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.

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

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

I will move on as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every diamond
is fashioned from
lumps of coal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aeroplanes are
emergency reunions
of jocular strangers
emptied of reality.

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

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

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

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

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

(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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sat inside her ice-cream life
and guessed the number of
bingo markers it might take
to win the jackpot.
Sometimes she questioned why
so many people drove her
crazy. Insulted her.
She divided her friends and lovers
into good and bad directions.

It was raining outside when
she began to cook the supper.
The stove was hot she was cold.
She was always cold in her house,
in her ice vein kitchen with
the pretty white lace curtains
and the yellow-green walls.

Her problems could all be
isolated into one situation after
another. She light a cigarette.
Sitting at her table wondering
if she should cook rice or potatoes
with the meat. It didn't matter.
They'd wolf down the food
without a glance at her effort.

She found she was happier
when the kids were at school and
that man was at work doing whatever.
Impatience wasn't so much her statement
as was unconcern. So what,
she thought, as she dusted her ashes
into the ashtray.

Her memories could stretch so
far back, before this life even.
Yet she knew that what she knew
wasn't really very much at all.
Maybe he really loved her? Who knew?
For her it was only a situation.
She wondered if they'd remember
to take their shoes off at the door.
Her feelings could easily be hurt,
but on the other hand she often
neglected to express herself.
At half past five she'd put supper
on the table. They would sit around it.
Her family sharing the same table
and the same bathroom. Distance.
They were mutually ignorant of
each other.

She put out her cigarette, light another.
She wasn't afraid of cancer, just living.
Working man would be home soon,
right after the kids demanded home.
Sighing she stood up and pushed
the cat away with her foot, irritated.
Checked her purse. Bingo markers
neatly labelled. Another Friday night

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.

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

Now he can rest in peace.

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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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'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.

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

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

I just want answers.
I just want answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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? '

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.

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

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

It is the dragging of chains
across
the
ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

Cares and sorrows
    may last for the
     rest of my life.
I will not lose faith.
    I will not succumb
     to be one of the sheep
      following a path
       away from God.

Like a child,
     I will submit.
Prepare myself
     to be with Him.

When they close
    the lid of my coffin,
     it will not define me.
It will not matter.
    I will not be in
     the carcass they
      will mourn over.

Fear not that some
    will weep for me.
Or that others
     will proclaim
      I am with death.
I shall be with Christ.
    Jesus summons me,
     so to Him I shall go.

As the clouds gather
     in the skies above me.
As the shadows fall
     on this momentary
      place of suffering.
As the sun and moon
     travel in their
      day and night rituals,
       Christ will be with me.

I fix my eyes not
    on what I can see,
     for that is temporary.
I shall embrace
    what is unseen,
     for that is eternal.

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

I am reconciled
    with the fate
     pronounced upon me.
      I am ready
       for what is to be.

He is stronger
     than the cancer cells,
He is triumphant
     over my illness.

It is what it is.
It will be as it will be.

Christ in my prayers,
      Christ with me.

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

Trying is not doing.

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

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

Turning, Tossing.
Eyes closed. Brain open.

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

Hiding. Bodies, masked
in faces of temporary smiles.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Imprisoned.
Captured.
Nowhere to hide.

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

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

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

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

I wait there.
I cringe.

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

Wounded chaos dripping in exclusionary
streets of pretense and disillusionment.

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

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

I sleep.
I awake.

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

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

I miss you already.

You know, I''m not sure how I should feel.
Part of me is dragged in sadness at your death,
the other part of me is glad you are not suffering.
These past few years have not been good for you.
What I admired, though, was your resilience.
A strong man with values of another time.
You believed in hope, in a destiny of optimism,
in knowing that, with time, everything heals.
Even though you succumbed to peaceful death,
I know that you are still alive in Heaven's glory.
I wonder if you knew how much I loved you?
Fathers and sons do not tend to mention this.
That stupid man code of not showing emotion.

When I was a little boy, you were a role model.
Though we did not share the same interests,
we did manage to find things to do together.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table,
working together to assemble model cars.
Or when we went for rides to get soft ice cream.
You always told me "don't tell your Mother!"
and I gloried in this tasty secret that was ours.

I cannot even list all the ways you helped me.
As I grew from boy to man, married, children,
you were still my rock which I depended upon.
I'm going to miss chatting with you, talking
about this and that, sharing our time together.
I liked hearing your stories of your early life.
How you met Mom, how you pursued her.
I look at old pictures of you in the 1950's
The Elvis Presley haircut, the sideburns and all.
Those must have been great times for you.

So we have come to the end, how very sad.
I saw you in your coffin, and yes, I wept.
Thinking how much I was going to miss you.
I realize you are with Mom now, a happy place.
You have missed her very much since she died.
Daddy, Dad, I love you. I will always do so.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

Does he still see the flavours
of the waves that bounce
against the sands?
The grains dissipate
from the stroking
of the water.
His face is turned inward,
his thoughts circling
around nothing defined.
Shifting from questions
to faulty solutions,
the sounds of
impatience dropping
like
iron
bars
on
the
floor.
It does not help
that the lake
is littered with
the residue
of humanity.
In wonder, his
hands drop
to his side.
They become
extensions of the
failed dinner plans
and wasted intentions.
Mocking seagulls
fly shamelessly
over his head.
He considers
the direction
of
his
useless
meandering.
Time to leave.
Let the sand
handle
its'
own demise.

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.

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.

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'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.

The dreams
        still happen,
         as they will,.

through mists
that flicker in my eyes.

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

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

Even so.
        My thinning body
         cares only for itself.

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

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

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.

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.

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.