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.

She sat inside her ice-cream life
and guessed the number of
bingo markers it might take
to win the jackpot.
Sometimes she questioned why
so many people drove her
crazy. Insulted her.
She divided her friends and lovers
into good and bad directions.

It was raining outside when
she began to cook the supper.
The stove was hot she was cold.
She was always cold in her house,
in her ice vein kitchen with
the pretty white lace curtains
and the yellow-green walls.

Her problems could all be
isolated into one situation after
another. She light a cigarette.
Sitting at her table wondering
if she should cook rice or potatoes
with the meat. It didn't matter.
They'd wolf down the food
without a glance at her effort.

She found she was happier
when the kids were at school and
that man was at work doing whatever.
Impatience wasn't so much her statement
as was unconcern. So what,
she thought, as she dusted her ashes
into the ashtray.

Her memories could stretch so
far back, before this life even.
Yet she knew that what she knew
wasn't really very much at all.
Maybe he really loved her? Who knew?
For her it was only a situation.
She wondered if they'd remember
to take their shoes off at the door.
Her feelings could easily be hurt,
but on the other hand she often
neglected to express herself.
At half past five she'd put supper
on the table. They would sit around it.
Her family sharing the same table
and the same bathroom. Distance.
They were mutually ignorant of
each other.

She put out her cigarette, light another.
She wasn't afraid of cancer, just living.
Working man would be home soon,
right after the kids demanded home.
Sighing she stood up and pushed
the cat away with her foot, irritated.
Checked her purse. Bingo markers
neatly labelled. Another Friday night

Under nocturnal sky
an open fire
exonerates
tomorrow.
Here I sit
in supple ceremony,
advertising whims
and opinions.
Followers prostrate
in forms of
something different.
May we all be
as calm
as furious oceans.
Marine life drenched
with the bother
of persisting.
        There is a shadow here.
        I sense it.
        When sunshine
        thaws in
        multifaceted
        eclipses.
We are there too.
Suggestions of ourselves
resist the reticence
common to the dragging.
      There is a message here.
         I am it.
        Typed words on
        an old sheet of
        cardboard paper.
Why do placid days
always
erupt in ambient persuasions?
Shriek as if the
         planet was a
        waste of rhythm.

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

Cares and sorrows
    may last for the
     rest of my life.
I will not lose faith.
    I will not succumb
     to be one of the sheep
      following a path
       away from God.

Like a child,
     I will submit.
Prepare myself
     to be with Him.

When they close
    the lid of my coffin,
     it will not define me.
It will not matter.
    I will not be in
     the carcass they
      will mourn over.

Fear not that some
    will weep for me.
Or that others
     will proclaim
      I am with death.
I shall be with Christ.
    Jesus summons me,
     so to Him I shall go.

As the clouds gather
     in the skies above me.
As the shadows fall
     on this momentary
      place of suffering.
As the sun and moon
     travel in their
      day and night rituals,
       Christ will be with me.

I fix my eyes not
    on what I can see,
     for that is temporary.
I shall embrace
    what is unseen,
     for that is eternal.

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

I am reconciled
    with the fate
     pronounced upon me.
      I am ready
       for what is to be.

He is stronger
     than the cancer cells,
He is triumphant
     over my illness.

It is what it is.
It will be as it will be.

Christ in my prayers,
      Christ with me.

The stillness of
    sunlight
     grasping to be free
      of the clouds.
Puddles on the ground,
    hinting at the
rain that fell in the night.
These are
the abstractions
that stroke the
fondling of my thoughts.
I am firmly entrenched
      in my solitude,
      yet there are still
       a thousand voices
        in my head.
They try and
speak to me,
but with triumph,
they are ignored.
Silent inside,
where the knives
    of shunning
       do not matter.
Stopping to
     centre myself
      on the stones
       and rocks
        that surround
         the heart.
Softly release them.
Anticipate nothing,
which lets serenity begin.
This moment, this
      tiny blot of time,
I have decided
      to give up suffering.
Allowing only
the sunlight
to condition myself.
There, in that
    frosted glass of
     being nothing,
      is where I feel
       only peace.

O God,
look into my heart,
uncover my desires, and read my secrets.
Hear what I cannot put into words.
Purify me through your spirit
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.
O God,
I've been wrong and I've been right.
I've been the centre of it all
and I have been totally ignored.
Let me never ignore You,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
seeking me always as I try
and avoid You. You know my
intentions even before they are intended.
Help me to be pure,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
how many words have been sent
towards You? Empty words and silly
words. Desires and petitions for a
better life. Drifting and collecting
agreements and disagreements.
Open my thoughts,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

If
only every
lip would clap
in tones of intensity,
what
sort of
world of hatred
would we have created?
Dozens
of trembling
lips would speak
of what was coming.
And
what is
the arrival we
seek with eager fingers?
What
gold leafed
book of stories
do we feel growing?
It
must be
the open door
that calls for resistance.
Clearly
one thing
leads to another,
so it always is.
Think
of all
the dropping glass
that opens and closes.
Dozens
of stomping
feet in tune
intone the new song.
We
were singing
in heckled harmony
the eternal jungle tune.
I
tried to
find an answer
to a period unhindered.
I
wanted to
grow fresh arms,
flapping in dry heaves.
Stick
the needle
in the arm
and grow no more.

You are the hole that is filled
with the optimism of forgiveness.
I am the shovel that fills the hole
with my rushing trials of pessimism.

One day soon, I will not wake up.
At least, not in the mortal world.

You speak of upcoming glories,
that you intend to always pursue.
I drown your flames with the
exuberance of a determined mind.

On the day I die, carry on with
your blue skied version of life.

Renew the world with your
immortal songs of happiness.

You touch the hearts of people
with your eyes of sparkling hope.
I cover those eyes with tragedy
that permeates my dim perception.

Graves are empty holes, where the
body decays but the soul is gone.

Do not change your views, keep them.
Allow me also to keep true to mine.

Perspective is individual, you know.
Holes are as deep as they need to be.

Don't cry Grandson.
Grandpa is not leaving yet.
Dear little boy, your mother
shared with me that you were
shedding tears on my behalf.
Somehow in that 4 year old mind
you feared I was going from you.
Stay strong, little man. Grandpa
is going to stay around as long
as possible. You and your brother
will have me for some time yet.
And even if Grandpa goes to heaven,
you must know I'll still be with you.
Cherishing every step you take in
your long life ahead. I'll be watching,
never doubt that. How could this
deep love I hold for you boys ever
go away? I know that you are young.
So many things can seem confusing.
Fears that are not understood still
can scare the hell out of you. I know
all about this, for I too was once
your age. Hard for you to believe
that Grandpa was once a boy!
Don't cry for me, darling Grandson.
I'm still kicking around. Though
I may not seem in the best of health,
my heart and mind are strong with
my love for you. Close your eyes,
touch your heart. That is where I am.

I.V. tubes and blood,
medicines and moaning.
The dying are all here, together.
A special enduring reunion
of the Cancer Centre gang.

When the priest visits,
we talk about God.
Acceptance, understanding.
These are our topics
of conversation.

What is there to understand?
A question I keep inside...
Father speaks to me in tones
of empathy and support.
He's a nice man. Good man.

Down the hall is crying,
loud and desperately lost.
People walk by my door,
visitors and staff, going
about their business.
We all, on this floor,
are filled with stories.
Lives we've lived and
lives we are leaving.

Outside my window,
I see the tops of trees.
Closing my eyes,
I imagine I am
sitting under them

Words bolt out but no ears hear,
Bending vowels of drained attention.

She smiles in racing blossom intervals,
the atmospheres of bending bludgeons.

But still I am in love with her, fool me.
He who talks without lips moving.

See the juvenile mouth extrapolating
to judgements faulting into aching.

I wonder, well sometimes I do think,
what fashionable jungle I'm to be?

After all, she finds life too busy
to wonder long about such as me.

Immobile with soundless ambition,
the rocks grow but not in splendour.

So this is how it must convert to action,
that she succeeds where I blunder.

Oh well, so that is how it will coexist,
with words drained and solitary existing.

"Be robust" I murmur to myself, with
heart closed and cognizance brooding.

"Goodbye, my former fellow traveller!".
I am off to request novel occupations.

You your way, and I, unhappily waving.
Exhalations the only sound which cheapens.