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

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

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

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

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

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

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

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

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

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

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

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

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

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

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A poem based on Genesis 3:19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See the juvenile mouth extrapolating
to judgements faulting into aching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stillness of
    sunlight
     grasping to be free
      of the clouds.
Puddles on the ground,
    hinting at the
rain that fell in the night.
These are
the abstractions
that stroke the
fondling of my thoughts.
I am firmly entrenched
      in my solitude,
      yet there are still
       a thousand voices
        in my head.
They try and
speak to me,
but with triumph,
they are ignored.
Silent inside,
where the knives
    of shunning
       do not matter.
Stopping to
     centre myself
      on the stones
       and rocks
        that surround
         the heart.
Softly release them.
Anticipate nothing,
which lets serenity begin.
This moment, this
      tiny blot of time,
I have decided
      to give up suffering.
Allowing only
the sunlight
to condition myself.
There, in that
    frosted glass of
     being nothing,
      is where I feel
       only peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you God.
Thank you for hope.

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

Hail Mary,
      Hail Mary,
        Hail Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Renew the world with your
immortal songs of happiness.

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

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

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

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

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

We dreamed.
You and I.
Together.

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

I was dreaming.
Just me.
Alone.

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

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

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

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.

If
only every
lip would clap
in tones of intensity,
what
sort of
world of hatred
would we have created?
Dozens
of trembling
lips would speak
of what was coming.
And
what is
the arrival we
seek with eager fingers?
What
gold leafed
book of stories
do we feel growing?
It
must be
the open door
that calls for resistance.
Clearly
one thing
leads to another,
so it always is.
Think
of all
the dropping glass
that opens and closes.
Dozens
of stomping
feet in tune
intone the new song.
We
were singing
in heckled harmony
the eternal jungle tune.
I
tried to
find an answer
to a period unhindered.
I
wanted to
grow fresh arms,
flapping in dry heaves.
Stick
the needle
in the arm
and grow no more.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the night, the same light-bulb burns in the room,
shimmering like a falling star. In spite of that your

humour opens new avenues of torn eyelids trying
to capture the second by second charms of the circus.

I stand like a symbol between open and closed, muscles
hurting from sitting too long. Needing to evaporate the

marching army of belittled statements sharing the
same burnt popcorn from the same plastic bag.

War was declared, not too long ago. You declared it
and than left me to cover the flag with my disappointment.

My hands wielding so much power to maim whatever I will.
Do you still believe in blasphemous words? Do you still

tremble when a man rumbles against your body? Cupboard
doors are closed, but that is just as one would expect. Inside

them are the cans of pretense lined up like coins in a pocket.
I expect nothing anymore. You give out candy to the children,

grabbing it back before they can eat it. This is the slipping of
my faith. The stumbling of my feet when I try and walk through

the contradictions you have paraded. We might never talk
in any manner again. That would be like sliding into the

car and starting the engine. Waiting for the roar of rushing
air that would escape from the tires. It's hurting. Must be

the light-bulb burning out. Replacing it would cost too many
situations. I'd rather not tell you anything. I'd rather let the

ongoing noise of the battle rage on. Cover myself with a
blanket and pretend to sleep, taking a drag of my cigarette.

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.

Just let go.
You always have a choice.
Go left, go right.
It's up to you.
Worry not about
insignificant vowels
that dangle
like earrings
around you.
Take them off.
Put them away
in your secret cabinet
where every
unpleasant thing
should be put.
Just be.
Enjoy the moment.
Pick up the foul
pieces of garbage
and throw
them out.
Let them go away,
be gone from you.
Look no further
for miracles and
revelations.
These are already
within you.
One must just
breathe softly
to discover them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.
.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Jesus, I trust in You.

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

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

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

Lead me back to this.

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

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

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

My Jesus, I trust in You.

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.

O God,
look into my heart,
uncover my desires, and read my secrets.
Hear what I cannot put into words.
Purify me through your spirit
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.
O God,
I've been wrong and I've been right.
I've been the centre of it all
and I have been totally ignored.
Let me never ignore You,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
seeking me always as I try
and avoid You. You know my
intentions even before they are intended.
Help me to be pure,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
how many words have been sent
towards You? Empty words and silly
words. Desires and petitions for a
better life. Drifting and collecting
agreements and disagreements.
Open my thoughts,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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!

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.