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

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

What am I doing?

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

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

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

I do stand, but only roughly.

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

I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.
I sink my feet into the sand
where the water draws
that which it erases.
I hold myself in common
prayer moments.
Sending my words to
Jesus, who promised
always to listen.
I hear His reply
in the thousand points
of light that shiver
through my prayers.
I trust in what He promises,
though I fail to
capture His wisdom.
I watch the pictures in
my fingers moving with
the passion of living.
I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.

(Inspired by St. Matthew 6:33)

Seek first the Kingdom of God,
and His righteousness, and all
good things shall come to you.
Too much time fretting over
the affairs of the world can
take away our peace inside.
Drifting foolishly in the stream
of the material world leads
us only set on folly to folly.
It's a constant struggle to
find the peace within when
we look for it without God.

Every leaf on every tree
grows to glorify Christ.
Through His blessed love
all the earth revolves in
a perfect circle of harmony.
Focus on the happy things
that calms the bitterly bad.
Blessings stem from what
we surrender to the Lord.

His ways can be our ways
if we abandon our pride.
Nothing else means a thing
when we lose sight of God.
He promises perfect union
with the promise of life.
With opened eyes we see
the illusions fall away.
Praise be always to the
happy lives to be ours.
Seek first the Kingdom of God,
and His righteousness, and all
good things shall come to you.

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

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

I wish I was him again.
Start all over.

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

Shaded maple hallways, leaves abundantly growing.
Majestic storming waterways, holy as Holy Water.

These are part of us. These help define.
Glass and steel accomplishments jumble like

edifices of hope in cities of gloating pride.
We are these cities. We are these shapes.

History written and history being written
of yesterdays, now and tomorrow.

Cold of Winter and hot of Summer,
placid Fall and anticipating Spring.

So many Illusions, so many soft dreams!
These too are wrapped in our myth.

Canada, our Canada, once again
celebrates the escaping vowels

of national delight. We are humble
and yet we are arrogant in pride.

We are one people united under one Crown,
one stumbling picture, one dabbling future.

Merchants and priests. Politicians and
ordinary workers. Poets and dreamers,

these are also our definitions. We surprise
and we are surprised. We surrender to

our tossing hearts, we gesture with hope
to images of our future. Oh dear land

of contrasts and similarities, we live for and
in you. Shaded maple hallways, leaves

abundantly growing. Majestic storming
waterways, holy as Holy Water.

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

So he does.

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

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

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

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

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

They exist.
They survive for other shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Significant gestures that should
      bring comfort to those gathered.

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

Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.
Never let a
moment go by
when lips
may pray.
Over and over
the same
hoping clings
to the heart.
Is it even
worth the effort
to carry on
with the words?
I think these
shall be my
final statements.
My ending, my
time to stop
the fingers from
typing. There
is only one
joining left
to explore;
that of me
in new places,
absent from
the world.
Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my soul. I do not know what to do.
My heart, it is held hostage in this game,
Of hoping,  waiting for shadows that grew.
Of excitement for feelings I can name.
I am a searcher seeking to posses.
One soul that I can mould into my own.
One heart that I can keep without a guess,
Of what she sees when she is not alone.
In soft mercy I hope for what is mine,
Shall grow and develop into our love.
For this is the seeking which fills my time;
This is the mystery that I speak of.

Oh my soul. How gently I see you  peek
at the wonderful passion I do seek.

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

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

Naked internally.
Doing a soul walk.
Finding trash.
Should have thrown most of it out.
Each day a new perspective.
Pain of yesterday carried on.
Burnt out bulbs in the lamp
suggest ambitions not followed.
Strange shadows that
shift around the corners of
my vision as I look out into
the uncertain dream of a future.
Decisions that I made
may not have been in my
best direction.
Storm of rising frustration.
It defines my state of art.
Places I will need to
confront in order to surpass
the failure of mental reservation.
People I will need to
reconcile with in order
to move ahead in new direction.
I hate to cry.
Something a man is taught to never do.
I turn my face inwards.
Pretending raindrops are
on my face.

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

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

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

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

Still the morning light

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

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

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

Thinking to myself,
in the dudgeon of my
      honest introspection,
that sunset comes regardless
      of contemplation.

Sunset does not matter.
      Sunset won't appear,
      no matter how far off
        it seems to be.

Each day blurs into
      a sameness that
        is so predictable.
I brush my hair
      with determination,
        ignoring the grey
          that is there.

Age is a state of mind,
      the foolish say.
Perhaps so?
However, the body
      may disagree.

Each day a blurring
      of nodding heads in
        kaleidoscope resentments.

Sunset hints at its' coming.
      Shadows filtered
        by bludgeoned space.

I am alone.

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

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

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

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

Coming to terms with
the finality of existence.

Terminal. Dying.

Dying. Terminal.

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

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

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

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

Terminal. What an odd
sound that is to make.

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

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

Start fresh. Make different choices.

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

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

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

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

Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the only release
will
be
that
which
God
provides.

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

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

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

He went peacefully.
I pray I do as well.

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

Strange words that
somehow offer
no comfort.

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

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

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

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

I'm thinking too much.
      Worrying too much.

What will be will be.

This is true of me, and every one.

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

Dying.

Coffin and grave.

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus, I trust in You.

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

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

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

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

The midnight smiles.
I write words.

Pockets of emptiness,
sealed symbols.

Absence does not make
the heart grow fonder.

It lends distance,
and forgetting.

Love, so much
over-used.

Love is, in truth,
really love for self.

A moment, this
is what I have.

A small space of
time that I claim.

It is mine, to waste
or to cherish.

A noise outside.
Not sure what it is.

Something abusive,
something harsh.

The midnight smiles.
I write words.

Brown eyes - waterfalls.
    Drips and drops of H2O.
Sad life - rain clouds.
    My oh my - the night is lonely.

Raindrops - glistening in the
      glow of the moon.
One man - walking,
      working out his
        contradictions.
Lone man - brown eyes.
     seeing into his
       own reality.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

Sleeping - he walks in
      night dreams.
Creating images of himself
     to present to the world.
Distance - endless wandering.
     What circles lie ahead
       for him to draw?
He walks in silence,
     remembering the sunshine
       that once filled the day.
Brown eyes - intently thinking,
     directing the energy
       he wants to have.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

The sea today is rough.
It shakes his ship like
the rumbling of lava
filtering fiercely
from a volcanoe.
The sailor thinks
he is not in fear.
He knows this is
only a covering he
employs
to help his ship to sail.

There are other ships
on his ocean. Other
sailors on the same
shattered journey.
Together, they form a
small fleet of larvae
hoping to burst from
the sea in a glorious
splash of redemption.

Ah, redemption. Strength.
That is the treasure the
sailor seeks on the
bloated waves of the
foaming waters.

His eyes look ahead.
His eyes looks behind.
His eyes look inside and out.
Searching as a single cell
the truth he needs to find.
The other travellers may
not be of any help to him.
They may be travelling on the
same sea, but they are
looking for their own
hoped for miracles.

Oh restless sea, let him be.
Free him from your
rocking and swaying.
Let his ship land. Land
back to the steady shores
of hope and positive living.

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

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

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

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

I will not be
the man I used
to be.

I will not be
strength
or
hope.

These I shall not
be able to offer.

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

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

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

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

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

And so, again,
       the morning
        erupts
         upon a lingering realism.

Blankets wrapped securely
around my thinning body.
Here in this bedroom, this sanctuary.
This refuge from cold winds
that soothe me as I hide.

Yes, the window
       is slightly open
        to let in
         a bit of fresh air.

At last
these considerations
of what must be
in the days ahead
focuses me on the
certainty of my essence.

Even so, I am
comforted by the
open window and
the bedroom that
removes me
from self-absorption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will you feel me?

Grandfather lips
        mouthing
           "I love you."

Your hearts so innocent.
Lives so uncomplicated.

Neither of you understands
          the concept of dying.

As it should be.

Stay this way as
long as you are able to.

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

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

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

Transparent seconds tick away,
mumbling their progression.
Filtered cigarettes and coffee,
both staining fingertips.
Enough time has passed,
yet still sober thought
circulates in such a way
that I do not feel the blades
of the fan in the room.
A facade has been erected.
A sort of wall, a kind of defence.
Pretending that limitless
possibilities are open for me.
Privacy I once cherished
is a memory no longer
active in the daily reactionary
tones of being in this prison.
In and out, and out and in,
the professional experts
affirm and stipulate the
terms of my existence.
Prodding, touching, measuring.
Advising, compelling, warning.
Their repetitious bleating
draining the spirit.
I glance with longing
at the passageway of doors,
knowing that all but one
is locked and firmly sealed.
Hope. Yes, have hope.
Be the glass half full,
but acknowledge that
is is also half empty.
Somewhere in between
the two points of view
lies my truth.

Isolation, those retreating seconds
      before vacancy settles in.
Sedentary drifting, perception
      in a thousand and one spaces.
I live here. That is something
      to celebrate, I suppose.
For a man must be somewhere
      and this is the situation
        which I am occupying.
An electric fan is rotating
      itself around the room of
      hollowness that sharply defines
      the brick walls of motivation.
Aspects of silhouettes tantalize
the intellect with opened drawers
      stuffed with the debris of
        other generations.
I'm confidant in
      almost nothing
       and so I
       grit my teeth
      in lines of
      indifference.
Seek only truth.
That's the line of thinking
I've been taught to employ.
      But which truth?
Which particular obscurity
is to be the one followed?
      Best to not decide.
      Best to stay undetermined.
      Let the precipitation drip
      down into the barrel.

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

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

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

I'm thinking.
You're thinking.

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

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

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

Under nocturnal sky
an open fire
exonerates
tomorrow.
Here I sit
in supple ceremony,
advertising whims
and opinions.
Followers prostrate
in forms of
something different.
May we all be
as calm
as furious oceans.
Marine life drenched
with the bother
of persisting.
        There is a shadow here.
        I sense it.
        When sunshine
        thaws in
        multifaceted
        eclipses.
We are there too.
Suggestions of ourselves
resist the reticence
common to the dragging.
      There is a message here.
         I am it.
        Typed words on
        an old sheet of
        cardboard paper.
Why do placid days
always
erupt in ambient persuasions?
Shriek as if the
         planet was a
        waste of rhythm.

Life has nothing to show more fair;
Than soul who creates fantasy inside.
Oh tortured heart how it does cringe
At words flung easily at mind so bare.

This mouth now will say nothing more,
Of rumpled sheets left soiled and torn.
Of slipping hope so quickly dashed;
Gripping pain left tossed upon a floor.

Glitter diamonds are the lights seen,
The hopeless path of worshipped sun.
Oh merciful knife come slice the heart,
Let blood flow where love has been.

Dear Lord, do you know this pain?
Have you seen black as I have seen?
Wasted words upon an uncaring eye,
Who only wishes the end to remain.

The river of life ebbs slowly past;
The ever dropping sound of pain.
Oh sweet glistening ending thoughts,
That open avenues that never last.

I cry out in frustrated angered words,
But little sense is made of dusted heart,
Whose images cascade into despair.
Oh silent cries that are never heard.

Release me from the vibrant rolling hills,
Let nothing steep stop us from falling.
Sleeping passion that has gone unknown,
In hearts defeated, yet hurting still.

He steps outside his house: does
not scream his defiance: therefore
not the portrait his long legs suggest.
Speaking mumbles to lawn ornaments
who see him only with painted eyes.
Ears forever closed: he does not
understand the silence. He prowls
in steps of measured distance:
waiting for the rain to tumble.

When it comes, it comes in trembles
of resistance. He understands he
must never get wet: must continue
to dry his towel under the dew of
morning. He paces the sidewalks
opening his ears to the fruit of
flapping leaves. In minutes he will
glow with the safety of ceasing to
exist: time transforming his created
distances. There are always static
murmurs which tingle his shallow skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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