his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor

A year or so from now,
when you hear thunder in the sky,
pretend it is me talking to you.

Think of me, from time to time.
Remember me, remember me.
When a song plays that was
one of my favourites, sing along
with it for me. Sing loud and clear.
I'll be with you. I'll be with you.

Do not grieve for long. Instead,
play again those funny moments
when life was long and years
of sharing stretched ahead.
Hear the humour we shared,
and smile again at old jokes.

A year or so from now,
when you are looking at pictures,
see again how happy we were.

These are what matter, I think.
The joyful seconds that make
the mundane easy to bear.
Those scattered, silly
laughing things that stay
eternally present in the mind.

We are only hands that clap
in harmony for a limited time.
Touches of spaces that are
full of vigour, than are empty.
Hesitant to leave what we
know, knowing it must be so.

A year or so from now,
remember me. Remember me.

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.

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.

Once hot, now only warm, energy slipping away
If only a breeze could come
To energize them, to rekindle their art
Deep amber is their color, see their beauty
They are few, but still powerful
Energy wanes as they wait patiently, dying
The remains of a raging fire ... abandoned.

Broken things require glue
Turn around that's you

Don't stand by and watch me break
This world needs NOT another fake

Take a moment to embrace me
Your touch will set me free

Pure hands infuse humanity
Deliver it just for my sanity

There is no mistaken identity
Inside you is my serenity

One touch ... a basic need I concede
My ache is now full speed

Do not make me beg
Press in and heal my plague

Today I ooze of selfishness
You are familiar with my reticence

Guilt draws near and whispers
Push past its tiny embers

My need today transcends
Straight from you, no bends

I lay curled up in a ball
Listen, do you hear my call

From you, I plead one task
One touch ... *it's all I ask

I have tried to write a poem about ****, but it is like I couldn’t find the right words. The meaning was stuck in my head and I was unable to translate it into complete sentences. It is like that night, where the darkness spiraled into the center of my body, and the cries for help were stuck in my throat, choking me. I still remember the emptiness that filled the whole room, so compressed that it felt like the walls would give in to it. I want to go home! No, I want to disappear, leave this body, this place and crawl into myself and let the darkness consume me. I just wanted it to end. My anxiety is always worst when I am amongst others and at that moment, it felt like my heart stopped, as I lost control over my mind and body, even though I felt it all. “I wish for it all would end”, I told myself. I wished that everything could just be ****** into a black hole, just like the void inside of me ****** out the last bit of happiness I had. All alone, but I could still hear the sound of the crowd on the other side of the wall of this crime scene. When the person who helped you out of depression, just pushed you down into a dark pit, when your parents haven’t taught you to call the police when the law is broken and the world feels like an empty void. If a friend no longer is one, but a ****** and you have forgotten how to say no, then stick ******* down your throat and let the screams fill the house.

Rekindling old flames and lighting half gone cigarettes is what I'm known for.
It never is quite the same, really. The taste is all but gone, the flint gone from the match before you can even strike it. The taste of you is just a bitter reminder, like kicking that habit for good and taking the first drag off a cigarette in six months.
Then I started over.
There's a difference really from starting an entirely new fire and trying to relight pieces of charred and half burned pine that got rained on. One will burn bright for a minute and fizzle out. The other will burn a lifetime.
That last drag on a new cigarette never tasted more like addiction.