To:  A Flaming Heart
            Of the Hedonistic School

From:  A Slow-Burn Refugee
                Of the Broken-Back-Pack-Mule

                        ¤¤¤

I've had dreams by day
That brought the nightmares back.
?In the daylights exposure it was dark  
When the negative light was bright.

In the sea of people
I was the floating remains
Of a Great White's meal. 
On the lonely roads of thought

My mind was in gridlock.
Comforting memories were suspended
Over a psychic black hole
By jagged and rusted

Medieval-type surgical tools.
My remaining senses
Were nailed to a cross-section
Of psychically atrophied grey matter

Along neural pathways
Guarded by gladiator-type tormentors.
Left with nothing
But the stinging desire to be freed

From a curse that had to be cured
And the hell of searching for a cure
When I was convinced there wasn’t one.
The powers that be come with force

To quell primal lusts & desires
Forbidding you of them
As they seductively
Dangle them before your eyes
  
Until you are so frustrated and unfulfilled
That you no longer
Care for your world.  
This cracked glass remains empty

Even though it is constantly being filled
Then spilled or leaked on the floor
Until you learn to lap it up
Like the lapdog that you have become

For their amusement.
You remain with a love for freedom  
But your cage is so large 
That you think you are free

Lost in societal fantasy.
You think for a while
That these fantasies are real   
Until you come to your senses that aren’t

As you join other fools
In comfort that you're not the only
Broken-back pack-mule. 
But in spite of it all

And in the face of them all
Don't let these birds of prey                                                          
An­d powers that be
Deprive you of what they
cannot see

In that hidden corner
Of what is still untouched--
The real you
Uninfected by the world.  

Take care of your spiritual affairs.
Don't let the global beast
And your primal hissing forces
Make you be your own pallbearer.

At the beginning
Was an open sea
Knowing nothing
But its own
Owning every
Beach it met
Not knowing enough to feel alone

After many
Long years it finds
There is much
More for to see
Inlets and outlets
On every shore
A sense of greater freedom to be free

The sea joined
To many rivers
Seeing land
On either side
Freedom then became
Just a memory
The river's end was not in sight

But along the way
An Ocean Watershed
Joining rivers to the sea
It had to sleep
In many river beds
To see what it was meant to be

Down in the river
Flowing headlong
To the sea
Joining the
River's rage
That is where
I long to go
That is where I am meant to be.

When she falls into sleep
Beside me every night,
I'm often haunted by
All the promises I made decades ago.
So easy to make when
Dark feelings were out of sight.
Since then I’ve broken
The locks on almost every door.

In newlywed bliss she was
Sleeping next to me one night.
Still in that distant land
She suddenly sat-up
On the edge of the bed
With her back facing me,  
Looking into the dark closet
Next to her side of the bed.
She called out my name several times.  

Already awake, I answered,
"What’s wrong?"

With back still turned,  
She answered,
"I’m not talking to you,
I’m talking to the other Danny."

As in a darkened closet
My darker-half was first revealed.
My love and I were newlyweds, but
In one year was the uniting of the pair.

Through all these years,
She has sensed with empathy
My loss of peace and spirit
And at least tries to fill-up
The deep, dark empty spaces
That are in the many chambers
Of my damaged heart and soul.

Only this depth of Love can,
In its ineffable heat, melt
Away all traces of impurity,
If you let it.
I have learned to let it.

I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control.

He fought kicking and screaming
the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey
like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he
probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning.

That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands.

At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light.

My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown.

He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"

Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake
handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.

It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.

On that night compassion ruled the day.

I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.

In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him.

Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns. 

By morning his lifeless
dilapidated body lay in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.

All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are.

Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.

When my dark clouds rise

And dirt clods fly and I try

In sheer panic to replace

Rotten fruit with dull wax fruit

And wilted blossoms with

Plastic flowers and she thinks we

Will be on yet another short-lived

But cold cycle of tightrope and

Eggshell walking . . .

She comes home


With bags filled with

Apples green & red

Peppers yellow & green & red

Grapes green & purple

Plums yellow & purplish-red

Strawberries, peaches, tomatoes

Bananas & Greek salads.

 
This usually inspires me to make

For this setting a centrepiece of a

Vase filled with a variety of fresh

Picked wildflowers which brings

Her more joy than two dozen

Of the overrated overachiever rose.


At times this seems like

One of  few bridges back

To a healthy & colourful world.

Our tidal orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.

So still she lies
Sleeping.
A cold room
Cold thoughts.  
Under cover of cotton and linen.        

A cold lonely wind
Cries outside
Longing to find solace
In the warmth of our home
But finding only that it devourers
By its own devices
What it so desperately desires.

Pain in my brow
Forged with hers.
Sharing breaks
Up the pain--
Comfort of depression's transitory end.

Why do you hurt the ones you love
When you want only peace?
A lover of the land?
Must plough the earth for yield
Break the ground in fury
To prepare it for seed.

This pain awaits our company
Like a bottle to the drunkard          
Or a needle to the ******.

Comfort is pain
Pain is comfort

In this violent serenity
As the calm peaceful sea
?Can in one moment  
Turn into a tumultuous gale.

Is love for the using
Can a person justify
Putting lines of age on the face
And gray hairs on the head
Of the one they love?

So many carry this burden.
Love shares common ground--
Seasons for ploughing and planting
And harvest,
The season of closure.?

So still she lies beside me.?
A cold room
Warmer thoughts.?
Under cover of cotton and linen.

Under cover of compassion
And understanding.

My friend came by the other day.
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
            Town to town.

A wanderer he may be, but not at heart.
He longs to be attached to a tree
                                            Any tree.

In spring and summer the leaves are green
                                        And
       attached.
Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                      Prepares for winter.

My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn.

We all grow in our own time and season:

Winter dormancy

         Spring regeneration

                   Summer fulfillment

                             Fall  preparing for the
                                                  
            Inevitable
season of death.

These  seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence.

They teach us

                        Temper us

                                   Fulfill us.

But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons.
To them winter means only

                             Cold

                                       Snow

                         Desolation.             

Spring means only

           Rain

                    Mud

                               Flooding.

Summer means

                             Beauty to mock
                                The heart in winter.

I trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

Let the leaf fall to the ground.
Let it rot into cold

                                  Stark

                    Winter

Desolation.

Spring will come.

Bleak gray will become bright colours
                  Of spring.

The beauty will fade once again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray.
Then spring will come.

          Spring will come!!!

When the mountain
  I am afraid to climb
The ropes and tackles
  Are in abundance.

In perfect shape
 My body and mind
Not a weak link
 In the expedition.

But when the mountain
  I dare to climb
The ropes and
 Tackles are tangled.

In ill shape
 My body and mind.
Weakness as a
  Spell does bind.

Hopes and dreams
  Of tireless youth
Spend fast in
 The spiritually aged.

Strength  the glittering
 Cloak of youth
Fades in weakening
  Jaded resolve.

But in me all common
  Traits dissolve.
The bucking steed
  Will ne’er be tamed.

Pigeon-holed  the
 Misfortune of other souls
Has not been allowed
 By my rebellion.

But this resolve is
  Not without price--
The foothills of youth
  Are far removed

By erosion caused by
 Unstable belief systems
Washed away into
  The Sea of Ambiguity.

A distant mountain
  I sometimes see--
Distance  the deceiver
 Of proportion.

Challenged at the foot
 Of the formidable sight
Halfway climbing 
 Only to slip and fall.

Does this mountain
 Need to be climbed?
Do youthful dreams
  Need to be fulfilled?

When these dreams
 Are all you ever had
You wake up falling
  Or climbing higher.

Driven by dreams
 And gifts and talents
That rage like a river
  In the driest desert

Calling home
 What must come home.
Holding on to what
 Must be fulfilled.

Obstacles that have
  Become landmarks
Seem to fade
  Into obscurity

Like threats that
 Always remain empty.
Laughing at what
 Used to bring tears.

I remain standing
 Through all these trials
Not unscathed 
 And a bit weather beaten

Halfway up another
 Formidable mountain
Making up for lost time
 From a major fall.

and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-mole-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other hearing and feeling tall grasses
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
Canada's Northern Ontario region, and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
region of the American Northeast which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies fly freely.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
waters that flow deep in my mind and spirit--once only
winding past burning villages where humans **** and pillage
--but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land.

I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand.

But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news.

They must rise early the next morning alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                            

work ethic
family hearth and home
days of scent
of freshly mown grass  
barbeques                                          
campf­ires  
coffee brewing  
children playing  
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs...

Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing.
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.

Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding
even walking on calm still water which we humans can only dream of doing in our motorized sleep.

I think I now understand:

To not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off the haunted deeps alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

When it seems as though
The human coil is unravelling
And we have peaked
Our REM of creativity
And we seem awash
In half-baked positive negativity
And the whole world seems
To be drowning in self-induced sleep
While even the watcher's
Seem to have both eyes closed...

Turn this thing around
And open bloodshot eyes.
Stop your own unravelling
And delve deeper into creativity.
Strengthen the bonds
Of your own exclusive and non-exclusive spheres.
Allow your peaceful world to dawn
Even though the outside world drowns
In its own exclusive and non-exclusive pool of fears.

and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

but don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

just don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

Established landmarks removed test the fates
Burning wind in a vacant sky
Rearranged cosmic hemispheres of mind
Oracle of day not seen with naked eye

The need for warmth a thing of the past
Frigid waters the basis of newfangled cell
Tortured derelicts kept from spiritual vision
Oracle of night hangs in days empty shell

Dubious means to generate a sun of artificial light
But a fling cannot replace a love that is shunned
Yet warm rays of sunlight still flow above the temporal
Still hanging in defiance of the 60 cycle hum

Regain your bearings oh heart of Pure Light
Everything in its place: oracle of day and oracle of night.

Lying waste the beauty of ancient sites
Where wisdom laments its ancient demise.
The human spirit had once taken flight
Out of dark mists and out of disguise.

Paradise found just beyond their reach.
Friendship feigned as in unwitting Troy.
Pygmalion's ideal crumbled within the breech.
Pure knowledge strangled by treacherous ploy.

Yet wisdom still beckons beneath this frost.
Rumblings felt faintly in purer souls.?
Vowed in blood to regain paradise lost.
Worlds sacrificed for one small foothold.

Beauty from ashes of ancient sites.
In spirit in heart once again taking flight.

listening as the
                          sea hears the
moon and sun
                    cascading flow or
pulling away
                               melded in
*******
                       tortured ecstasy
creating
                      a thousand words
for every birds
                                eye view
my body giving in
to
                               my mind
my soul somewhere
                                   in-between
silent worlds
                             of unseen eyes and  inward probing

               these neurotic bodies
swaying visceral waters 
                                 deeper currents not
complying  as yet in
                               this cosmic
****** of
                       light & darkness matter & void
                      affecting only the surface
pulling back
                          only waves
pushing them back
                to the ever-changing
shoreline
                       when affecting
only the surface  
                              it appears to
be dull monotony
                           at the beck and call of the
moon's every whim...
                                          oh  
and other orbs play
                    their part with her

but infinitely deeper
                   dramatic ebb and
flow
cannot be witnessed
                          by the seagull's gaze

the thoughts of the soul
                           are faint or nil
in the patterns of
                               vision-mind 
our bodies
                         listening to this galactic
dialogue seethe
                            in stagnant waters
when the mind like the
                       moon is all she
hears
or whatever brings
                          in a stronger
signal

we have taken her away
                            kept her estranged as
mutated cells eating away
                     conformed to the
image of an empty shell
                               of a neutral network
caught in a degenerative loop
                                    a dense
gravitational pull slowly
                                leading her along
into the vortex of the
                                   absence of light

yet something our minds
                               cannot understand as
yet is developing
                     out of sight-mind   after
the imploding of her
                                  beautiful
mass

after
                  the burning-out of
countless worlds
                                     beyond
even the furthest reach
                               of the poetic
eye

a genesis beyond eden
                     attempting with
greater resolve to
                          orchestrate the divine
purpose of the
                       primeval garden
rearranged
                           and tuned to higher
******* harmony
                                  the new
birth of soul leading
                            body & mind
her voice
              being the gravitational orb
swaying visceral
                     waters and deeper currents
complying this
                              time around.

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order

ALL THE WORLD'S A ****** MYSTERY  
Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including  the investigating officers
Playwrights and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY OR STAND-UP ACT
Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarizes the punch-lines

ALL THE WORLD'S A PASSION PLAY
Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar

ALL THE WORLD'S A  SOAP OPERA OR CRIME DRAMA
Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic

ALL THE WORLD'S AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENTARY
Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !

ALL THE WORLD'S A REALITY SHOW
Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are
Being torn down all around them

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY/DRAMA
Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play

ALL THE WORLD'S A GAME SHOW
Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage.

Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace.
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.

And you and me are still
Young enough to really live
We are simply melding
Into another season of emotion
The years are just beginning
To gray what they have claimed
And have been allowed to claim

The wind blows away what it can--
What cannot be tied down

Keep whispering
Your soul into my soul
Keep primal scream tears          
Falling into my primal soul

Keep filling up the empty spaces
Keep creating empty spaces

Tearing down the vacant walls
Building up new walls

Opening locked doors
Locking others in turn

As we forever transform together
Under the aegis of the Immortal

As we grow like the roots
Of the banyan tree

Hanging down with the branches
Helping to provide shelter
As we slowly grow closer
To the sweet earth
In silent anticipation
Finally touching
Slowly penetrating
Gently pushing deeper
Until we are of one purpose

Deeply rooted by the banks
Of the Eternal River
That descended from heaven
And flows through
Human spirit transformed

Life-giving water running slow
And deep the source of your whisper--
True essence in deepest longings

Flowing into my source
Pockets of holy energy overflowing
Slowed down to a trickle at times
Going full circle and
                                     Back and forth
From out of reach channels

That something deep beyond
                     The Starry masses

That something some call love

That something some call God

That something flowing & living
                                  In me & you.

The wishing well has done its part

Now still its water's lie.  

The reasons for the darkest nights

Come as the Dawn draws nigh.

Trying to be a few rays of light
And a shade from blinding light.
Trying to be a part of the solution
Though it's easy to unwittingly
Contribute to the pollution.
By the sheer fact of being human
We can at times and by turns
And at the same time be
Culprit and victim
Survivor and casualty.

Longing eyes upon you cast
As a mirror does reflection find.
In the air of chambers behind
Lingers restless passions laid to rest.
Like a silent laugh or tearless cry
My life seems waste to my enemies.
Their wrath I did bide my time to appease
But hope-sight you gave me--ethereal eyes.
Through these common sight can never be
As a soul into new dimensions born.
At these seas I stand formless on the leas
No longer hiding but now riding the storm.
Your soul holds mine deeper into these seas--
Orpheus and his love reunited forever in
Glorious form.

There were idols in days of old
Made of wood stone silver & gold
They had a mouth eyes & ears
But they could not speak see or hear.

And there were also idols of flesh
Filled with God's own breath
The same images we worship today
Creating physical & spiritual decay.

These idols of flesh we're exalting
These idols of flesh we wallow in
These idols of flesh we're consuming
Will consume our mind & our spirit.

Taking away what we can't live without
Replacing inner peace with fear & doubt
Precious time spent covering up our tracks
Looking ahead but still looking back.

Burning on the ancient altar of lust
Occasionally saying we've had enough
Sheepishly returning to the altar again
Learning to live with the scars & the pain.

They are flesh & blood just like me & you
Filled with emptiness when the act is through.

i the wild seed blew in my youth
floating on the comfort of any wind
that would carry me high for a broader view
and a little closer to answers of truth.

no direction is sometimes a beautiful thing
responsible for what only concerns you
not landing long enough in soft sweet earth
to put down roots that always longed to grow.

i had dreams of a constant love to put seed into
but the high winds blowing outside roared like the sea
enticing me to be carried on the easy breeze
but the easy way is often a cold hard rain.

the wild seed was called by the high winds
blowing inside warming me with wanderlust
caught between two lovers was never a hard choice
because the high wind was my first love.

i blew thousands of miles and light years away
landed in the soft sweet earth of a girl
a childhood sweetheart often remembered
partly the reason I blew in that direction.

the seed lingered too long in one place
the roots got a foothold in the soft sweet earth
the high winds tried to pull up the roots
causing pain in me and the soft sweet earth.

the germination of the seed caused more pain
seed to maturity isn't the easy way
each stage causing new dimensions of pain
though pain can also be the sweetness of love.

through decades and millions of light years
I have grown in that soft sweet earth
two more seeds and deeper love stemmed from it
as I ignored the tempting lure of the high winds.

but I still listen as the high winds call
sharing this pain with the ones I love
waiting to one day fly high as I once did
though it could never be the same as before.

she too was a wild seed flirting with higher winds
now waiting with me to one day fly again
as we watch our children sail in their high winds
both of us feeling the roots being pulled
and the winds starting to lift us to blow concordantly 
in a higher wind than we have ever known.

The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.

12 years have passed since I’ve last seen her in this life.
Distance and sickness in our being had robbed us both
of streams of time which passed like a long cold winter
into her death. These lost memories often create over-
exposed and superimposed photo negatives of imaginary
frames of time I desperately imprint to hold tightly in my
heart and mind.

But I still hold tightly in memory to her soft voice on the
phone and pictures of split second frames of physical
time my sister would send me. Many people don’t even
have that.

In this life she loved to mother her three grown children
and flower garden as near as
she could to the end. It was
in her nature to nurture us--
her perennial children--
and to help make the move easier for her literal annual foster children plants taken
from a confined existence to a deep soft warm bed of comfort.

Stamped on my mind is not the faded and worn, bruised
and torn image of her outward shell in the Trauma
Center at age 88, but the indelible inner and outward
image at age 38: a lovely young mama who tucked her
little boy in bed every night with a song and a prayer.
The little boy that is still alive in this man.

The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.

Yesterday
The streets were wider
Now they're narrow
I would go
To the place of mystery
Is gone

Truths revealed
The wide-eyed wonder
Of a child has seen
Into the eyes
Of that distant dream
I had dreamt
The visions
Of a peaceful life

I live
The remnants
Of that child's
Dreams come true

Take my hand
And take my feet
On the paths
That no one
Has tread before
No one knows the pain
That dreamer's feel

I cross these rivers
Deep and wide
I search through
Valleys deep and wide
The other side starts
Where each new day begins

Now today
I will walk the streets
Of yesterday have passed
Into a new beginning
Is in what I see

From the bridges
On the rivers
That flow from yesterday
It's clear
That I am dreaming
My reality

Dreams are real
Make them happen
As a child
Plays the games
That are reality
At any age.

Poetic minds are islands often found
In common reaches of the status quo
And in remote and deeper waters
Of vox humana in muted undertow.

I got a late call
Just the other day --
    Sister reluctant to say
  What she had to say.

Mama's not well
     She almost passed through
    The veil --
A life of hard work
    Can make any strong
Woman frail.

I'm not an old man
     But time isn't always kind --
Teenage children
Make youth that much harder
                      To find.

It doesn't seem so long ago
               When I was that
        Young and free --
My parents feeling like I do now
            When they'd look at me.

      She was always proud
Of the garden that she grew --
   Working with her hands
In everything she'd do.

But now her body can't
      Keep up with her mind
And father seeks for what
        They both cannot find.

        You're a child with
Parents all your own
Then it's your turn at the wheel
      When you are grown.

Then your children
See you old and frail --
Time goes by faster than
      You realise and you've
Passed through the veil.

I've always watched
      The Agèd Hands of Time
         Winding other lives down --
       They were not mine

But now my past
    Is in the distance and my
Future is as close as my agèd
  Parents and my growing children
     In The Agèd Hands of Time.

He travelled to Canada's west coast
To sit in fields of Mushrooms Magic.
Psychoactive effects created rooms
Filled with white cognitive static.

He returned to his hometown small
In Boreal forests of Ontario's Northland.
Beyond locked doors now unhinged
He sank deeper in grey matter quicksand.

No one quite knew Joshua anymore.
Disturbance eclipsed his passive way.
At the local pub he told Ed and me
He was being followed by the C.I.A.

In one weeks time he picked up a knife
And stabbed his father and mother.
His father lay dead on the kitchen floor
She played dead and tried not to shudder.

Joshua was found just sitting in their car
When police came to the scene of the crime.
In a hospital for over thirty years now
His room has been a static void sealed mind.

A little girl in handmade dress.
           Black shoes with  
White knee-high stockings.
                       Shy eyes framed
By and hiding behind
            Long  curly
            Blonde locks,
Waiting with me at
                   The bus stop
Each school morning.

Vulnerable  
             Protected from the harsh
Outside world.
               But nothing can completely
Shut out its
                             Cruel essence.

The outside
                       Can creep in or the
Inside holds dormant
                      Outside influence
Like the eggs of the proverbial tree
                      Lizard laid among  eggs in a
Bird's nest  
             Remaining dormant to eventually
Hatch to feed on the newly born fowl.

Faith soothes the pain
                     By daily standing
On the sidelines
                     Of the pantomime
Of the mundane

As lush dense
Ivy reaches
                         For the sky but must
First slowly crawl
                              Over a cold
Gray wall of stone  
                               Reaching
For dreams and ideals
                          Once clearly seen
On the horizon of the
                      Unobscured  plains
Of childhood.
                    A bit harder at the myopic
Foothills of youth.  
                       Now harder than ever

At the jagged  
                  Snowcapped mountains of
Adulthood.


The curly locked
                             Little girl still lives
After all these years.  
                             Lives on to
                         Balance the weight
Of disappointments
                    Compressed by daily
Reminders of that

Once dormant inside
                       Influence unleashed
In the innermost
                      Sanctity of trust. Lives

In the security
                        Of ideals gradually
Becoming reality.

                       That place in the heart
That no one can touch  
                             That no one can
Invade.

Thank God that home is where the heart is!

                     ¤¤¤

"The worst things:
To lie in bed and sleep not.
To want for one who comes not.
To try to please and please not."
                 -- Egyptian Proverb

It fades in and   fades             out
The     meandering    song of despair.
     Fading what  once     caused
The frequencies to harmonize.
Random patterns   desperately
     Random.

Her  moods   weave    in           counter
To my intense     focus in   the refrain.
        Our symbiotic   gazing across the room
At the  rhythmic  blue   light  Illuminating
Denials elusive      fingertip touch
Fading into yet another    impossible dream.

The notes are still     laid out on
The well-weathered pages.
The movements    still moving    gracefully
On a near anti-climactic      stage.

All that is   needed   are the instruments
And patrons of means to employ
A symphony    suffering long
On a soulless      listless     frequency  band
Made only to vibrate complete
But is now   caught    in   this      jumbled loop
In a now    out-        of-        sync  universe.

Assertion
Clammed-up
On the relay
Second guessing
The shrunken head
Of old therapies

The clock says
It's time
To nod off
Greet the morn
With withered fist
Rationalised fury

Trying to
Replace the
Pimply face
Of ******
Angst baseless in
Content
On the tether
Of just another

Addiction in a
Succession
Of spiritual
Vices perpetuated
By the nonchalant
Visage of a world

Uncaring
In derision
From calloused hands
Caused by
Hard work
With little or no
Monetary avail

Hand to mouth
Foot in mouth
Hand on crotch
Crotch saddle sore

What's the point
Of a worn-down point
Dull but
Double-edged  
Just to prove

The sword of Damocles
Is still hanging
Over the head
Of your enemies

Who pop
Their heads
Up over
The hedgerows
Like pictures
In a shooting gallery
At the carnival of
A battlefield distant

Filled with relics
Of another
Dead-end
Ill-purposed war
Of the worlds floating
On the crest of
Mine-dotted airwaves
Prompting viewers
To drown negativity
And to salvage
The positive

A broadcast from
Bipolar formats
In living colour

Double-edged          
Double-standards
Double-dealing        
Double-meaning
Double-minded      
Double-jeopardy
Double-troubl­e        
Double your money
Doppelganger leading
Double life

All propagated in
Double-time

Best
Double your efforts
And tune out!

Where is the sound
            That once gave meaning
To my name.
It seems lost in the echoes
                    The sound of a
Crying shame.

                     I try to pinpoint the time
Channels I was
Passing through
                    When I could interpret pre-echo
When each syllable
Rang true

                   When my offspring was purer
Relative to
Innate impurities.
                    Girl, boy vastly interrupted.
So much for blood
As a surety.

Belly fire lessens with years.
                     Caution blows back
In the wind.
Flirting with status quo delusions.
                    Slogans & logos
Slowly rescind.

                 Pure thought tainted with church & state.
Leftist & Right Wing views
Scientifically spliced.
                  This new world creation seldom takes sides.
Calculates the outcome & always
Dresses nice.

I’m halfway there, queasy still
                    Rhetorical views beginning to
Make sense.
Cautious malaise on either side.
                       Starch chaffing neck  
Outcome offense.

                       I occasionally hear my voice
That blew with caution
In the wind.
                    Volcano dormant still pushes the crust.
Delusions sicken me back
To the fringe.

She lays out her heart
On her sleeve  
Both sleeves
As the red
Carpet is rolled
Out for royalty
Whether for
Honor or dishonor
But always
For ceremony

It beats in polyrhythms
Under and on her
Many layered epidermis
Whose layers
Perhaps only a mystical
Archeologist could
Analyze
The complexity of an
Ancient undecipherable book
              
Created by years of damaging
Neural and spiritual
Pathways by absorbing
The essence of her
Personal peace pipe
Which is bereft of the
Essential factors found
In thousands of years of
Dream religion

She fancies herself
A new breed of
Shaman perhaps
A connection broken
At an unknown time
In her spirit
But felt strongly
And deeply as
Phantom pain
Evident in her
Crystal ball
And stargazing

A remnant of
A long lost tribe
A tapestry of
Religions
Trivialized
Pop cultural  
Spirituality
And superstition

Her motives
Misplaced and obscure
But definitely from
A healing source
But the channels are
Eroded and indefinable
Bastardized by

Extraneous channels
And alien sources
A trickle of water
In a dry river bed
All muddled into
This enigma and

Multicolored tapestry
Which is often
Misunderstood
And underestimated
Protected by the
Thick epidermis
And hard to follow
Cardiac polyrhythms
Revealed when her
Many layered tongue
Lashes out and cuts deep

Not intending to control
And manipulate
With leadership
Origins perhaps in the
Shaman or tribal leader
But definitely
Out of place and time
Since their true essence
Has been lost through
Her Westernized
Industrialized
And hyper-capitalized mind

And scattered to the four winds.

Waiting for a muse to whisper
Into the partially deaf ear of my soul
Exhuming arcane truths from the source
Distilled through the ephemeral mind
Shadowy vestiges reflected in spirit
Fluid spirit flowing through pen
The ineffable spoken in sacred tongue
Ink revealing more than mind dictates.

You don't give a glass of water
  To a drowning man
And you don't throw a thirsty man  
  Into the deep blue sea

Yet I drank deep of that glass
  Though my lungs were full of water
And thanked you for the refreshing swim
  As I gulped the briny down.

Sometimes you touch me
So unexpectedly
Like a gentler side
Of a gust of winter’s wind
Blowing a thin white veil
Down from its shelf
In the branches above
Just in time to caress
My fevered cheeks
With a cool
Exhilarating rush.
Thank you.

Demons to so many are simply Metaphors
Symbols of our darker side.
A rational mind may discern What is real
Even with spectres seen and Voices heard.

Seemingly real what our senses Feel
We can swear that we heard a Disembodied voice
Or saw a ghost or spirit.
But they may be an illusion--
Our eyes and ears do play
Tricks on our minds
Like hysterical blindness being All in the head.

As in dreams by night
Perhaps these things
Are conscious dreams by day--
Our minds trying to tell us Something
In its own symbolic and abstract Way.
Just as real as physical symptoms
Deeply rooted in the mind.

It has been said that your Perception is your reality.
If so, these things are then your Personal reality.
These things may be real
But only to you
Or whoever is in your headspace
Or our collective headspace
Where our senses peak.

Your reality or your orientation Is defined
By what you focus on
And what you look through
Day after day.
You truly are what you eat.

Are the negative effects of what You see
Compounded by further Distorted perception?

Are you focusing on something through

     <A spider-web-cracked
           Window?
     <A spider’s web built across
           Your Window?
     <A fogged-up or frosted
           Window?
     <A coloured or tinted
           Window?
     <A *****  smudged window?
     <A window partially or
           Totally obscured
           By bushes or trees?        
     <A window at night where
           What you
            See beyond the window

            Is superimposed with
            Your own reflection and
            That of objects and lights
            That are behind you in
            The room?
     <A window with the blinds
           Closed?
                             Or
     <Are you myopically looking
           Through what is just
           A picture of a window
           Hanging on
                               Your wall?  
                      ~
Whatever windows we peer Through
Or whenever we enter
Humankind’s collective and Connected
Head-space
We see and hear these demons And spectres
Dancing through the dark empty Rooms
And hallways of mind

Waiting for the right time
To bring the party to the light of Day
Where they will forever stay
Since we have been inviting Them
And have been preparing the Way for them
For a very
Long time.

It hides itself
Better of late
That old companion
In my shadow
That perpetual  
Creeping malaise
Coiling inside my brain

Never springing
Only cr  e      e p             i n g

      Slithering

      Mesmerizing

        Paralyzing

Logic and common sense.
A lord of fear
Undermining mental
Immune systems
Playing my emotions

Like a violin concerto–
Devil's chord

Out of tune socially    
                                Mentally.

But then I see her
In her vulnerable position
That sweet  

        Innocent child/woman
Who props up my remains
Who takes me back
To simpler times
And youthful joys

When the hooded cobra
Was in embryonic form.
This one constant in my life
Keeps the cobra at bay

But it waits just outside the camp
Taunting me
Whispering just low enough
So I can't make out what
It is saying.

But how can one make out hissing?!

When you were always told
That you are fine
Nothing's wrong
Maybe a little neurotic sometimes

What can you do?
Be reduced to a catatonic state?
Where can you hide but in your shadow?

I am weakened without
The Eternal Imagination.
                         It lifts me above the bitter
                         Waters I have drunk from
Like a thirsty deer ignoring
                         The faint acridity and
Lapping the coolness until its mid-section
Cramps and it sleeps it
                         Off in the tall cool grasses
                         Only to arise again
                         To drink of the same source.

Foamy blankets outstretch over
Endless bitter pools before
                 This wanderer who searches
The midnights keep for my souls Delight
Passing other shrouded figures  
Who wander through
This universal dream
Like ghost ships
Gliding the haunted deep
Never sailing beyond this
Dark world of mores and memes
And endless waves of prosaic time
Slumbering in our brokenness
Lost in dreams of our barrenness.

How long will Heaven wait
To awaken me from this troubled sleep
Or will this restless dreamer pass
                    Through the final dark
And misty veil only to
                        Continue to wander
But then in eternal sleepwalk
In an infinitely darker universal dream
With the now otherworldly ghosts?

I still have so many more
Miles to go
But I am now wide-awake in deep sleep.
I have escaped the hungry deep
                              As a bird from a snare
Soaring miles above in newness of life

For the levy of holy waters
Has been breached.
Now this cleansing eternal deep
                              Keeps drawing me on
To Reaches unknown.

There is nothing I could ever do.
I could never give enough
To even begin to repay.
I sense the weight of debt paid.

My love and dedication falls short of this
Abundant grace as all the efforts of a world
That gives out of selfishness.

I often live in denial of what I must repay
Though I never could repay.
But the inclination must be there.
I carry the weight of debt paid.

I have learned to acknowledge the debt
And accept that I was debtor
To a weight that would surely have crushed me.

I have learned to freely give back
Of what was freely given to me.
I live under the weight of debt paid.

The last few dying leaves of autumn
Desperately clutching their sterile lifeline
Like a hopeful body preserved cryogenically

Refusing to give in to the inevitable
Season of death.

Congealed memories of

                          Long summers:

                           Warm breezes

                               Lifeblood

Flowing freely in every vein
Assuming the promise of forever

And the more distant memories of spring:

                           New growth    
  
                          Bated breath

                      Each day savored    

(A whole year in the distorted
       Knowledge of the mature)

The youthful knowing that life is forever
Only to be lost one day
    In the distorted knowing of the mature.

The heavy frost of late Autumn  
Soon breaks the will
And the leaf is at the mercy of the winds–

                        Uncertainty

                           Isolation

                   Blowing aimlessly

Until the eventual fall to earth
Where it turns back into what it always was.

Yet one fine spring day

                         Somehow      

                         Someway

                         Recalling

The youthful knowing that
Life is forever.

Expression is something
           We all must do
It brings worlds
Together

We do it in
                Many ways
It brings rain
                   Or good
                          Weather

But holding it in has
                It's good points
It keeps you from being
Labeled
And from being
             Part of the cause
Of balancing what is
Unequal

See me holding
                    Out my hand
My mouth is opened
Wide
There is no use in
                Playing it cool
When you have nothing
To hide

The joker laughs
                 At silent states
Hearts emptied by its
Lull
So
                Open up
                  Laugh
              In his face
Make
              Empty places
Full

  Give me
                   A smile
  Give me
                   A frown
Do it with
Guitar or
                  Paint
Show it with
   Speech
       As a mute clown
           As a rebel or as a
                  Saint !!!

Sulfur yellow, a watery burn
Created in an alchemist's urn.
Water feeds fire as both
evolve--
The formula of hates resolve.

You waver rights to be treated fair
Like Sampson selling locks of hair
Or selling age to a 95 year
old--
Sheep follow only to die in
their fold.

Fiery seas begin as a rift--
Water being the only gift.
But nothing, nothing is ever
free
Once transmuted into this
sea.

But logs do drift and beaches claim
All that gave this sea its
name.