I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

Tasting the quiet, with only
an inaudible sense of deferential
nothing. I tiptoe fondly
into the gardens where
grows the leaves
of other times.

Like a lullaby without words,
I'm taken here and there,
in many and all kinds of
situations. Teasing
sighs from benign
retrospective
endearments
insist on
understanding.

"Wrap me in your arms,
oh delicious memories",
This I proclaim in
honest wonder.

Every second lived
is one more step
in strong direction.
Familiar guises
prodding and guiding
the footsteps
of release.

I am concerned
only with empty
pockets and lint
left like
photographs
of times both
then and now.

So to new days
and impressive
meanderings
do I linger,
ever glad.

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.

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.

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.

You celebrated me
when I was a flower,
but you denied my roots.
When autumn came,
you did not know
what to do about me.
You could only understand
the surface, not the
barnacled fabric in the soil.
Like an empty glass of water,
you drained your feelings
and
let
your
eyes
close.
What  you do not see
is the mud I am.
You want glitter and shine.
You want transparency.
You will not
acknowledge
the
depth
I
can
offer.
You hollered in glee
when I was shallow.
But you were
confused
with
how
to
treat me
when I was depth.

We are all like that.
Truth is bothersome.
It lacks plastic.
We are afraid.
Always afraid.

Pick up the umbrella
and cover the head.
Protect the surface
from the drops of reality.

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.

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.

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.

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

The 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.