This folder contains the remaining poems of 2009 -2010.
96. Kindred
Spirits: For Lucy Maud Montgomery
She
is smiling at me,
seventy
years ago,
in
a brittle photograph
that
whispers across time
“kindred
spirit.”
Her
duality speaks to me:
“I
have been,” it says,
“what
you are now;
I
too have felt the pain,
but
hidden my secrets well.”
In
darkened rooms she wrote
stories
bathed in light,
the
person she would be
mocking
her with a smile,
ever
to stand apart.
The
maelstrom within
and
the serenity without –
these
have I also known,
struggling
to unite
the
mind divided.
Maud
and I, kindred of soul,
waging
fierce battles
far
from watchful eyes,
torn
between the knowing
and
the feeling.
I
set aside her image,
but
her eyes still follow
and
her voice offers counsel:
“kindred
spirit, love who you are,
cast
aside what others say.”
97. Late in the Night
She speaks to me at night
when silence rules the house,
when the day is just a memory
but sleep will not yet come;
her gentle love reaches out,
crossing the great divide
that comes between us --
then nothing comes between us:
heart to heart, soul to soul.
both laughing and crying,
we are one in evening’s hand.
She claims to be no poet,
laments her loss for words,
yet, today, in one brief poem,
she brought my soul to tears;
special, my late night friend,
an unexpected gift from God,
this voice late in the night.
98. Late Night Visitor
I hold onto you by a fragile thread,
desperately trying to pull you in,
to take you far away from fear,
from the violence that pushes you
ever further into growing darkness;
but I am slowly losing hope, knowing
my love is not enough to save you,
that you alone are master of your fate.
So while I wait for you at night,
I will sing sad songs of love denied,
of childhood dreams now shattered,
a life fading into chaos and despair,
and I will ever wait for you to come,
praying you survived another day.
99. Legacy
Fouling the oceans,
exhausting the land,
cutting up forests,
stand after stand,
denying the wildlife
a place of their own,
damming the rivers,
stone after stone,
till nothing is left
and all is consumed,
billions of people,
and one planet doomed.
Pity the children
to come after us,
swallowing poisons
and planting in dust;
and blame us they will
for greed and fixation –
we rightly deserve
complete condemnation.
100. Light Reborn
Bright tulips in the garden,
verdant stands within the grass,
trees in effervescent bloom
tell me winter’s blade has passed;
the knife that cut down beauty
now runs liquid to the sea,
vanquished by the light reborn,
reaching out to land set free.
I gaze upon the flowers,
watch their petals kiss the breeze,
as if a long-lost suitor
had responded to their pleas.
How blessed I am by springtime
after winter’s bitter lash,
to set aside the darkness
and await a rose at last.
101. Looking for Herself
Somewhere she got lost,
hidden behind names
that made her generic:
she became the nurse,
the volunteer coach,
the family chauffer,
but especially mom
and his loving wife --
so much love in her life,
how can she complain?
Is she being selfish
as she sits at night,
when the house is quiet
and the kids asleep,
turns on the computer
and quietly looks for herself?
102. Lost Child
The child in your vision
had no time to wait,
she’s gone to another --
too late, it’s too late;
she’ll grow up a stranger,
her name never known,
while you sit in sorrow,
bereaved and alone.
The child in your vision
was like a brief flame,
conceived in the darkness
of life’s fickle game;
she’s now an illusion,
but ever so real,
too late, it's too late --
you never will heal.
103. Lost in the Crowd
Would you even notice her
as you walk among the crowd,
so many faces pass you by,
so many voices cry aloud?
Just an ordinary woman
looking lost as she draws near,
not sure where she is going,
or even what to do there.
A nameless fear compels her,
denies her any place to stay,
afraid that you might stare at her
or even start to move her way.
The noisy crowd oppresses her,
and she struggles hard to breathe,
walls are closing in on her –
her only thought, that she must leave.
You might think her very odd,
a creature born to cause alarm,
who should depart this world of yours
and not disturb your inner calm.
To ignore her is the answer,
turn aside from her direction,
such misfits find no haven
in a world of false perfection.
104. Love Endures
Life out of control,
the world spins
like a crazed top,
shedding pain
as it revolves,
pain enough
to destroy the soul.
But love endures:
it casts out pain
to heal wounds,
to take broken pieces
and make them whole.
Love is too strong
to fall victim
to a moment’s madness,
it survives intact,
secure in understanding
that we are only human
and may sometimes hurt
the very ones we love.
My love for you remains,
as it always will,
and no fleeting storm
will drive it out;
take my offered hand
and put your tears aside.
105. Love Poems?
Be there an end to love poems,
a minute, an hour, a day
that cries “enough” and puts a stop
to love’s persevering sway?
Then will we cease to record
how a heart is swiftly rent,
how the salty flow of tears
must compel us to repent?
In the silence left behind
what themes to capture the pen –
will we sing of clouds and sun,
fashion odes to mice, not men?
Perhaps there will come poets
eager to take up this task,
for now my soul refuses –
your sweet love is all I ask.
106. Love Song
Come, take my hand and join the dance:
let the music of dawn flow around you,
a gentle river of sound embracing us
as we waltz on morning’s nascent dew.
Let the sky above us banish clouds,
and the rising sun pour golden rays
upon two lovers, so drunk with life,
imbibing the wine of passionate days.
Let the swelling breeze lift us lightly
as we drift along hand in hand,
gazing at the verdant earth below
to see the bounty of its teeming land.
Let this transcendent moment ever last
as two hearts become entwined as one,
never to end their mystic dance of wonder,
or watch the setting of that lucent sun.
107. Love Unconditional
In pain I came to you,
a second sorrow,
but love that knew no bounds
filled your heart
as you embraced me;
with no hesitation,
you gave life to me
a second time.
A love unconditional,
never harsh,
never judging,
always open to me;
the cost to you was great
but mattered little,
for love is the greatest gift,
the gift that makes us human.
My love for you is
unconditional,
unbound by Time:
we are one in soul,
we are one in heart;
we do not seek words –
we speak through love alone,
no more is needed.
108. Lucy Maud and I
We are kindred souls,
Lucy Maud and I,
we both know love and laughter,
we both know how to cry
over things that never were,
or things we might have done
if only stubborn shadows
had not obscured the sun.
We write our lives on paper,
the darkness mixed with light,
in hope that some kind reader
will hear our words tonight,
and understand the joy we take
in words that seem god-sent,
and how the power of the pen
can shake the firmament.
109. Man of the Plains
Man of the plains in a city
where endless fog obscures the sky,
where no fields extend forever,
just concrete buildings rising high,
does your heart recall the meadows
that festooned each spring with flowers,
or quaking aspens standing tall
to embrace you in cool bowers?
So much is gone, all pushed aside
by frantic lives passed in a rush,
no time to savour each new dawn
or watch the sun set into dusk;
do you ever stop to ponder
why you endure the steely sea,
or pause to fondly recollect
the land you left behind for me?
110. Melody Sublime
A magic sound from far away,
my soul drinks deep a wine
created by the sun and sea,
a melody sublime;
as every note caresses me,
its touch so soft and fine,
I feel myself transported
to a realm divine;
how loving was the hand,
a treasure rare to find,
that crafted such a melody
and said that it was mine.
111. Mirage
An image of perfection,
unblemished to the eye,
her every step a ballet
danced beneath the sky
as stars beheld in wonder
her beauty and her grace –
how could such a creature
inhabit mortal space?
And I too bowed in honour
whenever she appeared,
a humble peasant woman
who prayed she would come near
to heal the wounds of life
with balm upon her voice –
what magic songs she sang
to make my soul rejoice.
But magic is delusion
and perfection is a lie:
beneath her grace and beauty
a hollow core lay nigh,
an arrogance of power
immune to all barrage,
I set aside my prayers,
betrayed by her mirage.
112. Missing You
A gentle face, smiling at me from a worn photograph,
so radiant in a garden full of blooming roses,
what treasured memories you have bequeathed me:
images, so clear, of golden times before we parted,
when love was boundless, a warm and joyful time
when the world seemed lucent, filled with endless hope,
and when clouds on the horizon were so far away
I thought them banished eternally to some distant world.
How well you kept my fears at bay, standing guard
over a child confused, ever on the verge of despair,
but holding on, never giving in with you at her side;
now, every moment, I wish you were in that garden still,
longing so much to hold your hand, to touch your face.
But that next embrace must wait till I am braver,
ready at last to step across the veil of darkness
and run, like the child I was, into your loving arms.
113. Mona Lisa
A masterpiece of art
that I will never rival,
for words cannot express
the enigma in your face.
I gaze at you in wonder:
is this a mocking smile
for an artist you loved
once, when vernal youth
dared to set foot upon
a never ending path,
before you came to know
loss and disappointment?
How time has deceived,
has twisted your laughter
into tears that remember
love won, and then lost,
a heart blessed, then broken,
life tossing you aside,
a dying flower in autumn,
still reaching for the sun.
114. More Than I Can Give
Sad voices in my ears clamour
for never ending attention –
no delay accepted, no pause,
no sacred moment of silence.
Longing to hear nothing at all,
I try to shut them out -- in vain,
for they live with me always
and will not allow escape.
A response is demanded,
so I reply as I must,
telling these incessant voices
all that I have left to tell,
but begging them to rest,
to cease their loud laments,
for what they ask of me
is far more than I can give.
115. Morpheus
I stood at your altar
with costly libations
poured in your honour,
reciting the ritual
set down when time began:
“Come, Morpheus, come,
take pity on my soul,
unable to find release
in merciful sleep,
no Elysian dreams
to calm my heart.”
But the Night leaves
as Aurora appears,
and no rest has come,
my mind a cauldron
of chaotic images,
tormenting me always.
I ask what crime
against your godhead
I am condemned for,
doomed to spend each night
in agonizing wakefulness.
116. My Ghost
In the darkness of your lair
you seek release from pain,
a solitary stillness
apart from sun and rain.
Deep below, the shadows
sing their dark song to you,
a song of Eden lost,
closed forever to your view.
Can Paradise be restored,
can a soul revive a flame
that once soared high to Heaven
but fell to Earth again?
My grieving heart seeks you out,
to lead you to the light;
come with me, my dear ghost,
let us briefly end the night.
117. New Year Lament
Grim December yields
at a glacial pace
to brighter January –
month of promises,
the world renewed
as days grow longer
and memories fade.
I place the old year
in a well-nailed coffin,
lest it haunt me
with its darkness,
and remind me
of unbearable loss.
I turn my back,
no double Janus
to look behind
with sad regret;
the past is buried,
nothing I can do
will bring her back.
118. Niobe, 1: Turning to Stone
Days of torment
never forgotten,
a wound inside
never to heal,
life is not the same
and never will be.
Sorrow holds me
in its sullen grasp,
and I seek escape
in desperate fear
of my own infirmity.
Yet my heart knows
freedom from pain
will cost too much,
that turning to stone
also brings destruction.
119. Niobe, 2: Niobe’s Pride
A mother’s pride,
her children strong,
of noble bearing
and handsome;
both male and female,
a living testament
to her heart’s love,
her soul’s desire.
How she boasted
of her progeny,
her eyes aflame
with maternal joy,
until the jealous gods
one day took notice,
angry at her boasts,
begrudging mortal bliss.
Arrows came forth
from Apollo’s bow,
slaying each child,
innocent sacrifices;
Niobe began to weep,
cascades of tears
drenching her body,
freezing her soul.
Turned to cold rock,
she still laments
each single child,
each tender face;
yet her endless tears
will never erode
what she became –
a lonely mourning crag.
120. No Fear
Not afraid to die,
but sad to leave behind
the one who soothes my soul,
gives comfort to my mind;
the one who holds my hand
in darkness as in light,
who battles every wrong
and sets each fear to flight.
No more afraid to love,
I make a solemn vow
to live without regret,
to revel in the now;
the future waits for me
and brings what all must face,
so hold me close tonight,
alive in your embrace.
121. No Limit
A woman plagued by her doubts,
unsure she was able to fly --
in fear she pulled back her wings
and let the swift winds blow by;
to stand upon the lofty clouds
could never be her fate or fame –
merely earth-bound, strongly tethered,
never to raise high her name.
If but she knew her secret strength,
the love that flows within her heart
would let her fly unto the stars
and make all fears of flight depart.
Go, set your course and ride the winds,
and know that you can grasp the goal
you now despair to ever reach --
the power lies within your soul.
122. No Remorse
The centre of the universe
123. Not Supposed to Be
She dreamed of a house
made magic by children,
enchanted by the love of a man
who offered her his heart;
a peaceful, unassuming life,
not much out of the ordinary,
but hers: a life of quiet joy --
a dream not meant to be,
shattered by the fist of a man
who violated her childhood.
Her dreams are different now:
survival on the city streets,
shelter from the chilling rain,
sanctuary from knives and guns.
This is not the life she wanted,
this was not supposed to be.
124. November Grey
Colours left with the leaves,
skeletal trees remain
where giants once stood,
their crowns like rainbows.
Clouds of grey hurry by,
as if in haste to go elsewhere,
perhaps to feel the sun
once more upon their backs.
But nothing greyer than the sea:
blue waves now consigned
to winter’s long oblivion,
dormant till the light of spring.
And I too feel this grey within,
a torpor that imprisons me,
leaving only memories
of the fervent kiss of colours.
125. November Rain
The light grows dimmer
as each day recedes
into the darkness;
the earth is crying
tears of farewell,
the hibernation of life.
Standing in November rain,
I draw the clouds within,
become one with vapour
and feel my soul disperse
into the new born void,
drifting on the winds.
November laughs at April
with its promise of new life,
content to herald the cold
that exists with Death,
threatens to overwhelm
the fast retreating sun.
126. Odyssey
I wanted to return just once,
to walk familiar passageways
and reclaim memories at rest
within my heart.
But each room appeared alien,
altered forever by others
who had come to leave their own ghosts
and then depart.
Yet here my odyssey began,
where dreams grew like branches on trees,
isolated from each other,
yet connected.
Just dust and memories remained
in this cenotaph to childhood,
I turned away in emptiness,
hope rejected.
There are mysteries
I cannot decipher
in earth and in heaven;
things beyond the ken
of my mortal mind.
But I gaze at the stars,
at the vast glowing cosmos,
wondering why and how
such miracles exist,
and see a guiding hand
behind the physics.
To those who doubt
I cannot offer proof,
but this I feel is true:
a Creator came this way,
moulding space and time,
an eternal, loving presence,
the foundation of my faith.
128. One Breath Away
Not one day passes
without your presence
living in my heart,
eternally loving me;
death is not an ending
but a bright passage
to where you are,
waiting for my arrival
with a proud smile.
I have travelled the road
you wished for me,
guiding me always,
giving me the strength
to tread a winding path
I once hastened to reject.
So I will stand before you
when fate demands,
hold you close again,
and soon, for we are
but one breath away.
129. Only Your Shadow
I try to understand you,
to give my love to you,
but I fail each time;
I reach for a shadow,
someone I think I know,
but she always escapes,
and I feel lost again.
I become desperate,
fearing you need help,
yet incapable of knowing
what you feel inside;
if only you would speak,
tell me what to do,
or how I can help –
but everywhere I turn
I only see your shadow.
130. Outcast
The woman in the corner
stands alone, her mask in place,
wishing she were somewhere else;
the painted smile upon her face
may last the night, or may not,
tears may wash the paint away.
She longs to become invisible,
out of sight from those who play
a game designed to torment those
who cannot fit the current mold,
who fail to pass those modern trials
that leave her heart so icy cold.
The woman in the corner sighs,
cast out by those with winning hands,
and in the game of life she hates
alone and in the dark she stands.
131. Outport
The wharf came alive
on Halloween eve,
when the curtain of death
did suddenly cleave,
and ghosts filled the space
so empty and worn,
to dance with their boats
till the coming of morn;
loud laughter took hold
where silence did reign,
tales of the fishing
and money to gain.
The cod was so plenty
that no one was poor,
the village was bustling
in those days of before;
then dragger ships came
to tear up the sea,
the fish disappeared,
forcing people to flee
to the cities and towns
where jobs could be found,
when nothing was left
in the old fishing ground.
The factories closed,
the houses decayed,
nothing remained,
and nobody stayed;
but on Halloween eve
their souls return home
to remember the days
when boats boldly roamed,
and life in the outport
gave all that they sought –
but when dawn returns
it will all be forgot.
132. Panic in the Night
In my dreams I fall,
flailing my arms
as the air rushes past;
I know I will die
as my leaden body
slams into the ground.
I wake up gasping,
struggling to breathe,
drenched in sweat;
only a dream, I think,
and try to sleep again.
But my eyes won’t close:
fearing other images
of my demise, they cling
to whatever slender light
penetrates the room.
How often I dream of this,
see Death awaiting me
at the bottom of a cliff;
I know he is laughing –
stealing my soul away
only after I rejected him,
casting a vote for Life
in a contest I must lose.
133. Patch of Bush
Hidden away, deep in the forest,
a cottage awakens from slumber:
its roof clatters anew with the feet
of birds now returning to the north,
ready to nest again in the spruce;
around its walls red squirrels play
and stake their private territories;
the nearby bay has finally lost
the cap of ice it reluctantly wore
during the dark months of hibernation.
Long-idled boats are waking too,
ready to sail for another season,
eager to ride the welcome waves;
soon flowers will bring forth buds
and begin to carpet the ground
with myriad colours and forms.
The lonely bush is alive once more,
the harsh pall of winter gone;
it sings an ode to summer joys
and beckons me to set my foot
where my heart is once more free,
resounding to the powerful beat
of Nature reborn, of Life itself
celebrating this humble patch of bush.
134. Phantom
A phantom in the distance,
far away from prying eyes,
I contemplate the kindness
of these silent midnight skies,
of stars that never wonder
who I am or what I do,
who never proffer judgement
born of words that are untrue.
A pilgrim on a journey,
a quest for preservation,
to save my soul from arrows
that strike with condemnation;
I will not ask forgiveness
for words I never uttered,
free in peace among the pines
that keep my presence shuttered.
Do not come to seek me out,
but listen to the winter winds,
my words will ride their currents
till a gentler time begins;
but now I curse raw anger,
hatred that demands I flee,
to heal my wounds in darkness,
in shadows of society.
135. Present Tense
I exist in the now,
a unique moment
never to come again;
what has passed
exists elsewhere, forever,
fixed in temporal concrete,
what lies ahead is unknown,
subject to constant change,
unreachable, unpredictable.
Accept me as I am, now,
not as I was then
or perhaps one day shall be;
I inhabit only the present tense –
there is no time for another.
136. Pretender
He was always laughing,
a joke on his lips,
a twinkle in his eye;
in high demand at parties,
he brightened every room,
told stories that amused
as others crowded round;
smiles for the ladies
and slaps on the back
for the quiet men
who envied him.
But when each party ended,
he went home alone,
a silent apartment
awaiting his inevitable return;
he poured himself a drink,
washed the mask from his face
and wondered if Love
even knew he existed;
yes, he lived for the parties,
for without their solace
he would cease to live at all.
137. Prometheus
When there was darkness
he brought us light,
the gift of Fire,
salvation for mortals
condemned to suffer
by the hand of Zeus.
Nailed to a cross of stone,
he endured punishment
for his act of mercy,
the saviour god
condemned to pay
the price of Zeus.
On this storm-haunted night
you have brought Fire to me;
through my veil of tears
I gaze upon your face,
see the pain within you,
see the love within you.
Mortals doomed to suffer
torment unbearable,
praying for mercy in silence;
we reach out, hand to hand,
each in our own agony,
each in need of absolution.
When this harsh night is over
and the Fire of Prometheus
comes to warm our souls again,
we will know a troubled journey,
begun in winter’s malice,
has found its end in love.
138. Provence in April
Outside sharp Winter stays too long,
blasting the world with deadly ice
that embraces every living thing;
but inside I turn my frost-filled mind
to Provence, to a spring in France,
when flowers rose in triumphant joy
at the coming of April and warmth;
ochre cliffs and rock-lined bays,
ancient ruins echoing ages long ago,
the land that Vincent knew so well.
Its colours race across his canvas,
exulting in a light denied the painter,
who buried his torment in his brush;
Vincent was a Winter child, like me,
and knew the rage of inner storms,
yet channelled them into creations
as lasting as the age-old bridges
that wind across this landscape.
It was here, in this sacred land,
that I understood, as never before,
the transcendent power of the artist
to tame the chaos that lurks within.
139. Pulling Me Back
Bonds too strong to break,
a pull greater than gravity
keeps drawing me back,
even as I try to leave;
perhaps leaving is safer
than remaining here,
chained to your heart,
vulnerable to new wounds.
Yet departure is also painful
in the sorrows it brings,
the sense of empty loss
and hopes dashed down;
black grief on either side,
but also a strange love
that is just within my grasp,
that I must not let go.
140. Purveyors of Lies
Attack under cover,
speak words of hate,
purveyors of lies,
mouths in full spate,
blacken my name,
but not face to face,
cowards and bullies
of cold cyberspace;
no conscience restrains,
no morals delay,
do any mischief
to have it your way.
I know you are there,
though hidden so well,
but if God does exist
your fate will be hell,
where flames will consume
your legions of lies,
for truth is a diamond
that cuts your disguise.
141. Rainy Day
Clouds have come
to cleanse the world,
rain without end,
forever and ever.
I become Noah,
watching waters rise,
but finding no escape,
no God-sent ark.
Let the flood come,
wash away the wounds
within my soul;
let me stand in water
above my head,
cease to breathe
until I am saved.
Baptismal surrender:
into Your hands
I commit my spirit,
rendering unto You
all that I am;
have mercy upon me,
for I know my sins.
142. Rampant Insomnia
At six a.m. I sit here
and wonder where Morpheus,
Blessed God of Sleep,
is cavorting;
is he bringing oblivion
to someone more favoured,
who now rests peacefully
in slumber?
Perhaps my own libations,
small and unimpressive,
have offended his divinity
as inadequate,
or perhaps I am doomed
to roam about the house,
a modern Odysseus
seeking Penelope,
warding off the Charybdis
who lies beneath my bed,
demanding I awake
before Dawn –
that rosy-fingered goddess
who beckons all dreamers
to arise from their rest –
swallows him.
143. Red Earth
An island cradled on the waves,
moving in time with the tides,
coloured by Nature’s red soil
and by the green of the fields;
her hills and harbours sing
a Siren’s Song of beauty –
never fear, the Sirens of this land
will only bring you peace.
I walk the sands of the shore,
see the blue herons glide above,
and wonder at such tranquility;
gazing at the fragile dunes,
tracking the boats on the water,
I sense a calm that transcends
all the turmoil of my life,
and I rejoice to walk this red earth.
144. Reflected
Silent messengers,
a telling glance
that speaks louder
than any words;
mirrors of the soul –
so poets proclaim –
reflecting truth
as well as beauty.
I see the message
in your dark eyes,
the belief in love,
healer of the soul;
safe in your eyes,
I take leave of fear,
at peace in seeing
myself reflected.
145. Refuge
Battered by storms
within and without,
I drift upon waves
of unspeakable doubt,
unsure of the future,
the present a scar
marking my face
with indelible tar.
Seeking a haven
far from the light,
looking for solace
in unending night,
I toss back and forth
alone with my fear,
fighting the Sirens
who try to come near.
But just as the winds
turn into gales,
I spy one small ship
with beckoning sails
that dares to approach
well into my view –
its courage proclaims
my refuge is you.
146. Remember
Granite casket in the sun,
silent statues keeping watch,
silent weapons in their hands,
silent faces never to reveal
whose bones now lie within this
granite casket in the sun.
On killing fields the soldiers fall,
no war to end all wars,
no release from fear and hate,
no promise of enduring peace;
caught in webs woven by madmen
on killing fields the soldiers fall.
A chamber lined with open books,
endless names inscribed in black,
endless seas of wasted blood,
endless grief in every heart –
tears no longer restrained in
a chamber lined with open books.
How many more to come?
147. Restless
I am as restless as the sea
when winter turns to spring,
each wave anticipating
the ships that warm days bring.
I am as eager as the gull
to soar in skies made light
by the coming of the sun
to vanquish winter’s night.
But as I soar above the sea,
how frail the ships appear,
easy prey for one more storm
when dark clouds hover near.
I pray no harm befall them,
that the waters gentle be,
for I was born a wanderer,
as restless as the sea.
148. Sanctuary, 1
Madness reigns outside:
a frenzied storm has broken,
wild lightning fills the sky
and thunder roars untamed
across the darkened land;
raging winds wreak havoc
upon everything alive,
agents of hungry winter.
Our storm-ravaged souls
reach out, seeking a path
through the blackened night
to a sanctuary free from harm,
a place of refuge, sacrosanct,
consecrated to a gentle God
who offers us eternal life.
There, in the glow of candle light
we wait, forgetful of those inner storms
for which no sanctuary exists.
149. Sanctuary, 2
Beyond the window, only rain;
we watch, isolated by clouds
dispatched to shed their tears
in absolution of us.
Sinners confined within, we wait,
making plans for rainbow days,
refusing to cast dreams aside,
the preservation of hope.
Whispers of things unsaid in light,
hidden secrets, unexpressed desires,
words of comfort in dark cloisters,
the annunciation of love.
Your words flow to me as wine,
your flesh becomes the sacred host
in a mass anointed by rain,
the sanctification of passion.
This grand cathedral of our souls –
how it provides sanctuary,
acquiesces to the grace of clouds,
the granting of serenity.
150. Sardonic Ode to Summer, 2009
My head hurts,
clouds laugh,
my back aches,
thunder rolls,
hail predicted,
my umbrella lost,
rain slicks torn,
clothes are wet,
sun is on holiday –
wish you were here.
Cold in the morning,
afternoon cool,
three blankets on bed
and I still shiver,
wish I were a bird
with downy feathers,
couch calls my name
and I succumb –
a long summer nap
in the autumn of August.
151. Saturday Night Down
A hollow night
without you here,
time suspended,
life in limbo
until you return;
I am not alone,
but feeling lonely:
another Saturday night.
A quiet night,
time to reflect,
to remember days
without you,
when loneliness
was my companion,
haunting me
every Saturday night.
A long night,
trying to keep busy,
trying not to imagine
where you are,
what you are doing;
there is fear
I can taste
every Saturday night.
So I sit here,
writing poems
in a darkened room,
recording my love
as I pray to God
to keep you safe,
to get you through
another Saturday night.
152. Sea Dream
I dreamed of angry seas last night,
of broken ships and newfound graves,
heard the screams of drowning men
as they fell beneath voracious waves.
The sky was rent by lightning bolts
while thunder trembled ancient ground,
and from the shore I watched the clouds
forgathering to muffle sound.
A fatal silence came to rule,
no trace of ships or dying men
remained upon the waters calmed
as light began to glow again.
I woke amidst a raging storm –
a violent hurricane of wrath –
only to recall in fear
that you were standing in its path.
153. Seasons
I am the wind in summer,
unpredictable and fickle,
calming the waters
yet bending the trees.
I am the sun in winter,
dispensing warmth
like a miser his pennies,
my light barely visible.
I am the rain in spring,
herald of new life
and destroyer of old,
raging nursemaid.
I am the frost in autumn,
preparing the reluctant earth
for the coming of cold,
the dying of the light.
I am all seasons in one,
primordial contradiction,
a maelstrom unleashed
in Dionysiac abandon.
154. Sentry
Howling on the harbour,
north winds assault the waves,
tossing ships at moorings
with winter-driven staves,
covering with salt spray
all those who stand on shore,
till some go in retreat,
unwilling to bear more.
But she remained unmoved,
a witness to the rage
that dark December casts
upon the mortal stage,
never to abandon
the ships that served so well
when hatred filled the world
and led mankind to Hell.
Each frigate at the dock
had fought the winds of war,
the scars upon their hulls
would speak forevermore,
and so she stood her ground
against the northern gale,
a sentry of the souls
who gave their lives to sail.
155. Shattered: For Haiti
A January Tuesday,
another ordinary afternoon
under bright Caribbean sun;
fishing boats in the harbour,
women at the market,
their children in school;
a place of poverty,
long ravaged by forces
in pursuit of power;
the children of slaves
who hope for a future
free from all bonds.
4:53
A roar from the Earth,
born of the deeps
and shaking the ground;
buildings unable to stand
turn into coffins,
cries ring out in vain;
everything changes,
time cleft in two –
before and after;
the living and the dead –
the living dead,
the death of hope.
156. Sheltered Love
Lovers in the streets,
displaying their passion
for all to take note,
kissing in the doorway
of the gourmet bakery,
holding hands as they pass
along the city’s sidewalks;
moving slowly, without care,
into now deserted alleys;
the world is theirs:
let all watchers see
and envy them their love.
How I remember:
we stood at the corner,
tossing fresh balls of snow
at each other, rejoicing
in our own newfound love.
So long ago it seems
as each year slips by,
creating a secluded space
in which we can explore
love with no need of display,
love simply content to be,
to exist sheltered in our souls.
157. Silence
In the quiet of the night
I try to grasp at words
that will not come to me;
things that must be said
fade away, unspoken, on mute lips.
Cold Silence steals the poet,
pen set aside, lights dimmed.
Somewhere, in some warmer time,
a Muse dwelled within and smiled;
now there is but Silence,
and shadows reach out for me.
To surrender is the key,
to end those winter songs
that hopeful ears shut out.
158. Silent Heart
Life seems suspended
like Damocles’ dagger
above our heads,
ever threatening to fall,
to sever our union.
I appeal to the Fates,
beg them to draw
the thread longer,
that we may celebrate
our love without fear.
The in-between time,
that time of not knowing,
is the emptiest space,
a vacuum of torment
we dare not speak.
I shall hold you tonight
in a wordless embrace,
trying to keep you safe
inside the bulwark
of my silent heart.
159. Siren of the Rocks
A voice unlike any other
penetrates your soul,
makes you feel again
things thought lost,
a sense of harmony,
the inner peace of a rose
turning towards the sun
at the call of Spring.
This voice beckons you,
promises paradise regained
and broken hearts healed;
how you wish to believe,
to renounce the world
in a quest for pure beauty,
but, deep within, you fear
the Siren upon the rocks.
160. Snapshots, Summer 2010
A cottage in the woods,
hidden by spruce and pine,
purple finches at the feeder,
squirrels by the woodpile,
the shy red fox glides by,
and we take photographs:
not a cloud above,
gulls wheeling in the sky,
you on the windsurfer
fighting the fickle breeze,
trying to go even faster
than the birds on high;
the sleek canvas kayak,
paddles synchronized
in a slow summer rhythm,
searching the shoreline
for sea-borne treasure,
content to find nothing;
the sailboat dances on waves,
a siren calling out at us
to raise the sheets
and give the wind reign
to lead us to an island
abandoned by all others;
the beach where you lie
under the glare of the sun,
soaking in the warmth –
winter chill gone at last,
and I watch your body
at rest in the sand.
Snapshots of summer:
of days crowned by sunsets
vivid beyond imagination,
each day now a memory
etched upon our souls
against the coming cold.
161. Solitude
I come here to escape
the despair that attacks
when I am least prepared –
alone, in quiet solitude,
I wonder why I exist,
feeling like a cosmic joke.
Is the cold, dark Universe
laughing at me now,
putting me in my place
among the silent woods?
I dwell in outer reaches,
ever far away from those
who rejoice in laughter --
how I wish to be like them,
not outcast, but welcomed
at life’s festive table.
Yet there is peace here:
in solitude I find the strength
to accept my apartness
as a special gift from God.
162. Someday
You try each day to survive,
struggling against the temptation
to turn your back and simply go,
somewhere –
a hidden place of solitude,
no questions, no angry voices,
just pines and gently lapping waves,
sometime –
when dark storms have left the sky
and the winds blow calm again,
the earth renewed by water,
somehow –
by forces wild and inexplicable
seeking to take your tired hand
and lead you into paradise,
someday.
163. Strange Duet
He softly sings to me
a melody of sorrow,
a haunting song of loss,
lamenting days gone by,
spent in winter darkness.
I sing to him of summer,
of brighter, sun-lit days
warmed by gentle love,
a solemn hymn of patience,
pleading for the future.
We together sing a lyric
tempered by the fire
of mourning and despair,
forged on the anvil of hope:
hope that wounds will heal,
that our songs will soar
above the fractured souls
that sing this strange duet.
164. Summer Bliss
Incessant fog embraces me,
vapor born of ocean’s passion,
whose love becomes a prison cell
to be shared with this assassin;
my spirit fights against the haze,
yearns to soar in lustrous places,
to gaze upon a land set free,
safe from clouds with dismal faces,
to lie on beaches of white sand,
to feel the heat of summer sun,
to watch as boats unfurl their sails
and set out on another run –
but still the mist imprisons me,
and I must wait for freedom’s kiss,
for those who dwell upon the shores
prize most the touch of summer bliss.
165. Summer Mourning
Fog rampant on the bay,
devouring the landscape
with careless ease
and violence.
The forest ceases to exist,
those who dwell within
disappear from view
in silence.
No rustle of leaves,
no snap of boughs
bending in the wind,
to resist.
I see nothing,
I hear nothing,
I feel only the embrace
of mist.
I wait for the sun,
that surgeon of fog,
cutting through the shroud
at last.
Until then, I walk shores
consumed by sea,
praying you are there,
steadfast.
166. Summer Place
All winter long her rooms lay dark,
held in the cold embrace of snow,
no sounds within, no lights ablaze
in abandoned summer windows,
dormant as the barren branches,
and battered by relentless gales
that test the tensile strength of wood
held fast by fragile man-made nails,
not bending like the wise old pines,
but steadfast in the face of storms,
proclaiming proudly bold resolve
to stand her ground, though old and worn,
beside the waves that kiss her lips,
amid the trees that rise so tall,
and where the Great Blue on the shore
sends forth at dusk its loving call.
Then winter yielded to the warmth
instilled by summer’s newfound breath,
the ice-cold grip of northern winds
dissolved with winter’s welcome death,
and soon the cottage woke again
to see the land restored to life,
and opened wide her shuttered eyes
to catch the gleam of love’s pure light.
167. Tantalus
Tantalus in his river
prayed each day for water
to slake the thirst of eternity,
watched the ripened fruit
recede before his reach.
To be so close, and fail,
to know Paradise close by
yet live in everlasting Hell,
with no hope of a hero
to play the role of Saviour,
Tantalus learned that dreams
were nightmares in disguise,
a mocking trick of Fate
for those who miss the mark.
We reach out for happiness,
children of his ancient blood
still stained with mythic sin,
only to see our precious jewels
dissolve away to worthless sand
that slips between our fingers
and leaves an empty soul.
Illusions and deceptions
tantalize our beggared eyes,
promise what we cannot have
while clothed in mortal flesh,
and so we wait for our release
from sadness and despair,
dying of thirst in elusive rivers.
168. Tattered Souls
She wants to tell him everything,
her tattered soul stripped bare,
but exposure means sharp scalpels,
and in her fright she does not dare;
she tries to let him feel her love –
how it embraces him each day,
how every kiss and every touch
offers light to guide their way.
But even as they lie together
and the waxing moon looks on,
there comes a dread upon her heart
that he might disappear at dawn;
this baleful fear will not let go –
perhaps their union is a ruse,
for love is like a game of chance,
and tattered souls have much to lose.
169. Tear Catcher
Tears fall like rain,
but bitter with salt,
leavened by sorrow;
from these tears
comes cleansing,
for we are mortal
and cannot achieve
divine perfection.
I spread my hands
to catch your tears,
open to your grief,
sharing it with you;
hearts, once entwined,
hold each other fast.
170. The Call of the Sea
I long to go away,
leave this world behind
and find a place
free from sorrow,
where rays of sunlight
break through clouds
and warm my soul.
Too many tears are shed
in this concrete place,
too many hearts are broken
where love no longer lives;
take me home, ocean tides,
let me float upon the waves,
watch the sea birds wheel
upon the gentle breeze,
and find myself becalmed.
171. The Calling
You tell me to stop wasting time,
and somehow I fear you are right –
that poems serve only as kindling
for fires to burn through the night,
that other paths could be chosen
where I could make you more proud –
a doctor, a lawyer perhaps,
someone to stand out in a crowd.
But even in your disappointment,
that look of despair in your eyes,
to write is my single obsession,
a calling so few dare to prize,
and should I fall far from the mark,
my verses consigned to the flames,
I will remain true to my calling
though no one remembers my name.
172. The Cathedral of the Soul
Beyond the window, only rain;
we watch, isolated by clouds
dispatched to shed their tears
in absolution of us.
Sinners confined within, we wait,
making plans for rainbow days,
refusing to cast dreams aside,
the preservation of hope.
Whispers of things unsaid in light,
hidden secrets, unexpressed desires,
words of comfort in dark cloisters,
the annunciation of love.
Your words flow to me as wine,
your flesh becomes the sacred host
in a mass anointed by rain,
the sanctification of passion.
This grand cathedral of our souls –
how it provides sanctuary,
acquiesces to the grace of clouds,
the granting of serenity.
173. The Church
A stranger in a foreign land,
walking streets absorbed in grief,
the sun could not dispel the clouds
that, deep within, denied relief
from torments born of solitude,
for one long lost on sorrow’s reef.
Ahead she saw a tiny church
unlike cathedrals she had known,
a building made of brick and wood
that seemed to beckon her alone,
as if it knew her lack of hope,
how quickly all her faith had flown.
No preacher stood beyond its doors,
no congregation offered hymns –
all was dark, and all was dust,
as she took her seat within,
daring God to heal her wounds,
to cleanse her of abiding sin.
A prayer echoed from her heart,
a lamentation never planned,
and then her eyes were cast upon
one candle glowing in a stand,
a light where dark had been before,
a message from an unseen hand.
As years passed by she pondered
what power entered her that day,
strong enough to vanquish pain
and turn her path another way –
a road to lead to new found peace,
and keep the demons all at bay.
174. The Cypress Tree: For Tori Stafford, Spring 2009, R.I.P.
Beyond the cypress tree
you are wearing white,
playing with the children
taken from our sight;
no evil now exists
for innocents like you,
laughter fills the sky,
to fall as morning dew.
Flowers in the meadows
take up this offering,
libations made to love
as newborn robins sing.
Such beauty in the world
compels me to believe
your spirit lingers still
beyond the cypress tree.
175. The Fetters of Time: For L.M. Montgomery
The woman within was alone,
in solitude she crafted words
to paint the beauty of the sea,
to hymn the music of the birds;
with her imagination free
to soar above all mundane tasks,
the lonely house was left behind,
its darkened rooms, its secret cracks.
The woman without was smiling,
assuming the mask of success
she walked among the powerful,
received as a most welcome guest;
a witty and kind raconteur,
a speaker on novels and poems,
ruler of each room she entered
outside of her own sorrowed home.
A life of such contradictions
recorded in journals at night,
held captive between two ages,
fast losing her will for the fight,
and thinking back on childhood days
of innocence now left behind,
she closed the chapters of her life,
escaping the fetters of time.
176. The First Snowdrop
He took my hand and led me
to the snowdrop on the lawn,
a fragile flower fighting
lest tomorrow it be gone;
imbued with hope of springtime,
how it bravely stood its ground,
daring cold to wield its fist
as storm clouds gathered round.
He showed me that such courage
could withstand the blows of fate,
that even seeds in harshest soil
could find the strength to germinate;
that life would ever forge ahead,
so determined to endure
that nothing need I ever fear,
set free in love forevermore.
177. The Hound of Winter
The snarling face of Winter
glared at me through window panes,
as if a hound had come to call,
to challenge me to play his games,
daring me to cage his fury
and prevent that savage bite
from jaws that crush like pincers,
craving blood shed in the night.
I tried to draw the curtains,
erase his visage from my eyes,
but my ears became betrayers –
forcing me to hear his cries,
that savage sound of hunger,
a keening for the smell of death –
this monster ripped my soul apart,
depriving me of hopefulness.
And so I lived in cold despair
as passing months moved slowly by,
Time itself stood by this hound
and waited for my dreams to die;
a beast without a predator,
triumphant over those like me –
Summer spirits seeking light,
but doomed to pay bleak Winter’s fee.
178. The Measure of a Life
Time flowing onwards,
a river without end
in which we briefly stand;
years like vapour dissolve,
leaving only memories
in place of flesh and bone.
We seek out legacies
in what we leave behind,
that our names survive,
not to be forgotten –
to leave no vestige
the final affliction.
Unto you I bequeath
only my brief presence
in the stream of your life;
fleeting, ephemeral
as the morning dew --
I am here, then gone.
But know that I loved,
and knew love in return,
no more could I seek;
the measure of my life
transcends the flowing years,
the legacy is love.
179. The Night You Finally Cried
Tears held inside,
deep within your heart,
unable to escape --
despite the pain,
despite the loss,
you kept those tears from flowing,
for it did not seem right
to expose your soul in tears.
Then, one night, in absolution
the dam that held those tears
in check crumbled:
a flood pouring from your soul
released you from the grasp
of cruel, tenacious grief.
The pain has not disappeared,
and perhaps never will,
but the tears you shed that night
proclaimed your humanity.
180. The Old Man of March
The angry old man endures,
implacable, resistant
to a sun climbing higher,
deaf to our cries.
Still wielding weapons of ice,
he sends grey clouds to attack
the frozen earth, long yearning
for kinder skies.
His gales descend on sailors
who venture forth in folly,
who believe that waves abate,
that winter dies.
A face hidden in hoar frost
looks down in ancient hatred
at warmth designed to nurture
the soil below.
Our hopes remain imprisoned
as we wait for southern winds
to waken courage dormant
against his blows.
But when he will release us,
yielding to the grace of spring,
that life return in bounty –
no one knows.
181. The Power of the Poem
Emotions surge through me,
tossing me like a boat
caught in a sudden storm;
I struggle for control,
trying to rein in the winds
that blow cold from the north.
And so I start to write:
to find the perfect words,
the transcendent images
that tame the untameable.
The power of the poem
offers my soul safe harbour,
freedom from the dark chaos
that seeks to destroy me –
without the act of writing
my tiny craft would founder
on the Sirens’ rocky isle
that ever sings out to me.
182. The Pythia, 1: 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.
183. The Pythia, 2: Falling into Silence
Everywhere assaulted by noise,
clamouring voices, shrill cries,
the laments of others drowning
in oceans of sorrow muting
the sound of her own heart;
she absorbed their pain,
recognized her own sadness
in their tormented words,
and could no longer ignore
the clamour of her own soul,
the healing from within
demanding her attention –
serving the god brought fear,
the fear of falling into silence.
184. The Rains of Spring
She sits by the window,
pretending to read a book
but only hearing the sound of rain –
pinpricks assaulting the glass,
water descending in a sharpness
left behind by winter’s blade;
spring, she knows, brings warmth,
transforms the barren land
into a kaleidoscope of colours -
a brightness that heralds release
from months of imprisonment
under the dark veil of clouds.
She made a promise once,
a vow never to be broken,
a testament to life reborn –
putting aside her book, she stands;
there is a place she must visit
on this day of endless rain,
there is someone who must know
the tears of spring have come,
and faith will lead her there –
she will kneel and speak the words,
place a stone upon the stone,
and give thanks that she was loved.
185. The Restless Kind
I am one of the restless kind,
ever driven to roam the world
in search of something elusive,
thinking it must await me
just over the next mountain pass,
or beyond the sheen of an Alpine lake.
And if not there, I wander even more
through barren, treeless waste
or verdant fields replete with life.
I am on an endless voyage with myself,
exploring uncharted waters without fear,
secure in the knowledge that, one day,
what I seek will come to me at last,
appearing suddenly at the very moment
when I most have need of comfort,
and I will understand why I am.
186. The Sanctuary
A sanctuary too soon defiled,
a shattered remnant of a dream,
a fallen victim of too much hate
spreading like endless contagion
across its ancient marbled floor;
once I found myself at peace here,
found acceptance of my presence
among the caring congregation.
But time passed, as it must,
pretense and greed forced entry,
vile intruders in a sacred place,
but far worse came selfish envy,
eating through flesh like fire,
stoking flames where none had burned,
and I left behind my youthful dreams,
broken in a place where hate should not exist.
187. The Soldier
Her loved one fought in a far off land,
its face obscured by blowing dust,
he feared the blast of desert heat
but thought the cause of war was just --
for tyrants ruled in mad abandon,
their greed unable to be sated,
her soldier tried to set things right
lest the poor be devastated.
On each patrol he watched the hills
where hidden guns were trained on him,
and every day he heard bombs fall,
then saw the wreckage amidst the din;
the people smiled and offered thanks
as he brought them vital food and drink,
he crouched to talk to crippled men,
to each ragged child he gave a wink.
She waited for his tour to end
so he could meet his infant son,
she prayed each day for war to cease,
for all the fighting to be done.
The doorbell rang, she stood alone,
and looked into the padre’s eyes,
few words spoken to end her world –
a man with a bomb, her soldier dies.
188. Thunder in the Night
Clouds are moving swiftly in,
veiling the pale half moon,
the dark deepens even as I watch,
soon there is nothing to see;
the winds, before so silent,
begin to wail into my ears,
all Nature waits in expectation
of the rage that is to come.
Thunder shakes the ground,
a flash of lightning sparks the air,
havoc is let loose upon the earth;
I watch trees struggle to bend,
desperate to resist the power
unleashed by the fury of this storm.
Then the beast strikes at me,
and I too bend in homage to its rage.
189. Voice
I listened to your voice today –
the soft tones linger still –
and felt that I must write a poem
this silent night to fill,
to tell you how much joy it gave
to hear you speak to me,
and know that, even far away,
so close we two can be.
Perhaps you did not realize
the way my heart would smile
just to know that you are here,
if only for awhile,
and sense the love you offer
with no reward in sight –
and so I offer you my thanks
for making darkness bright.
190. Voyagers
Union with another,
all boundaries denied,
two merging into one
across an ocean wide,
a gulf that seeks to end
the passion of the heart,
to separate the flesh
before the pleasures start.
But distance is too weak
against a primal force,
despite the tidal rage
our souls will stay the course,
for love is at the helm
and stands a captain bold –
your face comes into view,
the sea retracts its hold.
191. Weaver of Songs
Strings of Creation,
vibrating in time
to celestial orbs
beyond our ken,
flooding the cosmos
with sounds divine,
unheard by mortals
since Life began.
Soft melodies fly
to realms unknown,
healing all wounds
with loving hand;
Weaver of Songs
soaring through space,
sing to us now
till Time itself ends.
192. Weeds in the Water (B.B.)
Around the water’s edge
grew flowers of every hue,
the air above shimmered
with the pulse of wings –
tiny creatures drawn
to fragrance and colours.
She walked among them,
moving between the rows
so none would be crushed,
and admired perfection –
a grace never accorded
human beings like her.
No sickle in her hand
would ever cut one down,
not even those disfigured
by the passage of time –
for she, like Pandora,
still cherished hope.
From the water’s edge
poison entered her flesh,
spread to every blossom
as she fell into their arms –
her life finally subsumed
by weeds in the water.
193. What Remains
A spirit that soared lies shattered,
brought down by malevolent eyes,
envy an ugly emotion
for breeding cruel rumours and lies;
to succeed is ever a curse
with jealous tongues lying in wait,
created by selfish desire
that leads to irrational hate;
she tries to forget all the pain,
the feeling of being bereft,
but sometimes injustice prevails,
and anger is all she has left.
194. Winter Soul
The ice that shields your heart
is like fine crystal, shimmering
in the light, delicate, easily broken;
you seek to strengthen this barrier,
to build more layers of chilling frost
and stand so far away from warming love.
A winter soul, hiding from the rising sun,
fights against the call to come forth,
to shatter the ice that holds you apart.
In vain that frozen soul turns away
from release, from the gentle melting
of the ice, from the freedom to be;
for the power of love is strong enough
to free a winter soul encased in ice:
it penetrates that dark, enshrouded heart
and, like the sun itself, rekindles life.
97. Late in the Night
She speaks to me at night
when silence rules the house,
when the day is just a memory
but sleep will not yet come;
her gentle love reaches out,
crossing the great divide
that comes between us --
then nothing comes between us:
heart to heart, soul to soul.
both laughing and crying,
we are one in evening’s hand.
She claims to be no poet,
laments her loss for words,
yet, today, in one brief poem,
she brought my soul to tears;
special, my late night friend,
an unexpected gift from God,
this voice late in the night.
98. Late Night Visitor
I hold onto you by a fragile thread,
desperately trying to pull you in,
to take you far away from fear,
from the violence that pushes you
ever further into growing darkness;
but I am slowly losing hope, knowing
my love is not enough to save you,
that you alone are master of your fate.
So while I wait for you at night,
I will sing sad songs of love denied,
of childhood dreams now shattered,
a life fading into chaos and despair,
and I will ever wait for you to come,
praying you survived another day.
99. Legacy
Fouling the oceans,
exhausting the land,
cutting up forests,
stand after stand,
denying the wildlife
a place of their own,
damming the rivers,
stone after stone,
till nothing is left
and all is consumed,
billions of people,
and one planet doomed.
Pity the children
to come after us,
swallowing poisons
and planting in dust;
and blame us they will
for greed and fixation –
we rightly deserve
complete condemnation.
100. Light Reborn
Bright tulips in the garden,
verdant stands within the grass,
trees in effervescent bloom
tell me winter’s blade has passed;
the knife that cut down beauty
now runs liquid to the sea,
vanquished by the light reborn,
reaching out to land set free.
I gaze upon the flowers,
watch their petals kiss the breeze,
as if a long-lost suitor
had responded to their pleas.
How blessed I am by springtime
after winter’s bitter lash,
to set aside the darkness
and await a rose at last.
101. Looking for Herself
Somewhere she got lost,
hidden behind names
that made her generic:
she became the nurse,
the volunteer coach,
the family chauffer,
but especially mom
and his loving wife --
so much love in her life,
how can she complain?
Is she being selfish
as she sits at night,
when the house is quiet
and the kids asleep,
turns on the computer
and quietly looks for herself?
102. Lost Child
The child in your vision
had no time to wait,
she’s gone to another --
too late, it’s too late;
she’ll grow up a stranger,
her name never known,
while you sit in sorrow,
bereaved and alone.
The child in your vision
was like a brief flame,
conceived in the darkness
of life’s fickle game;
she’s now an illusion,
but ever so real,
too late, it's too late --
you never will heal.
103. Lost in the Crowd
Would you even notice her
as you walk among the crowd,
so many faces pass you by,
so many voices cry aloud?
Just an ordinary woman
looking lost as she draws near,
not sure where she is going,
or even what to do there.
A nameless fear compels her,
denies her any place to stay,
afraid that you might stare at her
or even start to move her way.
The noisy crowd oppresses her,
and she struggles hard to breathe,
walls are closing in on her –
her only thought, that she must leave.
You might think her very odd,
a creature born to cause alarm,
who should depart this world of yours
and not disturb your inner calm.
To ignore her is the answer,
turn aside from her direction,
such misfits find no haven
in a world of false perfection.
104. Love Endures
Life out of control,
the world spins
like a crazed top,
shedding pain
as it revolves,
pain enough
to destroy the soul.
But love endures:
it casts out pain
to heal wounds,
to take broken pieces
and make them whole.
Love is too strong
to fall victim
to a moment’s madness,
it survives intact,
secure in understanding
that we are only human
and may sometimes hurt
the very ones we love.
My love for you remains,
as it always will,
and no fleeting storm
will drive it out;
take my offered hand
and put your tears aside.
105. Love Poems?
Be there an end to love poems,
a minute, an hour, a day
that cries “enough” and puts a stop
to love’s persevering sway?
Then will we cease to record
how a heart is swiftly rent,
how the salty flow of tears
must compel us to repent?
In the silence left behind
what themes to capture the pen –
will we sing of clouds and sun,
fashion odes to mice, not men?
Perhaps there will come poets
eager to take up this task,
for now my soul refuses –
your sweet love is all I ask.
106. Love Song
Come, take my hand and join the dance:
let the music of dawn flow around you,
a gentle river of sound embracing us
as we waltz on morning’s nascent dew.
Let the sky above us banish clouds,
and the rising sun pour golden rays
upon two lovers, so drunk with life,
imbibing the wine of passionate days.
Let the swelling breeze lift us lightly
as we drift along hand in hand,
gazing at the verdant earth below
to see the bounty of its teeming land.
Let this transcendent moment ever last
as two hearts become entwined as one,
never to end their mystic dance of wonder,
or watch the setting of that lucent sun.
107. Love Unconditional
In pain I came to you,
a second sorrow,
but love that knew no bounds
filled your heart
as you embraced me;
with no hesitation,
you gave life to me
a second time.
A love unconditional,
never harsh,
never judging,
always open to me;
the cost to you was great
but mattered little,
for love is the greatest gift,
the gift that makes us human.
My love for you is
unconditional,
unbound by Time:
we are one in soul,
we are one in heart;
we do not seek words –
we speak through love alone,
no more is needed.
108. Lucy Maud and I
We are kindred souls,
Lucy Maud and I,
we both know love and laughter,
we both know how to cry
over things that never were,
or things we might have done
if only stubborn shadows
had not obscured the sun.
We write our lives on paper,
the darkness mixed with light,
in hope that some kind reader
will hear our words tonight,
and understand the joy we take
in words that seem god-sent,
and how the power of the pen
can shake the firmament.
109. Man of the Plains
Man of the plains in a city
where endless fog obscures the sky,
where no fields extend forever,
just concrete buildings rising high,
does your heart recall the meadows
that festooned each spring with flowers,
or quaking aspens standing tall
to embrace you in cool bowers?
So much is gone, all pushed aside
by frantic lives passed in a rush,
no time to savour each new dawn
or watch the sun set into dusk;
do you ever stop to ponder
why you endure the steely sea,
or pause to fondly recollect
the land you left behind for me?
110. Melody Sublime
A magic sound from far away,
my soul drinks deep a wine
created by the sun and sea,
a melody sublime;
as every note caresses me,
its touch so soft and fine,
I feel myself transported
to a realm divine;
how loving was the hand,
a treasure rare to find,
that crafted such a melody
and said that it was mine.
111. Mirage
An image of perfection,
unblemished to the eye,
her every step a ballet
danced beneath the sky
as stars beheld in wonder
her beauty and her grace –
how could such a creature
inhabit mortal space?
And I too bowed in honour
whenever she appeared,
a humble peasant woman
who prayed she would come near
to heal the wounds of life
with balm upon her voice –
what magic songs she sang
to make my soul rejoice.
But magic is delusion
and perfection is a lie:
beneath her grace and beauty
a hollow core lay nigh,
an arrogance of power
immune to all barrage,
I set aside my prayers,
betrayed by her mirage.
112. Missing You
A gentle face, smiling at me from a worn photograph,
so radiant in a garden full of blooming roses,
what treasured memories you have bequeathed me:
images, so clear, of golden times before we parted,
when love was boundless, a warm and joyful time
when the world seemed lucent, filled with endless hope,
and when clouds on the horizon were so far away
I thought them banished eternally to some distant world.
How well you kept my fears at bay, standing guard
over a child confused, ever on the verge of despair,
but holding on, never giving in with you at her side;
now, every moment, I wish you were in that garden still,
longing so much to hold your hand, to touch your face.
But that next embrace must wait till I am braver,
ready at last to step across the veil of darkness
and run, like the child I was, into your loving arms.
113. Mona Lisa
A masterpiece of art
that I will never rival,
for words cannot express
the enigma in your face.
I gaze at you in wonder:
is this a mocking smile
for an artist you loved
once, when vernal youth
dared to set foot upon
a never ending path,
before you came to know
loss and disappointment?
How time has deceived,
has twisted your laughter
into tears that remember
love won, and then lost,
a heart blessed, then broken,
life tossing you aside,
a dying flower in autumn,
still reaching for the sun.
114. More Than I Can Give
Sad voices in my ears clamour
for never ending attention –
no delay accepted, no pause,
no sacred moment of silence.
Longing to hear nothing at all,
I try to shut them out -- in vain,
for they live with me always
and will not allow escape.
A response is demanded,
so I reply as I must,
telling these incessant voices
all that I have left to tell,
but begging them to rest,
to cease their loud laments,
for what they ask of me
is far more than I can give.
115. Morpheus
I stood at your altar
with costly libations
poured in your honour,
reciting the ritual
set down when time began:
“Come, Morpheus, come,
take pity on my soul,
unable to find release
in merciful sleep,
no Elysian dreams
to calm my heart.”
But the Night leaves
as Aurora appears,
and no rest has come,
my mind a cauldron
of chaotic images,
tormenting me always.
I ask what crime
against your godhead
I am condemned for,
doomed to spend each night
in agonizing wakefulness.
116. My Ghost
In the darkness of your lair
you seek release from pain,
a solitary stillness
apart from sun and rain.
Deep below, the shadows
sing their dark song to you,
a song of Eden lost,
closed forever to your view.
Can Paradise be restored,
can a soul revive a flame
that once soared high to Heaven
but fell to Earth again?
My grieving heart seeks you out,
to lead you to the light;
come with me, my dear ghost,
let us briefly end the night.
117. New Year Lament
Grim December yields
at a glacial pace
to brighter January –
month of promises,
the world renewed
as days grow longer
and memories fade.
I place the old year
in a well-nailed coffin,
lest it haunt me
with its darkness,
and remind me
of unbearable loss.
I turn my back,
no double Janus
to look behind
with sad regret;
the past is buried,
nothing I can do
will bring her back.
118. Niobe, 1: Turning to Stone
Days of torment
never forgotten,
a wound inside
never to heal,
life is not the same
and never will be.
Sorrow holds me
in its sullen grasp,
and I seek escape
in desperate fear
of my own infirmity.
Yet my heart knows
freedom from pain
will cost too much,
that turning to stone
also brings destruction.
119. Niobe, 2: Niobe’s Pride
A mother’s pride,
her children strong,
of noble bearing
and handsome;
both male and female,
a living testament
to her heart’s love,
her soul’s desire.
How she boasted
of her progeny,
her eyes aflame
with maternal joy,
until the jealous gods
one day took notice,
angry at her boasts,
begrudging mortal bliss.
Arrows came forth
from Apollo’s bow,
slaying each child,
innocent sacrifices;
Niobe began to weep,
cascades of tears
drenching her body,
freezing her soul.
Turned to cold rock,
she still laments
each single child,
each tender face;
yet her endless tears
will never erode
what she became –
a lonely mourning crag.
120. No Fear
Not afraid to die,
but sad to leave behind
the one who soothes my soul,
gives comfort to my mind;
the one who holds my hand
in darkness as in light,
who battles every wrong
and sets each fear to flight.
No more afraid to love,
I make a solemn vow
to live without regret,
to revel in the now;
the future waits for me
and brings what all must face,
so hold me close tonight,
alive in your embrace.
121. No Limit
A woman plagued by her doubts,
unsure she was able to fly --
in fear she pulled back her wings
and let the swift winds blow by;
to stand upon the lofty clouds
could never be her fate or fame –
merely earth-bound, strongly tethered,
never to raise high her name.
If but she knew her secret strength,
the love that flows within her heart
would let her fly unto the stars
and make all fears of flight depart.
Go, set your course and ride the winds,
and know that you can grasp the goal
you now despair to ever reach --
the power lies within your soul.
122. No Remorse
The centre of the universe
thinks itself immune
to moral obligation;
let suns explode
and worlds collide –
no cosmic remorse.
The centre of the universe
revolves only around itself,
listens to its own voice
and drowns out all others;
nothing else matters
in the cosmic scale.
So you leave in your wake
the fragments of lives
sacrificed to your needs,
oblivious to one salient fact:
you have never been
the centre of the universe.
123. Not Supposed to Be
She dreamed of a house
made magic by children,
enchanted by the love of a man
who offered her his heart;
a peaceful, unassuming life,
not much out of the ordinary,
but hers: a life of quiet joy --
a dream not meant to be,
shattered by the fist of a man
who violated her childhood.
Her dreams are different now:
survival on the city streets,
shelter from the chilling rain,
sanctuary from knives and guns.
This is not the life she wanted,
this was not supposed to be.
124. November Grey
Colours left with the leaves,
skeletal trees remain
where giants once stood,
their crowns like rainbows.
Clouds of grey hurry by,
as if in haste to go elsewhere,
perhaps to feel the sun
once more upon their backs.
But nothing greyer than the sea:
blue waves now consigned
to winter’s long oblivion,
dormant till the light of spring.
And I too feel this grey within,
a torpor that imprisons me,
leaving only memories
of the fervent kiss of colours.
125. November Rain
The light grows dimmer
as each day recedes
into the darkness;
the earth is crying
tears of farewell,
the hibernation of life.
Standing in November rain,
I draw the clouds within,
become one with vapour
and feel my soul disperse
into the new born void,
drifting on the winds.
November laughs at April
with its promise of new life,
content to herald the cold
that exists with Death,
threatens to overwhelm
the fast retreating sun.
126. Odyssey
I wanted to return just once,
to walk familiar passageways
and reclaim memories at rest
within my heart.
But each room appeared alien,
altered forever by others
who had come to leave their own ghosts
and then depart.
Yet here my odyssey began,
where dreams grew like branches on trees,
isolated from each other,
yet connected.
Just dust and memories remained
in this cenotaph to childhood,
I turned away in emptiness,
hope rejected.
127. On Easter Sunday
There are mysteries
I cannot decipher
in earth and in heaven;
things beyond the ken
of my mortal mind.
But I gaze at the stars,
at the vast glowing cosmos,
wondering why and how
such miracles exist,
and see a guiding hand
behind the physics.
To those who doubt
I cannot offer proof,
but this I feel is true:
a Creator came this way,
moulding space and time,
an eternal, loving presence,
the foundation of my faith.
128. One Breath Away
Not one day passes
without your presence
living in my heart,
eternally loving me;
death is not an ending
but a bright passage
to where you are,
waiting for my arrival
with a proud smile.
I have travelled the road
you wished for me,
guiding me always,
giving me the strength
to tread a winding path
I once hastened to reject.
So I will stand before you
when fate demands,
hold you close again,
and soon, for we are
but one breath away.
129. Only Your Shadow
I try to understand you,
to give my love to you,
but I fail each time;
I reach for a shadow,
someone I think I know,
but she always escapes,
and I feel lost again.
I become desperate,
fearing you need help,
yet incapable of knowing
what you feel inside;
if only you would speak,
tell me what to do,
or how I can help –
but everywhere I turn
I only see your shadow.
130. Outcast
The woman in the corner
stands alone, her mask in place,
wishing she were somewhere else;
the painted smile upon her face
may last the night, or may not,
tears may wash the paint away.
She longs to become invisible,
out of sight from those who play
a game designed to torment those
who cannot fit the current mold,
who fail to pass those modern trials
that leave her heart so icy cold.
The woman in the corner sighs,
cast out by those with winning hands,
and in the game of life she hates
alone and in the dark she stands.
131. Outport
The wharf came alive
on Halloween eve,
when the curtain of death
did suddenly cleave,
and ghosts filled the space
so empty and worn,
to dance with their boats
till the coming of morn;
loud laughter took hold
where silence did reign,
tales of the fishing
and money to gain.
The cod was so plenty
that no one was poor,
the village was bustling
in those days of before;
then dragger ships came
to tear up the sea,
the fish disappeared,
forcing people to flee
to the cities and towns
where jobs could be found,
when nothing was left
in the old fishing ground.
The factories closed,
the houses decayed,
nothing remained,
and nobody stayed;
but on Halloween eve
their souls return home
to remember the days
when boats boldly roamed,
and life in the outport
gave all that they sought –
but when dawn returns
it will all be forgot.
132. Panic in the Night
In my dreams I fall,
flailing my arms
as the air rushes past;
I know I will die
as my leaden body
slams into the ground.
I wake up gasping,
struggling to breathe,
drenched in sweat;
only a dream, I think,
and try to sleep again.
But my eyes won’t close:
fearing other images
of my demise, they cling
to whatever slender light
penetrates the room.
How often I dream of this,
see Death awaiting me
at the bottom of a cliff;
I know he is laughing –
stealing my soul away
only after I rejected him,
casting a vote for Life
in a contest I must lose.
133. Patch of Bush
Hidden away, deep in the forest,
a cottage awakens from slumber:
its roof clatters anew with the feet
of birds now returning to the north,
ready to nest again in the spruce;
around its walls red squirrels play
and stake their private territories;
the nearby bay has finally lost
the cap of ice it reluctantly wore
during the dark months of hibernation.
Long-idled boats are waking too,
ready to sail for another season,
eager to ride the welcome waves;
soon flowers will bring forth buds
and begin to carpet the ground
with myriad colours and forms.
The lonely bush is alive once more,
the harsh pall of winter gone;
it sings an ode to summer joys
and beckons me to set my foot
where my heart is once more free,
resounding to the powerful beat
of Nature reborn, of Life itself
celebrating this humble patch of bush.
134. Phantom
A phantom in the distance,
far away from prying eyes,
I contemplate the kindness
of these silent midnight skies,
of stars that never wonder
who I am or what I do,
who never proffer judgement
born of words that are untrue.
A pilgrim on a journey,
a quest for preservation,
to save my soul from arrows
that strike with condemnation;
I will not ask forgiveness
for words I never uttered,
free in peace among the pines
that keep my presence shuttered.
Do not come to seek me out,
but listen to the winter winds,
my words will ride their currents
till a gentler time begins;
but now I curse raw anger,
hatred that demands I flee,
to heal my wounds in darkness,
in shadows of society.
135. Present Tense
I exist in the now,
a unique moment
never to come again;
what has passed
exists elsewhere, forever,
fixed in temporal concrete,
what lies ahead is unknown,
subject to constant change,
unreachable, unpredictable.
Accept me as I am, now,
not as I was then
or perhaps one day shall be;
I inhabit only the present tense –
there is no time for another.
136. Pretender
He was always laughing,
a joke on his lips,
a twinkle in his eye;
in high demand at parties,
he brightened every room,
told stories that amused
as others crowded round;
smiles for the ladies
and slaps on the back
for the quiet men
who envied him.
But when each party ended,
he went home alone,
a silent apartment
awaiting his inevitable return;
he poured himself a drink,
washed the mask from his face
and wondered if Love
even knew he existed;
yes, he lived for the parties,
for without their solace
he would cease to live at all.
137. Prometheus
When there was darkness
he brought us light,
the gift of Fire,
salvation for mortals
condemned to suffer
by the hand of Zeus.
Nailed to a cross of stone,
he endured punishment
for his act of mercy,
the saviour god
condemned to pay
the price of Zeus.
On this storm-haunted night
you have brought Fire to me;
through my veil of tears
I gaze upon your face,
see the pain within you,
see the love within you.
Mortals doomed to suffer
torment unbearable,
praying for mercy in silence;
we reach out, hand to hand,
each in our own agony,
each in need of absolution.
When this harsh night is over
and the Fire of Prometheus
comes to warm our souls again,
we will know a troubled journey,
begun in winter’s malice,
has found its end in love.
138. Provence in April
Outside sharp Winter stays too long,
blasting the world with deadly ice
that embraces every living thing;
but inside I turn my frost-filled mind
to Provence, to a spring in France,
when flowers rose in triumphant joy
at the coming of April and warmth;
ochre cliffs and rock-lined bays,
ancient ruins echoing ages long ago,
the land that Vincent knew so well.
Its colours race across his canvas,
exulting in a light denied the painter,
who buried his torment in his brush;
Vincent was a Winter child, like me,
and knew the rage of inner storms,
yet channelled them into creations
as lasting as the age-old bridges
that wind across this landscape.
It was here, in this sacred land,
that I understood, as never before,
the transcendent power of the artist
to tame the chaos that lurks within.
139. Pulling Me Back
Bonds too strong to break,
a pull greater than gravity
keeps drawing me back,
even as I try to leave;
perhaps leaving is safer
than remaining here,
chained to your heart,
vulnerable to new wounds.
Yet departure is also painful
in the sorrows it brings,
the sense of empty loss
and hopes dashed down;
black grief on either side,
but also a strange love
that is just within my grasp,
that I must not let go.
140. Purveyors of Lies
Attack under cover,
speak words of hate,
purveyors of lies,
mouths in full spate,
blacken my name,
but not face to face,
cowards and bullies
of cold cyberspace;
no conscience restrains,
no morals delay,
do any mischief
to have it your way.
I know you are there,
though hidden so well,
but if God does exist
your fate will be hell,
where flames will consume
your legions of lies,
for truth is a diamond
that cuts your disguise.
141. Rainy Day
Clouds have come
to cleanse the world,
rain without end,
forever and ever.
I become Noah,
watching waters rise,
but finding no escape,
no God-sent ark.
Let the flood come,
wash away the wounds
within my soul;
let me stand in water
above my head,
cease to breathe
until I am saved.
Baptismal surrender:
into Your hands
I commit my spirit,
rendering unto You
all that I am;
have mercy upon me,
for I know my sins.
142. Rampant Insomnia
At six a.m. I sit here
and wonder where Morpheus,
Blessed God of Sleep,
is cavorting;
is he bringing oblivion
to someone more favoured,
who now rests peacefully
in slumber?
Perhaps my own libations,
small and unimpressive,
have offended his divinity
as inadequate,
or perhaps I am doomed
to roam about the house,
a modern Odysseus
seeking Penelope,
warding off the Charybdis
who lies beneath my bed,
demanding I awake
before Dawn –
that rosy-fingered goddess
who beckons all dreamers
to arise from their rest –
swallows him.
143. Red Earth
An island cradled on the waves,
moving in time with the tides,
coloured by Nature’s red soil
and by the green of the fields;
her hills and harbours sing
a Siren’s Song of beauty –
never fear, the Sirens of this land
will only bring you peace.
I walk the sands of the shore,
see the blue herons glide above,
and wonder at such tranquility;
gazing at the fragile dunes,
tracking the boats on the water,
I sense a calm that transcends
all the turmoil of my life,
and I rejoice to walk this red earth.
144. Reflected
Silent messengers,
a telling glance
that speaks louder
than any words;
mirrors of the soul –
so poets proclaim –
reflecting truth
as well as beauty.
I see the message
in your dark eyes,
the belief in love,
healer of the soul;
safe in your eyes,
I take leave of fear,
at peace in seeing
myself reflected.
145. Refuge
Battered by storms
within and without,
I drift upon waves
of unspeakable doubt,
unsure of the future,
the present a scar
marking my face
with indelible tar.
Seeking a haven
far from the light,
looking for solace
in unending night,
I toss back and forth
alone with my fear,
fighting the Sirens
who try to come near.
But just as the winds
turn into gales,
I spy one small ship
with beckoning sails
that dares to approach
well into my view –
its courage proclaims
my refuge is you.
146. Remember
Granite casket in the sun,
silent statues keeping watch,
silent weapons in their hands,
silent faces never to reveal
whose bones now lie within this
granite casket in the sun.
On killing fields the soldiers fall,
no war to end all wars,
no release from fear and hate,
no promise of enduring peace;
caught in webs woven by madmen
on killing fields the soldiers fall.
A chamber lined with open books,
endless names inscribed in black,
endless seas of wasted blood,
endless grief in every heart –
tears no longer restrained in
a chamber lined with open books.
How many more to come?
147. Restless
I am as restless as the sea
when winter turns to spring,
each wave anticipating
the ships that warm days bring.
I am as eager as the gull
to soar in skies made light
by the coming of the sun
to vanquish winter’s night.
But as I soar above the sea,
how frail the ships appear,
easy prey for one more storm
when dark clouds hover near.
I pray no harm befall them,
that the waters gentle be,
for I was born a wanderer,
as restless as the sea.
148. Sanctuary, 1
Madness reigns outside:
a frenzied storm has broken,
wild lightning fills the sky
and thunder roars untamed
across the darkened land;
raging winds wreak havoc
upon everything alive,
agents of hungry winter.
Our storm-ravaged souls
reach out, seeking a path
through the blackened night
to a sanctuary free from harm,
a place of refuge, sacrosanct,
consecrated to a gentle God
who offers us eternal life.
There, in the glow of candle light
we wait, forgetful of those inner storms
for which no sanctuary exists.
149. Sanctuary, 2
Beyond the window, only rain;
we watch, isolated by clouds
dispatched to shed their tears
in absolution of us.
Sinners confined within, we wait,
making plans for rainbow days,
refusing to cast dreams aside,
the preservation of hope.
Whispers of things unsaid in light,
hidden secrets, unexpressed desires,
words of comfort in dark cloisters,
the annunciation of love.
Your words flow to me as wine,
your flesh becomes the sacred host
in a mass anointed by rain,
the sanctification of passion.
This grand cathedral of our souls –
how it provides sanctuary,
acquiesces to the grace of clouds,
the granting of serenity.
150. Sardonic Ode to Summer, 2009
My head hurts,
clouds laugh,
my back aches,
thunder rolls,
hail predicted,
my umbrella lost,
rain slicks torn,
clothes are wet,
sun is on holiday –
wish you were here.
Cold in the morning,
afternoon cool,
three blankets on bed
and I still shiver,
wish I were a bird
with downy feathers,
couch calls my name
and I succumb –
a long summer nap
in the autumn of August.
151. Saturday Night Down
A hollow night
without you here,
time suspended,
life in limbo
until you return;
I am not alone,
but feeling lonely:
another Saturday night.
A quiet night,
time to reflect,
to remember days
without you,
when loneliness
was my companion,
haunting me
every Saturday night.
A long night,
trying to keep busy,
trying not to imagine
where you are,
what you are doing;
there is fear
I can taste
every Saturday night.
So I sit here,
writing poems
in a darkened room,
recording my love
as I pray to God
to keep you safe,
to get you through
another Saturday night.
152. Sea Dream
I dreamed of angry seas last night,
of broken ships and newfound graves,
heard the screams of drowning men
as they fell beneath voracious waves.
The sky was rent by lightning bolts
while thunder trembled ancient ground,
and from the shore I watched the clouds
forgathering to muffle sound.
A fatal silence came to rule,
no trace of ships or dying men
remained upon the waters calmed
as light began to glow again.
I woke amidst a raging storm –
a violent hurricane of wrath –
only to recall in fear
that you were standing in its path.
153. Seasons
I am the wind in summer,
unpredictable and fickle,
calming the waters
yet bending the trees.
I am the sun in winter,
dispensing warmth
like a miser his pennies,
my light barely visible.
I am the rain in spring,
herald of new life
and destroyer of old,
raging nursemaid.
I am the frost in autumn,
preparing the reluctant earth
for the coming of cold,
the dying of the light.
I am all seasons in one,
primordial contradiction,
a maelstrom unleashed
in Dionysiac abandon.
154. Sentry
Howling on the harbour,
north winds assault the waves,
tossing ships at moorings
with winter-driven staves,
covering with salt spray
all those who stand on shore,
till some go in retreat,
unwilling to bear more.
But she remained unmoved,
a witness to the rage
that dark December casts
upon the mortal stage,
never to abandon
the ships that served so well
when hatred filled the world
and led mankind to Hell.
Each frigate at the dock
had fought the winds of war,
the scars upon their hulls
would speak forevermore,
and so she stood her ground
against the northern gale,
a sentry of the souls
who gave their lives to sail.
155. Shattered: For Haiti
A January Tuesday,
another ordinary afternoon
under bright Caribbean sun;
fishing boats in the harbour,
women at the market,
their children in school;
a place of poverty,
long ravaged by forces
in pursuit of power;
the children of slaves
who hope for a future
free from all bonds.
4:53
A roar from the Earth,
born of the deeps
and shaking the ground;
buildings unable to stand
turn into coffins,
cries ring out in vain;
everything changes,
time cleft in two –
before and after;
the living and the dead –
the living dead,
the death of hope.
156. Sheltered Love
Lovers in the streets,
displaying their passion
for all to take note,
kissing in the doorway
of the gourmet bakery,
holding hands as they pass
along the city’s sidewalks;
moving slowly, without care,
into now deserted alleys;
the world is theirs:
let all watchers see
and envy them their love.
How I remember:
we stood at the corner,
tossing fresh balls of snow
at each other, rejoicing
in our own newfound love.
So long ago it seems
as each year slips by,
creating a secluded space
in which we can explore
love with no need of display,
love simply content to be,
to exist sheltered in our souls.
157. Silence
In the quiet of the night
I try to grasp at words
that will not come to me;
things that must be said
fade away, unspoken, on mute lips.
Cold Silence steals the poet,
pen set aside, lights dimmed.
Somewhere, in some warmer time,
a Muse dwelled within and smiled;
now there is but Silence,
and shadows reach out for me.
To surrender is the key,
to end those winter songs
that hopeful ears shut out.
158. Silent Heart
Life seems suspended
like Damocles’ dagger
above our heads,
ever threatening to fall,
to sever our union.
I appeal to the Fates,
beg them to draw
the thread longer,
that we may celebrate
our love without fear.
The in-between time,
that time of not knowing,
is the emptiest space,
a vacuum of torment
we dare not speak.
I shall hold you tonight
in a wordless embrace,
trying to keep you safe
inside the bulwark
of my silent heart.
159. Siren of the Rocks
A voice unlike any other
penetrates your soul,
makes you feel again
things thought lost,
a sense of harmony,
the inner peace of a rose
turning towards the sun
at the call of Spring.
This voice beckons you,
promises paradise regained
and broken hearts healed;
how you wish to believe,
to renounce the world
in a quest for pure beauty,
but, deep within, you fear
the Siren upon the rocks.
160. Snapshots, Summer 2010
A cottage in the woods,
hidden by spruce and pine,
purple finches at the feeder,
squirrels by the woodpile,
the shy red fox glides by,
and we take photographs:
not a cloud above,
gulls wheeling in the sky,
you on the windsurfer
fighting the fickle breeze,
trying to go even faster
than the birds on high;
the sleek canvas kayak,
paddles synchronized
in a slow summer rhythm,
searching the shoreline
for sea-borne treasure,
content to find nothing;
the sailboat dances on waves,
a siren calling out at us
to raise the sheets
and give the wind reign
to lead us to an island
abandoned by all others;
the beach where you lie
under the glare of the sun,
soaking in the warmth –
winter chill gone at last,
and I watch your body
at rest in the sand.
Snapshots of summer:
of days crowned by sunsets
vivid beyond imagination,
each day now a memory
etched upon our souls
against the coming cold.
161. Solitude
I come here to escape
the despair that attacks
when I am least prepared –
alone, in quiet solitude,
I wonder why I exist,
feeling like a cosmic joke.
Is the cold, dark Universe
laughing at me now,
putting me in my place
among the silent woods?
I dwell in outer reaches,
ever far away from those
who rejoice in laughter --
how I wish to be like them,
not outcast, but welcomed
at life’s festive table.
Yet there is peace here:
in solitude I find the strength
to accept my apartness
as a special gift from God.
162. Someday
You try each day to survive,
struggling against the temptation
to turn your back and simply go,
somewhere –
a hidden place of solitude,
no questions, no angry voices,
just pines and gently lapping waves,
sometime –
when dark storms have left the sky
and the winds blow calm again,
the earth renewed by water,
somehow –
by forces wild and inexplicable
seeking to take your tired hand
and lead you into paradise,
someday.
163. Strange Duet
He softly sings to me
a melody of sorrow,
a haunting song of loss,
lamenting days gone by,
spent in winter darkness.
I sing to him of summer,
of brighter, sun-lit days
warmed by gentle love,
a solemn hymn of patience,
pleading for the future.
We together sing a lyric
tempered by the fire
of mourning and despair,
forged on the anvil of hope:
hope that wounds will heal,
that our songs will soar
above the fractured souls
that sing this strange duet.
164. Summer Bliss
Incessant fog embraces me,
vapor born of ocean’s passion,
whose love becomes a prison cell
to be shared with this assassin;
my spirit fights against the haze,
yearns to soar in lustrous places,
to gaze upon a land set free,
safe from clouds with dismal faces,
to lie on beaches of white sand,
to feel the heat of summer sun,
to watch as boats unfurl their sails
and set out on another run –
but still the mist imprisons me,
and I must wait for freedom’s kiss,
for those who dwell upon the shores
prize most the touch of summer bliss.
165. Summer Mourning
Fog rampant on the bay,
devouring the landscape
with careless ease
and violence.
The forest ceases to exist,
those who dwell within
disappear from view
in silence.
No rustle of leaves,
no snap of boughs
bending in the wind,
to resist.
I see nothing,
I hear nothing,
I feel only the embrace
of mist.
I wait for the sun,
that surgeon of fog,
cutting through the shroud
at last.
Until then, I walk shores
consumed by sea,
praying you are there,
steadfast.
166. Summer Place
All winter long her rooms lay dark,
held in the cold embrace of snow,
no sounds within, no lights ablaze
in abandoned summer windows,
dormant as the barren branches,
and battered by relentless gales
that test the tensile strength of wood
held fast by fragile man-made nails,
not bending like the wise old pines,
but steadfast in the face of storms,
proclaiming proudly bold resolve
to stand her ground, though old and worn,
beside the waves that kiss her lips,
amid the trees that rise so tall,
and where the Great Blue on the shore
sends forth at dusk its loving call.
Then winter yielded to the warmth
instilled by summer’s newfound breath,
the ice-cold grip of northern winds
dissolved with winter’s welcome death,
and soon the cottage woke again
to see the land restored to life,
and opened wide her shuttered eyes
to catch the gleam of love’s pure light.
167. Tantalus
Tantalus in his river
prayed each day for water
to slake the thirst of eternity,
watched the ripened fruit
recede before his reach.
To be so close, and fail,
to know Paradise close by
yet live in everlasting Hell,
with no hope of a hero
to play the role of Saviour,
Tantalus learned that dreams
were nightmares in disguise,
a mocking trick of Fate
for those who miss the mark.
We reach out for happiness,
children of his ancient blood
still stained with mythic sin,
only to see our precious jewels
dissolve away to worthless sand
that slips between our fingers
and leaves an empty soul.
Illusions and deceptions
tantalize our beggared eyes,
promise what we cannot have
while clothed in mortal flesh,
and so we wait for our release
from sadness and despair,
dying of thirst in elusive rivers.
168. Tattered Souls
She wants to tell him everything,
her tattered soul stripped bare,
but exposure means sharp scalpels,
and in her fright she does not dare;
she tries to let him feel her love –
how it embraces him each day,
how every kiss and every touch
offers light to guide their way.
But even as they lie together
and the waxing moon looks on,
there comes a dread upon her heart
that he might disappear at dawn;
this baleful fear will not let go –
perhaps their union is a ruse,
for love is like a game of chance,
and tattered souls have much to lose.
169. Tear Catcher
Tears fall like rain,
but bitter with salt,
leavened by sorrow;
from these tears
comes cleansing,
for we are mortal
and cannot achieve
divine perfection.
I spread my hands
to catch your tears,
open to your grief,
sharing it with you;
hearts, once entwined,
hold each other fast.
170. The Call of the Sea
I long to go away,
leave this world behind
and find a place
free from sorrow,
where rays of sunlight
break through clouds
and warm my soul.
Too many tears are shed
in this concrete place,
too many hearts are broken
where love no longer lives;
take me home, ocean tides,
let me float upon the waves,
watch the sea birds wheel
upon the gentle breeze,
and find myself becalmed.
171. The Calling
You tell me to stop wasting time,
and somehow I fear you are right –
that poems serve only as kindling
for fires to burn through the night,
that other paths could be chosen
where I could make you more proud –
a doctor, a lawyer perhaps,
someone to stand out in a crowd.
But even in your disappointment,
that look of despair in your eyes,
to write is my single obsession,
a calling so few dare to prize,
and should I fall far from the mark,
my verses consigned to the flames,
I will remain true to my calling
though no one remembers my name.
172. The Cathedral of the Soul
Beyond the window, only rain;
we watch, isolated by clouds
dispatched to shed their tears
in absolution of us.
Sinners confined within, we wait,
making plans for rainbow days,
refusing to cast dreams aside,
the preservation of hope.
Whispers of things unsaid in light,
hidden secrets, unexpressed desires,
words of comfort in dark cloisters,
the annunciation of love.
Your words flow to me as wine,
your flesh becomes the sacred host
in a mass anointed by rain,
the sanctification of passion.
This grand cathedral of our souls –
how it provides sanctuary,
acquiesces to the grace of clouds,
the granting of serenity.
173. The Church
A stranger in a foreign land,
walking streets absorbed in grief,
the sun could not dispel the clouds
that, deep within, denied relief
from torments born of solitude,
for one long lost on sorrow’s reef.
Ahead she saw a tiny church
unlike cathedrals she had known,
a building made of brick and wood
that seemed to beckon her alone,
as if it knew her lack of hope,
how quickly all her faith had flown.
No preacher stood beyond its doors,
no congregation offered hymns –
all was dark, and all was dust,
as she took her seat within,
daring God to heal her wounds,
to cleanse her of abiding sin.
A prayer echoed from her heart,
a lamentation never planned,
and then her eyes were cast upon
one candle glowing in a stand,
a light where dark had been before,
a message from an unseen hand.
As years passed by she pondered
what power entered her that day,
strong enough to vanquish pain
and turn her path another way –
a road to lead to new found peace,
and keep the demons all at bay.
174. The Cypress Tree: For Tori Stafford, Spring 2009, R.I.P.
Beyond the cypress tree
you are wearing white,
playing with the children
taken from our sight;
no evil now exists
for innocents like you,
laughter fills the sky,
to fall as morning dew.
Flowers in the meadows
take up this offering,
libations made to love
as newborn robins sing.
Such beauty in the world
compels me to believe
your spirit lingers still
beyond the cypress tree.
175. The Fetters of Time: For L.M. Montgomery
The woman within was alone,
in solitude she crafted words
to paint the beauty of the sea,
to hymn the music of the birds;
with her imagination free
to soar above all mundane tasks,
the lonely house was left behind,
its darkened rooms, its secret cracks.
The woman without was smiling,
assuming the mask of success
she walked among the powerful,
received as a most welcome guest;
a witty and kind raconteur,
a speaker on novels and poems,
ruler of each room she entered
outside of her own sorrowed home.
A life of such contradictions
recorded in journals at night,
held captive between two ages,
fast losing her will for the fight,
and thinking back on childhood days
of innocence now left behind,
she closed the chapters of her life,
escaping the fetters of time.
176. The First Snowdrop
He took my hand and led me
to the snowdrop on the lawn,
a fragile flower fighting
lest tomorrow it be gone;
imbued with hope of springtime,
how it bravely stood its ground,
daring cold to wield its fist
as storm clouds gathered round.
He showed me that such courage
could withstand the blows of fate,
that even seeds in harshest soil
could find the strength to germinate;
that life would ever forge ahead,
so determined to endure
that nothing need I ever fear,
set free in love forevermore.
177. The Hound of Winter
The snarling face of Winter
glared at me through window panes,
as if a hound had come to call,
to challenge me to play his games,
daring me to cage his fury
and prevent that savage bite
from jaws that crush like pincers,
craving blood shed in the night.
I tried to draw the curtains,
erase his visage from my eyes,
but my ears became betrayers –
forcing me to hear his cries,
that savage sound of hunger,
a keening for the smell of death –
this monster ripped my soul apart,
depriving me of hopefulness.
And so I lived in cold despair
as passing months moved slowly by,
Time itself stood by this hound
and waited for my dreams to die;
a beast without a predator,
triumphant over those like me –
Summer spirits seeking light,
but doomed to pay bleak Winter’s fee.
178. The Measure of a Life
Time flowing onwards,
a river without end
in which we briefly stand;
years like vapour dissolve,
leaving only memories
in place of flesh and bone.
We seek out legacies
in what we leave behind,
that our names survive,
not to be forgotten –
to leave no vestige
the final affliction.
Unto you I bequeath
only my brief presence
in the stream of your life;
fleeting, ephemeral
as the morning dew --
I am here, then gone.
But know that I loved,
and knew love in return,
no more could I seek;
the measure of my life
transcends the flowing years,
the legacy is love.
179. The Night You Finally Cried
Tears held inside,
deep within your heart,
unable to escape --
despite the pain,
despite the loss,
you kept those tears from flowing,
for it did not seem right
to expose your soul in tears.
Then, one night, in absolution
the dam that held those tears
in check crumbled:
a flood pouring from your soul
released you from the grasp
of cruel, tenacious grief.
The pain has not disappeared,
and perhaps never will,
but the tears you shed that night
proclaimed your humanity.
180. The Old Man of March
The angry old man endures,
implacable, resistant
to a sun climbing higher,
deaf to our cries.
Still wielding weapons of ice,
he sends grey clouds to attack
the frozen earth, long yearning
for kinder skies.
His gales descend on sailors
who venture forth in folly,
who believe that waves abate,
that winter dies.
A face hidden in hoar frost
looks down in ancient hatred
at warmth designed to nurture
the soil below.
Our hopes remain imprisoned
as we wait for southern winds
to waken courage dormant
against his blows.
But when he will release us,
yielding to the grace of spring,
that life return in bounty –
no one knows.
181. The Power of the Poem
Emotions surge through me,
tossing me like a boat
caught in a sudden storm;
I struggle for control,
trying to rein in the winds
that blow cold from the north.
And so I start to write:
to find the perfect words,
the transcendent images
that tame the untameable.
The power of the poem
offers my soul safe harbour,
freedom from the dark chaos
that seeks to destroy me –
without the act of writing
my tiny craft would founder
on the Sirens’ rocky isle
that ever sings out to me.
182. The Pythia, 1: 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.
183. The Pythia, 2: Falling into Silence
Everywhere assaulted by noise,
clamouring voices, shrill cries,
the laments of others drowning
in oceans of sorrow muting
the sound of her own heart;
she absorbed their pain,
recognized her own sadness
in their tormented words,
and could no longer ignore
the clamour of her own soul,
the healing from within
demanding her attention –
serving the god brought fear,
the fear of falling into silence.
184. The Rains of Spring
She sits by the window,
pretending to read a book
but only hearing the sound of rain –
pinpricks assaulting the glass,
water descending in a sharpness
left behind by winter’s blade;
spring, she knows, brings warmth,
transforms the barren land
into a kaleidoscope of colours -
a brightness that heralds release
from months of imprisonment
under the dark veil of clouds.
She made a promise once,
a vow never to be broken,
a testament to life reborn –
putting aside her book, she stands;
there is a place she must visit
on this day of endless rain,
there is someone who must know
the tears of spring have come,
and faith will lead her there –
she will kneel and speak the words,
place a stone upon the stone,
and give thanks that she was loved.
185. The Restless Kind
I am one of the restless kind,
ever driven to roam the world
in search of something elusive,
thinking it must await me
just over the next mountain pass,
or beyond the sheen of an Alpine lake.
And if not there, I wander even more
through barren, treeless waste
or verdant fields replete with life.
I am on an endless voyage with myself,
exploring uncharted waters without fear,
secure in the knowledge that, one day,
what I seek will come to me at last,
appearing suddenly at the very moment
when I most have need of comfort,
and I will understand why I am.
186. The Sanctuary
A sanctuary too soon defiled,
a shattered remnant of a dream,
a fallen victim of too much hate
spreading like endless contagion
across its ancient marbled floor;
once I found myself at peace here,
found acceptance of my presence
among the caring congregation.
But time passed, as it must,
pretense and greed forced entry,
vile intruders in a sacred place,
but far worse came selfish envy,
eating through flesh like fire,
stoking flames where none had burned,
and I left behind my youthful dreams,
broken in a place where hate should not exist.
187. The Soldier
Her loved one fought in a far off land,
its face obscured by blowing dust,
he feared the blast of desert heat
but thought the cause of war was just --
for tyrants ruled in mad abandon,
their greed unable to be sated,
her soldier tried to set things right
lest the poor be devastated.
On each patrol he watched the hills
where hidden guns were trained on him,
and every day he heard bombs fall,
then saw the wreckage amidst the din;
the people smiled and offered thanks
as he brought them vital food and drink,
he crouched to talk to crippled men,
to each ragged child he gave a wink.
She waited for his tour to end
so he could meet his infant son,
she prayed each day for war to cease,
for all the fighting to be done.
The doorbell rang, she stood alone,
and looked into the padre’s eyes,
few words spoken to end her world –
a man with a bomb, her soldier dies.
188. Thunder in the Night
Clouds are moving swiftly in,
veiling the pale half moon,
the dark deepens even as I watch,
soon there is nothing to see;
the winds, before so silent,
begin to wail into my ears,
all Nature waits in expectation
of the rage that is to come.
Thunder shakes the ground,
a flash of lightning sparks the air,
havoc is let loose upon the earth;
I watch trees struggle to bend,
desperate to resist the power
unleashed by the fury of this storm.
Then the beast strikes at me,
and I too bend in homage to its rage.
189. Voice
I listened to your voice today –
the soft tones linger still –
and felt that I must write a poem
this silent night to fill,
to tell you how much joy it gave
to hear you speak to me,
and know that, even far away,
so close we two can be.
Perhaps you did not realize
the way my heart would smile
just to know that you are here,
if only for awhile,
and sense the love you offer
with no reward in sight –
and so I offer you my thanks
for making darkness bright.
190. Voyagers
Union with another,
all boundaries denied,
two merging into one
across an ocean wide,
a gulf that seeks to end
the passion of the heart,
to separate the flesh
before the pleasures start.
But distance is too weak
against a primal force,
despite the tidal rage
our souls will stay the course,
for love is at the helm
and stands a captain bold –
your face comes into view,
the sea retracts its hold.
191. Weaver of Songs
Strings of Creation,
vibrating in time
to celestial orbs
beyond our ken,
flooding the cosmos
with sounds divine,
unheard by mortals
since Life began.
Soft melodies fly
to realms unknown,
healing all wounds
with loving hand;
Weaver of Songs
soaring through space,
sing to us now
till Time itself ends.
192. Weeds in the Water (B.B.)
Around the water’s edge
grew flowers of every hue,
the air above shimmered
with the pulse of wings –
tiny creatures drawn
to fragrance and colours.
She walked among them,
moving between the rows
so none would be crushed,
and admired perfection –
a grace never accorded
human beings like her.
No sickle in her hand
would ever cut one down,
not even those disfigured
by the passage of time –
for she, like Pandora,
still cherished hope.
From the water’s edge
poison entered her flesh,
spread to every blossom
as she fell into their arms –
her life finally subsumed
by weeds in the water.
193. What Remains
A spirit that soared lies shattered,
brought down by malevolent eyes,
envy an ugly emotion
for breeding cruel rumours and lies;
to succeed is ever a curse
with jealous tongues lying in wait,
created by selfish desire
that leads to irrational hate;
she tries to forget all the pain,
the feeling of being bereft,
but sometimes injustice prevails,
and anger is all she has left.
194. Winter Soul
The ice that shields your heart
is like fine crystal, shimmering
in the light, delicate, easily broken;
you seek to strengthen this barrier,
to build more layers of chilling frost
and stand so far away from warming love.
A winter soul, hiding from the rising sun,
fights against the call to come forth,
to shatter the ice that holds you apart.
In vain that frozen soul turns away
from release, from the gentle melting
of the ice, from the freedom to be;
for the power of love is strong enough
to free a winter soul encased in ice:
it penetrates that dark, enshrouded heart
and, like the sun itself, rekindles life.
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