I heard you going.
Your soft shoes making
delicate flashes on the floor.
My breathing was heavy
with the scent of dismissal.
Why did you come if you
planned to flee?
Sometimes the air is
as soft as you leaving.
I sense that it talks
but I am unable to
understand the words.
Heavy with hope the coping
suggests you are
returning soon.
Door is unlocked.
Sitting in the chair,
watching to see if
it opens.
When will you be back?

It used to be called 'Sunken Gardens',
this section of the park. Now it is called
'The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens'
because Her Majesty visited them.
She wore a pale blue dress that day.
I remember because my sisters and I
were in the crowd. Like the others,
we stared at the Royal 'She' in awed
tones of respect and curiosity.

In high school, we used the park to
escape the hum-drum of our classes.
Hiding behind the trees and flowers
so that the jailers from the nearby
school windows would not capture us
in our freedom. We were bold in
our youth. Finely chiseled minds in
adolescent toned bodies.

We'd sit under a tree, smoking and
planning the adventure our lives would be.
None of us would conform, or so we
promised each other and ourselves.
We'd be bold flashes of novelty forever
striking a match to light the flames of
resistance to middle class lives.

We were children of the sixties,
teenagers of the 1970's. Our hopes
and dreams were not the same as
our parents. No, we did not want
to have the white picket fence! Instead
we planned on how we'd take the fences
apart and use the wood to build
alternative ways of existing. Our plans
were brave and solid, our dreams
we would make become our reality.

Now, as I walk through the park
as a grown man, well into my descent
towards my grave, I recall those vain
words we spoke. Those brittle, youthful
proclamations of a new beginning that we
were assured of becoming. None of us
really followed those dreams. The harsh
bells of the 'real world' would not stop
ringing. Most of us became our parents
all over again. Talk of freedom and
self-expression gave way to worries over
the mortgage and the bills. Working overtime
so the kids can have a new pair of jeans.

They still call it the 'Queen Elizabeth 2nd
Gardens'. The flowers are still carefully
planted every spring by the Department of
Parks and Recreation. Sometimes I come and
watch the young bodies at work digging the
soil and planting the flowers in neat, tidy rows.
Her Majesty has not visited Windsor in
quite a long time. Her picture on the money
makes her look older. Of course, she is older
but then so am I. Indeed, so are all the faces
I remember with fondness in my mind.

If I sit quietly on one of the benches,
and I slow down my breathing just a tad, I
can almost hear again our voices planning
the future none of us would have.

Wondering how to imagine flowers
in a city covered with concrete towers.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.

I walk the confines of my walls at night,
only sensing the world out of sight.
What am I searching for, I do wonder,
as confusing images blink on and off.

What does it matter if I never find
the answers to questions so unkind?
With poignant malice so pronounced
do the crawling lice stand so proud.

I sense that I shall always remain
filled with dread that fosters pain.
Internally the wheels will grind
as I try and cease their rolling.

I understand the midnight moon,
for it signifies my private womb.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.

People live. People die.
Cycle of life, they say.

Around and around
the circles dangle
like
earrings
on
a
chain.

I am one of those people.
I live. I will die.

And the only release
will
be
that
which
God
provides.

Victims to
our humanity.
Slaves to
our destinies.
We exist
in
a
fragile
shell
of
indifference.

I sometimes wonder
why we strive so hard
for pieces of paper.
Surely we are not here
to accumulate things?

When my father died,
I felt the glimmer of
mortal existence.
The essence of living
a
shadow
world,
a pretend place.

He went peacefully.
I pray I do as well.

He is at rest now.
That is what they say.

Strange words that
somehow offer
no comfort.

The silence of the chair
that now sits empty.
The searching
of
the
heart
as
it
seeks solitude.

We never know the
contents of a sealed box
until we open it.
We never know the
end until we see it.

On the day it becomes
my turn
to
join
my
father,
I hope the
tears inside
will have
all dried away.

Does he still see the flavours
of the waves that bounce
against the sands?
The grains dissipate
from the stroking
of the water.
His face is turned inward,
his thoughts circling
around nothing defined.
Shifting from questions
to faulty solutions,
the sounds of
impatience dropping
like
iron
bars
on
the
floor.
It does not help
that the lake
is littered with
the residue
of humanity.
In wonder, his
hands drop
to his side.
They become
extensions of the
failed dinner plans
and wasted intentions.
Mocking seagulls
fly shamelessly
over his head.
He considers
the direction
of
his
useless
meandering.
Time to leave.
Let the sand
handle
its'
own demise.

Isolation, those retreating seconds
      before vacancy settles in.
Sedentary drifting, perception
      in a thousand and one spaces.
I live here. That is something
      to celebrate, I suppose.
For a man must be somewhere
      and this is the situation
        which I am occupying.
An electric fan is rotating
      itself around the room of
      hollowness that sharply defines
      the brick walls of motivation.
Aspects of silhouettes tantalize
the intellect with opened drawers
      stuffed with the debris of
        other generations.
I'm confidant in
      almost nothing
       and so I
       grit my teeth
      in lines of
      indifference.
Seek only truth.
That's the line of thinking
I've been taught to employ.
      But which truth?
Which particular obscurity
is to be the one followed?
      Best to not decide.
      Best to stay undetermined.
      Let the precipitation drip
      down into the barrel.

In the night, the same light-bulb burns in the room,
shimmering like a falling star. In spite of that your

humour opens new avenues of torn eyelids trying
to capture the second by second charms of the circus.

I stand like a symbol between open and closed, muscles
hurting from sitting too long. Needing to evaporate the

marching army of belittled statements sharing the
same burnt popcorn from the same plastic bag.

War was declared, not too long ago. You declared it
and than left me to cover the flag with my disappointment.

My hands wielding so much power to maim whatever I will.
Do you still believe in blasphemous words? Do you still

tremble when a man rumbles against your body? Cupboard
doors are closed, but that is just as one would expect. Inside

them are the cans of pretense lined up like coins in a pocket.
I expect nothing anymore. You give out candy to the children,

grabbing it back before they can eat it. This is the slipping of
my faith. The stumbling of my feet when I try and walk through

the contradictions you have paraded. We might never talk
in any manner again. That would be like sliding into the

car and starting the engine. Waiting for the roar of rushing
air that would escape from the tires. It's hurting. Must be

the light-bulb burning out. Replacing it would cost too many
situations. I'd rather not tell you anything. I'd rather let the

ongoing noise of the battle rage on. Cover myself with a
blanket and pretend to sleep, taking a drag of my cigarette.