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.

His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.

His story. His remembering.

With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.

He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.

There are miracles and
there are no miracles.

Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.

Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.

How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!

With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.

And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.