During the shooting of
Fellini's movie
8 1/2
he had a sign that said
"This is a comedy",
to remind the actors
that it was all a farce.

I feel that perhaps
I am sometimes misunderstood.
All my emotions are tempered,
I exaggerate only for effect.
I can pace myself
in both happiness and
misery.
Should I, too, hang the sign,
"This is a comedy"
on every poem I write?

If I could only capture
the moon,
stars,
ocean,
mountains
with blue peaks
and the green
of summer
on a
sunny day,

I could convey
the peace,
the despair,
of every absence.

To which direction
does the
wind blow?
How many have I met
for the last time?

I am troubled,
despite the fact
I feel as though I am
perched on a cloud.

Does a flower
announce its blooming?
Likewise should I announce
each happiness
and sorrow?
I am in such conflict about this.

Part of poetry is to
exaggerate through
omission.
Here, I can only
show what I had felt,
never tell.

I wonder if I have adequately expressed,
with the few words I have wrote,
that all my poems are about
the things I have purposefully omitted?

Tonight, my heart is a torrent.
I wish to use names,
but I cannot.
I wish to state my emotions,
but I must not.
Perhaps it is because I am
not truly a poet,
but all I can do is
emphasize absence.

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

Someone quick, please come with me
The admiral’s been shot
The bandage did not stop the blood
That’s pouring out his gut.
I’ve tried two times, to sedate him
With whisky and some ***
Yet no liquor nor a sailor’s tune
Showed any pain it numbed.
The rocking of the trashing waves
Has sent him into fits
Of pain, of tears, of screaming howls
Despite the teeth he grits

Where’s the surgeon, where’s the first mate?
We haven’t time to waste
I fear for what is to come
If too long we wait.
Is there no sailor on this ship
With a free hand to help?
Why is it just I who comes to aide
To the Admiral’s pained yelp?

And why with hate you hold your eyes
When I beseech for you?
Why point that gun at me, my friend?
A member of your crew?
Don’t tell me, friend, you fired the gun,
That your scrutiny,
That the deed which you had done
Was an act of mutiny
I do no-

Seeing her was the same as
walking outside
and discovering
that the sky is blue
and finding it
absolutely beautiful.

I wish to experience life
as honestly as possible.
I have had enough of
my longings for
permanence and certainty.

Alas, must I stake a claim
on the sky to find fulfilment?
Do I need to own it all
to love it?
Should I resent those who
look upon the same sky as I?
Envy the clouds which
occupy it?

The sky was there before
me
and will be there after
me.
And that is a comforting thought,
I suppose.

Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a *****.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.

When the heart is in anguish
so few people matter.

We are all consumed by flames
which can only be quelled
by the delicate touch
of another.
But it only matters who
not how.
As long as they try,
we can come up with an infinite amount
of justifications
to excuse ourselves of our sadness.

But think of those who try
and do not a thing for our sorrow.
They are the ones who write poems
about anguish in their hearts.

How do I reconcile
longing and
moderation?

To see something
that I covet
given away so freely,
as if nothing,
is maddening.

Oh, how cruel!
It only matters who,
not how.
In such matters
merit is not determined
by pain.

Alas, I suppose.

In my brief life
I have amassed more years
Than moments
Where I felt
Alive.

She is with
another man
but she is alive!
she exists!
to have found her
makes me feel as though
all is well in the world.

On the bus ride home
I woke up
with my face resting
against the shoulder
of a stranger.

My heart is in
a terrible state,
so I choose
to roam this city,
to ward off boredom
and the questions
I ask myself
about you
before I sleep.

I am rarely satisfied
with the words that I choose
to express myself with.
In the end,
I settle for an approximation
of what I had wanted to say.
How often do I find myself
falling short
of a truly beautiful sentiment?

A love
that blossoms
like a flower
before a storm.

Will you see it
before it is stripped
of its petals?
Before it is trampled
and ripped out by its roots?

What had burned
turned to ash.
In the end,
even a violent blaze
turns to nothing.
Which flame lasts forever?

I give ashes
as proof of what once was.
Judge me, as you like,
but know the dust before you
was once with form;
warm and bright.

how i have
wracked my brain
on how to write
a simple poem
about a tree
lit by the moon.

nature is writhe
with such gentle beauty.
and yet
i cannot even start to
entice its essence
to settle as
a line or two on paper.
where beauty begins,
i cannot say.

to write of beauty
is to remember a dream;
to recall a thought
only half way through.
i cannot describe in words
that which is before me.
all i know is
that it is beautiful.

I fear that I have been found
but at least I can I change my name,
but to those who know my face...
It is hard to do the same!

Should the leaves of a tree
feel embittered
that they must one day
expire in Autumn?
Likewise,
should I harbour
resentment
if I am to
fade into memory?

I feel nostalgic
For a long winter night
In Vancouver
Years ago.

A pair of gloves
Shared between
Two pairs of hands.

There is no warmth
Like the warmth
Of another.

A stiff breeze
brushes against
flushed cheeks,
chattering teeth
and naked hands;
a winter night.

I wished a wish
upon a star,
a wish so small
on such so far.
I won't be sad if
it does not come true,
to have is a wish
is something too.

I believed in her like
She was the woman I loved
Who told me that she loved me
Or
The suit and tie
Telling me that they would contact me again
After that last job interview
Or
The manager who told me
I did a good job
And I was indispensable

A heaving dog struggles to its feet.
Streaks of
the sun,
egg yolk,
lemonade,
coalesce in foam.
I look it in the eye
as it limps away.

Above all things,
I know bitterness
because I was born
without having been asked.

A timid flower
comes to full bloom
under the brush
of the summer breeze.

Similarly,
I have blossomed
by the warmth
of another's heart.

The many shades of blue;

the ocean,

the sky,

the mountains,

the eyes
that,
with tenderness,
haunt me like
a domestic spectre.

I think again of a dear dying friend,
Whose life has been lived and is now going to end,
I wonder what dreams that she still had to meet
And of all the promises she cannot keep,
And locked away somewhere, inside of her deep,
Are there still some secrets that she alone keeps,
I wonder of promises she cannot keep,
And burdens that she insist she alone keeps.

A promise of peace and of present pain felt
To dissolve in the dirt of the Earth is fulfilled.
The living are dying, but they shan’t forget
Of friends whom have left them before their own end,
Of friends whom they cherished and loved till the end
With only condolences left to extend,
I think of once more of a dear dying friend.

Today,
I am singed with regret.
I have forgotten
how to find my way in life,
my reasons for writing poetry,
as well as
sunscreen.

I am stuck in limbo
awaiting tragedy,
as a leaf awaits a gust
to tear it free from its branch.

I am shrouded in stillness;
a blissful peace.
I will look back on these days and think
"I did not know what I had"

Not far from now,
life will twist into a cascade
of irreversible losses.
I can feel it stirring,
an everlasting sorrow,
like the wind kicking leaves at my feet.

I will change forever.

I can never spell this flower's name
from memory.
If I were to walk through a garden,
would I be able to discern
the chrysanthemum from other flowers?
I feel as though,
this is how others
think of me.

To be known or not,
a flower is still a flower,
and that is not nothing.

A wonderful set of coincidences occur one after the other,
Allowing a once in a lifetime chance to cross paths
But no matter how much they deserve to meet
These two must never do so.
These individuals litter bus stops and late night trains,
They aggregate during the rain
And disperse as the crosswalk signals to cross,
They find solace in solitude,
And comfort in crowds,
And would most likely tell their life story to a stranger,
But find it difficult to confide in a friend.
They catch glimpses of others through windows as they pass by
And, when found, are always focused on something else,
They trip on escalators when rushing for the next train,
They chase buses but give up half way through,
They lament a lost umbrella,
But rarely mourn the lost opportunity
Whisked away by a bus just leaving the terminal,
Or captured perfectly, like a portrait, in storefront windows.
They read books in transit and rarely look up,
They stare longingly in space, often focusing on another person’s face without knowing,
They eagerly await text messages
And check emails frequently.
All of these people are waiting,
And in fact,
Are waiting together,
Collectively, for someone else.
Although the circumstances that had brought them all together
Were nothing short of extraordinary,
It is just a normal day.
A quick glance around confirms it,
And away they go,
On night trains that someone else had just missed by a minute.
In this sense,
Cruelty seems unusually fair,
And thus why they must never meet.

To spend your spare time
On someone else
Is an immeasurable
Act of kindness.

How many times have I been saved
By a stranger
Who wanted to talk about the weather?

I am like
a small dog,
every second
I need confirmation
that I am loved.
Every absence
encases an eternity
of solitude.

Was I
a good boy?
I might have been told so
a few minutes ago
but how about now?
My self doubt
will last forever,
only to be dispelled the next time
you place your hand on my head.

But withdraw your touch
and the next eternity
starts again.

To say less
is more telling
of how I feel.
Oh, how life seems
so loosely constructed.
We never express ourselves honestly.
One must infer meaning
from shadows;
we understate ourselves
or even lie,
in hopes that in this
the truth can be understood.

I rehearse conversations
that I will never have
and yet
find myself
perpetually
unable to say
what I had truly meant.

The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.

The courage
it takes
to muster
a few words
on her behalf
have bled me
for years,
it seems.

I throw away
a tube of toothpaste
to discover
it was the last one.
In bitter defeat
I fish the toothpaste out of the trash
and attempt to squeeze out,
once more,
a morsel
of toothpaste.

Her last glimpse of me
Is of the dark tones of my shirt
Smudged into the shades
Of a busy crowd.

If it had been a heart attack
There would have been a chance,
But in its stead the news I heard
Had wiped hope at first glance.

If you were family, by that
I mean if I was fair,
I would have treated you with love
And been there in despair

I would have been a son to you,
I would have heard you out,
I would have cooked and drank with you,
I should have with no doubt.

Last week I should have stopped to say
Goodbye for one last time,
Instead I said hello and left,
Regret is now all mine.

For all the times I’ve told others
That family comes first,
It’s criminal how I neglect
The one who was most hurt.

I always said that I can wait
To say what should be said
But now, tonight, a hypocrite
I am to be instead.

I am the son you never had.
I’m sad, I must confess,
I was not what you had deserved,
But you loved me no less.

Farewell, so long, my dear Uncle
The words I should have said
Are hastily scribbled in
A poem to the dead.

At night,
I have a terrible urge
to be sentimental.
It's as if my insecurities
are a Datura bud,
lying dormant in the day,
but flowering under the moon.

I killed you,
Mrs. Mosquito.
In another life,
You could have been a dog
And we would have been friends.
But in this one, where
I am still me
And you were still you,
All that was different was
You were a mosquito.

As I stare at your corpse
Which is now just
a splat of my own blood
on my left forearm,
I only think of how meaningless your death was
and maybe how mine will be as well.
You were a mosquito
And perhaps I am one too.

There is a nagging feeling
that I cannot shake
which tells me
the last time my name will be uttered
by a specific pair of lips
is passing shortly.

Someone such as she
With someone such as me
There’s no way I’ll believe
That such a thing can be
My face; synecdoche
She looks, dismissively,
She wants what she can see,
And not what I could be.

Every ship
leaving the port,
are each
a metaphor.

To the
brave who
embark,
how often
do you cast
a backward gaze?

To those
who depart
for other shores,
I think of you
daily.
Hourly.

When shall it be my turn
to cast a backward gaze
on those I leave behind?

I can only see as far
as the ocean's horizon.
Why despair
of things beyond it?

How uncertain we are of the future!
We will only experience the present.
And so I ask,
why despair of things
beyond the horizon of the eternal now?

If it is as a storm that brews off the coast,
we are powerless to stop it.
Who has stood helplessly at the shore
without taking shelter,
when faced with a great storm?
We may only accept it.

Give me strength
to act boldly
or courage
to endure myself,
I do not know
which to ask for,
for I cannot have both.

To eat alone
is to think
of another.

Cherished memories
Rendered
Shameful,
To be suffered
In private.