This entry presents poems written between 2005 and 2006, except for the "Evening with Emily" collection, which can be found at this site in its own folder (and which was the main project of these two years).
1. A
Single Leaf
I thought the sun shone just for me,
a
guardian of purest gold
who
cherished each new breath I took
and
sheltered me from growing old;
I
felt the rain fall just for me
as
if the heavens blessed my soul,
providing
me with nourishment
to
keep my body strong and whole.
I
looked within and not without,
saw
nothing but my own conceit,
all
those around me I dismissed
as
peasants bowing at my feet,
until
the wind blew harder still
to
tear apart my royal fief,
and,
as I fell, I understood
that
I was just a single leaf.
2. All That Matters
2. All That Matters
The
moon was nearly full last night,
a
planet danced beside her face,
a
few clouds watched, but stood apart,
as
if in knowledge of their place;
the
wind was gentle with the trees,
the
water calm, the ships at rest,
deep
silence fell upon a land
released
from winter’s long duress.
And
yet no solace came to me
from
gazing at the heavens bright,
I
took no comfort from the stars
surrounding
me in cosmic light;
it
mattered not – this evening fair—
despite
the beauty I could view,
alone
I walked among the crowd,
for
nothing matters without you.
3. Another Winter
Another
winter, come and gone,
rivers
flow with its debris,
longer
stays the realm of dawn,
and
you still pledge your heart to me;
months
of darkness held me fast
with
clouds that fed my sorrow,
the
northern chill, the icy blast --
sombre
omens for tomorrow:
the
future just a hollow dream,
the
past a nightmare always near,
no
hope that I could yet redeem
my
soul from never ending fear;
another
winter brought me low,
stole
the sunlight from my view –
but
in its wake once more I know
how
my salvation rests in you.
4. Arachne
Weave me a web of delicate silk,
soft prison for the love I seek,
that I may draw his heart within
and guard it in my gentle keep,
to hold him close in darkened days
when winter rules the icy land
and tallest trees bend down their boughs,
no longer staunch enough to stand,
to sing to him in days of light
when quiet summer brings us peace
and all around the forest smiles
to feel its annual release;
weave me a web of delicate silk,
then welcome me to step inside,
so with my love I spend each hour,
with all Eternity to bide.
5. Ariadne's
Thread
He
saw the thread Ariadne wove
and
recognized his safety there –
no
more need of labyrinth maps
to
ease his heart of constant care;
a
coloured string would lead him back,
the
brutal monster finally slain,
and
he would live beyond today,
a
hero blessed to fight again.
He
gladly took the gift she held,
eased
his way into the deadly maze,
on
guard against the Minotaur
who
challenged him to meet his gaze,
a
beastly heart on fire for blood,
sweet
nectar of all mortal men,
ensconced
within the winding walls
surrounding
his foul-odoured den.
For
heroes long to banish foes,
to
win the glory of the fight,
and
so he made his way inside
to
claim the beast this fatal night,
moving
closer, ever slowly,
into
the darkness of the lair,
until
he saw the shifting form
emerge
before him with a dare
to
look upon the blood-stained face
of
one who caused brave men to groan,
then
woke in panic at the sight –
a
monstrous face that was his own.
6. As Summer Fades
6. As Summer Fades
The
first red leaf fell down today,
an
early victim of the cold,
the
sun is lower in the sky,
its
rays no longer summer bold;
the
spruce have bid farewell to cones
now
stored for hibernation,
while
flocks of robins fly above
in
annual migration.
How
these dwindling days I treasure,
each
a witness of our vow –
when
we pledged, one summer eve,
before
God’s altar we would bow,
our
hearts entwined forever
in
a dance without an end,
strong
enough to overcome
whatever
evils Time might send.
As
summer fades I understand
the
gentle power Love bestows,
I
place my hand upon your face
unafraid
of coming woes,
and
in your eyes I see the strength
to
help me walk another mile,
I
kiss your lips as dusk descends
upon
September’s autumn smile.
7. Autumn Equinox
Light escapes captivity,
the chains of summer broken
as relentless autumn comes
to ensnare my soul anew,
the sun retreats from sight,
Apollo with his eager steeds
flies to far off southern lands,
leaving me to darkness,
each day growing shorter
as savage winds drive clouds
through a sky of steely grey,
omen of the coming cold;
once again winter draws near,
hiding behind leaves of gold
and the harvest of summer,
lurking in the shadow of night,
I feel his icy hand upon me
as my imprisonment begins,
gazing out my frost-bound cell
at distant points of light.
8. Bipolar Express
7. Autumn Equinox
Light escapes captivity,
the chains of summer broken
as relentless autumn comes
to ensnare my soul anew,
the sun retreats from sight,
Apollo with his eager steeds
flies to far off southern lands,
leaving me to darkness,
each day growing shorter
as savage winds drive clouds
through a sky of steely grey,
omen of the coming cold;
once again winter draws near,
hiding behind leaves of gold
and the harvest of summer,
lurking in the shadow of night,
I feel his icy hand upon me
as my imprisonment begins,
gazing out my frost-bound cell
at distant points of light.
8. Bipolar Express
Only
my lines,
never
a face,
I
exist out of time,
I
exist out of space,
just
words on a page,
a
picture or two,
a
binary stage
erected
for you,
where
I play the clown
or
maybe the sage,
my
mind up and down,
laughter
and rage,
sometimes
I wail,
sometimes
I bless,
riding
the rails –
Bipolar
Express.
9. Children of the Moon
A shadow of muted light
crosses the harbour,
a shimmering illumination
granted by Selene
in her monthly round;
her face is scarred,
and hollowed cheeks
proclaim her antiquity:
existing before life,
errant child of Gaea.
At her call the tides
rise in ancient harmony,
while lovers lift their eyes
and dream of ecstasy
under her golden gaze;
on such a mystic night
we stood, hand in hand,
apart from all the world,
isolated in our love,
Children of the Moon.
10. City by the Sea: New Orleans, 2005
9. Children of the Moon
A shadow of muted light
crosses the harbour,
a shimmering illumination
granted by Selene
in her monthly round;
her face is scarred,
and hollowed cheeks
proclaim her antiquity:
existing before life,
errant child of Gaea.
At her call the tides
rise in ancient harmony,
while lovers lift their eyes
and dream of ecstasy
under her golden gaze;
on such a mystic night
we stood, hand in hand,
apart from all the world,
isolated in our love,
Children of the Moon.
10. City by the Sea: New Orleans, 2005
The
city sat for centuries
resplendent
by the sea,
a
Queen among the rabble,
black
gold gleaming in her lee,
and
those who dwelt within her
knew
well the touch of bliss,
for
surely only chosen souls
were
blessed with homes like this.
The
city sat with pride and wealth
upon
the land reclaimed
from
greedy fingers of the sea
that
bristled at her name,
forgetful
of the enemy
that
stood outside alone,
forgetful
of one fatal fact:
the
sea takes back its own.
11. Claimed
The
open sea was calling,
music
to a sailor’s soul,
a
voyage long awaited,
home,
a
foreign land departed
in
a ship designed to plunge
beneath
the mighty ocean’s
foam;
but
angry clouds assembled
and
waves began assaulting,
as
if in rage at those who
sail,
who
marine domains defile,
depths
dark and enigmatic
where
battered ships are left to
wail;
the
ship was rocked in fury,
Poseidon
pounding hatches
with
ancient power never
tamed,
and
when the storm had ended
just
a drifting hull survived,
another
fragile vessel
claimed.
(In
memoriam: Lt. Chris Saunders/HMCS Chicoutimi)
12. Climbing
Out of Darkness, 1
A
cavern, hidden deep within,
invisible
to prying eyes,
where
I descend to darkness
against
my will.
The
strange comfort of silence
drags
me further down -- quicksand,
sinking
into earth itself
as
light fades.
Yet
in the black stillness I hear
the
echo of another heart,
ever
beating next to mine,
ever
reaching out.
I
escape this inner prison
as
he lights the torch of love,
to
lead me upwards, climbing
out
of darkness.
13. Climbing
Out of Darkness, 2
The
inner cave, the one unseen
by
laughing strangers passing by,
drags
me ever down like quicksand
to
darkness that obscures the sky;
it
lures me with its silent walls,
provides
a haven for my heart –
a
stillness where no pain exists,
where
sorrows ease and soon depart.
Yet
in the dark one candle glows,
reflecting
love’s resilient flame,
and
offers warmth against the cold,
reveals
the path by which I came,
then
leads me up with gentle hand
that
I may view Creation’s light,
set
free from chains that pull me down
and
strand me in the grasp of night.
14. Clouds
Clouds rule the sky again,
hanging low in anticipation
of yet another day to assault
soil that only thirsts for sun;
Summer refuses to appear,
a reluctant suitor far away,
bestowing its loving embrace
on distant bridal lands,
leaving us abandoned here,
standing at the altar of July
in bereft amazement
as rain descends again.
My soul merges with the earth,
weighed down by endless water,
clouded by a desperate search
for light that offers respite,
the promise of Summer fading
before it has even begun,
Tantalus standing at our doors,
empty hand outstretched,
mocking us with empty dreams
of sunlit fields in crimson bloom,
of floating soft upon the sea
while clear skies caress us –
fading dreams in fading light,
a surrender of the spirit
to the power of the clouds,
we entomb our dreams and mourn.
14. Clouds
Clouds rule the sky again,
hanging low in anticipation
of yet another day to assault
soil that only thirsts for sun;
Summer refuses to appear,
a reluctant suitor far away,
bestowing its loving embrace
on distant bridal lands,
leaving us abandoned here,
standing at the altar of July
in bereft amazement
as rain descends again.
My soul merges with the earth,
weighed down by endless water,
clouded by a desperate search
for light that offers respite,
the promise of Summer fading
before it has even begun,
Tantalus standing at our doors,
empty hand outstretched,
mocking us with empty dreams
of sunlit fields in crimson bloom,
of floating soft upon the sea
while clear skies caress us –
fading dreams in fading light,
a surrender of the spirit
to the power of the clouds,
we entomb our dreams and mourn.
15. Consigned
to Love
Consigned
to loneliness,
never
believing love could come,
my
apartness too strong
and
my heart unwilling to trust;
a
hermit embracing silence
in
a cave built not of stone,
but
of life’s disappointments,
a
fabric too impermeable
for
the outside world to breach,
until
you dared to enter,
breaking
through the fortress
I
so carefully erected;
exposing
your own despair,
you
dared to set me free,
and,
against all expectation,
I
became consigned to love.
16. Daggers of Ice
Daggers of ice,
A craving irresistible,
demanding our submission,
like a hidden cancer growing
with no promise of remission,
a hunger like no other
that consumes us from within,
driving us to cast the dice
in games we cannot win;
we offer up our starving souls
in hope of sweet salvation,
only to see dreams dissolve
in false anticipation,
but still no cosmic force exists,
no dispensation from above
strong enough to satiate
our desperate need for love.
18. Distant from the Sun
I am distant from the Sun,
averse to blazing light,
and have no need of warmth
to aid my cosmic flight;
I push away from gravity
in denial of earthly force,
destined by my birth star
to steer a different course,
to spend my life in orbit
around forsaken stars
where I am free at last
to hide my face of scars,
where no one can intrude
with adamantine might,
where I can bide my time
and simply wait for night.
19. Distant Waves
16. Daggers of Ice
Daggers of ice,
sharpness
of steel,
blows
without end
making
me reel;
alone
in the night,
no
weapons at hand,
hard
to breathe in,
hard
to withstand;
a
nightmare perhaps
as
reality fades,
what
pain they inflict --
these
elegant blades;
the
leaving is near --
I
feel in my bones,
dark
ice is a herald
of
biblical stones.
17. Desperate Need
17. Desperate Need
A craving irresistible,
demanding our submission,
like a hidden cancer growing
with no promise of remission,
a hunger like no other
that consumes us from within,
driving us to cast the dice
in games we cannot win;
we offer up our starving souls
in hope of sweet salvation,
only to see dreams dissolve
in false anticipation,
but still no cosmic force exists,
no dispensation from above
strong enough to satiate
our desperate need for love.
18. Distant from the Sun
I am distant from the Sun,
averse to blazing light,
and have no need of warmth
to aid my cosmic flight;
I push away from gravity
in denial of earthly force,
destined by my birth star
to steer a different course,
to spend my life in orbit
around forsaken stars
where I am free at last
to hide my face of scars,
where no one can intrude
with adamantine might,
where I can bide my time
and simply wait for night.
19. Distant Waves
Midnight,
and I hear them
crashing
on the shore,
distant
waves that beckon,
and
I resist no more;
the
waters of baptism,
a
soul replete with sin,
to
shed my anchored flesh
I
must pass within –
anoint
my salvaged soul
by
grace of salty tears,
throw
off the lines of life,
released
from earthly fears;
adrift
upon the Ocean
as
land fades out of sight –
I
complete the cycle:
ashes
born of night.
20. Dreams
To become a perfect flower
in a meadow far away,
gone the fear of human hand
to pull me from the fertile clay,
content to greet the morning sun
as if a lover comes to call,
to feel his radiant embrace,
my heart and soul in faithful thrall,
or be a river flowing slow,
in no haste to reach the sea,
just rolling by each lofty pine,
a spirit destined to be free
until the ocean calls my name
with love in each enticing wave,
to merge my waters with her own
and spare me from an earthen grave --
what dreams beset my mind at night,
fast banished by the rising sun,
yet perhaps such dreams endure
should tomorrow never come.
21. Drifting Through
Change is all, and all is change,
nothing ever stays the same –
the words that Heraclitus spoke,
though who now knows his name?
His ever-changing river runs
with flotsam drifting to and fro,
and we become that heedless stream
as we come, and as we go,
adrift through life’s meander,
oblivious to passersby
and hesitant to cast a glance
or touch a heart before we die.
In isolation from a world
too quick to make us bleed,
we float away from tender hands
that offer comfort in our need,
and never stop to wonder
if one that we have passed
was the one designed by fate
to bring us peace at last.
So many people drifting through,
so many paths to navigate,
how simple just to close our souls
until the floods of life abate,
and yet, within this constant flow,
your heart took note of me,
pulled me from the waters wild
and set my drowning spirit free,
giving love without constraint
to one who took so long
to comprehend life’s journey
and find where she belonged.
Change is all, and all is change,
nothing ever stays the same –
yet, when my river finds the sea,
a final breath will call your name.
22. Drydock
She was banished from the sea,
too old to run before the wind,
condemned to stand alone and wait
for cruel senescence to begin,
her planks no longer strong enough
to safeguard those upon her deck,
her sails long torn and tattered,
reflections of an aged wreck;
but ever shall I think of her
flying fast beneath the sun,
a dolphin made of finest wood
whose voyages had just begun,
who sailed the unforgiving seas
that raged to take a tall ship down,
yet not the waves did take her life,
but those who walked upon the ground,
taking everything they could,
then leaving her with no goodbyes –
I stand beside my mourning friend
and dry the salty tears she cries.
To become a perfect flower
in a meadow far away,
gone the fear of human hand
to pull me from the fertile clay,
content to greet the morning sun
as if a lover comes to call,
to feel his radiant embrace,
my heart and soul in faithful thrall,
or be a river flowing slow,
in no haste to reach the sea,
just rolling by each lofty pine,
a spirit destined to be free
until the ocean calls my name
with love in each enticing wave,
to merge my waters with her own
and spare me from an earthen grave --
what dreams beset my mind at night,
fast banished by the rising sun,
yet perhaps such dreams endure
should tomorrow never come.
21. Drifting Through
Change is all, and all is change,
nothing ever stays the same –
the words that Heraclitus spoke,
though who now knows his name?
His ever-changing river runs
with flotsam drifting to and fro,
and we become that heedless stream
as we come, and as we go,
adrift through life’s meander,
oblivious to passersby
and hesitant to cast a glance
or touch a heart before we die.
In isolation from a world
too quick to make us bleed,
we float away from tender hands
that offer comfort in our need,
and never stop to wonder
if one that we have passed
was the one designed by fate
to bring us peace at last.
So many people drifting through,
so many paths to navigate,
how simple just to close our souls
until the floods of life abate,
and yet, within this constant flow,
your heart took note of me,
pulled me from the waters wild
and set my drowning spirit free,
giving love without constraint
to one who took so long
to comprehend life’s journey
and find where she belonged.
Change is all, and all is change,
nothing ever stays the same –
yet, when my river finds the sea,
a final breath will call your name.
22. Drydock
She was banished from the sea,
too old to run before the wind,
condemned to stand alone and wait
for cruel senescence to begin,
her planks no longer strong enough
to safeguard those upon her deck,
her sails long torn and tattered,
reflections of an aged wreck;
but ever shall I think of her
flying fast beneath the sun,
a dolphin made of finest wood
whose voyages had just begun,
who sailed the unforgiving seas
that raged to take a tall ship down,
yet not the waves did take her life,
but those who walked upon the ground,
taking everything they could,
then leaving her with no goodbyes –
I stand beside my mourning friend
and dry the salty tears she cries.
23. Emily Dickinson's Epitaph
Hidden by the oak trees
that towered overhead,
a weathered granite stone
paid tribute to the dead
in letters worn by wind
and ages that had fled,
so those who came to look
knew scarcely what it said:
“Here rests she forever
upon no wedding bed,
leaving naught behind her
but poems no one has read.”
24. Empty Harbour
The silence penetrates me,
the sorrow of departure
with no hope of return,
the brutal finality of it all;
once these docks lived,
gave shelter to ships
and felt needed,
perhaps even felt loved,
but no longer –
Time has a cruel way
of rendering surplus
every emotion, every bond.
If I sit here long enough
I will witness dissolution,
alone, the planks and I,
both left far behind
by those sailing elsewhere
to discover new loves –
empty harbour,
empty heart.
25. Encounter
I met a ghost the other day
who laughed at my surprise,
who seemed to have expected
the terror in my eyes;
she set her feet in front of mine
and dared me to pass on,
I stayed my course reluctantly
until her deed was done,
I felt her breath come slowly –
chill breeze upon my face –
and then her hands extended
to offer an embrace.
We stood there fast together
as she began to speak,
reminding me of promises
I once had sworn to keep,
of ancient matters long set by
and actions to regret,
she filled my mind with memories
that I dare not forget;
chastened by her presence,
and eager now to pass,
I won my freedom painfully –
put down the looking glass.
26. Flat Calm
No winds disturb my sails
or roil the water’s face,
my boat and I adrift
in this enchanted place
where only calm exists,
all worries laid aside,
replaced by loving arms –
a sea that opens wide.
At rest upon the deck,
I smile at passing gulls
and all of ocean’s kin
that float beside my hulls,
telling me of wonders
long hidden by the waves,
of sailors sleeping now
in deep and silent graves.
Flat calm upon the bay,
a paradise awaits
where I lay down to rest
and watch my life abate,
in hope that those who love
a restless soul like me
entomb my weary flesh
within the waiting sea.
27. Four Who Fell: Anthony Gordon, Lionide Johnston, Brock Myrol, Peter Schiemann
(March 3, 2005)
Those final moments
before the madness –
just another day
on the job;
talk of family,
think of home –
maybe the weather
told of spring;
their futures existed,
their dreams grew –
children to teach,
lives to save;
those final moments
before the madness –
four who fell
break our hearts.
28. Free in the Harbour (In Memoriam: Stan Rogers)
Wind and water,
sun on the sails
and wooden walls
for those who fly
in tall ships;
free in the harbour,
no anchor chain
to hold them back,
gliding like eagles
on the breeze,
their masts moving
in tune to rolling waves,
and rigging that sings
an aria of escape,
release from earth;
I hear this ghostly choir
calling from the past,
compelling me to follow,
and I set my soul
free in the harbour.
29. From Time to Time
From time to time the darkness
will enter unannounced,
a curtain that has fallen,
a tiger that has pounced,
and all around grows quiet
in mourning for the light,
so quickly stolen from us
with the coming of the night.
From time to time I ponder
where happiness has flown,
or was it just a fairy tale
destroyed as I have grown --
the innocence of children
must yield as seasons pass,
we learn of disappointment,
that nothing ever lasts.
From time to time the silence
settles down upon my soul,
I am adrift in shattered dreams,
I am no longer whole,
but even as I wander
far from my chosen path,
I know your heart is open,
your love will call me back.
30. Ghosts of the Mind
At the table alone,
surrounded by spectres,
she listened to voices
incessantly screaming,
each one was the echo
of a past still alive,
each one found her lacking,
her life without meaning.
She fought to defeat them,
to banish their presence,
but these ghosts of the mind
refused to be silenced,
they seized every moment
her defences were down,
attacked ever harder
with increasing violence.
She hungered to go back,
to mend what was broken
and pick up the fragments
she had left in her wake,
but Time was determined
to march ever forward,
and so she sat haunted
by a life of mistakes.
31. Giving Thanks (To the People of Pakistan, Thanksgiving, 2005)
Dressed in rags they wander,
picking through the debris of lives
savaged in a single moment,
in cruel despair;
I am sheltered from the cold,
walls standing strong against the wind
and surrounding all I love
in soothing comfort.
Mourning their dead they scream,
a new-born child of yesterday
no longer shares their world,
in anguished torment;
I am protected by the living,
their love a guardian against the dark,
leading me home when I feel lost,
in constant hope.
Their bodies wracked by hunger,
with eyes that plead for someone
to come and take the pain away,
in final resignation;
a feast is spread before me,
seasoned with spices from their world,
picked when the earth was gentle,
in maternal nurture.
Their pain is mine yet not mine,
their grief tempers my rejoicing –
how blessed I finally see myself,
in giving thanks.
Dressed in rags they wander,
picking through the debris of lives
savaged in a single moment,
in cruel despair;
I am sheltered from the cold,
walls standing strong against the wind
and surrounding all I love
in soothing comfort.
Mourning their dead they scream,
a new-born child of yesterday
no longer shares their world,
in anguished torment;
I am protected by the living,
their love a guardian against the dark,
leading me home when I feel lost,
in constant hope.
Their bodies wracked by hunger,
with eyes that plead for someone
to come and take the pain away,
in final resignation;
a feast is spread before me,
seasoned with spices from their world,
picked when the earth was gentle,
in maternal nurture.
Their pain is mine yet not mine,
their grief tempers my rejoicing –
how blessed I finally see myself,
in giving thanks.
32. Glacial Retreat
The sun is rising higher now,
released from winter’s iron grasp,
and sluggish coats of ice retreat
from rivers running free at last,
the glacial chill deigns to depart
as weary March draws to an end,
reluctant herald of the spring
that promises to come again.
Ground long made hard and barren
slowly wakes from hibernation,
and dormant trees raise branches
in Earth’s ageless veneration –
Apollo and his golden steeds
riding rampant east to west,
and we who walk upon the land
receive new hope at his behest.
33. Hearts of Crystal
Hearts of crystal,
hearts of stone –
hearts that weep
when love has flown
and dreams have died
before your eyes,
blown by winds
through silent skies.
Empty hallways
of the mind –
no way out,
no light to find,
no torch held high
to show the way
as dark night falls
across each day.
Words unspoken,
masks in place
hide the truths
upon your face;
questions fade,
too late to ask,
hearts of crystal –
shattered glass.
34. I Am Who I Am
You have so many questions
but no answers I provide,
I sit at home with Emily,
my secrets locked inside;
my door is firmly bolted,
my windows shuttered fast,
I contemplate the future
in escaping from the past.
Perhaps the present is enough
to keep my heart from breaking,
a silent dream of ever-love
free from terror of awaking;
in this fortress bound by walls
against the coming violence,
I whisper enigmatic words –
I am who I am in silence.
35. I Wish I Were
I wish I were diamond
sparkling in the light,
hard enough to ward off
the darkness of the night;
or perhaps a grand oak tree
standing on a lofty hill,
sturdy and transcendent,
resisting Nature’s will.
If only I could be a mountain
impervious to pain,
and never feel the torment
assailing me again;
my heart would be of granite,
absorbing every blow
sent forth by angry Fate,
no agony to know.
I wish I were so different,
a flower of a brighter hue
reaching out to sunshine –
I wish I were like you.
36. If Life Were Like A Greeting Card
If life were like a greeting card
the sun would shine each day,
and all the blessings of the world
would simply come my way;
I would not pine in sorrow
nor close my eyes in pain,
I would not feel the longing
to hold you close again,
my life would not be stained
with tears that ever fall
in grief at how you left me
when darkness came to call.
Your hands would still be near
to calm the storms of night,
to slay the dragon deep within
and bring my soul to light,
as if a ship adrift at sea
should suddenly find home,
its moorings tight against the wind
with no more need to roam;
how often do I come to see
my path would not be hard
if only you were breathing still,
to make my life a greeting card.
37. In the Time of Ever Darkness
In the Time of Ever Darkness,
when even shadows fade away,
when every star is growing dim
and vanquished is the gleam of day,
lost to me the peace of prayers
soft whispered in cathedral gloom,
flown the hope of resurrection,
my flesh awaits its destined doom –
from dust to dust the cycle calls,
a voice that gains intensity
as each new day reflects the last
and brings no hope of rest to me;
yet even as the Darkness grows
and living on I do despair,
one spark alone arrests my hand –
a light that tells me you are there.
38. In the Time of Silence
In the time of silence
nothing brought her pleasure –
no words of joy or hope
taken as a treasure,
no flowers of the field,
no starlight of the sky –
nothing broke the stillness
or caught her downcast eye.
Absent was all colour,
no rainbows arced above,
empty were the heavens
deprived the glow of love;
no music to be heard
from symphonies divine,
shut out by the sorrow
that overwhelmed her mind.
In the time of silence
she passed each day withdrawn,
resigned to passing time
until her time was gone;
but by the shadows stood
the one who held a spark,
who filled the void within
by giving her his heart.
39. Jane Creba: In Memoriam (December 26, 2005)
On the day after Christmas
she was still on vacation,
no homework to tackle,
just anticipation:
a walk along Yonge Street
with family and friends,
enjoy bargain shopping
before holidays end;
her future existed,
with so much left to do –
her dreams were ambitious,
the world was still new.
It took just a second
for the bullet to hit,
she fell to the sidewalk
before gunfire quit,
with ten minutes of future
all that remained –
no farewells to utter,
no dreams to reclaim.
And now they all gather
at the spot where she died,
children just like her,
but broken inside;
Jane Creba was murdered
by hoods with their guns,
caught in the crossfire
of gangsters and bums,
and we who now mourn her
must ask ourselves why,
in the wars of Toronto,
the innocents die.
40. Lament for Love Lost
When did the world stop revolving,
when did the flame sputter out,
when did a heart filled with promise
fall prey to the torture of doubt?
How can a soul keep pretending
that nothing has changed for the worse,
hiding away all the signals
that love has turned into a curse?
Perhaps it all happened slowly
and no one saw through the haze,
or perhaps it happened so fast
that love disappeared in a blaze.
Questions can never be answered
by hearts that are singed with despair,
burned beyond recognition
by love that was no longer there.
41. Last Journey
Wander through the Universe,
each star upon the midnight sky
a flame that welcomes strangers
who, like them, are born to die;
for nothing lasts forever
as existence flows through Time,
a river ever changing
while immune to love sublime,
unaware of ecstasy
and oblivious to pain,
a force we cannot conquer
as our spirits fight in vain;
yet while the stars are shining
and our nights on Earth not through,
I beg of Time this favour:
one last journey, loving you.
42. Light in a Minor Key
December’s light is weak,
flaring in a minor key,
hiding in the shadows
where frail eyes cannot see,
mocking at my sorrows
with all its fading strength,
forcing me to contemplate
the night’s unbounded length,
how darkness shrouds my heart
with symphonies of pain,
how despairing I become
of finding light again;
but Winter’s song will end
as seasons make their rounds –
so I must nurture hope
until the robin sounds
to greet the waxing sun
and set my soul at ease,
to conduct an ode to joy
as light plays major keys.
43. Love Poem
I tried to write a love poem
that you would dare to read,
unafraid to see words wrought
from Love’s eternal creed,
that spoke of quiet union
and whispers in the night,
conveying with an image
the darkness now made light.
I tried to find a metaphor
expressing deepest passion,
but faltered in my effort
with words so out of fashion
that modern poets turn away
and consider me antique,
a poet for the greeting card,
with modest right to speak.
I offer you this love poem
despite their harsh disdain,
a gift born of amazement
that with me you remain,
brave enough to weather storms
that others would fast flee,
brave enough to undertake
the cost of loving me.
44. Lover’s Duet: A Poem for Two Voices
1) What if the path I walk upon
should turn at Fate’s decree
to leave me lost upon a land
not blessed by loving touch of sea,
would you continue on your way,
or would you walk with me?
2) Whatever path you walk upon,
in whatever land you roam,
be it locked in earth’s embrace
or kissed by salty foam,
I will be there to take your hand
and gently guide you home.
1) What if the stars go dark tonight
and heaven disappear,
no sun, no moon, no light at all
against primeval fear,
would you depart like stardust,
or would you still be near?
2) Should the stars go dark tonight
and tomorrow never come,
I find the courage in your arms
to watch the dying sun,
and promise, when the end is near,
we leave this realm as one.
45. Loving Presence
The years have clouded
the face I treasured,
I gaze at old photographs
and you live once more;
so many years gone
since that final farewell –
do you still watch over me,
is that your voice I hear
in the hours before sunrise,
when all should be quiet?
A special bond was ours,
a secret, silent oath of love
bound our hearts into one,
and then you were gone
and my heart no longer whole;
what power our love had,
to transcend Eternity itself,
for even as I stand here,
placing a stone upon your grave,
I still feel your loving presence.
46. Magician
In a world full of madness
you come to me gently,
dispelling the chaos
growing within,
as if a magician
with the wave of his wand
drove off the darkness,
let light come in.
I surrender my soul
to the flame in your eyes,
never flagging reminder
of love’s sweet vow,
and if “forever” should falter
before the passing of time,
I shall forfeit the future –
just love me now.
47. Metamorphosis
Coiled within her lonely lair,
in search of sweet escape,
a butterfly sheds tears
in anguish at her fate,
doomed to fly so briefly
upon the gentle breeze,
adorned in brightest hues
designed as if to tease
all who come to wonder
at beauty on the wing,
thinking grace eternal
and not a fragile thing,
but yet she also yearns
to taste of life at last,
heedless of the future,
forgetful of the past –
just feeling for one moment
the fire of flying free,
released from silken bonds,
allowed to simply be.
48. Mirror
The sea is strangely calm tonight,
its winter madness at last set aside
to create instead a liquid mirror
reflecting the image of the moon;
the winds are blowing elsewhere,
pounding shores in far off lands
that I may gaze upon the ocean
in a silent stillness unaccustomed.
Stars are glowing in the water’s face,
the cosmos now within my grasp,
to touch a sun – and feel no fire –
to become one with eternity,
all fear of death now banished
by the silvery waves at my feet,
their lover’s touch – ecstatic –
the seductive promise of immortality.
I will stay here, upon these sands
now released from brutal blows,
and watch the heavens on parade
in hope this night will never end.
49. Misfits and Oddballs
They live on the fringes,
disdained and forgotten
by those who have won
in a game that is rotten,
where justice is empty
and love is too rare –
no wonder they search
for someone to care
if they fall by the wayside
while others rejoice,
for someone to listen
to their muted voice.
Misfits and oddballs,
apart from the norm
by which lives are lived
according to form,
for those who are different
are destined to fade,
so tired of the masks
in this endless charade.
50. Missing You
Laughter rings around me,
so many things to do,
yet I sit here by myself,
so lost, and missing you;
I wonder at the power
that binds a lover's heart --
how each seems disconnected
when the other must depart.
How empty is the world
without you by my side,
though others offer love
and arms that open wide,
for love is single-minded,
a force I cannot fight,
my soul will yield to sorrow
apart from you tonight,
and time will bring no respite
as long as you are far,
so I wait for your return,
victims of the lover's star.
51. Music of Dreams
52. Mute Swan
When words fade away
and I sit in silence,
mute as that forlorn swan
dying in despair,
I look upon the pen
become an arrow piercing
my heart, and wonder
who would care
for a bard without song,
no music to delight them
or push away their pain,
no anodyne;
lost the Muse I love,
withdrawing inspiration,
gone elsewhere with the voice
once mine.
53. Neil's Harbour, Cape Breton, NS
I walked along the harbour
as ships quivered in the night,
orphans riding on the waves
alone till dawn’s diurnal light;
the wooden wharf stood sentry,
a single lamp upon its planks,
proud guardian of vessels
born to ride the grandest banks.
I felt the breeze upon my face,
smelled the sea spray in the air,
bent to touch the lapping waves,
to let them know someone was there –
someone who loved their laughter,
who heard them sing their salty tune –
to sit with them beneath the stars
in the glow of the indigo moon.
54. Neil’s Song: Starlight Tour (Neil Stonechild [1973-1990]: In Memoriam)
Freezing cold in Saskatoon,
November winds upon your face
cannot erase the pain inside
or heal the sorrows of your race;
just another native kid
strung out on smokes and booze,
looking for a little fun
with nothing much to lose.
But in the car in handcuffs
did you think they would take pity,
or did you fear the starlight tour
as they drove far from the city?
“A little walk” is what they said,
“long enough to make you sober”,
then hit the gas in laughter
because their shift was over.
And so you walked beneath the stars
until your flesh grew cold as ice;
you fell, then struggled to get up
as you paid the white man’s price
for being red, for being stoned,
and when your corpse was finally seen,
“ just another native kid,”
frozen dead at seventeen.
55. Neptune’s Wage
Her slender craft had found its rest,
a haven from the storms of night,
its anchor cast into the waves
as if to counter Nature’s might –
lest northern winds of autumn birth
that howl in sudden agony
should lash the waves into a storm
that pushes slender crafts to sea.
But anchors even made of steel
must rest in rocks bound to the land,
no safety lies in anchorage
within the arms of shifting sand;
and so her craft was cast away
to founder in the ocean’s rage,
its captain lost and cursing God,
in death to pay cruel Neptune’s wage.
56. New Year Rain
Rain cleanses the city,
the healing touch of water
infiltrates, restores;
endings and beginnings –
Time is the river flowing
into the eternal sea,
yesterday rides the waves
beyond my reach.
I offer myself unto the rain,
penitent, seeking absolution
by grace of Heaven’s tears,
anointed and redeemed;
today I shall be baptized
in the love within your eyes,
and, as long as you are here,
I shall never fear tomorrow.
57. No Escape
The winds are growing stronger
and pierce my flesh with ease,
the nights are growing longer
with winter’s cruel disease –
an illness brought by seasons
revolving as they must,
a torment far from reason
that turns my soul to dust.
A captive in a frigid cell
with no escape in sight,
with fears I cannot quell
in such an endless night,
nor is there any anodyne
against this Darkness vast --
I set a silence in my mind,
and wait for Time to pass.
58. Northern Wind
Across the bay a cold wind races,
descending from the north
with an apocryphal vengeance,
laying waste the land;
ancient trees bend and bow,
subservient to northern rage,
as younger saplings stand firm,
break, and fall to earth.
A primal power, inescapable,
knows not the grace of mercy,
is deaf to human cries
and blind to human tears;
resist, and you are broken,
bend, and you are saved –
Dionysus ever rampant,
incarnate in the northern wind.
59. November Clouds
Grey clouds descend,
a shroud of farewell
to the passing year,
ending, as it began,
in the cold of winter.
In winter we are born,
yearning for a sun
shining still too distant,
ignoring our presence
in the cycle of seasons;
in winter we find death,
the closure of Time
finally embracing us
as the land grows silent,
earth our barren mother.
In grey November clouds
existence lies dormant,
the pulse of life slowed,
with each soul suspended
upon a cross of ice.
60. Oracle
She sat there, still as night,
a maid untouched by Time,
anointed by Apollo
among the lofty pines,
crowned with leaves of laurel
and dressed in silken robes,
her mind aflame with wisdom
all seekers sought to probe.
Each question she did ponder
as god himself decreed,
captive of the sacred stones,
forgetful of her needs,
heedless of the passion
repressed so deep within,
to fail the god she honoured –
unthinkable the sin.
Yet one question louder grew
as seasons passed along:
why was her life so haunted
by Apollo’s loveless song –
how came she to be chosen
for such a life of fame
when all she ever wanted
was knowing her own name.
61. Places
Trees on fire with autumn’s flame
and lakes where summer lingers still,
mountains reaching for soft clouds
that float above each vale and hill –
such places beckon me approach,
to lay life’s burdens gently down,
to watch the flight of soaring gulls
and feel God’s blessings all around.
Rooms on fire with blinding lights,
voices screaming out in pain,
calling God to hear their pleas,
to make their bodies whole again –
such places haunt my fractured mind
and tear away the veil of peace,
yet even caverns born of Hell
may lead to pathways of release.
So many places wait for me,
some be friend, and some be foe,
my restless soul will not retreat,
for all are places I must go.
62. Poets and Dreamers
To live in a world without hunger,
where wars are no longer fought
and swords are turned into ploughshares
for love is the goal to be sought;
to arise each day in wonder
at the luminescence of the sky,
the brilliance of the constellations
bringing light to night’s dark eye;
to hear the sound of giving birth
and know that each new baby born
will never have to suffer violence
or shed his innocence to mourn;
to live so gently on the earth
that her face would bear no scar
and peace would grace us forever –
what poets and dreamers we are.
63. Reflections
Full moon upon the lake,
no wind disturbs the calm,
no sound intrudes upon
vernal peace,
reflections fill our eyes,
creating a world imaginary,
where all turmoil ends in
final release.
Light and Earth and Water,
conspirators and magicians,
purveyors of willed deception
gratefully received,
nurtured and consumed
by lovers hungry for time,
embracing every second
of pain relieved.
In this one moment we live
as if Eternity existed,
and we escape mortality
without detection,
blessed by an ancient moon
making the illusion real,
for in your eyes I see
my own reflection.
64. Scars
The face in the mirror
looks back at me,
reflecting the scars
I try not to see,
the wounds left by life
with each passing day,
doomed never to heal
or fade slowly away.
These scars on my soul
are hidden from you,
but known to the mirror
that holds me in view;
that elegant traitor,
created from glass,
will not let me leave,
will not let me pass
without seeing myself
in its callous eye,
all pretense removed,
my mask set aside,
and if you should glimpse
my soul laid so bare,
please quicken your step
and try not to stare.
65. Sea of Steel
The face of Winter approaching,
a chilling gaze that turns the sea
the colour of cold tempered steel,
encasing all that once was free
in chains of adamantine strength
that lock me in a cage of ice,
shackles keeping me earth-bound
until the end of Winter’s night;
convicted by the turn of Time
and sentenced to the cell of land,
how much I fear this sea of steel
will soon erode my heart of sand.
66. Sentinal Stars
Stars on the longest night –
lonely beacons that flare
as if in defiance
at the close of the year,
to counter the Darkness
that now rages supreme
and threatens to vanquish
what remains of our dreams,
to wipe out the memory
of months blessed by the light –
a time now receding
from December’s fierce might;
but sentinel stars watch
with a resolute gaze,
affording us solace
till the rebirth of days.
67. Separate Shores
Dusk, and I sit on the shore,
under the glow of an orange sun
that marks the passing of day,
and think of you on your shore:
how we both gaze at waves
arriving from so far away,
the foam of the sea calling us
to venture on new journeys,
how we feel the pull of the tides,
every heartbeat pulsing in time
to the endless rhythm of the sea,
a music as old as the earth itself,
and how we each, on separate shores,
somehow understand the magic
made by water and the moon,
the ocean that unites our souls.
Dusk, and I rise to leave the shore,
pausing, just for one moment,
to cast my eyes upon the horizon,
beyond the sea, to you.
68. Serotonin Serenades
Do you hear the voice inside your head,
the one you want so much to banish,
telling you that nothing matters,
that all your dreams are set to vanish?
Persistent agent provocateur,
taking pleasure in your torment,
a genetic monster of the mind
that will not leave you for one moment,
but rather laughs at your frail struggle
to cleanse the body of its venom,
a viper slithering within,
invading every bone and tendon;
like Ulysses on his broken barque,
you block your ears day after day
to still the clamour of this Siren
singing serotonin serenades.
69. Seventeen
She remembers seventeen,
burned into her heart,
the time of lost and lonely,
her life a winding labyrinth
with no escape in view;
she tries so hard to forget,
repress the raging anger
at a world where no one cared,
where being seventeen
was too painful to endure.
But then she looks at you,
the child-woman so afraid
of who she might become,
unable to look ahead,
beyond the grief of seventeen,
and sees herself in your eyes,
recognizes the same scars
still imprinted on her soul,
and wants to love you more
than she was, at seventeen.
70. Shadow
The shadow of a man came near,
lacking form yet full of sorrow,
mixing tears released today
with tears to flow tomorrow,
for all he sees are Furies
swooping down to drain his heart,
vultures searching for his flesh,
blood demons who never depart.
A world that once cherished laughter
changed into one filled with grief,
he cries at the torment of mortals,
at pain that will find no relief,
for souls are too fragile for loving
when passion gives way to remorse,
he drifts like a boat without anchor,
driven too far from its course,
no haven in sight from the darkness,
no beacon of light seen ahead,
he knows he is storm-bound in limbo,
alive and yet somehow so dead.
71. Shadows
My life is spent in shadows
where hidden I remain,
you cannot gaze upon me
or even know my name,
for I am but a cipher,
a code you cannot break,
my mask is set in place
the moment I awake
to offer its protection
against a broken heart,
to mute the sound of sorrow
when those I love depart;
in darkness I find solace,
a balm for wounds unhealed,
and should the darkness fade
my pain will be revealed,
and so I tend my soul
where living ghosts abide –
salvation in the shadows,
the shadows where I hide.
72. Silver Spoons
Silver spoons in short supply,
we bear our pain alone,
glance in envy at all those
who share in joy well known,
whose faces beam in pictures,
whose voices fill our ears,
who cannot feel our sorrow
and cannot dry our tears.
That other is the stranger
whose life is ever blessed,
I feel myself excluded –
an exile from the rest,
born to walk another path
whereon no dreams come true,
railing at the whims of Fate,
and wishing I were you.
73. Siren Sea
Along the shore, in the dark of night,
I walk among the bones of those
who escaped the shelter of the sea
and surrendered their lives,
shells that once breathed the deep
lie abandoned by moon-fed tides,
testament to the dangers of the land
for all creatures nurtured by water,
and so I remain here, captive of ocean,
my soul in thrall to wind and waves
that change with every season,
yet never lose their power to entrance,
and should I ever break those bonds
my bones would also lie upon this shore,
and, as long as Time itself survived,
would call out in vain to the siren sea.
74. Song for Daniel
The room was cloaked in darkness,
its silence deep and still,
when a passing butterfly
paused upon the window sill,
it could not stay forever –
its path was well defined –
but for one blissful moment,
that visitor was mine;
I marvelled at its beauty,
how gossamer of wing,
and asked my mourning soul
what message it might bring.
It gazed at me forlornly
as if it knew my woe
and wanted me to understand
just why it had to go,
that other journeys beckoned
this creature of a day,
that time was running short
and here it must not stay,
but how it touched my heart
with love and sad regret,
and even though it flew away
I never would forget.
75. Starlight Sonata
A night so clear, so dark
that every star on high
bestows a sparkling glow
upon my watchful eye,
heaven fills with beacons,
sharp points of distant light,
and my body starts to reel
at the beauty of this night;
I drift upon the cosmos,
the solar winds my guide,
and rejoice as suns ignite,
the darkness now denied;
new light will fill my sails
and time will not exist
as I lose my mortal fear
inside the cosmic mist.
76. Summer Rain
Rain is dancing on the roof
as I emerge from sleep,
barely aware of the dawn
that urges me to wake;
summer rain is gentle,
lulling me back to dream,
to push aside the newborn day
and revel in its quiet rhythm.
My eyes long to close again,
but I refuse their demand,
forcing my body to arise
and answer another call,
for my spirit thirsts to walk
in healing summer rain.
77. Sundays at Tim's
Alone in the corner,
a weathered face stares
into the distance,
lost in remembrance
of days long ago;
beside the window
a solitary student
reads what a poet
wrote about an urn,
text stained with coffee;
the couple in the booth –
there every Sunday:
he reads the newspaper
as she counts the cars
passing through the drive-in.
People alone, people together
but still, somehow, alone,
just passing the time
on another long Sunday,
watching and waiting;
and I am there too,
a shadowy phantom
hiding by the door,
hoping to escape their eyes
in my own solitude.
78. Sweet Surrender
Nascent light filters
through dark windows,
breaking my sleep;
I struggle to awake
as if climbing a hill
too rocky and steep,
and always fall back,
unable to escape
the chains of night;
I hear you breathe,
and closing my eyes
give up the fight,
then touch your arm
without disturbing
your sunrise dreams,
a sweet embrace
holds me protected
from spying beams;
the coming of day
brings me no terror
while you rest here,
my stalwart guardian,
ever so loving,
lying so near;
this dawn I abandon
the war of awaking,
my struggle through –
I surrender to sleep,
and, in this retreat,
I surrender to you.
79. Symphony Divine
Electric magic in the sky,
ribbons cutting through the heavens
in wide swaths of sparkling colours,
and she sat on the cliff watching –
mesmerized by the their beauty;
on nights like this she found respite
in dances of the northern lights –
a ballet crafted to music
never composed by human hand,
performed this night for her alone,
and she let the music enter,
allowing it to penetrate
her fragile cloak of mortal flesh –
and felt this cosmic energy
create a symphony divine.
80. The Blue Rose
A rose unlike the rest
came into my view,
wearing on its face
a tender shade of blue,
as if the sky came down
to seed the barren earth,
which bore a single bloom,
a symbol of rebirth.
To touch it I dare not,
lest any harm befall
a flower of perfection,
come at heaven’s call,
but I shall gaze in wonder
in thanks to God above
for sending me this rose,
which I shall ever love.
81. The Bull from the Sea (December 26, 2004)
Far below surface serenity,
among the creatures of the deep,
Earth began a labour unexpected,
premature,
in torment moving and groaning
until her muted screams exploded
into sudden crazed convulsion,
unbearable,
and the seafloor opened to bear
a raging bull born of the waves,
a monster racing ever outward,
relentless,
its hunger turned to sun-blessed shores,
a bellowing never heard before
falling in wrath upon the land,
ruthless,
then receding in cruel satiation,
abducting unsuspecting flesh and bone
into a labyrinth inescapable,
lethal,
while the ocean fast closed over
in triumph against opposing lands,
embracing its beastly child
forever.
82. The Child I Was
The child I was loved solitude,
a haven from her constant fright,
embraced the silence of the dawn
and feared the onset of the night;
to others she might seem alone,
a hermit hiding in her cell,
but her vast imagination
created stories she could tell,
and in the notebook at her hand
she wrote of monsters in the dark,
created heroes on fair steeds
to make her demons fast depart;
perhaps you think her very odd,
a silent child to give you pause –
but now the woman in her place
emerges from the child she was,
and understands the fate of those
who differ from expected norms,
who seek release in shelters spared
the blows of life’s tormenting storms.
83. The Lost Coast
Sorrow that I cannot be
everything you ask,
sorrow that my destiny
dictates a different path,
a forest far from sunlight
beside the roiling sea,
the destined realm of night
that stalks all those like me
whose hearts belong to ocean,
whose souls flow with the tide,
who forfeit every notion
of salvation found inside;
sorrow that I cannot give
the gift you long for most,
sorrow that the life I live
leaves me lost upon this coast.
84. The Love Poem
I struggled to write him a love poem
but words were not destined to come,
stanzas of flowers and angels
lay waste when the long day was done,
no phrase seemed apt to encompass
the passion that bound us together,
no image was brought by the Muse,
serving as tribute forever.
So I wandered away from the desk
where I pondered what I could say
to one whose heart was a pilgrim
determined to travel my way,
and silently sat in the dark
in pursuit of some gesture grand –
till he lifted the burden from me
by quietly taking my hand.
85. The Match
Wrestling with words,
slippery opponents,
ever elusively dancing
just beyond your grasp,
surrounding you in derision,
taunting your inability
to pin them down
upon the literary mat.
Such tiny combatants
overwhelm your pen,
forcing you to admit defeat,
throw in the towel –
wrestling with words,
futility made manifest,
your frailty exposed
to watching eyes.
86. The Midnight Flame
A night of ice and snow,
bone-chilling winds shake
brittle panes of glass
as I wait,
the room in darkness,
the fire reduced to dust,
I shiver in despair,
fear your fate;
I watch the maelstrom grow,
erase the world outside,
I listen for your voice,
call your name,
and pray you will return,
your love my only hope –
strong enough to kindle
the midnight flame.
87. The Reach of Time
Hidden by the oak trees
that towered overhead,
a weathered granite stone
paid tribute to the dead
in letters worn by wind
and ages that had fled,
so those who came to look
knew scarcely what it said:
“Here rests she forever
upon no wedding bed,
leaving naught behind her
but poems no one has read.”
24. Empty Harbour
The silence penetrates me,
the sorrow of departure
with no hope of return,
the brutal finality of it all;
once these docks lived,
gave shelter to ships
and felt needed,
perhaps even felt loved,
but no longer –
Time has a cruel way
of rendering surplus
every emotion, every bond.
If I sit here long enough
I will witness dissolution,
alone, the planks and I,
both left far behind
by those sailing elsewhere
to discover new loves –
empty harbour,
empty heart.
25. Encounter
I met a ghost the other day
who laughed at my surprise,
who seemed to have expected
the terror in my eyes;
she set her feet in front of mine
and dared me to pass on,
I stayed my course reluctantly
until her deed was done,
I felt her breath come slowly –
chill breeze upon my face –
and then her hands extended
to offer an embrace.
We stood there fast together
as she began to speak,
reminding me of promises
I once had sworn to keep,
of ancient matters long set by
and actions to regret,
she filled my mind with memories
that I dare not forget;
chastened by her presence,
and eager now to pass,
I won my freedom painfully –
put down the looking glass.
26. Flat Calm
No winds disturb my sails
or roil the water’s face,
my boat and I adrift
in this enchanted place
where only calm exists,
all worries laid aside,
replaced by loving arms –
a sea that opens wide.
At rest upon the deck,
I smile at passing gulls
and all of ocean’s kin
that float beside my hulls,
telling me of wonders
long hidden by the waves,
of sailors sleeping now
in deep and silent graves.
Flat calm upon the bay,
a paradise awaits
where I lay down to rest
and watch my life abate,
in hope that those who love
a restless soul like me
entomb my weary flesh
within the waiting sea.
27. Four Who Fell: Anthony Gordon, Lionide Johnston, Brock Myrol, Peter Schiemann
(March 3, 2005)
Those final moments
before the madness –
just another day
on the job;
talk of family,
think of home –
maybe the weather
told of spring;
their futures existed,
their dreams grew –
children to teach,
lives to save;
those final moments
before the madness –
four who fell
break our hearts.
28. Free in the Harbour (In Memoriam: Stan Rogers)
Wind and water,
sun on the sails
and wooden walls
for those who fly
in tall ships;
free in the harbour,
no anchor chain
to hold them back,
gliding like eagles
on the breeze,
their masts moving
in tune to rolling waves,
and rigging that sings
an aria of escape,
release from earth;
I hear this ghostly choir
calling from the past,
compelling me to follow,
and I set my soul
free in the harbour.
29. From Time to Time
From time to time the darkness
will enter unannounced,
a curtain that has fallen,
a tiger that has pounced,
and all around grows quiet
in mourning for the light,
so quickly stolen from us
with the coming of the night.
From time to time I ponder
where happiness has flown,
or was it just a fairy tale
destroyed as I have grown --
the innocence of children
must yield as seasons pass,
we learn of disappointment,
that nothing ever lasts.
From time to time the silence
settles down upon my soul,
I am adrift in shattered dreams,
I am no longer whole,
but even as I wander
far from my chosen path,
I know your heart is open,
your love will call me back.
30. Ghosts of the Mind
At the table alone,
surrounded by spectres,
she listened to voices
incessantly screaming,
each one was the echo
of a past still alive,
each one found her lacking,
her life without meaning.
She fought to defeat them,
to banish their presence,
but these ghosts of the mind
refused to be silenced,
they seized every moment
her defences were down,
attacked ever harder
with increasing violence.
She hungered to go back,
to mend what was broken
and pick up the fragments
she had left in her wake,
but Time was determined
to march ever forward,
and so she sat haunted
by a life of mistakes.
31. Giving Thanks (To the People of Pakistan, Thanksgiving, 2005)
Dressed in rags they wander,
picking through the debris of lives
savaged in a single moment,
in cruel despair;
I am sheltered from the cold,
walls standing strong against the wind
and surrounding all I love
in soothing comfort.
Mourning their dead they scream,
a new-born child of yesterday
no longer shares their world,
in anguished torment;
I am protected by the living,
their love a guardian against the dark,
leading me home when I feel lost,
in constant hope.
Their bodies wracked by hunger,
with eyes that plead for someone
to come and take the pain away,
in final resignation;
a feast is spread before me,
seasoned with spices from their world,
picked when the earth was gentle,
in maternal nurture.
Their pain is mine yet not mine,
their grief tempers my rejoicing –
how blessed I finally see myself,
in giving thanks.
Dressed in rags they wander,
picking through the debris of lives
savaged in a single moment,
in cruel despair;
I am sheltered from the cold,
walls standing strong against the wind
and surrounding all I love
in soothing comfort.
Mourning their dead they scream,
a new-born child of yesterday
no longer shares their world,
in anguished torment;
I am protected by the living,
their love a guardian against the dark,
leading me home when I feel lost,
in constant hope.
Their bodies wracked by hunger,
with eyes that plead for someone
to come and take the pain away,
in final resignation;
a feast is spread before me,
seasoned with spices from their world,
picked when the earth was gentle,
in maternal nurture.
Their pain is mine yet not mine,
their grief tempers my rejoicing –
how blessed I finally see myself,
in giving thanks.
32. Glacial Retreat
The sun is rising higher now,
released from winter’s iron grasp,
and sluggish coats of ice retreat
from rivers running free at last,
the glacial chill deigns to depart
as weary March draws to an end,
reluctant herald of the spring
that promises to come again.
Ground long made hard and barren
slowly wakes from hibernation,
and dormant trees raise branches
in Earth’s ageless veneration –
Apollo and his golden steeds
riding rampant east to west,
and we who walk upon the land
receive new hope at his behest.
33. Hearts of Crystal
Hearts of crystal,
hearts of stone –
hearts that weep
when love has flown
and dreams have died
before your eyes,
blown by winds
through silent skies.
Empty hallways
of the mind –
no way out,
no light to find,
no torch held high
to show the way
as dark night falls
across each day.
Words unspoken,
masks in place
hide the truths
upon your face;
questions fade,
too late to ask,
hearts of crystal –
shattered glass.
34. I Am Who I Am
You have so many questions
but no answers I provide,
I sit at home with Emily,
my secrets locked inside;
my door is firmly bolted,
my windows shuttered fast,
I contemplate the future
in escaping from the past.
Perhaps the present is enough
to keep my heart from breaking,
a silent dream of ever-love
free from terror of awaking;
in this fortress bound by walls
against the coming violence,
I whisper enigmatic words –
I am who I am in silence.
35. I Wish I Were
I wish I were diamond
sparkling in the light,
hard enough to ward off
the darkness of the night;
or perhaps a grand oak tree
standing on a lofty hill,
sturdy and transcendent,
resisting Nature’s will.
If only I could be a mountain
impervious to pain,
and never feel the torment
assailing me again;
my heart would be of granite,
absorbing every blow
sent forth by angry Fate,
no agony to know.
I wish I were so different,
a flower of a brighter hue
reaching out to sunshine –
I wish I were like you.
36. If Life Were Like A Greeting Card
If life were like a greeting card
the sun would shine each day,
and all the blessings of the world
would simply come my way;
I would not pine in sorrow
nor close my eyes in pain,
I would not feel the longing
to hold you close again,
my life would not be stained
with tears that ever fall
in grief at how you left me
when darkness came to call.
Your hands would still be near
to calm the storms of night,
to slay the dragon deep within
and bring my soul to light,
as if a ship adrift at sea
should suddenly find home,
its moorings tight against the wind
with no more need to roam;
how often do I come to see
my path would not be hard
if only you were breathing still,
to make my life a greeting card.
37. In the Time of Ever Darkness
In the Time of Ever Darkness,
when even shadows fade away,
when every star is growing dim
and vanquished is the gleam of day,
lost to me the peace of prayers
soft whispered in cathedral gloom,
flown the hope of resurrection,
my flesh awaits its destined doom –
from dust to dust the cycle calls,
a voice that gains intensity
as each new day reflects the last
and brings no hope of rest to me;
yet even as the Darkness grows
and living on I do despair,
one spark alone arrests my hand –
a light that tells me you are there.
38. In the Time of Silence
In the time of silence
nothing brought her pleasure –
no words of joy or hope
taken as a treasure,
no flowers of the field,
no starlight of the sky –
nothing broke the stillness
or caught her downcast eye.
Absent was all colour,
no rainbows arced above,
empty were the heavens
deprived the glow of love;
no music to be heard
from symphonies divine,
shut out by the sorrow
that overwhelmed her mind.
In the time of silence
she passed each day withdrawn,
resigned to passing time
until her time was gone;
but by the shadows stood
the one who held a spark,
who filled the void within
by giving her his heart.
39. Jane Creba: In Memoriam (December 26, 2005)
On the day after Christmas
she was still on vacation,
no homework to tackle,
just anticipation:
a walk along Yonge Street
with family and friends,
enjoy bargain shopping
before holidays end;
her future existed,
with so much left to do –
her dreams were ambitious,
the world was still new.
It took just a second
for the bullet to hit,
she fell to the sidewalk
before gunfire quit,
with ten minutes of future
all that remained –
no farewells to utter,
no dreams to reclaim.
And now they all gather
at the spot where she died,
children just like her,
but broken inside;
Jane Creba was murdered
by hoods with their guns,
caught in the crossfire
of gangsters and bums,
and we who now mourn her
must ask ourselves why,
in the wars of Toronto,
the innocents die.
40. Lament for Love Lost
When did the world stop revolving,
when did the flame sputter out,
when did a heart filled with promise
fall prey to the torture of doubt?
How can a soul keep pretending
that nothing has changed for the worse,
hiding away all the signals
that love has turned into a curse?
Perhaps it all happened slowly
and no one saw through the haze,
or perhaps it happened so fast
that love disappeared in a blaze.
Questions can never be answered
by hearts that are singed with despair,
burned beyond recognition
by love that was no longer there.
41. Last Journey
Wander through the Universe,
each star upon the midnight sky
a flame that welcomes strangers
who, like them, are born to die;
for nothing lasts forever
as existence flows through Time,
a river ever changing
while immune to love sublime,
unaware of ecstasy
and oblivious to pain,
a force we cannot conquer
as our spirits fight in vain;
yet while the stars are shining
and our nights on Earth not through,
I beg of Time this favour:
one last journey, loving you.
42. Light in a Minor Key
December’s light is weak,
flaring in a minor key,
hiding in the shadows
where frail eyes cannot see,
mocking at my sorrows
with all its fading strength,
forcing me to contemplate
the night’s unbounded length,
how darkness shrouds my heart
with symphonies of pain,
how despairing I become
of finding light again;
but Winter’s song will end
as seasons make their rounds –
so I must nurture hope
until the robin sounds
to greet the waxing sun
and set my soul at ease,
to conduct an ode to joy
as light plays major keys.
43. Love Poem
I tried to write a love poem
that you would dare to read,
unafraid to see words wrought
from Love’s eternal creed,
that spoke of quiet union
and whispers in the night,
conveying with an image
the darkness now made light.
I tried to find a metaphor
expressing deepest passion,
but faltered in my effort
with words so out of fashion
that modern poets turn away
and consider me antique,
a poet for the greeting card,
with modest right to speak.
I offer you this love poem
despite their harsh disdain,
a gift born of amazement
that with me you remain,
brave enough to weather storms
that others would fast flee,
brave enough to undertake
the cost of loving me.
44. Lover’s Duet: A Poem for Two Voices
1) What if the path I walk upon
should turn at Fate’s decree
to leave me lost upon a land
not blessed by loving touch of sea,
would you continue on your way,
or would you walk with me?
2) Whatever path you walk upon,
in whatever land you roam,
be it locked in earth’s embrace
or kissed by salty foam,
I will be there to take your hand
and gently guide you home.
1) What if the stars go dark tonight
and heaven disappear,
no sun, no moon, no light at all
against primeval fear,
would you depart like stardust,
or would you still be near?
2) Should the stars go dark tonight
and tomorrow never come,
I find the courage in your arms
to watch the dying sun,
and promise, when the end is near,
we leave this realm as one.
45. Loving Presence
The years have clouded
the face I treasured,
I gaze at old photographs
and you live once more;
so many years gone
since that final farewell –
do you still watch over me,
is that your voice I hear
in the hours before sunrise,
when all should be quiet?
A special bond was ours,
a secret, silent oath of love
bound our hearts into one,
and then you were gone
and my heart no longer whole;
what power our love had,
to transcend Eternity itself,
for even as I stand here,
placing a stone upon your grave,
I still feel your loving presence.
46. Magician
In a world full of madness
you come to me gently,
dispelling the chaos
growing within,
as if a magician
with the wave of his wand
drove off the darkness,
let light come in.
I surrender my soul
to the flame in your eyes,
never flagging reminder
of love’s sweet vow,
and if “forever” should falter
before the passing of time,
I shall forfeit the future –
just love me now.
47. Metamorphosis
Coiled within her lonely lair,
in search of sweet escape,
a butterfly sheds tears
in anguish at her fate,
doomed to fly so briefly
upon the gentle breeze,
adorned in brightest hues
designed as if to tease
all who come to wonder
at beauty on the wing,
thinking grace eternal
and not a fragile thing,
but yet she also yearns
to taste of life at last,
heedless of the future,
forgetful of the past –
just feeling for one moment
the fire of flying free,
released from silken bonds,
allowed to simply be.
48. Mirror
The sea is strangely calm tonight,
its winter madness at last set aside
to create instead a liquid mirror
reflecting the image of the moon;
the winds are blowing elsewhere,
pounding shores in far off lands
that I may gaze upon the ocean
in a silent stillness unaccustomed.
Stars are glowing in the water’s face,
the cosmos now within my grasp,
to touch a sun – and feel no fire –
to become one with eternity,
all fear of death now banished
by the silvery waves at my feet,
their lover’s touch – ecstatic –
the seductive promise of immortality.
I will stay here, upon these sands
now released from brutal blows,
and watch the heavens on parade
in hope this night will never end.
49. Misfits and Oddballs
They live on the fringes,
disdained and forgotten
by those who have won
in a game that is rotten,
where justice is empty
and love is too rare –
no wonder they search
for someone to care
if they fall by the wayside
while others rejoice,
for someone to listen
to their muted voice.
Misfits and oddballs,
apart from the norm
by which lives are lived
according to form,
for those who are different
are destined to fade,
so tired of the masks
in this endless charade.
50. Missing You
Laughter rings around me,
so many things to do,
yet I sit here by myself,
so lost, and missing you;
I wonder at the power
that binds a lover's heart --
how each seems disconnected
when the other must depart.
How empty is the world
without you by my side,
though others offer love
and arms that open wide,
for love is single-minded,
a force I cannot fight,
my soul will yield to sorrow
apart from you tonight,
and time will bring no respite
as long as you are far,
so I wait for your return,
victims of the lover's star.
51. Music of Dreams
A language I shall never speak,
from a place I never shall be,
voices and images merging
as I rest my head in sleep’s lee –
that haven created by God
for sailors adrift on the sea.
No more shall I wander alone,
the sound of your voice in my ear
letting me anchor my sorrows
in the peace of you lying near –
a captain to guide me away
from storms I need nevermore fear.
You sing of transcendent beauty
embracing us both as it gleams,
a star to light up the cosmos,
to heal by the touch of its beams –
no more will I ask you but this:
to play me the music of dreams.
52. Mute Swan
When words fade away
and I sit in silence,
mute as that forlorn swan
dying in despair,
I look upon the pen
become an arrow piercing
my heart, and wonder
who would care
for a bard without song,
no music to delight them
or push away their pain,
no anodyne;
lost the Muse I love,
withdrawing inspiration,
gone elsewhere with the voice
once mine.
53. Neil's Harbour, Cape Breton, NS
I walked along the harbour
as ships quivered in the night,
orphans riding on the waves
alone till dawn’s diurnal light;
the wooden wharf stood sentry,
a single lamp upon its planks,
proud guardian of vessels
born to ride the grandest banks.
I felt the breeze upon my face,
smelled the sea spray in the air,
bent to touch the lapping waves,
to let them know someone was there –
someone who loved their laughter,
who heard them sing their salty tune –
to sit with them beneath the stars
in the glow of the indigo moon.
54. Neil’s Song: Starlight Tour (Neil Stonechild [1973-1990]: In Memoriam)
Freezing cold in Saskatoon,
November winds upon your face
cannot erase the pain inside
or heal the sorrows of your race;
just another native kid
strung out on smokes and booze,
looking for a little fun
with nothing much to lose.
But in the car in handcuffs
did you think they would take pity,
or did you fear the starlight tour
as they drove far from the city?
“A little walk” is what they said,
“long enough to make you sober”,
then hit the gas in laughter
because their shift was over.
And so you walked beneath the stars
until your flesh grew cold as ice;
you fell, then struggled to get up
as you paid the white man’s price
for being red, for being stoned,
and when your corpse was finally seen,
“ just another native kid,”
frozen dead at seventeen.
55. Neptune’s Wage
Her slender craft had found its rest,
a haven from the storms of night,
its anchor cast into the waves
as if to counter Nature’s might –
lest northern winds of autumn birth
that howl in sudden agony
should lash the waves into a storm
that pushes slender crafts to sea.
But anchors even made of steel
must rest in rocks bound to the land,
no safety lies in anchorage
within the arms of shifting sand;
and so her craft was cast away
to founder in the ocean’s rage,
its captain lost and cursing God,
in death to pay cruel Neptune’s wage.
56. New Year Rain
Rain cleanses the city,
the healing touch of water
infiltrates, restores;
endings and beginnings –
Time is the river flowing
into the eternal sea,
yesterday rides the waves
beyond my reach.
I offer myself unto the rain,
penitent, seeking absolution
by grace of Heaven’s tears,
anointed and redeemed;
today I shall be baptized
in the love within your eyes,
and, as long as you are here,
I shall never fear tomorrow.
57. No Escape
The winds are growing stronger
and pierce my flesh with ease,
the nights are growing longer
with winter’s cruel disease –
an illness brought by seasons
revolving as they must,
a torment far from reason
that turns my soul to dust.
A captive in a frigid cell
with no escape in sight,
with fears I cannot quell
in such an endless night,
nor is there any anodyne
against this Darkness vast --
I set a silence in my mind,
and wait for Time to pass.
58. Northern Wind
Across the bay a cold wind races,
descending from the north
with an apocryphal vengeance,
laying waste the land;
ancient trees bend and bow,
subservient to northern rage,
as younger saplings stand firm,
break, and fall to earth.
A primal power, inescapable,
knows not the grace of mercy,
is deaf to human cries
and blind to human tears;
resist, and you are broken,
bend, and you are saved –
Dionysus ever rampant,
incarnate in the northern wind.
59. November Clouds
Grey clouds descend,
a shroud of farewell
to the passing year,
ending, as it began,
in the cold of winter.
In winter we are born,
yearning for a sun
shining still too distant,
ignoring our presence
in the cycle of seasons;
in winter we find death,
the closure of Time
finally embracing us
as the land grows silent,
earth our barren mother.
In grey November clouds
existence lies dormant,
the pulse of life slowed,
with each soul suspended
upon a cross of ice.
60. Oracle
She sat there, still as night,
a maid untouched by Time,
anointed by Apollo
among the lofty pines,
crowned with leaves of laurel
and dressed in silken robes,
her mind aflame with wisdom
all seekers sought to probe.
Each question she did ponder
as god himself decreed,
captive of the sacred stones,
forgetful of her needs,
heedless of the passion
repressed so deep within,
to fail the god she honoured –
unthinkable the sin.
Yet one question louder grew
as seasons passed along:
why was her life so haunted
by Apollo’s loveless song –
how came she to be chosen
for such a life of fame
when all she ever wanted
was knowing her own name.
61. Places
Trees on fire with autumn’s flame
and lakes where summer lingers still,
mountains reaching for soft clouds
that float above each vale and hill –
such places beckon me approach,
to lay life’s burdens gently down,
to watch the flight of soaring gulls
and feel God’s blessings all around.
Rooms on fire with blinding lights,
voices screaming out in pain,
calling God to hear their pleas,
to make their bodies whole again –
such places haunt my fractured mind
and tear away the veil of peace,
yet even caverns born of Hell
may lead to pathways of release.
So many places wait for me,
some be friend, and some be foe,
my restless soul will not retreat,
for all are places I must go.
62. Poets and Dreamers
To live in a world without hunger,
where wars are no longer fought
and swords are turned into ploughshares
for love is the goal to be sought;
to arise each day in wonder
at the luminescence of the sky,
the brilliance of the constellations
bringing light to night’s dark eye;
to hear the sound of giving birth
and know that each new baby born
will never have to suffer violence
or shed his innocence to mourn;
to live so gently on the earth
that her face would bear no scar
and peace would grace us forever –
what poets and dreamers we are.
63. Reflections
Full moon upon the lake,
no wind disturbs the calm,
no sound intrudes upon
vernal peace,
reflections fill our eyes,
creating a world imaginary,
where all turmoil ends in
final release.
Light and Earth and Water,
conspirators and magicians,
purveyors of willed deception
gratefully received,
nurtured and consumed
by lovers hungry for time,
embracing every second
of pain relieved.
In this one moment we live
as if Eternity existed,
and we escape mortality
without detection,
blessed by an ancient moon
making the illusion real,
for in your eyes I see
my own reflection.
64. Scars
The face in the mirror
looks back at me,
reflecting the scars
I try not to see,
the wounds left by life
with each passing day,
doomed never to heal
or fade slowly away.
These scars on my soul
are hidden from you,
but known to the mirror
that holds me in view;
that elegant traitor,
created from glass,
will not let me leave,
will not let me pass
without seeing myself
in its callous eye,
all pretense removed,
my mask set aside,
and if you should glimpse
my soul laid so bare,
please quicken your step
and try not to stare.
65. Sea of Steel
The face of Winter approaching,
a chilling gaze that turns the sea
the colour of cold tempered steel,
encasing all that once was free
in chains of adamantine strength
that lock me in a cage of ice,
shackles keeping me earth-bound
until the end of Winter’s night;
convicted by the turn of Time
and sentenced to the cell of land,
how much I fear this sea of steel
will soon erode my heart of sand.
66. Sentinal Stars
Stars on the longest night –
lonely beacons that flare
as if in defiance
at the close of the year,
to counter the Darkness
that now rages supreme
and threatens to vanquish
what remains of our dreams,
to wipe out the memory
of months blessed by the light –
a time now receding
from December’s fierce might;
but sentinel stars watch
with a resolute gaze,
affording us solace
till the rebirth of days.
67. Separate Shores
Dusk, and I sit on the shore,
under the glow of an orange sun
that marks the passing of day,
and think of you on your shore:
how we both gaze at waves
arriving from so far away,
the foam of the sea calling us
to venture on new journeys,
how we feel the pull of the tides,
every heartbeat pulsing in time
to the endless rhythm of the sea,
a music as old as the earth itself,
and how we each, on separate shores,
somehow understand the magic
made by water and the moon,
the ocean that unites our souls.
Dusk, and I rise to leave the shore,
pausing, just for one moment,
to cast my eyes upon the horizon,
beyond the sea, to you.
68. Serotonin Serenades
Do you hear the voice inside your head,
the one you want so much to banish,
telling you that nothing matters,
that all your dreams are set to vanish?
Persistent agent provocateur,
taking pleasure in your torment,
a genetic monster of the mind
that will not leave you for one moment,
but rather laughs at your frail struggle
to cleanse the body of its venom,
a viper slithering within,
invading every bone and tendon;
like Ulysses on his broken barque,
you block your ears day after day
to still the clamour of this Siren
singing serotonin serenades.
69. Seventeen
She remembers seventeen,
burned into her heart,
the time of lost and lonely,
her life a winding labyrinth
with no escape in view;
she tries so hard to forget,
repress the raging anger
at a world where no one cared,
where being seventeen
was too painful to endure.
But then she looks at you,
the child-woman so afraid
of who she might become,
unable to look ahead,
beyond the grief of seventeen,
and sees herself in your eyes,
recognizes the same scars
still imprinted on her soul,
and wants to love you more
than she was, at seventeen.
70. Shadow
The shadow of a man came near,
lacking form yet full of sorrow,
mixing tears released today
with tears to flow tomorrow,
for all he sees are Furies
swooping down to drain his heart,
vultures searching for his flesh,
blood demons who never depart.
A world that once cherished laughter
changed into one filled with grief,
he cries at the torment of mortals,
at pain that will find no relief,
for souls are too fragile for loving
when passion gives way to remorse,
he drifts like a boat without anchor,
driven too far from its course,
no haven in sight from the darkness,
no beacon of light seen ahead,
he knows he is storm-bound in limbo,
alive and yet somehow so dead.
71. Shadows
My life is spent in shadows
where hidden I remain,
you cannot gaze upon me
or even know my name,
for I am but a cipher,
a code you cannot break,
my mask is set in place
the moment I awake
to offer its protection
against a broken heart,
to mute the sound of sorrow
when those I love depart;
in darkness I find solace,
a balm for wounds unhealed,
and should the darkness fade
my pain will be revealed,
and so I tend my soul
where living ghosts abide –
salvation in the shadows,
the shadows where I hide.
72. Silver Spoons
Silver spoons in short supply,
we bear our pain alone,
glance in envy at all those
who share in joy well known,
whose faces beam in pictures,
whose voices fill our ears,
who cannot feel our sorrow
and cannot dry our tears.
That other is the stranger
whose life is ever blessed,
I feel myself excluded –
an exile from the rest,
born to walk another path
whereon no dreams come true,
railing at the whims of Fate,
and wishing I were you.
73. Siren Sea
Along the shore, in the dark of night,
I walk among the bones of those
who escaped the shelter of the sea
and surrendered their lives,
shells that once breathed the deep
lie abandoned by moon-fed tides,
testament to the dangers of the land
for all creatures nurtured by water,
and so I remain here, captive of ocean,
my soul in thrall to wind and waves
that change with every season,
yet never lose their power to entrance,
and should I ever break those bonds
my bones would also lie upon this shore,
and, as long as Time itself survived,
would call out in vain to the siren sea.
74. Song for Daniel
The room was cloaked in darkness,
its silence deep and still,
when a passing butterfly
paused upon the window sill,
it could not stay forever –
its path was well defined –
but for one blissful moment,
that visitor was mine;
I marvelled at its beauty,
how gossamer of wing,
and asked my mourning soul
what message it might bring.
It gazed at me forlornly
as if it knew my woe
and wanted me to understand
just why it had to go,
that other journeys beckoned
this creature of a day,
that time was running short
and here it must not stay,
but how it touched my heart
with love and sad regret,
and even though it flew away
I never would forget.
75. Starlight Sonata
A night so clear, so dark
that every star on high
bestows a sparkling glow
upon my watchful eye,
heaven fills with beacons,
sharp points of distant light,
and my body starts to reel
at the beauty of this night;
I drift upon the cosmos,
the solar winds my guide,
and rejoice as suns ignite,
the darkness now denied;
new light will fill my sails
and time will not exist
as I lose my mortal fear
inside the cosmic mist.
76. Summer Rain
Rain is dancing on the roof
as I emerge from sleep,
barely aware of the dawn
that urges me to wake;
summer rain is gentle,
lulling me back to dream,
to push aside the newborn day
and revel in its quiet rhythm.
My eyes long to close again,
but I refuse their demand,
forcing my body to arise
and answer another call,
for my spirit thirsts to walk
in healing summer rain.
77. Sundays at Tim's
Alone in the corner,
a weathered face stares
into the distance,
lost in remembrance
of days long ago;
beside the window
a solitary student
reads what a poet
wrote about an urn,
text stained with coffee;
the couple in the booth –
there every Sunday:
he reads the newspaper
as she counts the cars
passing through the drive-in.
People alone, people together
but still, somehow, alone,
just passing the time
on another long Sunday,
watching and waiting;
and I am there too,
a shadowy phantom
hiding by the door,
hoping to escape their eyes
in my own solitude.
78. Sweet Surrender
Nascent light filters
through dark windows,
breaking my sleep;
I struggle to awake
as if climbing a hill
too rocky and steep,
and always fall back,
unable to escape
the chains of night;
I hear you breathe,
and closing my eyes
give up the fight,
then touch your arm
without disturbing
your sunrise dreams,
a sweet embrace
holds me protected
from spying beams;
the coming of day
brings me no terror
while you rest here,
my stalwart guardian,
ever so loving,
lying so near;
this dawn I abandon
the war of awaking,
my struggle through –
I surrender to sleep,
and, in this retreat,
I surrender to you.
79. Symphony Divine
Electric magic in the sky,
ribbons cutting through the heavens
in wide swaths of sparkling colours,
and she sat on the cliff watching –
mesmerized by the their beauty;
on nights like this she found respite
in dances of the northern lights –
a ballet crafted to music
never composed by human hand,
performed this night for her alone,
and she let the music enter,
allowing it to penetrate
her fragile cloak of mortal flesh –
and felt this cosmic energy
create a symphony divine.
80. The Blue Rose
A rose unlike the rest
came into my view,
wearing on its face
a tender shade of blue,
as if the sky came down
to seed the barren earth,
which bore a single bloom,
a symbol of rebirth.
To touch it I dare not,
lest any harm befall
a flower of perfection,
come at heaven’s call,
but I shall gaze in wonder
in thanks to God above
for sending me this rose,
which I shall ever love.
81. The Bull from the Sea (December 26, 2004)
Far below surface serenity,
among the creatures of the deep,
Earth began a labour unexpected,
premature,
in torment moving and groaning
until her muted screams exploded
into sudden crazed convulsion,
unbearable,
and the seafloor opened to bear
a raging bull born of the waves,
a monster racing ever outward,
relentless,
its hunger turned to sun-blessed shores,
a bellowing never heard before
falling in wrath upon the land,
ruthless,
then receding in cruel satiation,
abducting unsuspecting flesh and bone
into a labyrinth inescapable,
lethal,
while the ocean fast closed over
in triumph against opposing lands,
embracing its beastly child
forever.
82. The Child I Was
The child I was loved solitude,
a haven from her constant fright,
embraced the silence of the dawn
and feared the onset of the night;
to others she might seem alone,
a hermit hiding in her cell,
but her vast imagination
created stories she could tell,
and in the notebook at her hand
she wrote of monsters in the dark,
created heroes on fair steeds
to make her demons fast depart;
perhaps you think her very odd,
a silent child to give you pause –
but now the woman in her place
emerges from the child she was,
and understands the fate of those
who differ from expected norms,
who seek release in shelters spared
the blows of life’s tormenting storms.
83. The Lost Coast
Sorrow that I cannot be
everything you ask,
sorrow that my destiny
dictates a different path,
a forest far from sunlight
beside the roiling sea,
the destined realm of night
that stalks all those like me
whose hearts belong to ocean,
whose souls flow with the tide,
who forfeit every notion
of salvation found inside;
sorrow that I cannot give
the gift you long for most,
sorrow that the life I live
leaves me lost upon this coast.
84. The Love Poem
I struggled to write him a love poem
but words were not destined to come,
stanzas of flowers and angels
lay waste when the long day was done,
no phrase seemed apt to encompass
the passion that bound us together,
no image was brought by the Muse,
serving as tribute forever.
So I wandered away from the desk
where I pondered what I could say
to one whose heart was a pilgrim
determined to travel my way,
and silently sat in the dark
in pursuit of some gesture grand –
till he lifted the burden from me
by quietly taking my hand.
85. The Match
Wrestling with words,
slippery opponents,
ever elusively dancing
just beyond your grasp,
surrounding you in derision,
taunting your inability
to pin them down
upon the literary mat.
Such tiny combatants
overwhelm your pen,
forcing you to admit defeat,
throw in the towel –
wrestling with words,
futility made manifest,
your frailty exposed
to watching eyes.
86. The Midnight Flame
A night of ice and snow,
bone-chilling winds shake
brittle panes of glass
as I wait,
the room in darkness,
the fire reduced to dust,
I shiver in despair,
fear your fate;
I watch the maelstrom grow,
erase the world outside,
I listen for your voice,
call your name,
and pray you will return,
your love my only hope –
strong enough to kindle
the midnight flame.
87. The Reach of Time
Perhaps the world will end tonight
and Time will cease to flow,
no galaxies to light our sky,
no suns with lucent glow,
just silence in an emptiness
where voices once did sound,
no ocean left to nurture life,
no foot to walk upon the ground.
But if the world should end tonight,
I shall not lament our fate,
rather shall I hold your hand,
our joyous love to celebrate,
and thank whatever powers
entwined your soul with mine
for granting me a memory
beyond the reach of Time.
88. The Unwritten Poem
A poem never to be sung
lies buried deep within my soul,
the ashes of my life concealing
this unwanted child;
to release it means betrayal
of the mask I try to wear,
my smiling raiment tossed aside,
my naked heart exposed.
This poem would bring you tears
and tarnish silver dreams
so cherished by the dreamers,
visions into nightmares;
and so I keep it locked away
in places you will never go,
its corrosive power confined
in the sacred name of Love.
89. The Wounded Self
A never-ending sadness
lies dormant in your heart,
ready to invade your soul
and tear your world apart,
the memories of childhood
still linger and cause pain,
the sense of never fitting in
returns to you again
and causes doubt to enter,
though you are now so wise,
casting shadows on the beauty
that comes from knowing eyes;
I wish that I could show you
how strong you have become,
a beacon in the darkness,
a race that has been won,
a rose beside the meadow,
in a corner of its own,
ignored when it was young,
how lovely it has grown,
how close it comes to finding
the greatest kind of wealth –
if only I could teach you
to love your wounded self.
90. Thunder
Thunder rolled across the sky,
lightning flashed upon the ground,
roiling clouds of steely grey
all existence did surround;
the earth felt cloaked in shadows,
the spark of light now banished –
it seemed as if the world itself
had suddenly just vanished.
But still one bastion called to me,
standing stalwart in the storm,
offering its steadfast glow
that no longer would I mourn,
but rather choose to celebrate
all Life within creation,
knowing that my soul endured –
your love was my salvation.
91. To Dream of Love
To dream of love impassioned,
a blissful moment in his arms
when nothing evil can exist
to threaten you with harm,
when daily troubles fall away
and peace reigns in your mind,
if only such impassioned love
were not so hard to find.
To seek a heart made tender
by blows bequeathed by life,
forswearing all deception,
renouncing fear and strife,
and ever reaching out to you
despite the scars you bear,
if only such a tender heart
would wipe away all tears.
To give your wounded soul
to one whose wounds still bleed,
suspension of all disbelief
in one courageous deed,
to embark upon a voyage
towards love’s unselfish care –
if only every wounded soul
could find salvation there.
92. Turning to Stone
She had opened her heart
to those deep in sorrow,
to those who were lonely
and despaired of tomorrow,
to those who were stricken
by life’s ugly blows --
all these entered into
a heart never closed.
She loved them all dearly,
was so eager to help,
but ever so slowly
lost sight of herself;
her own heart was bleeding,
battered and broken
by the cruel hand of fate,
though her pain was unspoken,
till one day she faltered,
crushed by the clamour,
feeling the onslaught
of death’s fatal hammer.
Just one way remained
for a life of her own,
so she built up a wall,
began turning to stone.
93. Verse and Worse
A journal came in the mail today,
a splendid tome of modern verse,
and I rejoiced to hold it close,
but my mood grew quickly worse,
for what had happened to the “poem,”
that bright creation of the mind –
had all good sense and tastefulness
been cruelly left behind?
For I deciphered broken thoughts,
and lines that read like prose,
dismal odes to toilet seats
and fingers up one’s nose;
one well described a salad bar,
another sang of Krazy Glue,
and so I wondered to myself
what verse was coming to –
Where was meter, where was rhyme,
and what of imagery survived?
What befell the flights of mind
from which great thoughts derived?
I set aside this splendid tome
and took up my antique quill,
knowing that the chance I had
of publishing was…..nil.
94. Wave Dancer
How you danced in sunlight
upon the waters of the bay
when clearing skies sent steady winds
to speed you on your way,
to banish all oppressive clouds
and set your gliding spirit free,
while rain descended elsewhere
so you could dance with me.
But summer flew too quickly
and our dancing time is done,
for you must leave your moorings
till dark Winter’s ice has gone;
your mast lies still upon the shore,
your sails are hung to dry,
I gaze upon your naked self
and my soul begins to cry.
Another summer come and gone,
its presence all too brief,
just hiding in the heavens
like a slyly smirking thief,
and as I stow your sheets away,
deep sadness steals my heart
at the lonely months ahead
when I must dance apart.
95. When I Dream
When I dream of sunlight,
of skies released from cloud,
a blue of crystal clearness
speaks to me aloud:
“I am the lover you desire,
here to set you free from pain,
to hold you in my sweet embrace
and shelter you from angry rain.”
When I dream of stardust,
of worlds beyond our own,
a moonbeam made of amber
sings in gentle tone:
“I am the keeper of your soul
and guard you from above,
the cosmos is your solace,
replete with endless love.”
When I dream of Heaven,
a realm transcending all,
every angel is resplendent
and sends a joyous call:
“I promise you a haven
apart from earthly fear,
and all you ever dreamed of
is waiting for you there.”
Then waking brings no terror –
my dreams at once come true,
for each new dawn reminds me
that every dream is you.
96. Who I Am
I am the stranger on the street
you pass and never see,
your eyes upon the sidewalk
refuse to glance at me,
I am the singer left behind
by those of modern taste,
my voice recalls a yesterday
so long consigned to waste,
I am the artist with a canvas
who walks along the bay,
fearing nothing beautiful
will come to her this day,
I am the dreamer losing hope
in a world where no one cares,
ready to retreat once more
before I drown in tears,
I am the stranger on the street
in search of one who knows
that every soul condemned to thorns
aspires to be a rose.
97. Who Will Read? (A Poet's Lament)
If I expose my heart
and shed my tears,
declaim my joys
or decry my fears,
then who will read
these words laid bare,
will any stranger
pause to care?
If I lament the time
long lost in haste,
the shattered dreams
reduced to waste,
then who will take
my book in hand
to see my grief
and understand?
Perhaps in vain
I pen my poems,
to lie forgotten
in dusty tomes,
but write I must –
my soul demands
I set these songs
before your hands.
98. Winds of March
The winds of March grow distant
but April has its stones and slings,
and my heart is growing restless
for the song the robin sings,
for rivers running free again
and trees released from frost –
a world revived to gather in
all winter souls that wander lost,
exhausted by the northern gales
and weary of relentless snow,
reaching out to grasp at spring,
to counter winter’s final blow –
a fatal blast of chilling cold
to bear witness to the power
that generates a world of ice
to bow each nascent flower.
99. Winter Sun
So low on the horizon,
as if clinging to land
in search of safe haven
from winter’s harsh hand,
as if losing its courage
as each day grows colder
and winds from the north
blow incessantly bolder.
Long winter’s sun hastens
to bid its farewell,
to sink from the heavens
into ocean’s vast swell,
and play with the dolphins
where water holds sway,
in dread of the coming
of another new day.
And I on the shoreline
grow tired of the gloom,
longing for springtime
with life’s renewed bloom,
yet knowing that dour months
have yet to go past,
I treasure each sunbeam
in a darkness too vast.
100. Without You
Suns flame in the evening sky,
forcing me to gaze upwards
to contemplate the miracle
of such a view;
trees sway in dulcet breezes,
conducting nature’s symphony
in rhythms ancient as the earth,
the old renewed;
waves break upon the shoreline
as if they kiss beloved land,
the sea smiling with fulfillment
when day is through;
what marvels are bestowed me
as dawn moves slowly into dusk,
yet how little do they matter
without you.
101. Worth the Risk
She understood the danger
but passion conquered fear,
any terror worth enduring
as long as he was near;
the demons of each day
dissolved into the mist,
every evil tossed aside
with one ecstatic kiss.
But still the shadows lingered
like ghosts without a face,
haunting life incessantly
in an unremitting pace;
she tried so hard to exorcise
these devils in his path,
saving him from injury,
sparing him their endless wrath.
She conjured love a mighty shield
impervious to violence,
standing guard beside him
in an ever-watchful silence,
but still the final day arrived
no shield could yet resist,
though in her grief she knew
his love was worth the risk.
88. The Unwritten Poem
A poem never to be sung
lies buried deep within my soul,
the ashes of my life concealing
this unwanted child;
to release it means betrayal
of the mask I try to wear,
my smiling raiment tossed aside,
my naked heart exposed.
This poem would bring you tears
and tarnish silver dreams
so cherished by the dreamers,
visions into nightmares;
and so I keep it locked away
in places you will never go,
its corrosive power confined
in the sacred name of Love.
89. The Wounded Self
A never-ending sadness
lies dormant in your heart,
ready to invade your soul
and tear your world apart,
the memories of childhood
still linger and cause pain,
the sense of never fitting in
returns to you again
and causes doubt to enter,
though you are now so wise,
casting shadows on the beauty
that comes from knowing eyes;
I wish that I could show you
how strong you have become,
a beacon in the darkness,
a race that has been won,
a rose beside the meadow,
in a corner of its own,
ignored when it was young,
how lovely it has grown,
how close it comes to finding
the greatest kind of wealth –
if only I could teach you
to love your wounded self.
90. Thunder
Thunder rolled across the sky,
lightning flashed upon the ground,
roiling clouds of steely grey
all existence did surround;
the earth felt cloaked in shadows,
the spark of light now banished –
it seemed as if the world itself
had suddenly just vanished.
But still one bastion called to me,
standing stalwart in the storm,
offering its steadfast glow
that no longer would I mourn,
but rather choose to celebrate
all Life within creation,
knowing that my soul endured –
your love was my salvation.
91. To Dream of Love
To dream of love impassioned,
a blissful moment in his arms
when nothing evil can exist
to threaten you with harm,
when daily troubles fall away
and peace reigns in your mind,
if only such impassioned love
were not so hard to find.
To seek a heart made tender
by blows bequeathed by life,
forswearing all deception,
renouncing fear and strife,
and ever reaching out to you
despite the scars you bear,
if only such a tender heart
would wipe away all tears.
To give your wounded soul
to one whose wounds still bleed,
suspension of all disbelief
in one courageous deed,
to embark upon a voyage
towards love’s unselfish care –
if only every wounded soul
could find salvation there.
92. Turning to Stone
She had opened her heart
to those deep in sorrow,
to those who were lonely
and despaired of tomorrow,
to those who were stricken
by life’s ugly blows --
all these entered into
a heart never closed.
She loved them all dearly,
was so eager to help,
but ever so slowly
lost sight of herself;
her own heart was bleeding,
battered and broken
by the cruel hand of fate,
though her pain was unspoken,
till one day she faltered,
crushed by the clamour,
feeling the onslaught
of death’s fatal hammer.
Just one way remained
for a life of her own,
so she built up a wall,
began turning to stone.
93. Verse and Worse
A journal came in the mail today,
a splendid tome of modern verse,
and I rejoiced to hold it close,
but my mood grew quickly worse,
for what had happened to the “poem,”
that bright creation of the mind –
had all good sense and tastefulness
been cruelly left behind?
For I deciphered broken thoughts,
and lines that read like prose,
dismal odes to toilet seats
and fingers up one’s nose;
one well described a salad bar,
another sang of Krazy Glue,
and so I wondered to myself
what verse was coming to –
Where was meter, where was rhyme,
and what of imagery survived?
What befell the flights of mind
from which great thoughts derived?
I set aside this splendid tome
and took up my antique quill,
knowing that the chance I had
of publishing was…..nil.
94. Wave Dancer
How you danced in sunlight
upon the waters of the bay
when clearing skies sent steady winds
to speed you on your way,
to banish all oppressive clouds
and set your gliding spirit free,
while rain descended elsewhere
so you could dance with me.
But summer flew too quickly
and our dancing time is done,
for you must leave your moorings
till dark Winter’s ice has gone;
your mast lies still upon the shore,
your sails are hung to dry,
I gaze upon your naked self
and my soul begins to cry.
Another summer come and gone,
its presence all too brief,
just hiding in the heavens
like a slyly smirking thief,
and as I stow your sheets away,
deep sadness steals my heart
at the lonely months ahead
when I must dance apart.
95. When I Dream
When I dream of sunlight,
of skies released from cloud,
a blue of crystal clearness
speaks to me aloud:
“I am the lover you desire,
here to set you free from pain,
to hold you in my sweet embrace
and shelter you from angry rain.”
When I dream of stardust,
of worlds beyond our own,
a moonbeam made of amber
sings in gentle tone:
“I am the keeper of your soul
and guard you from above,
the cosmos is your solace,
replete with endless love.”
When I dream of Heaven,
a realm transcending all,
every angel is resplendent
and sends a joyous call:
“I promise you a haven
apart from earthly fear,
and all you ever dreamed of
is waiting for you there.”
Then waking brings no terror –
my dreams at once come true,
for each new dawn reminds me
that every dream is you.
96. Who I Am
I am the stranger on the street
you pass and never see,
your eyes upon the sidewalk
refuse to glance at me,
I am the singer left behind
by those of modern taste,
my voice recalls a yesterday
so long consigned to waste,
I am the artist with a canvas
who walks along the bay,
fearing nothing beautiful
will come to her this day,
I am the dreamer losing hope
in a world where no one cares,
ready to retreat once more
before I drown in tears,
I am the stranger on the street
in search of one who knows
that every soul condemned to thorns
aspires to be a rose.
97. Who Will Read? (A Poet's Lament)
If I expose my heart
and shed my tears,
declaim my joys
or decry my fears,
then who will read
these words laid bare,
will any stranger
pause to care?
If I lament the time
long lost in haste,
the shattered dreams
reduced to waste,
then who will take
my book in hand
to see my grief
and understand?
Perhaps in vain
I pen my poems,
to lie forgotten
in dusty tomes,
but write I must –
my soul demands
I set these songs
before your hands.
98. Winds of March
The winds of March grow distant
but April has its stones and slings,
and my heart is growing restless
for the song the robin sings,
for rivers running free again
and trees released from frost –
a world revived to gather in
all winter souls that wander lost,
exhausted by the northern gales
and weary of relentless snow,
reaching out to grasp at spring,
to counter winter’s final blow –
a fatal blast of chilling cold
to bear witness to the power
that generates a world of ice
to bow each nascent flower.
99. Winter Sun
So low on the horizon,
as if clinging to land
in search of safe haven
from winter’s harsh hand,
as if losing its courage
as each day grows colder
and winds from the north
blow incessantly bolder.
Long winter’s sun hastens
to bid its farewell,
to sink from the heavens
into ocean’s vast swell,
and play with the dolphins
where water holds sway,
in dread of the coming
of another new day.
And I on the shoreline
grow tired of the gloom,
longing for springtime
with life’s renewed bloom,
yet knowing that dour months
have yet to go past,
I treasure each sunbeam
in a darkness too vast.
100. Without You
Suns flame in the evening sky,
forcing me to gaze upwards
to contemplate the miracle
of such a view;
trees sway in dulcet breezes,
conducting nature’s symphony
in rhythms ancient as the earth,
the old renewed;
waves break upon the shoreline
as if they kiss beloved land,
the sea smiling with fulfillment
when day is through;
what marvels are bestowed me
as dawn moves slowly into dusk,
yet how little do they matter
without you.
101. Worth the Risk
She understood the danger
but passion conquered fear,
any terror worth enduring
as long as he was near;
the demons of each day
dissolved into the mist,
every evil tossed aside
with one ecstatic kiss.
But still the shadows lingered
like ghosts without a face,
haunting life incessantly
in an unremitting pace;
she tried so hard to exorcise
these devils in his path,
saving him from injury,
sparing him their endless wrath.
She conjured love a mighty shield
impervious to violence,
standing guard beside him
in an ever-watchful silence,
but still the final day arrived
no shield could yet resist,
though in her grief she knew
his love was worth the risk.
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