Traditions are not something to take lightly
Not something that can come and go
Call me old fashioned but like
Sapphires passed through generations
Memories and family
Traditions stand strong in a community built
Respect for those who came before
And a promise for the future
To continue on
Through the hard times we rejoice in knowing what is coming
And in the good we are thankful for what we have
Knowing that it wasn’t always this easy
And that others before us fought for this
We stand on the grounds of community and tradition
Born and raised

The walls are a litter
of chaos layered upon
the anarchy of
spray painted letters;

Various styles of
dripping calligraphy,
silver lines spilling
their energy down
this hard word laden wall.

A lovely looping Y
is engraved in flesh tones
while the rest of the word
remains unknown
permanently obscured
by the intent of
newer artists.

I am awestruck
to the point of
an autistic response,
paralyzed by the
thick presence
of chipping paint
that flakes off
to take us back
to a blank canvass past.

Till, a swirling view
twirling through
enchants me to move.

My hands tremble,
reaching for the small breach,
longing to be swallowed,
absorbed, and added
to this discordant beauty.

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.

Goodwill to all
Men
Women
Children
Family
Neighbours
Those kids on the corner
Fellow commuters
That bloke
who takes my parking space
Workmates
My boss
Competing shoppers
Nodding acquaintances
The woman down the road
with the 6 dogs
Complete strangers I see each day
The family who just moved in
over the way
Refugees
wherever they are
whoever they are
whatever their origin
- to all human kind
Heaven-sent goodwill
and God's grace
to you all
by my hand
and by my voice
Raised in greeting
Raised in support
Raised in defence
All year round
and never tiring
- Merry Christmas.

I believe that there's a future
I believe in hope
I believe in ever after
I believe in love

Troubles will come
And hearts will be broken
Pressure wont stop
And words'll stay unspoken

Yet I believe in miracles
And friendships never broken
I believe in Jesus
And His Cross that bares forgiveness