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

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

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

She pleases herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd leave his wife and family.

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

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

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

How could she do that?

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

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

The blinds are closed.
Still a bit of daylight
        filters through.
My hands, my "me",
        invades the space.
The bed flutters in the
      softness of the room.

Tracing my limp body with
                my matted hand.

I feel death.
Sense it.
Wait for it.

My body will be so cold
when it ceases existing
.
It frightens me.
Saddens me.
Empty cadaver emptied
          of my essence.
Without a sound,
  my soul will depart.

I pray.
Beg.
Implore.

"Dear God, let it not be so."

But it must be as God decides.

Novenas and rosaries fervently said.
Muffled words that fall
                        like mud in the air.

When they come and prepare me
                                   for my funeral,
                                    I will not cry.
No. No tears.

Instead, embrace peacefulness.
Close the casket lid,
                 I'll be gone.

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

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

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

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

I'm thinking.
You're thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing of this world
is worth stressing about.

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

Someday we'll be just like a garden,
growing together in our souls.
Sharing the flowering dreams,
blending the new with the old.
Tasting the bitter-sweet flowers,
which grab, but have no hold.

Sunday's peace will stay the same
throughout the multi-varied week.
Living to feel and love together.
Accepting that strong may be weak.
Finding that the newborn flowers
join our hearts as we begin to meet.

Someday we'll have peace
when all borders are erased.
Remembering that love is forever
Flowing in from almost every place
Someday we'll be as a garden
growing together as we race.

Yesterday's pain all forgotten.
Tomorrow's peace growing free.
Someday we'll flow as a river
meeting together at the sea.
Growing into the garden
where tomorrow's world will be.

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!

Would the moon cease to exist if you go?
Would my heart stop beating in sheltered joy?
Will you decide to not let your love show,
Or perhaps humble self in terms of coy.
Would you not leave body pale and cold?
Would not the green grass fade to memory,
That feeds the fiendish, daring demon fold?
Become seconds in time embracing me.
Your smile still frolics in my trembling heart,
Where magic ends, and where magic begins.
Your touch still memorized in my one start,
That carries on with past glories and sins.

So often I find intentions confused,
Your embraces can never again diffuse.

Each day, Father,
I am coming to You.
Though fear and doubt
fill far too much of me,
I have faith in You.
Seasons change.
Temperatures altered.
Day after day, Jesus,
I seek Your presence.
My heart does not
comprehend this
lingering illness
I've been presented.
I sit in silent surrender
to this raging inside hell.
Seeing people I love,
and wondering,
how much longer
shall I be amongst them?
I feel again
my daughters
when they were born.
Holding them in my arms.
Watching them grow
into young women.
Hugging my Grandsons
and wondering
if they will remember me?
Still, there is God.
He promises relief.
Not just from my sickness,
but also
to comfort those
who might grieve.
I do not know the
day or the time
of my demise.
I only know that
it is rushing upon me.
God, make me strong
when that is needed.
Stay nearby.
I know I will need You.
Blessed Mary,
guide me to your Son.
Fill me with resolve
to do what I must do.
Faces shift and shine
all around my vision.
I reach out,
letting my love
go out to them.
It is not goodbye.
Rather, it is
see you later.
Father, Your will
be done to me.
I am coming home soon.
Sacred Jesus,
walk with me.

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.

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 .

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

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

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

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

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

End. Stop. No more.

Play the drum roll!
Enlist the naive
young men who played
             hockey and lacrosse
                       in high school.
Who got laid at
                their proms.
Drank with their buddies.
Planned their futures.
Dreamed their dreams.
Tell them they have to
                 defend freedom.
Play them songs of
             heroism and pride.
Show them pretty
pictures of foreign women.
Insist they should be
proud of such a “career”.
'The few and the brave! '
'The mighty and proud! '
Dress them in the
       same green uniform.
Shout at them.
        Destroy their
                 will to think.
Give them guns and
            banners to carry.
Make up an enemy,
        teach them to hate.
Send them far away
to a country they've
            read about in
                    magazines.
March them.
Parade them.
Deploy them.
Set them against
other young men
who were dreamed
into the same nightmare.
Let the two sides
             come into battle.
The ultimate hero
contest for young men!
Brittle bombs.
Knives, destruction.
A good cause!

When you are finished
             using their youth,
send some of them home
        shattered and afraid.
Keep some for tomorrow's
               new headline war.
For the dead, send home
         a flag to their mothers.
Don't forget to tell
           the grieving families
                   that their sons
                                   died
                             for freedom!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy dreamt of his father,

Between boys and men such
impossible expectations,
joyful boys with rumpled
hair crying for attention
Heart bursting to be
            the little man.

'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'

Men slipping away their emotional
core, resisting temptation to display
the love they have for their boys.
Holding fast to important things,
to work and career, making money
and cutting the grass. Taking care
                       of things, like a man.

'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'


Such distance between boys and men,
flowers grow faster than emotions.
Expectations and demands, alliances
and situations to be addressed.
Locker room jokes, tenderly
pretending feelings are for
'sissies'. Rugged role playing,
modelling behaviour of the
       tipped arrow of society.

'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'

Things have changed, they will tell you.
Men can feel now. But we men, we
know the truth. The stereotype is
      still pervasive and controlling.

A man must be strong.
A man must be brave.
A man must not love unless
                    he is getting laid.

'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'

'Daddy, were you ever scared and alone like me? '

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt the rumbling
    of the fire as it
      burned,
       mutilated,
        my skin.
The fresh laid logs
    glowed in their
      own sort of
       maniacal tension.
My heated flesh
      denied the
       existence
        of the pain.
I drive myself
      to pursue
       new directions.
So let the comb
    arrange the hair
      and
       let the face be
        nice and clean.
I entered a place
      of restless tomorrows.
Eyes dashing
      left and right
      to see if the
       cups of promise
       follow along.
Throw a nickle
into the wishing well.
    Make a wish.
     Meditating in
      determined manner,
       hot or cold does
        not matter anymore.
I can only be the type
      of person
      I want to be.
What works
      for others
      does not always
       comfort me.
Too many followers
       and not enough
        individuals.
The mystery to me
        is why this
      doesn't bother anyone.
I place my hands
      out in front of me,
        and let my fingers
       feel the growing grass
         as it comes through
         the ground.
A crowd of one
       with temporary
        isolation.
A place of peace
      where none
        exists.
I rub away the
     helpless hurting.
       Gaining warmth
       from the returning flame.

She tells me about the sun, this late night moon.
Informs me of the infinite number of days to be.
We converse together, this shining white orb and I,
as the stars watch in amused, dangling patterns.
I pray at night, I pray in the day. I always pray.
Does it help? Yes I think it does. It connects me
to the magnificent creator of the sun and moon.

So I stay in conversation with my global friend.
We speak not only of the sun, but of life itself.
Sharing observations on how it all plays out.
This moon, in its wisdom, tells me of infinity.
Of taking a step, even a walk, into ones' destiny.
I wonder at this. I consider it most carefully.
Realizing that I too am making this odd journey.

The moon will depart soon, its turn almost over.
Not to fear! The sun will replace her luminosity.
In fact, were speaking of truth, it shines brighter.
What words shall we share? This sun to come.
I suspect I shall not know until the new daylight.
Not to worry. Not to fret. Everything in the world
happens for a good reason. I do fully believe this.

We shall all be one with the sun and the moon,
when God calls us to our eternal resting places.
I'll join those that have gone before me, and in
freedom be relieved of this human endeavour.
It's hard to live when you're dying. Harder to
live when you're trying to pretend that the
stars up above even know you have existed.

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.

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.

I.V. tubes and blood,
medicines and moaning.
The dying are all here, together.
A special enduring reunion
of the Cancer Centre gang.

When the priest visits,
we talk about God.
Acceptance, understanding.
These are our topics
of conversation.

What is there to understand?
A question I keep inside...
Father speaks to me in tones
of empathy and support.
He's a nice man. Good man.

Down the hall is crying,
loud and desperately lost.
People walk by my door,
visitors and staff, going
about their business.
We all, on this floor,
are filled with stories.
Lives we've lived and
lives we are leaving.

Outside my window,
I see the tops of trees.
Closing my eyes,
I imagine I am
sitting under them

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sat on a chair of lies
                   and let the
frolicking around me
           impress me not.
In circles of doubting eyes
          I could only offer
             my second best.
There is no compromising
          the heartless writing
                    that proclaims
           intentional unbelief.
What one believes
          does matter, despite
                       loud yelling
      proclaiming otherwise.
Abstract visions promise much,
                        but sometimes
                     truth is what must be
                                        obtained.

We need one another.
We need one another.

once a daydream collected
on my soul and I kissed
its breath so much it blew
gently away
it had pleasure from
my attention and called
on other daydreams
to join in the web of
salted yawning I
promised to provide

once a winter storm
crashed into my roof
and I applauded it so strongly
it continued to devastate
the house
engulfing every shadow
that crept quietly
behind the walls

once a voice trampled
on my daydreams
I asked it to go away
and not be around me
anymore

why are you still here
with me
can't you see that I am lonely?

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sense your concerns.
I know of your worries.

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

These will guide you.
Give you strength.

In a thousand million years
nothing will ever change.

Daddy loves you. Always shall.

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still the morning light

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

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

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

Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living now, I live forever.

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.

I don't need to taste the salt
to know it is bitter. Restless
rings on emaciated fingers,
                  jungle foliage in
          increasing shapes of
                                   doing.

What am I doing?

Thousands of words
            are written on every
single day. Millions
           of sentences spoken
in a million different
            ways. Still nothing
sticks like glue to
              the fabrication of
                         supposing.

I am one dot on a
       blank piece of paper,
one mark in a
                jangled box of
                   wasted sand.

Underneath my feet
       lies the grovelling ground.
Above my head the
             lives the growling sky.
Between the two, that
                is where I surround
myself with the gauze
    of mischief and malignancy.

I do stand, but only roughly.

Swaying branches open like
                falling stars and so I
keep the green light
      blinking. One day, maybe
even tomorrow, I can taste
             the salt and comment
on how sweet it has become.

My friend, I do not know which way to look
For love, which seems to have faded away.
Imagine my life as a dusted shut book
That will not open; nor does it shine light
To travelled places where I have been blessed.
My friend, the distance from in my heart is
Equal in distance from where I rested.
In strange words I have spoken of lost love.
And yet there not found worthy substitute
For hearts opened by my smiles. Alas, I'm
Emptied of charms that blow as flute upon
Air which is green with envy for my look.

My friend, it is useless to fix the past
Which begins in error, and never lasts.

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.

I walked naked into a cloud
That floated playfully upon the hill.
I was alone, there was not a crowd,
Upon the place of emptiness unfulfilled.
In silence I placed my wandering feet
Firmly upon the ground of defeat.

The waves of voices were far away,
For I could not hear them in this place.
I was content to be isolated in this way,
Perfectly alone without one angry face.
In solitude I opened my thoughts
To memories of pain that was brought.

I see now with mind so absolutely clear
The pattern of twilight that played so free;
The lost passion for life once held so dear.
I shivered with open eyes in winter breeze,
On this hill where the cloud surrounded me.
For this place was now where I would be.

I let the air perfectly entrap my mind,
My naked heart open in the pain it caught.
I will flee the hurt that has been defined,
And rush uncertainly into prisms of thought.
I walked naked into a cloud
Where whatever I wanted was allowed.

Touch me with your heart, my love,
as we once did so very long ago.
Let the tip-tap of nostalgia dangle
perceptions of what once were.

I desisted from being content
when you mentioned it was over.
The day I moved my treasures out
was a day linked in melancholy.

Oh my lover, oh my forgiven wife,
trip your way back over here.
Remember the slurping grasping
that so occupied our time.

Touch me with your heart, my love,
come back from the new that you are.
Let me stroke your inner vision
to see me again as your special one.

Spaces have been erected around the box.
                    Inside stands the shadow man.
                  Crucifix dangling from his neck.
Rosary beads furiously being
                                      pumped in his hand.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

So he does.

He prays for the world.
      He prays for the universe.
            Mostly he prays for himself.

There is a world of difference
           between living and pretending;
           between being and existing.
Shadow man is unsure of which
               position he stands within.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

A bullet is faster than strangulation.
Choking kills the body but not the mind.
Around and around the dozen or so devils
                                          are circling the box.
"Come out and play" they whisper
                                           to the shadow man.

But he ignores the evil outside for
       it has already become his inside.
It has become a normal pattern
                                  of his situation.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

He will never leave his box.
The luminous walls are
                   his zone of safety.
Where are the answers?
Where are the solutions?

They exist.
They survive for other shadows.

Not for shadow man himself.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

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

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

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

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

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

I whisper in harmony
with the voices.

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

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

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

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

I'm thinking too much.
      Worrying too much.

What will be will be.

This is true of me, and every one.

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

Dying.

Coffin and grave.

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus, I trust in You.

Eyes open and close.
Lean back, let what happens happen.

Words are sometimes like abortions.
Forced out before their time.

Screaming lips, hasty tongues.

Body tired. Uncomfortable.
Does it still belong to me?

Do secret vowels leak out
from weary lips? Am I touching

the right sort of optimism?

I want to drink the wine
of redemptive healing.

Letting it slip and slide
over the internal sickness.

When healed, when this is done,
I'll shout words of praise.
I'll proclaim eternal thankfulness
to God, who alone heals.