Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

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.

Walking in dim thoughts
with the sound of rain outside.
The dripping pattern takes
me on a pitter-patting journey.
I'm neither here, nor there,
and yet somewhere
I must be.
Craving to be healthy,
in mind, body and soul.
Content perhaps?
Aware of who I am
and who I will
always be.
Is anyone like this?
Really?
Or are we a collected
mass of android
arms reaching
lamely for
robot parts?
Artificial emotions that
fester out like
***** mud shoes left
in the hallway.
We yawn internally
to avoid the truth
that we are bored
with one another.

Raindrops continue, as
does my doubting heart
as it wraps around
the possibility of
funerals and
Requiem Masses.
Long faces and
sighing masking
the indifference
of striving.
Together in mood
but far apart
in disposition.

Carry on, rain,
carry on. Slip
your wetness
against the dry spell
of my perception.
I can see. Or, I can
close my eyes to
imagine that the
tomorrow of thought
becomes the infested
reality I will be living.

I spend too many
careless storms wishing
for other days to arrive.

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.

A poem based on Genesis 3:19

For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.
A stack of dirt, neatly covered and withdrawn.
A hole, open and measured to conform to the box.
Mourners praying, intoning sacred, helpful words.
The priest makes the sign of the cross, voice strong.
The ritual is over, the people are invited to depart.

The hole, not quite empty anymore, is alone.
The workers fill it with the dirt, as they will.

The silence of the cemetery, the lull of natures' whispers
Plastic flowers placed on monuments of cold stone.

In the sweat of your face, until returned to the ground,
you will step in determination towards the coming end.
For every man and every woman, it will be the same.
Rich or poor, strong or weak, the grave is no different.
Repeated daily in every land upon this blue globe,
holy messages of comfort and solace are intoned.

A lone bird, sitting casually upon an old tombstone.
It fixes glances at the grass, perhaps seeking a meal?
It does not realize the shadows loitered in the ground.
Nor would it care, even if it could somehow be aware.
Nature is its own master of every creature, like the bird.
For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.

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 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.

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.

Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are sleeping
like baby lizards in their caves. Breathless from
a day of pillage. Restful after a time of destruction.

Somewhere, on the other side of the hill, a boy
is playing in the woods. Caressing his manhood,
he becomes a symbol of self appreciation.
Be quiet. Don't disturb the boy in his game.
It is his only means of achieving satisfaction.
A reaction would disturb the molecules from
their expected conclusion.

The boy does not realize how close he is
to potential danger. If he awakens the
dragons, he awakens his death.

Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are dreaming
of future conquests. Illusionary REM's of human
body parts dancing in their heads. Helpless
after a day of mass frustration. Hopeless
after a time of complete desolation.

The boy is finished his game. He smiles
to himself at his clever disguises. Yesterday he
was a soldier in the war of indifference. Today
he is a hero, a legend in his own mind.

He screams in abandoned pleasure. He
yells because he can. Racing through the woods
until he comes upon the entrance to a cave.

Takes a breath, than slowly enters in.
The dragons are no longer sleeping. They are
preening their scales in preparation. Their red
soul-less eyes look at the boy. The boy, with
his brown empty eyes looks at the dragons.

None of them make a move.

Each of them recognize the emptiness of the other.

(Loosely based on prayers from The Canadian Book of Common Prayer. 1962)

Almighty God, creator of Heaven and Earth,
You who sustains all things in all ways;
Send to me Your Holy Spirit that I may
always feel Your presence around me.
Guide me in all things, especially so at
this time of suffering. Father of all, I
commend my immortal soul to You.
Wrap it in Your arms and let me feel
your eternal love always within me.
In times when I feel strained and weak,
send strength to me. Sustain my heart
so that it beats only in Your solace.
Gracious Father, in so many ways
I have consumed myself with the
desires of the flesh; forgetting that
these are but transient pleasures
that will not elicit eternal salvation.
Almighty God, to whom all hearts
are open, all desires known: Cleanse
my thoughts from sin by the power
of Your inspiration. Create in me,
through Your holy name, the
understanding to see You are
always with me, at all times and
in all situations. I commend myself
always to You, through Christ our Lord.

Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.

Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.

We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.

We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.

These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.

The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.

He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.

So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.

(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.

Swiftly the lungs expand,
filled
         with
                 air
                     of resistance.
Stand ready to succeed!
A death sentence
is
   a
     guess.
It
is
    an
        estimation.
God alone knows truth.
It is His will that decides.
Some days are better
                      than others.
Like an adventure
where
          we
              never
                       know
the end results.
Regardless of the day,
it
   is
     the
          only
                one
                      to
                         have.
Jesus taught us to
live for today,
to
   leave
          yesterday
                      behind.
To ignore
             the
                 worries
                      of tomorrow.
Each day has its own concerns.
Enough to occupy the thoughts.
I will
       stay
            focused
                        on the
                                 gifts
                                      of today.
Thank you Lord,
                       for the gift of life.
And
      if
        this
              is
                 my
                      last
                           day,
so be it. I end with the
                                     peace
                                             to be
                                                found
only in the comfort of God's love.

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."

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.

Do no harm.
  Leave the war-plane frame of reference
       to other puzzle pieces.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are not certain of which
         monologue to begin.
So we chant in
       unified panting
         etching legends
          out of rhymes.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
It matters now that the growing telephones
          are charged like neglected
         poisons of dampening redials.
Truth is gaining wisdom like
         groups of formatted crosses
           jumping like splinters
          of margarine jars.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are one with living and prepared
          for the drying of the hands.
Clean me up and leave me outside.
Sun gone but wind remaining.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
      Do no harm.

Most people get married
believing
in the myth that doing
so will bring about
life-long contentment.
They fail to understand
that sometimes
different flowers
are not meant to grow
in the same garden.
Things change. People change.
Love begun
can become
love undone.
The swirls and twirls
of living together
can come to define
different directions.
The marriage box
might start out
with commitment
and understanding.
A shared set of goals
that expresses itself
in shapes and patterns
of mutual anticipation.
It's sad when this changes.
When you wake up one day
and realize
you are struggling to
hold a conversation.
When there is really
nothing left to say
to one another.
Sentences are empty
of depth and
lined with wax paper
like a discarded
sandwich.
And there will
come a day,
a sobering day,
when she will say,
"I've met another.
I'm not in love with you,
anymore."

A year or so from now,
when you hear thunder in the sky,
pretend it is me talking to you.

Think of me, from time to time.
Remember me, remember me.
When a song plays that was
one of my favourites, sing along
with it for me. Sing loud and clear.
I'll be with you. I'll be with you.

Do not grieve for long. Instead,
play again those funny moments
when life was long and years
of sharing stretched ahead.
Hear the humour we shared,
and smile again at old jokes.

A year or so from now,
when you are looking at pictures,
see again how happy we were.

These are what matter, I think.
The joyful seconds that make
the mundane easy to bear.
Those scattered, silly
laughing things that stay
eternally present in the mind.

We are only hands that clap
in harmony for a limited time.
Touches of spaces that are
full of vigour, than are empty.
Hesitant to leave what we
know, knowing it must be so.

A year or so from now,
remember me. Remember me.

Sometimes sunshine streams through the windows,
like a tousled head of hair. Bright and solid light

that opens the room to dangling frames of dust.
The dust collects itself under the furniture.

Hiding, transforming, resisting change. It becomes
its own entity, its own statement. Gradually the dust

overcomes the sunshine and the room is again bleached
in bleakness. Voices are gradual, distant sounding, as they

try and survive in the ***** room. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows like a growing sense of doom.

Hard and harsh vibrancy that collides with the anticipation
of the occupants. They are uncertain how to proceed with

their daily routines. Like the dust, they collect themselves into
arbitrary points of views. Mangled intentions that are never

stated, but instead are felt like rotting fruit in a basket.
The smell permeates all areas of reality as it dominates the

passion of the souls. They moan in obligation. They whine in
muted patterns of surrender as they whip around the room

like the dust floating painfully in the air. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows, like a bloated body in water.

The beginning of the race always promises to have an ending.
The ending always promises to begin again. But the room will

always stay as it is, dust and doom its statement to the world.
And, sometimes, sunshine streams through the windows.

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. So 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.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

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.

We are soldiers joined in battle.
Fighting a war, fighting a war.
We belong to one healing centre.
Fighting dying, fighting dying.

Tubes
and
needles
are
our
weapons.
Pills
our
defence
against
the
enemy.

The light shines in my eyes.
The bed I am on is comfort.
In my thought processes
are the many situations
I've collected in this life.

It's not been too bad,
this past I review.
There have been
some disappointments.
Not uncommon
nor unexpected.
But the happiness
outweighs
the
tears.
The
melodies
pleasant
to
the
ears.­­

I suppose I am ready
to be with my comrades
in the Armageddon of
this unholy war.

We are champions of pain.
Joining forces, joining forces.
We march in determination.
In our hearts, in our hearts.

Some of us shall fall
in this ongoing struggle.
We
shall
mourn
their
deaths
and
celebrate
their
courage­­.
Carry on beating the
drums of resistance.
Carry on hoping
for victories to be.
And
if
I
join
the
defeated,
if
I
die
before
my
time;
remember­­
that
I
tried
to
float the balloons
in the winds
of flying illusions.
Look for me
in
the
air.

Don't cry Grandson.
Grandpa is not leaving yet.
Dear little boy, your mother
shared with me that you were
shedding tears on my behalf.
Somehow in that 4 year old mind
you feared I was going from you.
Stay strong, little man. Grandpa
is going to stay around as long
as possible. You and your brother
will have me for some time yet.
And even if Grandpa goes to heaven,
you must know I'll still be with you.
Cherishing every step you take in
your long life ahead. I'll be watching,
never doubt that. How could this
deep love I hold for you boys ever
go away? I know that you are young.
So many things can seem confusing.
Fears that are not understood still
can scare the hell out of you. I know
all about this, for I too was once
your age. Hard for you to believe
that Grandpa was once a boy!
Don't cry for me, darling Grandson.
I'm still kicking around. Though
I may not seem in the best of health,
my heart and mind are strong with
my love for you. Close your eyes,
touch your heart. That is where I am.

The soldier cleaned his gun in anticipation
for the battle he would be fighting. His mind

was focused on his job. His heart was centred
on his illusions. Lonely soldier in a uniform

without a mind of his own. His officers
received their orders from somewhere else,

from men and women who were fighting a
war of greed. Death was nothing more than

a statistic which would be tabulated and
toned down for the media. Not good to let

the world know the actual cost of human
life in the adventure. A tear fell from his

eyes at the thought of how many men he
had killed. He remembered sitting in his kitchen

talking to his wife and making plans for
the future. That was until somebody

somewhere far away had determined
the future was not his to plan. So he worked

at his task in mind of constant wonder at
the waste he was trained to create. His

entire purpose in life was to **** and so he
killed as best he could. The faces of the

enemy reminded him of himself. Other men
who had sat at home with their wives talking

about their futures together. Such a waste of
young ambition by the old men and women who

sat comfortable in the governments of life.
Lonely soldier surrounded by his comrades

all of whom equally trained to hate and ****.
Ah, but the bands would play and the magic

of hero dust would fall upon the shoulders
of the men at arms. How brave they would

be in the battle with their blood splattered
all over their clean uniforms. The soldier knew

he fought for a cause but it was odd that
the cause was never quite explained, save

for speeches on freedom and destruction
and illusions of happiness when the enemy

were all dead. Lonely soldier was startled by
an enemy as he cleaned his gun. The two

men glared at one another wondering who
would die first. Soldier and enemy came to

a major decision. Each stripped off their clothes
and stood naked in front of one another.

Two naked men. Without their uniforms.
Now which of them was the enemy?

You can hear silence, if you listen.
        Stop your breathe and tap
          into the empty.

Oh chalice of hope, too often
        left unfilled, drain
          the resistance.

Lie back, close the thoughts
        and open your eyes.
Believing does not
        require seeing.

Allow sentence after sentence
        to remain unanswered.
Be unrestricted enough
        to not be alarmed.

Fountain of ice, melt away
        and liquefy into sharp
          pencils of vision.

Sighing in peace, letting
        the lace curtains of
          contentment to rise.

Skin to be stroked
        with the developing
        essence of being
        in contemplative mode.

You can hear silence, if you listen.
        Listen now.

The sun shines through the
      empty cross.
Stained glass windows
       making salvation patterns
           for the heart.
Christ shines in ever increasing
        flashes of magnificence.
Hail Mary! Your Son is our God!
   With Holy Trinity in union,
        with souls seeking peace.
The Son of Man, the Son of God
       revealed in ageless liturgy.
Hail Mary! Your Son has ascended.
Rosary glistening in hand,
      as prayers are offered
           in simple voice.
Chanting priest as conduit
        to the transubstantiation .
Hail Mary! The Body of Christ is ours!

Words bolt out but no ears hear,
Bending vowels of drained attention.

She smiles in racing blossom intervals,
the atmospheres of bending bludgeons.

But still I am in love with her, fool me.
He who talks without lips moving.

See the juvenile mouth extrapolating
to judgements faulting into aching.

I wonder, well sometimes I do think,
what fashionable jungle I'm to be?

After all, she finds life too busy
to wonder long about such as me.

Immobile with soundless ambition,
the rocks grow but not in splendour.

So this is how it must convert to action,
that she succeeds where I blunder.

Oh well, so that is how it will coexist,
with words drained and solitary existing.

"Be robust" I murmur to myself, with
heart closed and cognizance brooding.

"Goodbye, my former fellow traveller!".
I am off to request novel occupations.

You your way, and I, unhappily waving.
Exhalations the only sound which cheapens.

What will it be like
when I close my eyes
      for the last time?
Will I see that
    bright light
      I have heard about?
Pain may flicker
in those last moments,
      or maybe
       there will be
      no pain at all?
This I do not know.
From my first breathe
     to my last, oh how
many people and places
have I known and been?
Seems a wandering train
      of adventures
         has left the track.
Oh, how it seems
to have been rushed.
       It is now,
       as it seems,
        the end.
That last stop
    that shall only
     happen the once.
This passenger
    is getting off
     at that location.
Will anyone be
      at the station
        to greet me?
Such is the faith
     I hold, that I
      hope this is so.
Shutting down.
Closing.
Dying.
Final visions
filtering themselves
      from my eyes.
Who will I see
    around the bed
      when
       I
        swallow my
         last gasp?
Should I be afraid?
Or should I
     welcome the
      death rattle
       as a system of
        release?
Free from
the sundry
incompleteness
of walking in this life.
Not having to
      worry about
       the
        imperfection
         of walking
          on this planet.
As life drains
     out of me,
      what will be
       my very last thought?
What final image
       will I take with me
        to the grave?
I pray it will be swift.
Absent from pain
       and present
        in God.

"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.

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.

Toys are scattered about the floor.
Robots and Dinosaurs attack plastic soldiers.
The Grandsons are enacting a ****** battle.
No one is safe! Not even Grandpa!
     I've been killed, apparently,
     by a flying super-robot that
          knows no mercy!

I worry I won't be
playing with them next year.

Darkness all around the world.
Darkness all inside of me.
Whispers behind my back,
murmurs of pity, I think.

I still have much I can offer
        to these boys.
        Or so I'd like to believe.

I'm not ready to stop hugging them.
Telling them, again and again,
how important they are to me.

Little boys live in a special world.
A place of mud and sticks,
        bugs and stones.
        Imagination the
        only rule they follow.

***** hands and faces,
       bodies screaming
          for a bath.

I understand this world.
It used to be the same one
         I lived in before.

Ah dear Grandsons.
        Will you miss me?
Will you think of me
      in the middle of your
            playing?

Will you feel me?

Grandfather lips
        mouthing
           "I love you."

Your hearts so innocent.
Lives so uncomplicated.

Neither of you understands
          the concept of dying.

As it should be.

Stay this way as
long as you are able to.

The real world is a cold place.
A mixture of grieving and denial.
A faithless emptiness that
        consumes the desire
            to achieve.

Toys are scattered about the floor.
Robots and Dinosaurs attack plastic soldiers.

Dear God, how I wish this was
        the only battle I was fighting.

Oh, Bride of Christ, celestial body,
Oh Holy, Mother Church.
You, gift of God, channel us
in our upwards search.

Holder of all truth, keeper
of God's gracious Eucharist.
Immaculate Mary , Mother of God,
Protector of glowing witness.

Beloved Mass, beloved Litanies,
Keeper of the Flame of Faith.
Blessed Church, who guides
Our seeking of love to taste.

Path of salvation gently laid.
God’s most gracious gift to man,
Sacred Body of Christ,
Through you how blest I am

I find my emptiness at the beginning
of panic. The time changes, and as I pause,
between the magic and the real, a sudden
nothingness descends, and somebody
goes away, plans forgotten and mislaid.

It does not matter that the dark falls
too early, skies damp with the the
hopefulness of being confused again.
Even dancing holds no appeal, as
the music is plastic pop with a beat
but without heart. I sense the pouring
little I've become, escaping only when
hour clicks to another number.

Darkened rooms lend whispers.
Can you hear them? Let the sentences drop
and fall into a descending tone, for the
collection of platitudes are heavily
pregnant with hints of beeping bells.

They've gathered here, manifest
with their antiseptic concerns
Mumbling to one another even though
the sentences are necessarily vacant.
What small measure of happiness I
am able to endure is saturated with
routines that are tiresome, heavily laden
with standing still in rolling cyclones.

I kick at the plastic straws that litter
the drinking cups of plans come undone.

People live. People die.
Cycle of life, they say.

Around and around
the circles dangle
like
earrings
on
a
chain.

I am one of those people.
I live. I will die.

And the only release
will
be
that
which
God
provides.

Victims to
our humanity.
Slaves to
our destinies.
We exist
in
a
fragile
shell
of
indifference.

I sometimes wonder
why we strive so hard
for pieces of paper.
Surely we are not here
to accumulate things?

When my father died,
I felt the glimmer of
mortal existence.
The essence of living
a
shadow
world,
a pretend place.

He went peacefully.
I pray I do as well.

He is at rest now.
That is what they say.

Strange words that
somehow offer
no comfort.

The silence of the chair
that now sits empty.
The searching
of
the
heart
as
it
seeks solitude.

We never know the
contents of a sealed box
until we open it.
We never know the
end until we see it.

On the day it becomes
my turn
to
join
my
father,
I hope the
tears inside
will have
all dried away.

I'm buying knick-knacks
to bring to Heaven.
Odds and ends to
comfort me
when I cross over.
Little things to
remind me
of living
on this planet.

I'm packing mementos
to bring to Heaven.
Small things
that will remind me
of everyone
I knew on earth.
Articles of
collectibles
that I can hold
or look at
when
I miss them.

Feet are walking,
albeit slower,
to the door that
leads to release.
The bright light
I've heard about
will be shining
for me.

Maybe I'll be
like a toss of smoke?
Able to watch
the final performance.
Check out
who bought tickets
and
who
declined to attend.
Flicker around
the homes and places
where my loved ones
live their days.

Will I be able
to touch them?
This I do not know.
If so,
I'll stroke
cheeks with fondness,
informing them
of how I valued
them in my
physical form.

I wonder if
I will find
knick-knacks of me
in their
hearts?

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.

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.

You celebrated me
when I was a flower,
but you denied my roots.
When autumn came,
you did not know
what to do about me.
You could only understand
the surface, not the
barnacled fabric in the soil.
Like an empty glass of water,
you drained your feelings
and
let
your
eyes
close.
What  you do not see
is the mud I am.
You want glitter and shine.
You want transparency.
You will not
acknowledge
the
depth
I
can
offer.
You hollered in glee
when I was shallow.
But you were
confused
with
how
to
treat me
when I was depth.

We are all like that.
Truth is bothersome.
It lacks plastic.
We are afraid.
Always afraid.

Pick up the umbrella
and cover the head.
Protect the surface
from the drops of reality.

Oh my love, how I miss your morning smile,
That once so pleasured my tedious long day.
Each word spoken by you a pleasant style,
Of twittering grace and luminous sway.
In all the words we spoke to the other,
None pleased such as words spoken for our love.
Each word so gentle, one after another,
Which caressed me as soft as silken glove.
But these are just shaking old memories,
Of visions so easily pushed aside.
Images that seek warm affinity,
Of other words which denied our divide.

These are my steady pictures of your eyes
Which held me focused on you as my prize.

There's no necessity tor crying,
                    endless tears that
                     drop like mighty rain.
I have already passed the point
                     of existing in harmony
                     with the circle of health.
Better to cross over to the real world.
Leave the wringing of hands
                    to those who need to
                     advertise their melancholy.

Church bells ring, ponderous sounds
                      that champion the living
                       fabric of Holy Mother Church.
The true faith that guides its citizens
                   through the mess of the earth.
I celebrate with prayer.
I welcome the protection
                of God in His ongoing love.

Crying does not   revive the dead,
              or bring solace to the dying.

Endless cups of wishes filled with
                littered drops of gratitude.
Never ending liquids that wet the
                dirt roads of ongoing traffic.

Follow me to my resting place.
Drop a flower on the ground.

If you must, cry.
Do so knowing
            that the tears
                are wasting
                  away and help
                        only the survivors.

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.

The silence of this place, this spot where I
find myself hiding, is all around me. Denial

of the sky becomes my position as I trap
the bubbles of rare soil in my heart. I stop

the doubt by creating a new dwelling where
I shall hide away in my dreams. The silence

keeps me company in the every growing
growl of early surrender. The winds of change

flip around me, for they cannot reach me in
my sorrowful abode. I am counting the minutes

until I can safely reach distance with my
wavering breast of trust. I cry out but the silence

is too fulfilling, nothing shall be heard ever more
from my lips by any other living organism. Trusting

only myself I force my mind to concentrate on what
needs to be growing and the flowing of the wind

does not tamper with my view. I am immersed in
this place. I am trapped by my own decision, which

creates a bond with bared heart. I am drifting through
frosted lawns where the grass has been sown but

as yet is not growing. My flavoured tongue whispers
in the pulsating glare of brightly burring wood which

I had collected to start a fire. The flames entertain
and I wonder how much longer I shall have to stay

here in this hiding place where silence is the master
of all that I am. Gazing past myself I can only imagine

the cloak of fog that will surround me as I barricade
the doors of my vision. I am what I am; I am what

I was. My question is "will I truly ever be what
I must be?" Silence. Hope. Words of revival. These

sounds must be firm. These pockets of helpless clouds
must be lifted. I sigh. The sunlight is blinding me.

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.

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.

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.

I'm a wounded chalice, filled with thoughts
of redemption; of forgiveness within.
Roaming through my failing happiness
like a whisper from a winter's icy wind.

My thoughts have turned to daze long ago,
when I felt as pure and innocent as an infant.
Remembering the desires held like crystal;
delicate glass which shatters in an instant

Tears won't come, I am too deeply ingrained
into the mindset that big boys never cry.
Instead, I close down my emotional valves,
letting my despair come out in a silent sigh.

I would, if I could, embrace a dangling hope
of glowing rainbows filtered through my rain.
Letting the whisking whispers of contentment
filter like diamonds into my emotional plain.

It is not meant to be, that I now see; for instead
the undertaker will measure my containment.
The drooping silence will become my friend,
and I shall enter into a rusted sense of spent.

I have nothing left to offer, no words which may
bring anyone a ******* of beggared desires.
Though my body like a knife, pleads for release,
I shall instead build myself a black funeral pyre.

The pain is so sublime
    it is like a piece of fabric torn.
Morphine is the prescription
    that is promised as relief.
I have a better healer,
a celestial figure of appeal.

Hail Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven,
      I submit myself to you.
      The pain increases,
      the pain increases.
      It keeps me awake at night.
I appeal to you, most Holy,
      please comfort me.
Mother of God,
      may my thoughts
        dwell always on you.
Sweet ******,
may my words reflect my truth
I'm lonely and alone on this
       frustrating destination.
Crawling reluctantly,
       towards the conclusion.
Afraid and disheartened.
       Alone but for You.

You lead me to your Son.
You bring me to Him.

Mumbled thinking of
      fragmented living drowns
       out living as a real person.
Collecting stones of agony
      that batters the walls of
        resistance. It destroys
        what it can not heal.

Thank you God.
Thank you for hope.

That is all I cling to.
Mary, precious Mary,
cloak me in your mantle
of promised protection.

Hail Mary,
      Hail Mary,
        Hail Mary.

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.

You are the hole that is filled
with the optimism of forgiveness.
I am the shovel that fills the hole
with my rushing trials of pessimism.

One day soon, I will not wake up.
At least, not in the mortal world.

You speak of upcoming glories,
that you intend to always pursue.
I drown your flames with the
exuberance of a determined mind.

On the day I die, carry on with
your blue skied version of life.

Renew the world with your
immortal songs of happiness.

You touch the hearts of people
with your eyes of sparkling hope.
I cover those eyes with tragedy
that permeates my dim perception.

Graves are empty holes, where the
body decays but the soul is gone.

Do not change your views, keep them.
Allow me also to keep true to mine.

Perspective is individual, you know.
Holes are as deep as they need to be.

My heart weeps in harmony with your sighs.
Eyes wandering over the rain of disillusionment.
That is what we are left with, these cold tears.

Cold tears that freeze into poignant memories.
Years have flown by, some fast, some slow.
A long time of collecting sleeping lazy dreams.

Lazy dreams that filter through me as I sleep.
Crazy thoughts that go nowhere, do nothing.
Yesterday is lost, it is never to embrace us again.

Embrace us again, that sometimes arises within.
I slip into those types of thoughts, pleasing me.
But these are temporary visions, impossible now.

Impossible now, that is the reality we now are.
Tenderly we see one another, such a passion.
Your heart beats and it reaches out to my heart.

My heart weeps in harmony with your sighs.
Eyes wandering over the rain of disillusionment.
That is what we are left with, these cold tears.