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 mighty 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 Auntie 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
tea kettle whistling  
coffee maker 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.

Have the courage
to tread the edge of
impossibility

where each stride
is a river of fault lines,
where love begins
rupturing boundaries
all at once.

Hear the tides surge
in a hue of indigo bliss
roaring, "how do you live
on the horizon
of an incessant abyss?"

An ocean of stars
have become none for
we have become one
after many nights.

The ground trembles
at the moon's glow
as blossoms ripen,
as the torrent within
us begin to soar and
the Earth greets us again;

Now is a good time
to live once more.

awareness or
the lack thereof
there is a self,
regardless of
the stupid things
you wish to be
and all those masks you hide behind

a sens of self
is all there is
it’s not a gift
that you receive
it’s that,
the only thing there
is

that’s all you got
that’s all you are
enjoy and swim in it
till dawn

it’s more than life,
it’s cheating death
it simply is,

the sense of self.

there are moments in a climb
where you stop,
and put down the things you carry.

either to admire the view
or to let your lungs heal
from the constant ******* in of wind.

there are moments in life,
where we must stop,
and put down the things we carry.

either to admire the the view
or to heal the ache
of constantly living.

why does nothing feel real,
until it happens?

am i that sceptical of good things happening,
that i convince myself they won't,
until they do?

i don't believe it will happen
till i am there
experiencing it.

and even then,
it all feels like a dream.

or something on the edge of a memory,
something i can't quite hold and live in.

like the concert i was sure i wouldn't get tickets to,
or the holiday i thought i wouldn’t get to take.
or next year.
or tomorrow.

how can i live in the moment,
when the moment doesn't even feel real?

powerless scream
and big old trees
invaded my home

you live in my soul.

the rent that you pay,
it isn’t enough
for the mess that you make,
you damage and break

the trees stop and stare,
my home is a mess,
because you live there.

That knowing freedom is beyond the door
Suffices not that you get up and walk
For there must be light and you've eyes to see
And you're not chained nor door's a devious trap
To tempt an escape to increase the sin
And fear whispering of uncertainties
Of vast unknowns and stranger unseen yet
And perhaps the door leads to just more doors
Better well-fed and cared-for but a slave
Then free, hungry and lost, and soon all dead
For freedom is for the living and free