half full,
but acknowledge that
is is also half empty.
Somewhere in between
the two points of view
lies my truth.

And so, again,
       the morning
        erupts
         upon a lingering realism.

Blankets wrapped securely
around my thinning body.
Here in this bedroom, this sanctuary.
This refuge from cold winds
that soothe me as I hide.

Yes, the window
       is slightly open
        to let in
         a bit of fresh air.

At last
these considerations
of what must be
in the days ahead
focuses me on the
certainty of my essence.

Even so, I am
comforted by the
open window and
the bedroom that
removes me
from self-absorption.

He steps outside his house: does
not scream his defiance: therefore
not the portrait his long legs suggest.
Speaking mumbles to lawn ornaments
who see him only with painted eyes.
Ears forever closed: he does not
understand the silence. He prowls
in steps of measured distance:
waiting for the rain to tumble.

When it comes, it comes in trembles
of resistance. He understands he
must never get wet: must continue
to dry his towel under the dew of
morning. He paces the sidewalks
opening his ears to the fruit of
flapping leaves. In minutes he will
glow with the safety of ceasing to
exist: time transforming his created
distances. There are always static
murmurs which tingle his shallow skin.

Calm down restless man, calm down.
Nothing worried will ever change.
What is will be. What happens happens.
Restless flutters of fallen insecurities
must be silenced to be forgotten.
So forget everything.

Endless streams of consciousness
flows heavily with the neglect
of being free. Freedom only
comes when the thinking is
stopped. Don't think. Just be.

When I am not travelling through
the poetry, I toss sounds inside my head.
Metaphors drip from the unconscious
like ice cream melting in a bowl.
I know I am as strong as my
strength allows me to be.

These times of putting myself
into lines upon a page, these are
what defines me. So let the
jumping end. Sit down. Rest.
Put no foot upon the floor.

Bruised and analysed, stopped
in my tracks by what attacks.
Discontented thoughts be silent.
Be nothing. Be over.

Fish swim in the sea, I've heard.
Ice forms in the winter time.
Clouds cover all of the earth,
and
every day is a blessing.

Opening eyes is the first battle.
If won, it's a victory indeed!
We only have
this one moment,
and
that is really
enough for anyone.

I touch the dirt,
the dirt refreshes me.
Realizing that it
is a
good world
most of the time.

Fingers snap as I
walk casually in the light.
Enjoying the calm
that comes
from
being.

If I stand on my head,
view my surroundings
with a different
awareness; I'll swallow
the air as it
circulates
around me.

Yes, there are problems.
Bad health and nasty thoughts.
Dank walls sweating
with the turmoil
they've contained.

But these are just
flashes of discontent.
Emblems of survival
that are
only as
strong as I make them.

Best to look for
things that make me glad.
Growing like a
piece of grass
surrounded
by a world
of colour.

Life has nothing to show more fair;
Than soul who creates fantasy inside.
Oh tortured heart how it does cringe
At words flung easily at mind so bare.

This mouth now will say nothing more,
Of rumpled sheets left soiled and torn.
Of slipping hope so quickly dashed;
Gripping pain left tossed upon a floor.

Glitter diamonds are the lights seen,
The hopeless path of worshipped sun.
Oh merciful knife come slice the heart,
Let blood flow where love has been.

Dear Lord, do you know this pain?
Have you seen black as I have seen?
Wasted words upon an uncaring eye,
Who only wishes the end to remain.

The river of life ebbs slowly past;
The ever dropping sound of pain.
Oh sweet glistening ending thoughts,
That open avenues that never last.

I cry out in frustrated angered words,
But little sense is made of dusted heart,
Whose images cascade into despair.
Oh silent cries that are never heard.

Release me from the vibrant rolling hills,
Let nothing steep stop us from falling.
Sleeping passion that has gone unknown,
In hearts defeated, yet hurting still.

Lights shine fiercely over me.
I wonder what causes them to be?
Is it God revealing His presence?
Or
the
end
of
being?
There are a thousand things
left to do and more to say.
A world that compels me
to
be
involved.
Pretending to be fairly open,
even while the jumble of
images are never-ending.
Places seen and others'
just imagined. When the
trains stop running, well
so
shall
I
stop
as
well.
God above, educate my
thoughts to how they
should be thinking.
Let the dying flowers
bloom
once
again.
Bursting colours that
frolic playfully across
the meadows of denial.
And
I
catch
the
light
as
it
fades
to
empty.
.

Bloated tables littered
with avarice, greed and worse.
We're dying here, you know.
Locked down in this
unrealistic point of view.
Reaching up,
we are slapped down.
Reaching down,
we are pulled up
so we can
begin
the
stone weight again.
Gasping to speak
but
afraid
to say
what we cluster
in our hearts.
Deny the truth.
Play black chess pieces
willingly against the white.
Win or not, we
always lose.
Plopped like pimples
into
secondary
roles.

Hush.
I think I hear something.
Oh yes, I know that sound.

It is the dragging of chains
across
the
ground.

My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
          and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

My sister and I would play outside
        almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
       traced the pattern of our lives.

Our country had a new flag and boys
         in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
        at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.

Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
      hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
       as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
         all the beautiful people gone?

My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.
I sink my feet into the sand
where the water draws
that which it erases.
I hold myself in common
prayer moments.
Sending my words to
Jesus, who promised
always to listen.
I hear His reply
in the thousand points
of light that shiver
through my prayers.
I trust in what He promises,
though I fail to
capture His wisdom.
I watch the pictures in
my fingers moving with
the passion of living.
I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.

I have built my shrine to insecurity.
Laced it with peppermint and spice,

to give it added attraction. The smell
giving strength to the overall gasps

of pain that escape from fetid lips.
Spinning tyres go round and round,

never heading in any direction. I am
as tiny as a bug on the floor, unknown

to the feet walking across it. Steadily
determined to strive for satisfaction.

But nothing is really working right.
There seem to be no magical moments.

Question marks float like blowing leaves
across the metres of asphalted streets.

The rice is cooking in the rice-cooker.
The bowl and chopsticks at the ready.

I've littered the table with papers of
instructions that I'm required to read.

As I eat, I'll give them their justice
and learn the many pills I'm to have.

The ice is chopping on the balcony.
The cold is here now. A fabled

Canadian winter underway. I was
filled with doubt, and this somehow

mattered, despite the pencils sharpened
so easily in the struggle of the existing.

The rice is done and, perhaps so am I.
I wash my hands and think of nothing.

Always the morning comes,
      in one manner or another.
Still, thank God for every morning.

If pain interrupts the ritual
      of toast and coffee,
still there is food and shelter.

It is so quiet here, in the new day
      erupting.
There is no need
       to turn on the world.
It will come soon enough.

Thank you God, thank you.
        I'm still here.

I haven't thanked You enough in my life.
      I've been too self-absorbed.
Too content with making endless requests of You.
Now I see that is has been difficult to hear You
      since I've not ever listened.
Forgive me for not appreciating the silence,
    for not giving You my ears.

It is true what the Scriptures teach.
There is only now. Only this moment.

Living now, I live forever.

Yes, it is clear that
the morning sun has risen again.
He stretches as tall as he can
and folds
paper aeroplanes.
Is that music playing he hears?
No.
Shouting. Neighbours
expressing their broken
vows to one another.
And even so, he knows
that if he opens his
apartment door, only
the hallway will greet him.
400 units or more in
this glass and concrete
community. Vague nods
to the occasional dweller
in the elevator. Distance
practiced with surprising ease.
Isn't all blood the same
type of hand cream?
But it is never enough.
Nothing ever is.
His wings might be
a figment of his
desperation, but still
they can carry him
from the roof to the
ground.
Yes, it is clear that
the morning sun has risen again.
He stretches as tall as he can
and folds
paper aeroplanes.
Flicking his lighter,
starting a fire.
Better to burn now
before the
coffee has
finished brewing.

The boy was silent, thinking that he blended
Into the turbulence of mangled continuity.
He stayed silent, not a soul befriended.
Diverse emotions raging, so not free
To truly understand the kindness of
Lashing laughter that became his manner
Of hiding behind self-inflicted fences.

His weary eyes belied innocence pretended.
Young in age, old in scorned indifference.
Despite the hairless body, childhood ended.
For he was well aware of how to be tense
In sterilized situations of lengthening despair.
The internal bleeding was ever flowing
In his gathered depths of wasted anger.

Voices that should have been of comfort
Were instead knives piercing his heart.
In perfection they circled him like a shirt
Of mangled wolves ever ready to start
The game of destruction of his perceptions.
Ah, they would not let the boy surmise
The potential merit of his future daze.

Such propped up limbs of uncertainty
Had become his manner of survival.
In glances of fear, his trembling trees
Shook with passions of hateful denial.
And though he hoped for love of self,
He was in truth, and in manner of life,
accustomed to resentment provided.

Small surprise that as he grew older
He buried reality in cages of disbelief.
Like a pearl, he wrapped himself colder
Visions of how he might obtain release.
The boy would age in terms of years
having learned to submit to disapproval.
Such would be the chains he adopted.

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.

Thinking to myself,
in the dudgeon of my
      honest introspection,
that sunset comes regardless
      of contemplation.

Sunset does not matter.
      Sunset won't appear,
      no matter how far off
        it seems to be.

Each day blurs into
      a sameness that
        is so predictable.
I brush my hair
      with determination,
        ignoring the grey
          that is there.

Age is a state of mind,
      the foolish say.
Perhaps so?
However, the body
      may disagree.

Each day a blurring
      of nodding heads in
        kaleidoscope resentments.

Sunset hints at its' coming.
      Shadows filtered
        by bludgeoned space.

I am alone.

Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

Tasting the quiet, with only
an inaudible sense of deferential
nothing. I tiptoe fondly
into the gardens where
grows the leaves
of other times.

Like a lullaby without words,
I'm taken here and there,
in many and all kinds of
situations. Teasing
sighs from benign
retrospective
endearments
insist on
understanding.

"Wrap me in your arms,
oh delicious memories",
This I proclaim in
honest wonder.

Every second lived
is one more step
in strong direction.
Familiar guises
prodding and guiding
the footsteps
of release.

I am concerned
only with empty
pockets and lint
left like
photographs
of times both
then and now.

So to new days
and impressive
meanderings
do I linger,
ever glad.

Naked internally.
Doing a soul walk.
Finding trash.
Should have thrown most of it out.
Each day a new perspective.
Pain of yesterday carried on.
Burnt out bulbs in the lamp
suggest ambitions not followed.
Strange shadows that
shift around the corners of
my vision as I look out into
the uncertain dream of a future.
Decisions that I made
may not have been in my
best direction.
Storm of rising frustration.
It defines my state of art.
Places I will need to
confront in order to surpass
the failure of mental reservation.
People I will need to
reconcile with in order
to move ahead in new direction.
I hate to cry.
Something a man is taught to never do.
I turn my face inwards.
Pretending raindrops are
on my face.

I think I hate the intrusion the most.
The picking, prodding, sticking things
into arms. Ouch! Go away already.

Take off your clothes. Put on your
clothes. Stand there. Sit here. Do
as we say. We're helping you heal.

Privacy is an illusion. It disperses
as quickly as leaves fluttering in
a wind-storm. Transient, unreal.

Close eyes. Remember. Recall.
Don't let the dropping stones
obscure where I've come from.

It will come, you see, whether
one agrees or not. It spreads
regardless of my religion.

I despise the invasion of
my body. The doing things
to. The freezing and testing.

Touch inside. Pretend the
poking fingers are normal
events. Just another laugh.

Late. Dark. Lying in bed
watching a movie. Half
attention paid. I'm afraid.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
The frustrated yearning for a different fate.
The faltering step in this walk of life.

For living is all that I know, yes indeed.
And though I know of sacred places,
where God resides and there is no pain,
still with humility I want to stay here.

The darkness of the fingers that stroke
like feathers upon the grasping eyes
opens this unexpected falling water
on this face, this older face of mine.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
This bitter resentment against the body
that can be so welcoming to disease.

For the mind still thinks, yes it does.
Remembers too, perhaps even worse?
It has captured, and captures, events
that has filled its grey to bursting.

Forever is such a long term release.
A word, a thought, that trickles
like the tears through a broken
cup left alone on the old table.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
Bitterness, rage, and despair, are the
words that force themselves alive.

For here in the world is where I
have found so many special people.
Their weeping shall be added to mine,
or so this is what I have imagined.

There are so many more poems
to write, and a great many more
to be read. So many creative pieces
to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
It begins with a memory and slithers
down until it is a force all its' own.

And now comes the truth, as it will.
Humbly disguised as caring hands.
Let the rain begin in these eyes.

In the empty hours when thoughts
are dreams not realized, and hustles
of curtains cover windows and sight.
That is when the mourning begins.

Mourn for time that might not be.
For Grandchildren's giggles when
they are tickled, for their hugs when
they feel their little boy fears.

Mourn for conversations not be held,
for sharing that will not be shared.
For emotions that will not be felt, or
for experiences that will never occur.

In the quiet time when memories
are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle,
and clocks tick in impatient hurry
marching forwards, as they will do.

Pictures perform, these compelling
images that filter through the brain.
They warm and they freeze, each
according to their own special ways.

A storm of floating spectrum's that
sprinkle determination to stay slow.
Halt the spreading beads that collect
so forcefully from their birthplaces.

In the dawning of the coming ending
rises the many strands of what might be.
This, no one knows; no one emerges
with the bottles filled with answers.

Your textile face strong
      as a white feather.
Determination set in
      neatly labelled crayons
      lined up on the table.

We named the colours together,
      with the casual manner
      of having a life of time.

There was harmony once.
Spontaneous laughter that
      filled the cathedrals of
      our happiness.

Drifting off to sleep
       with the sounds of
      our favourite movie
      ringing in my ears.

I remembered
knocking on your door
when I first met you.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Mirrors are emptied of glare,
and so I sit like a vessel
waiting for the next pill.

Grey heart. It pulls and tugs
with uneasiness as it beats
towards the next stage.

Like marching feet, the
dim pounding is advancing
towards unfortunate results.

Glasses on. Eyes open.
Twisting this or that
possibility in the head.

Looking backwards does
not convince, at all, of the
stability of what is forward.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Jesus loves me, this I know.
These words embraced in my heart.
This simple children's Hymn,
that really, is perfect in description.

I'm thinking too much.
      Worrying too much.

What will be will be.

This is true of me, and every one.

Jesus hears me when I pray.
This is His promise that He made.
I say my Rosary with Him in mind.
Hope for a miracle, but if not,
      hope it does not hurt
        when I die.

Dying.

Coffin and grave.

Solemn images that trickle
like leaking taps into
      my consciousness.
When the end comes.
When I expire from
      the land of the living,
I hope Jesus will be there.

"Jesus loves me, this I know.
For the Bible tells me so"

These words impress me,
which is as it should be.
One should consider
not only this world,
      but the next.

The coffin lowered in the grave
holds only the shell of what I am.
I'll live on, in what form
      I do not know.

Visit my grave, if that
is what you need to do.
Just know
I'll not be rotting there.

Jesus, I trust in You.