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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

in many ways many
           of us are
      compromised
   itemized    labeled    
   priced        bought
           and sold
                 or
   waiting in line to be.

  the only escape hatch
         is inside of us

    do not let anyone
   or en-ti-ty buy you

and do not sell yourself

take yourself off the shelf

   quarantine the virus

              tune in to your
        humanity and
  spirituality

          tune out the
   survival of the fittest
       mentality of the
     dog eat dog world.