Holding on.
Not been a good week.
Aches and pains.
Disappointment and more.
Writing a Will.
Editing the Will.
Thinking about death.
Do I want to wait,
or should I select my
own time?
Suicide is a sin.
Purgatory no doubt.
Holding on.
Back to square zero.
Last weeks' optimism fading.
No, not fading, rather, faded.
Gone.
Ended.
Hitting mental icebergs
and creating
desperate images
Circle of life.
Circle of death.
Cycles really.
Metamorphosis.
Even butterflies
expire from the
drama of living.
Flicker like smokestacks
that expel black smoke.
That is me. Black smoke,
and a bucket of tumours.

Soft spoken words are heard
in the chambers of the strings
hiding
in
the
light.
The shining flags do not
flutter
in
the
thunderstorm.
Hanging wet and limp,
they drop failure
into
the
mud.

I want to remember
only the good dreams.
Celebrate only those
things that make
me smile.

Ahead lies the
limping man as he
deteriorates
into
nothingness.
Lying on a bed
trapped in his
goodbyes;
his focus on
the memories
left to him.

I will not be
the man I used
to be.

I will not be
strength
or
hope.

These I shall not
be able to offer.

Let him shut his eyes.
Let his skin bristle,
burn, evaporate
into the
sliding abyss
of what must be.

A faded picture is in my wallet.
Shows me young with 1970's hair.
I think it was a school photo?
Looking at it, I am struck sober
with how long ago that was.

Dandelions and weeds have
taken over the sanity asylum.
Morphine and other narcotics
is creasing my worrying head.
"They'll help you," I was told.
I question this medical wisdom,
for how helpful is being dulled?

A new normal has been defined.
A far different place from the
marching drums I beat before.
Now, I tap on the coffee table,
amazed I can even do that much.
Sitting in a chair, internally busy
with the picture of this boy.

"Young man," I want to scream,
"be careful of what is to arrive."
The tingling of cancer cells
are on the road you'll travel.
Failing thoughts that mingle
with the fading, dying sun.
Miracles of disposed relics
left on the table like charms.

Clutching Rosary beads and
mumbling the comfortable words.
I put the picture back inside.
Do not want to see it anymore.
He is me, I am him, obviously.
This crinkling comforter of cloth
wrapped like life around me.
His eyes are not as sad as mine,
this is what I deeply noticed.

Rain is falling.
This is an odd sort of winter.
Warm temperatures and dying.
Interesting combination.

Walking on the sidewalk.
Hood up, jacket zippered.
Sense of destiny propelling
my steps as I begin to
recite my eulogy.

Let it be said that
ice cream
is cold,
but
not
as
cold
as
the
autopsy
table.

Grass is still green.
Trees without leaves.
Solitary body tapping shoes
on
a
wet
grey
Sunday
morning.

Go on. Let the solemn time
flow like etched glass
into
the
veins
of
forever.

Humming a song to myself,
I change my direction.
Enough of outside.
Yes, I have seen enough.
There's nothing here
but the raindrops
and
the
man
with
limited
time.

The windows want washing,
the floor needs to be swept.
Dishes clutter the sink,
and my morning has begun.

The cat is playing, rushing
here and there in a frenzy
of chaotic feline energy.

I'm terminal. That is the
word I've avoided so far.

Coming to terms with
the finality of existence.

Terminal. Dying.

Dying. Terminal.

The phone rings and I
rush to answer it. Some
friend who wants to chat.
See how my day is going.
We chatter and promise
to get together soon.

Avoid the topic of the day.
The prognosis delivered
like a lukewarm pizza on
a foggy summer afternoon.

The chores are done. I feel
a sense of pleasure that I
can sit down in my chair.

Sip from my cup of coffee.
Drop an Ibuprofen into
my eager mouth, swallow it.
That will fix everything,
of that I'm assured.

Terminal. What an odd
sound that is to make.

They have provided me
a definition to aspire to.
A state of being that is
mine and mine alone.

As a boy I played with toys.
As a man I want to do so again.

Start fresh. Make different choices.

Renew and rejuvenate this
cancer ridden body that
surely does not belong to me.

Close my ears to voices that
say 'oh, I know how you feel.'

'No, you don't, ' I whisper.

'You who are indefinite
can not really understand
the message of a definite
time left to open your eyes.'

Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.

Isn't it funny how the sun
still rises in the morning
and sets in the evening?

Farther away, where the cars
are all painted dull black,
        and the
         leaves on the ground
           have
           already died,
      that is where the
       walls are being built.

Strong walls. Walls of
impregnable fortitude.
    Walls that will
        never be
          overcome.

Behind them, that
is where I shall be.
        Hidden.
         Forgotten.
Put aside to live
      with all the
        other people
         behind these stones.

We will be quiet here.
Dwelling thoughts lost
        in managing
        individual funeral pyres.
Outside these fortified rocks
      will be the footsteps
      of people who do
       not care to see
         anything beyond
         what they feel is
         marvellously important.
Pecking fingers on their
       cell phones
       in their peculiar, solitary
       way of being a
          "community".

We might hear them
    from time to time,
distant sounds
    that penetrate the
      rock fed monster
      we have built to
       surround our
         last moments.

Water falls in a
    rainfall of passion.
Cups hold liquids
    that are never drunk.
We share the same
    determined falling,
ending up the same
    kind of dead.

Goodbye people
      outside our walls.
Thank you for
       peering at us
        once in awhile.
And now the Biblical gates
       are opening.
Now the walls around
       us are shattered.
Leaving here, we
    become the pictures
        on an internet page;
where people will
      write R.I.P. in
        the comments.
A like button
    will be pressed,
       as they move on
        to the next entry.

Conversations over.
Memories diffused.

Stones from the wall
    fashioned into tombstones.
Names etched on them,
       and some plastic flower arrangements
         all that remains.

The crucifix on the wall
invites me to my favourite passage
from the Blessed, Sacred Scriptures.
In Saint Matthew our Lord's words
are shared in the Sermon on the Mount.

Reading them brings such peace
to the jumble of emotions I trend.

I wonder why these poignant words
have not penetrated into this world.
Seems odd that such wisdom and truth
is left aside as we pursue other goals.

Graves are dug in the mind, yes they are.
That's where the truth begins and ends.

Ignorance exists with point of view,
and nothing exists without attitude.

We grasp at straws and eat the filth
that permeates from our advanced lies.
Stop in at Mass, only when it suits us
and only when we feel it is necessary.

Hear the Gospel, nod at the sermon.
Check our watches to see the time.
Line up to consume the Body of Christ,
running out after back to our deceits.

In the softness of the mid-day world
I read the words of our Sacred Saviour.

The message compels me to understand
in how many ways I have wasted energy
as I've flickered and formulated over
the insignificance of mundane worrying.

Now that a time limit has been suggested,
it seems time indeed to remember that
if salt loses its flavour, how shall it be
seasoned? This is a thought to consider!

Our Father who art in Heaven, come
into my walk and lead my feet to You.

Graves are filled by bodies
      that used to be people.
Decomposing flesh
  that litters the bottom of the coffins.

Do not visit my grave.
      I will not be there.

Instead, imagine me in the room
      where you are sitting.
Talk to me, if you want.
I'll answer in the wind chimes
      that ****** in the breeze.

I shall remind you
      that I love you.
That you meant something to me
      and I appreciated your presence.

I shall touch your heart
      with remembered conversations.
Wonderful words that will
      echo like bells in the silence.

Do you think death
      will make me forget you?
No. It shall not.
I will caress you with my
      zig zagging spirit
that will
stay with you long after
      my body is gone.

The priest will intone his prayers.
      The casket will be blessed.

Significant gestures that should
      bring comfort to those gathered.

Afterwards.
Look around.
I'll be wishing love
      on everyone.
Smelling the funeral flowers
      that lie upon the newly laid dirt.

Concrete shadows that attract
unhappy hearts. Miserable rats
rushing about in dispensary mazes.
I hear the chuckles of the silence.
Does it mock? Does it understand?
Freshly tinted hate turns darker
on broken promises never sustained.
I grapple with standing guard
over the legacy of my ending life.
To leave what behind? Trinkets
and baubles to amuse the rabble?
Things. Just things. Things collected
and things saved. I shall promise
some of these things to the remaining
hands that loved me in my time.
Over in another thought, where I
allow my eyes to open in wonder,
are the forces of resentment that
channel from the brain. What time
does the end begin? What will be
my final thoughts? Oblivious
perhaps, to the jungle around me?
Or aware only of the presence of
God as He takes me to my new home?
Maybe looking back, I shall only
be free of the pressure and pain?
This would certainly please me.
Uncertainty is a price that is paid
when certainty has been forgotten.
Too many rambling words get
misplaced in meaningless gestures.
I hold myself ready. I am resolved.
Defeated but victorious. Pleased
to dwell in celestial images of
beautiful places still to visit.
Do not worry too much about
the solitary walker who is on his
way to the destiny he must achieve.
Life is a process. This I believe.
Death, but one of the stages.

"I was once alive!'
a dead man cries at the heavens;
raising fist with impatient gestures.
The clutching of the fingers,
      the breaking of the bones.
The heavens open up
      to the evil we do.
Bloodshed from wars,
      bloodshed from illnesses.
The Blood of Christ given
      and
       yet
        disregarded
"I know only living!",
the solitary man demands.
But the circle of life
      has been drawn.
The fate of certainty
      proclaimed and published.
Alleluias and amens
      flock like napkins
       folded into place.
Winds scour the sky for axioms
as weeping Mary floats her prayers
through vibrant songs of heavenly protection
Be still hurting flesh.
      The pain shall pass,
       the misery will vanish.
"I once was alive!"
he moans as his skin
explodes in tumours.
Victim to stigmata dreams
     and
      a
       hearse
        travelling
         in
          purposeful
           direction.

I think I am ready now.
Ready to go when I must go.
      Not that I am seeking it.
      Nor do I wish it to be soon.
I'm ready, though, very ready.

Spirits come and go. They fashion
    themselves into relationships.
Relationships that are
never more than temporary.
Hands holding hands,
    letting go, moving on.

I will move on as well.

Time is up to God, not me.
      If He calls me, I'll go.

So it is a circle thing,
      birth to the grave.
A slowly eroding body
      with a living soul.

I'm ready to meet death.
Perhaps not to welcome it,
      rather, resigned to
        cease to be.

At some point
      in the future,
        think of me.
Maybe I'll be the
      tiny voice inside
        comforting you?

The dreams
        still happen,
         as they will,.

through mists
that flicker in my eyes.

And even though there
is knocking at my door,
I'm busy
with my own hemisphere.

The glow of the planet
shines in red and white
flags dashing in the
early dawn of perspective.

Even so.
        My thinning body
         cares only for itself.

Dragons may be fantasy,
        but reality still
         insists it is happening.

A few more minutes, or a few more days?
"I'm going to die" I insist to myself.
Placid smile on forlorn face.
When the chlorine and the bleach
      won't clean the white any more;
When the flavours and the food
      don't appeal in any sort of way.
"I'm going to die", I insist to myself.
Flagrant denial of mortality.

Time is fickle. It promises much
      but fails in its delivery.
"Will it hurt?" I wonder.
Or will I slip away quietly
      like water down the drain?

I hear early birds making their
insistent chatter noises against
      the backdrop of the dawn.
Traffic moving on the street.
People in cars on their way
      to where-ever they are going.
I sit on a park bench trying
      to absorb everything all at once.
"I won't be sitting here next year."
      I mutter in my head.

Lie down. Lie down.
Relax.
.Don't think any more.

"I'm going to die." I insist to myself.
       "Die and be here no more."

Sipping slowly of the
words as they falter
       through the mist.
How long is left is my world.
And this conversation with myself
       will not change a thing.

Silhouette over
silent pebble,
the reticent
showering of the
golden hue of
the hushed sun.
Feeling sober;
gathered in pictures
painted inside a room.

When, on darker nights,
the moonlight replacing
the serenading daylight,
and a soft rain is
being present, there the
stillness opens itself
to the kissing sounds
of the charcoal embers
in the fireplace.
And I learned, if only
in hindsight, that what
pressed on heart was no
concern of mine.
Plunder and ravaging
might be in every
circle, but here is only
where I am. Where I will
remain, composed
and assuredly agreeable.

Is dull or dry what
is being thought?
Are other messages
arriving that are
not delivered?
I'm not concerned.
I'm not bothered, or
worried. No, instead
I stay steady in the
melodious after-thoughts
of observation .

A seashell in the desert.
A piece of sand to a pearl.
A groaning, moaning,
population
is
stressing
about
a
war.
Does not matter which one.
There always is one happening
somewhere
on
this
"if I **** you,
it means we
are right"
planet.
Solemn faces in the news,
bewailing
this
or
that
atrocity.
Shaking heads on couches
certain their
propaganda is correct.

But wait. In these
murderous
places,
I hear
the
children of the morning
waking up afraid.
Nervous little eyes
dimmed
by
the
rubble
they
share.

Tick Tock, you ****** clock,
what is your hurry?
System overload.
System shutting down.
The
aches
and
pains
a
tumbling
sound.
In the shadows of the dawn
is where the floating telephones
are constantly ringing.
Do not answer them.
Put
the
outside
world
in
its
place.
And hear the tinkling chimes
announce the
beginning of the end.
Tick Tock, you ****** clock,
what is your hurry?

My Jesus, I trust in You.

This I say with my lips.
Jesus, my fear betrays this.
I am weak,
         weak,
           so very weak.
Tears that trickle
from within my soul
    do not put faith
       in You.

Help me, Saviour.
    Mercy, please
    show me mercy.

I am reminded
of strong devotion;
precious confidence
        felt for You.

Lead me back to this.

      Lord, there is
an illness in my body.
A physical weakness
      that aches in its
        yearning for
          Your truth.

I surrender.
       I submit.
My Jesus, let
     me give this
     sickness to You.

Lay it on Your altar,
    lay it at your feet.
Release it from me,
    remove the doubts.

My Jesus, I trust in You.

Lord, make me a vacant basin,
one that is to be congested with You.
Grateful for each day given me.
Thankful for ever blessing acquired.
For though this body, Lord, is
decaying and terminally corrupted,
it is my essence given by You
that is forever my place of living.
Let me remember the struggles,
along with the triumphs, that
You have given out to me.
For though earthly experts
claim but a certain amount of time,
I know they do not realize that
time exists only in this realm.
Forever Jesus, forever. This is
what You have opened for me.
Let me arrive with a happy heart
into the Kingdom You proclaimed.
I am scared, but not of Heaven.
I fear the pain and the unknown.
Will it be a long slow dying?
This I do not know. With this
in mind, I prepare myself for
whatever it is I must endure.
Knowing that You will be there,
both the in the process and
in the beginning of the new life.
Lord, these are but words I
write to express my thinking.
They attempt to capture the
introspection that seems to
now be the centre of this phase.
I offer them up for Your ears,
knowing they will be understood.
In this malignant community,
of which I have citizenship,
the months are carefully counted.
The day will come, yes it will,
when the last breath will signal
my sudden awakening to You.
Lord, may I be ready.

The hardest part is the night.
Movie on, volume low, as I try to sleep.

Trying is not doing.

Pretend the city traffic sounds
are sounds of other people
trying to sleep. Each, in
our own way, as hopeless
as the other. They are
wondering where the
other cars are going,
and so am I.

Where do we go? Where,
if in fact, we never leave
the places we are at.

Turning, Tossing.
Eyes closed. Brain open.

A man is shouting on the street.
Words indistinct, but anger
clearly present. Why do
we get angry so easily?
Why can we be so
flippant and intolerant?

Hiding. Bodies, masked
in faces of temporary smiles.

What are the wishes,
the requests, of the
smiles driving the cars.

If I had one request. One
magic wish to use above
any others. It'd be to
sleep peacefully in
the pattern of the night.

(A Poem based on Ex.3:1-6)

I looked into the flames and I asked "Who are you?"
"I Am!"
And I cried out "Who is going to save me?"
"I Am!"
And I wept "Who is going to conquer
My slavery to sin and darkness?"
"I Am!"
And I said "Who is faithful
Even though I fail?"
"I Am!"
And then I asked "Who is the father of mercy
Who sends His son to die
That I might live?"
"I Am!"
And the bush did not burn,
and I did not die!

I heard the hissing of the snake
before I felt the fangs pierce the night air.

Fibreglass boats and lemonade stands.
Blinking lights and trembling hands.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.
Beginning, ending. Ending, beginning.

We have such a variety of words
defining the extremes, but what of
the in-between? The middle?

What happens between A and Z?
Between now and than?

That is what I forget about
as I feel the poison become me.

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God,
Come travel with me as I walk
the trauma of living.
You touch me, and my heart rejoices
in Your benediction.
Celebrating the life You
gave up for us.
Wondering how You so readily
made the sacrifice.
Would any of us have done the same?
Would I have done the same?
I'm not certain I would.
The giving up of self
for the sake of strangers.
This concept is so foreign to me.
O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God,
caressing me with Your
affirming answers.
Looking, oh Lord, to see what
symbol You call
me to believe.
I hear you Lord, as loudly as if
you were shouting,
as quietly as if you were not.
So much weakening of resolve
seems to define me.
Make me stronger, make me obedient.
Make me see
that I can not
be free until
I surrender
everything I am
up to You.
O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God,
thank you for loving me even
when I forget
Your Sacred Heart.
Thank you for loving me,
even when I bristle
with
hateful thoughts.
O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God,
be always with me
as I
sprinkle
along
the earthly road.

Lord, have mercy, have mercy on me.
           I have sinned,
           I have fallen,
           I am far from grace.

Alone, deeply toned in repentance
I merge my soul with yours, oh Lord.
Mingling my emptiness with your
           promises,
with your magnificent love.

Lord have mercy, have mercy on me.
           I have destroyed
           the goodness
           you filled in me.

Adrift in the world of human space
I empty my heart of salvation, oh God.
Masking my faith with indifference,
           with anger, with doubts.

Lord have mercy, have mercy on me.
           I have become
           a caricature
           of a man.

Lost in space, in the universe.
My soul yearning for the peace
           I used to find in You.

Seeking You, sweet Lord.
Lord have mercy, have mercy on me.

A grey day -
Sure, a fine soft morning -
wet on the wind with rippling circles
that dimple the overnight puddles.
Misty rain lacquers the fallen leaves
to glow under sodium light
and washes asphalt paths
to tarry blackness.
The waking city stirs.
The early cars rush by,
anxious to head the traffic jams,
before the parking place is filled;
while little dog sniffs among the leaves
and praises God by being.

Sweet ****** Mother watched her Son die.
From the beating in the courtyard
To the walk upon the road, she cried
As they led her Son to His death.
Blessed Mother of thoughts so unknown
By any man who might gaze at her eyes.
Holy Jesus whose very soul was thrown
Upon the wolves of evil that howled death.
Her precious Son, Her magnificent boy
Would suffer such as few others would.
For me, and for everyone; like a broken toy
Would His body be displayed upon a cross.
Sweet ****** Mother His death attending.
As it was foretold she would witness this
Cruel passage of His blessed ending.
His fate sealed at the beginning of time.
To be raised to life, to live so He might die.
Dear Jesus who had wept for all mankind,
Travelled to His death upon a cross of wood.
Crowds mocked Him in jeering, hating waves;
In angry voices their words flew like stones
Until they ushered Him into His Holy Grace.
Mighty Lord, now laid silent and at rest.
Yet a miracle would free Him from the tomb,
For He would rise again in splendour!
Arrive in triumph to those in the upper room,
Our Jesus defeated death and so we live.

Lord, who created heaven and earth,
who made mankind in His image,
and gave us the mustard seed of wisdom.
And we took your message of
deliverance and built a world
opposite to the Word.
We prayed, attended Mass,
and than drifted back to our
guns and our bitterness,
to our vows of revenge and
hatred. Sonic soldiers prancing
in the streetcars of our souls.
We distributed our beliefs
to every savage group we met,
yet we failed to distribute our
beliefs to our society.
Lord, we attend our parishes
and pray with our priests, we
receive your Body and Blood,
and we hear your Scriptures
spoken to our ears. Than we
leave your Church and journey
home, using our foul language
as a definition point. We watch our
films of *** and death, violence
and dis-association. Read our books
of surveys and opinions contrary
to the mustard seed of faith. We
justify our disobedience with talk
of our intelligence, for oh we are
so wonderful! People starve on our
streets of plenty but we blame them
and carry on our lives content behind
our walls of smoked glass.
Lord, we join you in your
Eucharist, but we do not join you in
our hearts. Lord, we ****** babies
and we celebrate our freedom with
dancing in our minds. From trend to
trend we travel, from position to
position do we waver.Strong voices raised
in opposition to censorship for we
will have our freedom, yes we will!
We marry and than fall apart, and leave
our children divided in soul and spirit.
We seek *** from every stranger
and justify devotion to slime with
cries of representation.In our cities of
concrete and steel we live, proud of
our history, proud of our way.Proud
that we are able to define ourselves as
people of God, yet people who will
not let you, Lord, have your say
in our lives. For that is the ticket,
that is the pattern, for one hour we will
mouth pious phrases and 'with your spirit's',
but we will not take that hour home with us.
Lord, you created heaven and earth,
and all the creatures around us. And we thank
you Lord, for this world, but please don't
require us to make a commitment to
your mustard seed of wisdom.

Our hands holding roses,
We hold them for you;

Your grace bringing
us the salvation of your Son;
Holy Lady of Heaven,
Blessed ****** Queen.

Mother of Christ,
Mother most divine;
Hear prayers rising,
rising to you.

Mother of all, Mother dearest;
Caress us with your love,
keep us pure from sin.

Leading us, ever leading
to the arms of Jesus Divine.
O Holy Mother,
Holy Sacred one.

Ave Maria! Hail Mary,
Queen of the Most Holy Rosary!

I'm an Aries ram and Lord I use this
to resist you. Dear Christ I feel so afraid.
I'm scared of opening my heart to you,
for fear that
I'd be giving up myself.
I want to cling to the self-inflicted pain
and let it become my life.
But oh Christ I know this
is wrong of me.
Your touch brushes aside my symbols.
You try to ****** your peace upon me.
But oh Lord, I put up
brick walls to keep you away.
Please Jesus help me break them down.
Let this Aries ram put aside
his horns of doubt.
Let this hurting man
feel the love you promise for me.
I'm a deep dark hole
of unrepentant sin.
Carrying a cross that
does not hold your heart.
Oh sweet Jesus put yourself
into my burdens.
Let me open my eyes
to the glories
of your redemption.
Fresh from sin let me arrive
cleansed and ready to
show Your love.
As an Aries ram I jam
away from your salvation.
Yet I know I need to
submit my will to yours.
Crash away my doubts oh
Holy, blessed Lord.
Comfort me for I feel so alone.
Angry eyes follow me as
I walk though my sinful life.
Inside I feel the dark night
of the soul,
and my touch is
filled with demons not laid to rest.
Lord, stop this Aries ram
from losing his soul.

Munda cor meum ac ***** mea, omnipotens Deus.

For my heart has ached with the pain
of separation from You. My lips have
spoken words that have caused others
to be in turmoil.

Perevangelica dicta deleantur nostra delicta.

For only in the Gospel will my answers be,
through the Christ, the Redeemer, my
redemption from this life of multiple lies.

Credo in unum Deum.

For both Scripture and Tradition tell
me this is how He exists. Our common
Lord who will wash clean the heart.

In spiritu humilitatis et in animo
contrito suscipiamur a te, Domine:
et sic fiat sacrificium nostrum in
conspectu tuo hodie, ut placeat
tibi, Domine Deus.

Let everything within me live up
to the words I pray. May every
promise, to you, Good Lord, be
everything to me.

For only in the Father,
only in the Son,
only in the holy Spirit,
is found the truth I have so
deeply been trying to reclaim.

Our faith embraces mystery;
      a celestial echo of our Triune God.
Our Holy Catholic Church
       mans only road to salvation.
Holy, Holy, Holy Lord.
      Let us receive Your strength
      to counteract our weaknesses.

My faith embraces mystery;
      a celestial echo of my Triune God.
My Holy Catholic Church is
      my only road to salvation.
Holy, Holy, Holy Lord.
      Let me receive Your strength
      to counteract my weaknesses.

Earth is formed in a liturgy of Your image;
It sighs with Your perpetual presence.
Your always revising map of redemption
      brings glory rightfully to Your Sacred Heart.
We offer glory to the Father,
      glory to the Son,
      and glory to the Holy Spirit.

I was formed in a liturgy of Your image;
      I sigh with Your perpetual presence.
Your always revising map of redemption
      brings glory rightfully to Your Sacred Heart.
I offer glory to the Father,
      glory to the Son,
      and glory to the Holy Spirit.

Holy Mary, ****** Mother,who is Queen over
      all of heaven and earth;
Who holds our Rosary of prayers
      in Her Sacred hands.
Shed your sacred tears on our behalf,
      and with prayer deliver them
      to your Son.
We are clay of many different characters
      moulding ourselves into the vessels
      we are called to be.

Holy Mary, ****** Mother,who is Queen over
      all of heaven and earth;
Who holds my Rosary of prayers
      in Her Sacred hands.
Shed your sacred tears on my behalf,
       and with prayer deliver them
      to your Son.
I are clay of many different characters
      moulding myself into the vessel
      I am called to be.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son,
      and of the Holy Spirit,
Our voices combine into a choral blend of
      praise and celebration

I spent my boyhood avoiding
      the disgrace of my differences.
Creating alternate empires that
      I ruled with stoic passion.
I gave out negative vibrations, as a boy,
      to control the level of association.
Built walls and lived within them,
       perfectly encased in sarcastic wisdom.
Does not take too long to understand
       that being yourself is not suggested.
Eager advocates educate the boy that his
      differences must be suppressed.
Be the same. Be the same. Be the same.
      Moulded and conformed, unaware
of the boyhood desiring to think for self.
       I spent my boyhood reading books
that opened libraries of imagination.
      Absorbing the solitary creations
of so many magnificent lives. They presented
      me with echoes of alternatives.
I never have understood the slicked back
      membrane of uncentred filters.
Solitary self-confinement made so
       much more tickled sense to me.
I passed out scented cigars of me
       to ear-drums inclined to not listen.
They agreed to, and supported,
       the numbness of not thinking.
Letting the self-declared prophets
       dictate how we must believe.
I spent my boyhood being the boy
      that did not fit the paper model.
Set it on fire. Set it on fire. Let the
       message always be that a man
must indicate his own set of standards.

I wander through primordial moments
when the tapping of a keypad
becomes the substance of
standing on the floor naked.
****** is truth.
It is when the fabrics bought
from corporate stores no longer
disguise your carcass truth.
I find myself yelling like a
wounded animal dying.
Pretending that the icicles
shoved into my veins
are only secret encounters.
Nobody notices the contradiction
of white flesh dripping blood.
I hug the eggshells of words
that will not be silenced anymore.
They are my words. My truth.
Unlike the falsehoods that will
be contained in my obituary.
Vacant phrases that shall inform
of the dates and people connected
to my worldview. I shall not be
allowed to edit the content. Exposed
like a rock left on the grass.
Pick me up. Digest me. Tell
stories of things I did, embellished
as stories told tend to be.
In my coffin, I shall be naked
underneath the clothing. My
truth will be not be set free.

We are all **** bodies
fearful
of
confronting
our
truth.

Whispers. This room is filled
with the mumbling of machines.
We sit for hours attached by
tubes that dispense poison
into our veins. We are a
private community of failing
bodies determined to extend
our survival. Dripping tubes
of hope that make us feel
like plastic bottles of once
vital liquids that have gone
past their expiry dates.
Each of us comes to this room
with our own private stories.
We are not superior, one to
the other. No, we are equal
in our determination to
channel our tales to expand.
Empathetic staff attends us
with the practiced patience
of their profession. We sit
in our comfortable chairs
in our uncomfortable reality.

I find myself a reluctant
team member in a group
of Intravenous warriors.
Some of my fellow soldiers
do not do battle as well
as others. I feel for them,
as I am sure they feel
for me. ***, religion, colour
of skin; none are necessary
here. We are one tribe,
one cancer created family
with our own codes of conduct.

I say my rosary. I offer prayers.
I wish, so deep in my heart,
that this will pass from me.

I
fell asleep
before the dark.
In the day
when sunlight
broke into the window,
there I was
in another place.
The morphine
relieving pain.
the thoughts
of fabricated living.
Visionary monsters
parading across
the floor.
I grew
into one
of them.
Long of hair
and short of breath.
Kneeling down
to shelter
the insects
flickering in
my head.
What eggshell
will ever
be the same?

We dreamed.
You and I.
Together.

Telephones ringing.
Doors locked.
Impressionable cups
left empty
without coffee.
Around and around
march the
ambulances,
sirens wailing
in imperfect tones.

I was dreaming.
Just me.
Alone.

Nobody had been
invited in.
Solitude, that
desired feeling,
of hiding
from the
jumping demons.

Once bitten,
twice shy.
Once dead,
now alive.

Grasp at nothing.
Not even worth
the dollar
on the price tag.
I
fell asleep
before the dark.
No wonder
the visions
were
distorted.

Dead people crawling up the stairs.
Embracing their together arms in
a symphony of panic.

I hear their wailing throats
emitting deathly groans.

I cover my ears.
I ignore them.

Let the dead return to their graves.
They have no place here.

Still, I sense they are here.
Encircling me.
Reaching out for me.
Welcoming me to their
cavernous holes in the ground.

I scream in silent vowels.
Gasping for air.
Holding my arms tightly
at
my sides.

Don't touch me rotted things!
Don't speak to me.
I do not want to listen
to your unearthly sighs.

My
thoughts
are
jangled
in
terror.

Why are they here?

Death rattles.
Smells of decayed flesh.
These surround me.

These
are
symbols
of
motivated
malice.

Useless resistance.
Surrender to them.
Join them.

Dead people crawling up the stairs.
I am with them now.

Imprisoned.
Captured.
Nowhere to hide.

Lonely, creeping dangerously close to sanity.
Imprisoned in my death like a ***** sheet.
Stranded and abandoned in the solitaire of life.

Why do we sit here and hurt each other?
Why stand in dirt and speak of mud?

Impostors slandering their good names with faeces.
Dribbling lunatics on edge, mimicking normality.

Let me dive into the water.
Let the water cleanse me.

I wait there.
I cringe.

Vampires of dying myths float with self.
Helpless in the skin, helpless in the mind.

Wounded chaos dripping in exclusionary
streets of pretense and disillusionment.

I see into myself.
Marooned in a chalking of deceit.

You lied to me, I lied to you.
Everybody lies and denies.
We are collected together in
the aquarium of our silence.

I sleep.
I awake.

I open and close my eyes in the screaming
stupidity of hoping to wake up tomorrow.

We drank our coffee,
ensuring each other
that it would not be
the last time.
I remember when
I could not stop
words from falling
out of my mouth.
So many things to share.
But coffee grows cold
if left unattended.
And sentences that
once rushed out so
effortlessly slowly
turn to indifference.
Sometimes we can
still manage
platitudes, in the
hope that this can
create conversation.
Sounds, but no connection.
Together, but distant.
Sip your coffee slowly.
Let's savour what few
minutes still remain
in one another's company.
A casual hug perhaps,
or just a shaking of hands.
We begin the process
of forgetting one another.

I miss you already.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

Summer is happening.
People are complaining
about the heat and humidity.

Air conditioners are conditioning.
Aeroplanes are flying overhead.

Other people are occupied with
their own dramas and situations.

Me, I am just being quiet. Not
looking to talk with anyone.

I am thinking of how matter of
fact the Doctor was when he
shared his professional opinion.

As if he was talking about the
hot summer weather; as if
the temperature was crucial.

I listened to every word he said.
Shook his hand and thanked him.

Strange how we fall so easily
into the habits we've been fed.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

I will never reach the end.
Will I ever reach the end?

Will I be sitting here, next
summer, counting anything
at all? What do the clouds
do when the grass turns
brittle and darkly brown?

His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.

His story. His remembering.

With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.

He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.

There are miracles and
there are no miracles.

Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.

Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.

How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!

With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.

And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.

She stood like a statue.
Perfect skin layered on a perfect body.
A ******* model.
She makes men turn their heads to look at her.
The type of woman who squeals tires.
Gorgeous *******.
Stunning hair.
She stood like a statue.
She was stone.
Spent hours.
Doing make-up.
Styling hair.
Picking clothes.
Smiling her plastic teeth.
Flashing her neon sign mind.
Slogans.
She lived all of them.
She stood like a statue.
Drop dead gorgeous.
Living idol.
Men wanted her.
She was courted by them.
Money lavished upon her.
She felt she deserved it all.
Scorned her fellow women.
Ridiculed her peers.
Too good to be in their company.
She stood like a statue.
Beautiful as marble.
But utterly, totally,
completely empty inside.

The last wind of winter has ceased its power.
It is memory now, and has no message to give.

The rains of spring have replaced the snow.
And spatter insistent tunes upon the roof.

From the ground, the plants have burst out.
Reminders of the cycle of life and renewal.

Early flowers busy in their own serenity.
Splashes of colour that arrive in splendour.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

I find myself sitting on my balcony.
Surrounded by the discrimination of life.

Sighing gently to the pattern of the rain,
singing softly the songs of emerging spring.

Patterns of raindrops that hit the mind in
mud puddles of dank self imposed denial.

They are a growing source of cleansing
which shall shatter, for now, the winter grey.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

Standing up, I become once again myself.
Moaning in unison with the rain, captivated

by the thoughts of what the waters bring.
I am entirely open to fountains of rebirth.

Vindictive tugging of thought interferes
with the cherished sunshine of awareness.

Rushing fiercely into the rain,
I pull each flower from the ground.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

He stops his feelings.
They ******* his beams of light.
"Pretend", he exclaims, "just pretend."
That the children have not gone,
or
that
his
marriage fell apart.
"I will not be a spectre of
fallen expectations." he
moans to the skies.
Groaning tissues mutate
into flagons of bitter brew.
Next
comes
the
message.
"I will not hear it."
He is firm in his plan.
Determined in his goals.
A man is a man if he
provides the guise of strength.
Who has ordained this?
Broken eggshells
scattered about him.
His testament, his truth.
"Am I forgiven?"
he asks in bewilderment.
Forgiven by friends, and family,
for
every transgression
completed.
Backwards are fables
mingled with
lost causes.
Resentments.
Forward is
amphibious,
not negotiable,
set in iron.
"I will stay forever
travelling
in the stars
above my head."
This his proclamation.

Now he can rest in peace.

If the silence calls, answer it.
Seeping like smoke
i
n
t
o
the veins.
Drained blood vessels
f
i
l
l
e
d
with chemicals.
The body is what it is.
A skin filled skeleton
motivated to carry on.
Even if the
s
o
u
l
asks to be released.

A little boy is playing in his backyard.
Plastic knights and make-believe castles.
His imagination flourishes, thrives;
magic empires he creates in his world.
He does not think about tomorrow.
He does not worry about anything.

I wish I was him again.
Start all over.

Not possible, however.
We can only
w
a
l
k
ahead,
never back.

In truth, he was an unflavoured soul,
a vessel of despair fashioned in clay.
A misfit of intense and wild emotions,
that fled the world, gone astray.

He created his own sheltered universe
from which he built a life of fear.
Running, fleeing, his reality of disgrace
which had defined his growing years.

Poor orphan child, a stranger to respect,
who satisfied himself in his own eyes.
Travelled like an ant away from the hill,
to seek his space, to avoid hidden sighs.

The flesh can burn, the soul can wither
like an empty cup left alone on the table.
This he knew, for this was his existence.
A world weary, tired, emotionally unstable.

And if he let a sleeping tear escape
from untrusting eye that blinked in pain,
he knew that strangers would object
to any thought that he might complain.

Poor orphan child, man of no respect,
who drifted like a leaf in a summer wind.
His face a mask of tolerated stone,
which hides his constant sense of sin.

What would his salvation prove to be?
Oh soul, what is your purpose and plan?
He would not know, he would not see,
for little of reality did he understand.

Aeroplanes fly
at great speed.
Inside their metal bodies
resides colonies of humans.
Side by side they sit,
lying to each other
about their lives.

Every stone that
lies on the ground
has its own story.

Every diamond
is fashioned from
lumps of coal.

All the Kings horses
and all the Kings men
are not able to change
the inevitable.

Black skies hide
the rotting yearning,
the plunge into
that shallow space.

I live here.
Coloured liquid
pours from my
aching thoughts.

I drop pretending
so fast, one would
imagine it never
was there at all.

Sit beside me.
We shall fly together.
Echoes following
every strangled sigh.

Touching the shallow,
we can speak of
people known and
people forgotten.

Struggle in separate shells
as we attempt to bond
in contemporary fashion.

Should I tell you
that they have told me
I am dying?

I think not.
That would cause
too many lips to
drip with sympathy.

Aeroplanes are
emergency reunions
of jocular strangers
emptied of reality.

I want to be
one of those strangers,
and cast a spell
of formaldehyde
expectations.

I crushed a flower
      in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
      absolutely
      in control.
Petals and stem juice
      stained my hand.
I make a wind
      and
       blow
        them
         away.
Just like a judge
      presiding
       over a trial,
I am the voice
      of justice.
A bloated bulb
      of tremendous
       distance
        begins to roll
         over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
      that what
        you
         began
          will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
      shadows
that flicker briefly
      before
        floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
      but
       in
        the end
         can only
          move as required.
I am as crushed
      as the flower,
       staining
        the palm
         of my demise.

Castles in the air. They seem to be hung there
on strings of invisible contemplation's. Shimmering
in clouds dappled with false expectations. The sun
opens the windows with embraces of expectations.
We are inside these floating shelters, not inhibited.
No boundaries contain our focus. This the statement
of our shared perspective, our call to salvation as
we jump through the sunlight that captures us.

A war begins. We did not begin it. We now had
to decide if it was ours. To decline would be a
perception of awareness. You and I determine
the extent of our participation. Instead of
succumbing to our weakness, we stand with
anger at the waste of time. One day there
will be peace. We believe this. We feel only
the strength of our flying imaginations.

Partially, I wonder if our mutual pretensions
can manufacture the serenity we've proclaimed.
You laugh at me. It hurts. This begins the only
exit we achieve. Strange how stone can be so
deeply grievous. Odd how "we" can so aptly
be given to retreat. Off you go, and I hate
the sound of the departure. But regardless,
I shall not be concerned. For you see, it does
not matter the configuration. I can close the
curtains and still be as strong as need be.

Flickering like a pill bottle without a cap,
in the air castles of my dying secret world.

I heard you going.
Your soft shoes making
delicate flashes on the floor.
My breathing was heavy
with the scent of dismissal.
Why did you come if you
planned to flee?
Sometimes the air is
as soft as you leaving.
I sense that it talks
but I am unable to
understand the words.
Heavy with hope the coping
suggests you are
returning soon.
Door is unlocked.
Sitting in the chair,
watching to see if
it opens.
When will you be back?

It used to be called 'Sunken Gardens',
this section of the park. Now it is called
'The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens'
because Her Majesty visited them.
She wore a pale blue dress that day.
I remember because my sisters and I
were in the crowd. Like the others,
we stared at the Royal 'She' in awed
tones of respect and curiosity.

In high school, we used the park to
escape the hum-drum of our classes.
Hiding behind the trees and flowers
so that the jailers from the nearby
school windows would not capture us
in our freedom. We were bold in
our youth. Finely chiseled minds in
adolescent toned bodies.

We'd sit under a tree, smoking and
planning the adventure our lives would be.
None of us would conform, or so we
promised each other and ourselves.
We'd be bold flashes of novelty forever
striking a match to light the flames of
resistance to middle class lives.

We were children of the sixties,
teenagers of the 1970's. Our hopes
and dreams were not the same as
our parents. No, we did not want
to have the white picket fence! Instead
we planned on how we'd take the fences
apart and use the wood to build
alternative ways of existing. Our plans
were brave and solid, our dreams
we would make become our reality.

Now, as I walk through the park
as a grown man, well into my descent
towards my grave, I recall those vain
words we spoke. Those brittle, youthful
proclamations of a new beginning that we
were assured of becoming. None of us
really followed those dreams. The harsh
bells of the 'real world' would not stop
ringing. Most of us became our parents
all over again. Talk of freedom and
self-expression gave way to worries over
the mortgage and the bills. Working overtime
so the kids can have a new pair of jeans.

They still call it the 'Queen Elizabeth 2nd
Gardens'. The flowers are still carefully
planted every spring by the Department of
Parks and Recreation. Sometimes I come and
watch the young bodies at work digging the
soil and planting the flowers in neat, tidy rows.
Her Majesty has not visited Windsor in
quite a long time. Her picture on the money
makes her look older. Of course, she is older
but then so am I. Indeed, so are all the faces
I remember with fondness in my mind.

If I sit quietly on one of the benches,
and I slow down my breathing just a tad, I
can almost hear again our voices planning
the future none of us would have.

Wondering how to imagine flowers
in a city covered with concrete towers.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.

I walk the confines of my walls at night,
only sensing the world out of sight.
What am I searching for, I do wonder,
as confusing images blink on and off.

What does it matter if I never find
the answers to questions so unkind?
With poignant malice so pronounced
do the crawling lice stand so proud.

I sense that I shall always remain
filled with dread that fosters pain.
Internally the wheels will grind
as I try and cease their rolling.

I understand the midnight moon,
for it signifies my private womb.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.