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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Troublesome love . . .

will not let you sleep . . .

Sort of like a basketball game . . .

Questions are bounced mad and furiously
against the hard wood floor with only
more questions bouncing back .

Meanwhile someone is trying to steal
your dreams causing you to twist and turn distorting your image .

And you fight your way down
the court of life and toss your hopes and
dreams into the air and pray to God . . .
go in.

My world is not of the written word
It cannot be numbered
held captive on a so called page

My world is liquid
as sea , rain , snow or ice
It can be hot , cold , or entice

My world is cloudy
It thunders after it flashes light
My world is wrong , my world is right

There are no words that bind my life
I won't be delegated
to exist in the black on white

I will not be staved
by the limited sways
of the written words upon the page

Blossoms are the
Hopes and dreams
Attached to the thorny
Stems of life
We all have to climb
To smell the roses

Die into me,

Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
         To your body.

          The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.

I die into you,

      I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
      And read the inscription:

   He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
    The Sacrificial Lover.