2011-2012 Continued, Part 2
Please be there when I arrive
lest this journey be in vain
and never do I see your face,
but empty-hearted I remain;
your voice is too long absent,
I yearn to hear it speak aloud,
even if I am a cipher --
unknown to you amid the crowd.
Just to hear you sing again,
the silent months now put away --
how my riven soul will heal
with every word you gently say,
for the grace that dwells within you,
like a river spreading out,
embraces all who gather there,
dispersing fear, dissolving doubt.
104. Rise Up
I have fallen to the bottom
so often in this world of pain,
ready to surrender all I am
for no more burdens to sustain;
the weights upon my twisted back
have kept me penned upon the ground,
some nights I cannot find more tears,
some days I cannot make a sound.
But even at the cruelest times
you lend your hand to help me rise,
remind me of the force of love,
the gift in which salvation lies;
so now I place my hand in yours,
that we may weather storms as one,
and we shall rise up from despair,
with one more struggle overcome.
105. Rivers
She sits beside a river in flood,
watching its wild waters flow
into the beckoning arms of the sea,
entering only to instantly disappear;
she thinks of her own journey
through the ravenous cosmos,
where streams of stars, rivers of galaxies
in the end all dissolve into dust,
existence far too ephemeral
when set against the river of time;
and yet her end remains unwritten,
it is the poem she will never sing –
how glorious it was to spend her life
in the gentle river of his love.
106. Sappho's Choice
He was her anchor when turmoil arose,
and exile loomed like a black cloud on the sea,
his love the centre of her existence
upon the isolated isle of Lesbos.
But Atthis was the lighthouse calling to her,
offering a flame to defeat all darkness --
opening her arms just as the others did --
promising escape from the angry waves.
But anchor had powers denied the lighthouse,
as decreed by the law of the patriarchs,
who saw sin only in female desires,
and turned their eyes away from those of men.
Sappho bowed to the will of the patriarchs,
consigning her passion to the secret poems
written at night in the silence of her room --
furtive emissaries of forbidden love.
Centuries later other patriarchs consigned
those clandestine poems to merciless flames --
and yet there were those who refused to forget,
who understood that love transcends angry waves.
107. Sausage and Haddock: For Virginia Woolf
You left me with sausage and haddock,
then four days later the river called,
freed you from the endless battles
fought within the fortress of your mind.
How you loved, yet hated your sword --
how writing brought both solace and pain:
the ecstasy of words well said
against the agony of the saying.
You sat alone in your room of books,
an outsider throwing down gauntlets
like a crusading warrior queen,
bravely unpredictable, out of time.
Out of time: walking to the river
with stones to weigh your spirit down,
victorious, and yet defeated –
one more victim of a world gone mad.
Now I push aside sausage and haddock,
reading your words to feed my soul,
for you said each life has its place,
and I am searching still for mine.
108. Scar Tissue, 1: Bullies
No one ever saw it,
no one ever knew
the cut of the words
repeating anew,
spoken in hiding,
spoken untrue,
secret assassins
a cowardly crew.
Scar tissue formed,
unbearable weight,
crushing the spirit
wounded by hate,
and no time was left
for pain to abate,
a heart overwhelmed
succumbed to its fate.
109. Scar Tissue: Phoebe's Song (In Memoriam: Phoebe Prince – 1994-2010)
The new girl in town
enrolled at the school,
but she was different,
and no way was cool;
she dated a guy
other girls wanted –
for this deadly sin
she was to be taunted.
With filth on their tongues
they called her a slut,
and day after day
their wrath took its cut;
no one gave a damn
that this teenage girl
became just a target
for insults they hurled;
“Just kids being kids,”
in a small country town,
not much else to do
but drag someone down.
Till one day she snapped,
could take it no more,
she would never escape
except through death’s door;
she fashioned a noose
to make it all end –
her life was just hell,
her spirit was spent.
So pretty she was,
so eager to please –
but no mercy shown
by monsters like these.
She lay in her casket,
her family in tears,
what waste of potential
at just fifteen years.
110. Screaming into Silence
Alone, drifting in space,
stars blazing around me,
life and death are one,
the cycle eternal;
darkness overcomes me
amid cosmic candles –
sending out warmth
I can no longer feel;
lost along the journey,
I only ride the solar winds,
flotsam on the waves
of my own despair;
if only you were here
to take the fear away,
I would not end my life
screaming into silence.
111. Season's Greetings
I saw a greeting card
that spoke of peace on earth,
and talked about salvation
in a gentle baby’s birth,
another told of oil lamps
that burned for many days
to show that the Creator
works in unexpected ways --
festivals of flames and dance
to make the darkness bright
and restore our sense of joy
in the wonders of this night.
If only we could celebrate
such hope the whole year long,
turn back from war and hatred
in one life-affirming song,
and treat the earth we live on
with respect owed to a mother,
if only we could truly learn
to love and cherish one another.
112. Setting Sail
Yesterday I saw the sun
with golden hands caress the sea,
the clouds of winter put to flight,
the breath of spring releasing me,
as if a ship encased in ice
against all odds had broken free,
to sail once more to distant realms,
safe in Neptune’s loving lee.
Yesterday I watched the waves
kiss the shore I walked upon,
eager to embrace the land
with winter’s wrath at last withdrawn;
no more enslaved to northern winds,
the all pervasive dark now gone,
I set my sails to journey far –
east, to meet the coming dawn.
113. Shades of Indigo
The sky takes on a steel grey glow,
fierce herald of the storm to come,
when winter blankets all below,
the battle of the seasons won;
in silent shelters of the mind,
I dream of sunshine on the sea,
the world reborn in its own time,
the sky in summer blue set free.
But months must pass, and I must wait,
held captive by the bitter wind,
till springtime opens up her gate
and calls the violets to come in,
and then the world will breathe anew
as warmer winds in rapture blow,
removing darkness from my view,
replaced by shades of indigo.
114. Silent Love
Words become unreachable
in the grace of your presence,
impossible to describe the love
locked forever in my heart,
a treasure never sought,
now never to be surrendered.
Perhaps love needs no words,
content to exist in silences --
the silence of eyes that speak
of unbreakable bonds,
the silence of hands clasped
in the dark of midnight,
the silence of the mystery
that brought our worlds together.
Even as I write these words
I feel their inadequacy,
tremble in this struggle,
and so I set down the pen
to walk with you along the sea,
neither of us speaking,
yet both knowing beyond doubt
the power of this silent love.
115. Sirens and Spiders
No luggage to pack,
no tickets need buying,
one click on a mouse --
away I go flying
to places so distant
among peoples diverse,
how could such adventure
turn into a curse?
A net full of Spiders
awaiting their prey,
fall into their clutches
and now rue the day
I opened my soul
without really knowing
the dangerous realm
to which I was going;
with innocent trust
I entered their lair,
believing they meant well
and truly did care
what torments beset me,
or why I was running –
they just take you in
with well practised cunning.
I now know their faces,
the webs that they weave,
and hope there is time left
to log out and leave;
but still there are some
I would trust with my heart,
and because they exist
I delay to depart,
still longing to find
the place I belong,
avoiding the Sirens
who call with false song –
Sirens and spiders,
what tortures they plan
without ever caring
to know who I am.
116. Song for Sappho
Ships on the sea,
the ones you loved
forever leaving you,
ghosts in your heart
as you sang of them,
Atthis, Anaktoria --
the names of passion,
that secret passion
hidden from view,
never to be spoken
beyond your poems.
And so you wrote:
odes of pleasure and pain,
hymns to beautiful desire
that later men denied,
never understanding
what you always knew:
love transcends all,
even the flesh,
even blind hatred.
117. So Much to Do (Japan)
Struggling with groceries, she enters the flat,
on the sofa her aged mother rests –
so much to do: pick up the kids at school,
laundry piled high, dishes unwashed,
chores never seem to end when day does,
but her family is large and so loving.
At the conference, he shuffles his papers,
wishing he could get back to his desk –
so much to do: reports to be emailed,
a backlogged list of clients to call,
long days ever stretching into night,
but how he loves the family waiting for him.
At the high school, he is tired of classes,
all that math and science, all that literature –
so much to do: the skating practice at four
(now he can outrace even the senior boys!),
meeting his girlfriend afterwards, for a coffee,
and then home to share a meal with his family.
During recess, she talks with her friends,
planning the party they would go to on Sunday –
so much to do: they must find the perfect gift,
decide what to wear, maybe something new,
perhaps grandmother would have some ideas,
how lucky she is to have such a family.
At that moment, the earth shook as never before,
buildings collapsed, roads and streets broke apart,
and then came the sea, raging into the city,
tearing away houses, dragging everything in its path –
no place to hide, no place to run, just screams
as they all ceased to exist – nothing more to do.
3-11-11.
118. Spirit Catcher
I see demons possess you,
penetrating your defences,
determined to take control,
to drive your soul away;
I call upon the Shaman
with his timeless magic:
let him dance for you,
let his chant enter you
and cleanse your mind.
The old ways have power:
hear the heart of Earth,
feel the breath of Earth
as She comes to him,
summoned by his song.
Your Ancient Mother
takes you up once more,
holds you to her breast,
suckles your hungry soul,
gives her love to you.
Do not fear the Spirit Catcher:
in its fine spun web
your demons are trapped,
held captive for eternity,
that you may breathe again.
119. Still There
Long ago,
I saw you die,
held your hand
when life was gone,
cried as you were
laid to rest.
You promised once
that you would stay
forever by my side,
a Guardian Angel,
fending off the pain
that life inflicts.
You did not lie:
flesh decays,
bodies turn to dust,
the spirit lives;
I feel your presence
even in darkest times,
blessing me with light,
healing me.
Your love transcended
even death,
it walks with me –
I know you’re still there.
120. Summer 2011
The garden that I planted
with tender loving care
now lies within the mud,
no petals anywhere;
the backyard is a bog
in which my footsteps sink,
I long to stay inside
and pour myself a drink;
a summer full of rainfall
assails my optimism,
I rail at the unfairness
of that which has been given;
what crime have we committed
to make Poseidon mad,
and Zeus is likewise angry --
what thunder have we had!
Next summer will be better,
I tell myself each night
as I crawl into my bed
and pull the covers tight --
for without that slender hope
my mind will go astray,
plan to move to Saskatoon,
where hailstones come to play.
121. Summer Night
Summer, late at night,
the grass our resting place
as we stare at the sky,
at countless distant stars,
entranced by infinity.
A sudden flash of light,
Perseids racing by oblivious
to our watchful eyes,
pilgrim children of creation
still searching for home.
I feel your hand touch mine,
as if asking me to remember
this majestic place and time,
to hold in my mind forever
this force against the darkness.
I slowly turn to caress your face
not wishing to break the spell,
for one great truth I know:
the force against all darkness
will always be your love.
122. Summer Snapshots
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 western 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 rein
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.
123. Sun-Crazed, Summer 2012
Phoebus Apollo,
have you gone mad --
I sit by the fan
mostly unclad;
a summer from Hell
brought by your steeds,
far too much heat,
beyond all our needs;
sweating all day
and praying for rain,
go take a vacation,
you Olympian bane!
I call upon Zeus
to cool down your flames,
douse them with water
or share in the blame;
and Zeus ought not fail
lest his reign be over,
as Sol overheats
and goes supernova.
124. Sunday Afternoon
A sacred peace descends
on Sunday afternoon,
I wait for you to wake
and walk into this room,
long a sanctuary
against diurnal blows,
a refuge from the wounds
that passing time bestows.
All hope resides in you,
the keeper of my heart,
before your bulwark strong
all enemies depart,
the arrows fired by those
who feed on envy’s lust
will miss their mark again
and crumble into dust.
Just take my hand in yours,
caress me with your eyes,
this Sunday afternoon
refutes all jealous lies,
bears witness to a love
transcending too much hate,
a wondrous mystery
in which all tears abate.
125. Sunday Morning
Another Sunday morning,
you sleep in after a night
on the graveyard shift
and I make coffee,
but you will not wake soon,
so I crawl into our bed,
hungry for your presence,
for the peace you bring me;
I lean against your chest,
my breath matching yours
as I too drift into sleep –
the coffee can wait.
126. Sweet Escape
Locked in Winter’s cell too long,
a prisoner of the icy rain,
of snow that freezes movement,
I yearn to roam again,
to feel bare ground beneath my feet
and sun upon my pallid face,
to cut away the bonds that hold,
my freedom in a change of place,
where sparkling sky supplants
clouds that never seem to leave,
where Spring is summoned by the birds
ensconced upon a waking tree.
These months of stoic silence,
begging Winter to depart,
do now defeat my spirit
and place a burden on my heart,
a weight of darkness and despair,
a fear release will come too late,
and so I speak a hushed farewell,
I make my sweet escape.
127. Sweet Morpeus: An Invocation
In the Hours of Silence
when Darkness reigns,
I stand before your altar
with lighted candle,
swaying –
just as crazed Bacchants
move to the song of a God
born into the Darkness,
yet Bringer of Hope,
praying;
I offer crimson wine,
honey of golden bees,
grain sprinkled on ground
consecrated to you,
gleaming –
and beg your grace
to close my eyes in sleep,
commit myself to oblivion
in search of release,
dreaming.
128. Tall Ship
I am a captive of ships:
the skiff of the fisher,
the lake-land canoe,
the sail boat dancing
in the afternoon breeze,
the scull of the racer,
the ferry slowly charting
its never finished course.
But it is the tall ship
that sings to my soul,
masts rising into clouds
that settle on the port;
what stories she tells
of seas far away,
and of places exotic
beyond my imagination;
she sings of winds wailing
when the ocean is angry,
the stillness of calm in the lee,
the union of sun and sail
in the brightness of day,
the sharp crackling of planks
in the darkness of night,
and I hear her every word.
Let me but sail upon her
and I shall know freedom,
cast my sorrows on the shore
and stand watch at her bow,
never to look back;
a paradise must lie ahead –
in those unwonted places
only tall ships see.
129. Tears for Summer
She walked the path
leading to the cottage
one last time today,
thought back on summer –
that briefest of seasons,
unwilling to stay,
yielding to autumnal cold
without hesitation,
brooking no delay.
Yet how sweet a guest,
banishing the darkness
as it hurried on by,
consecrating dreams,
celebrating life’s rebirth
under sunlit sky –
come tomorrow morning,
what tears for summer
she would cry.
130. Tears of the Angels
The rain today is somehow different,
it falls gently on my grieving face,
it reaches out to grasp my heart,
to keep it anchored in this place;
but my heart is looking skyward,
and yearns to see a golden gate
welcoming one so young and so fair,
whose presence all angels await.
I see it now: this too gentle mist
is not rain descending at all:
the angels are shedding their tears
and lamenting the clarion call
that summons a child to come,
to take leave of this mourning land,
to part from those who loved her
and reach out to touch God’s hand.
The tears of the angels are falling,
creating a new kind of love:
a blessing of all who embraced
the soul which now soars above.
131. Tears of the Earth
Adrift in the infinite cosmos,
one small sphere cries aloud,
singing sadly to the stars
of things tearful to behold:
the tragic deaths of innocents
in wars that never cease –
how Earth’s broken heart is sighing
with a desperate cry for peace.
In wintry storms, this lucent globe
prays that light may shine again,
pleads that evil will at last depart
from the haunted race of Man.
132. Tears on Good Friday
You are slowly leaving us,
each day the distance grows,
consciousness receding
as the body dies;
but the spirit lives on,
etched upon the hearts
of those blessed by your love,
destined never to fade.
Our tears bid you farewell,
companions on your journey,
shed to guard you from pain
as final days pass;
into the Creator’s hands
we entrust your steadfast soul,
to fly free as the eagle soaring
above your prairie home.
133. The Anniversary Song
The Child of the West
knows cold northern winds
born of the Arctic
as winter begins;
he savours the heat
by summer winds brought,
the crops in the fields,
the verdant woodlot.
The Child of the East
knows wild ocean waves
sending doomed sailors
to watery graves;
she savours the calm,
the slumbering sea,
no swells to disturb
the ships at the quay.
Two different worlds,
so distant in space,
were joined in a love
no miles could erase,
a miracle wrought
as time onward flows:
even in darkness
much stronger it grows.
134. The Anxious Heart
The anxious heart comes to fear
catastrophe awaits,
the mind may caution patience
and yet no fear abates;
into darkness no light shines,
no talisman appears,
prayers sent on high to God
are tinged with fretful tears,
until the hearts of others
reach out in loving care,
giving hope of light reborn
from the ashes of despair;
the anxious heart takes comfort,
its desperation flown,
for on the path it travels
it walks no more alone.
135. The Autumn Hound
The nights grow ever longer
as summer fades away,
in the chill of autumn winds
I hold a hound at bay –
a beast from out the darkness,
its fur encased in snow,
saboteur of sun and warmth,
which at his coming go.
I try to make it tarry,
stand boldly in its path,
for once it rushes by
I endure its hellish wrath;
to delay it but a while
is all I can essay –
the cycle is determined,
the hound will have its way.
136. The Bard
The crystal-voiced bard of Greece,
blessed by gods of earth and sky,
once sang his tales of human pain,
the woes of war, the trials of peace.
Homer, blindly seeing the truth,
foresaw the tragic destiny of men,
but also sang the triumph of the will
even in the darkest time of battle.
You, my golden bard, must also sing
the tales that you have woven
from out the fabric that is life,
and, in singing, save your soul.
137. The Black Dog
Solitude is here: I awake to find
the room is starkly white,
devoid of sights and sounds
to startle the imagination;
I have come here to understand
something incomprehensible:
the black dog that claims me.
He is with me always, unseen,
silently following my footsteps;
his smell pervades everything
I touch, contaminating my life,
this insistent hound from hell.
But you cannot or will not see him:
you cannot know his sharp claws,
or how my rabid soul feeds his;
he is mine: even in this sterile place
I sense his presence, mocking me,
daring me to escape his assault.
138. The Bleakest Days
December comes in waves of black,
a judge upon the year now past,
to render verdict on our lives
with its resounding storm-fed blast;
we stand before the dock as one,
look back on months by tempests tossed,
and yet we cling to morrow’s hope
that we regain what has been lost.
That darkness yields at last to light
sustains the love that binds us strong,
and gives us power to resist
the shipwreck of the Siren’s song;
I take your hand within my own,
undaunted by this judgment day,
let December rage at us --
our love will not be cast away.
139. The Boulder
The boulder perched upon a ledge
as if intending to fall down,
its tether weakened by the wind
that blew upon its sacred ground,
and though the rains had worn it thin,
even they could not prevail,
and human hands had pushed as well,
but every force had so far failed;
determined to remain aloft,
this boulder of a million years
withstood the ravages of time,
made no complaint, and shed no tears.
And as she gazed upon its form,
an ancient voice called out her name,
familiar with the pain she bore
in life’s unfair and fickle game;
it spoke of courage in despair,
of hope that never has an end,
and of the strength that lives within
no matter what the years may send,
and reminded her of blessings
denied the boulder high above --
for it endured a lonely watch,
while she endured by being loved.
140. The Bull from the Sea: Tsunami (Japan)
A black bull emerged
from the angry sea
as the waves conspired
to set his rage free;
he rose from the water
with a deafening roar,
to devour each soul
who lived near the shore.
Not one could divine
the destruction he brought,
not one would escape
the death that he wrought;
his fury was savage,
and the land laid waste
until no trace remained
of that ancient place.
No justice was found
in this mindless slaughter,
the good and the bad
were claimed by the water --
all swept out to sea
in the beast’s brutal wake,
whatever existed
became his to take.
And when it was over
as the sea settled down,
the bull disappeared
from the now barren ground;
in ages to come
the legend would grow --
of monsters who dwelled
in the waters below.
So shore-men take heed
when the waves withdraw --
for they race back again
with death in their maw.
141. The Cloud of November
October days are beckoning
with promises of sunny skies,
but as I turn to look ahead,
a looming cloud enshrouds my eyes –
November calls out darkly
with the voice of Caesar’s slave:
“remember thou art mortal,
and soon destined for the grave.”
But as the day of reckoning
has left us time to journey on,
let us seize October’s hours
and love before all life is gone,
before our dreams fall by the way
like leaves upon November boughs,
to celebrate the love we share
in joy, as long as fate allows.
142. The Dream
I dreamed you held me in your arms
as raging waters pulled me down,
that you refused to let me go,
accepting that you too would drown.
I awoke to find you sleeping,
and wondered if you dreamt as well,
were rivers flooding in your mind,
were we in danger of their swell?
I rose from bed, no more to sleep,
and heard the pounding of the rain,
the winds blew fierce, the trees were bent,
while houses groaned as if in pain.
I turned once more to gaze at you,
the anchor of my roiling heart,
and felt myself a ship at rest,
and not yet ready to depart.
143. The Deck Chair (Titanic, 1912): One Hundred Years On
I look at the deck chair
in its dusty glass case,
recline on the replica
and imagine the sea:
how cold it was that night
as dinner was proudly served
on only the finest china
to the rich in first class,
how confident the captain,
his vessel unsinkable
even in the fickle embrace
of the fierce North Atlantic.
I see the fatal mass of ice
creep closer ever so slowly,
hiding in the deadly mist
of angry Neptune’s realm,
and then I hear the roar,
the sound of metal bending,
and the screams of sacrifices
offered unto Father Ocean,
their bodies later found floating
amidst the random debris
of a journey incomplete,
buoyant as this wooden chair.
144. The Fixer
So tired of being the fixer,
the one expected to set right
each wrong move by everyone,
as if she had no life of her own --
a lighthouse to bring sailors home
while feeling its wooden walls slip
slowly into the voracious sea
that cared nothing of men and lights.
A dream of escaping in the fog,
becoming one with dense vapour,
invisible to those who demanded
yet another enervating fix;
broken in spirit, broken in flesh,
in need of healing never tendered,
she felt her last link to this world
wither enough to let her go at last.
145. The Fools' Revenge
The harbour welcomed her with love,
a ship whose beauty did astound,
though her hull was rent in places
where she had drifted onto ground;
no one aboard did call aloud,
so at the dock men tied her fast,
determined that this well-trimmed sloop
would be repaired, long years to last.
But as they set about their work,
from deep within a roar began:
a crew of pirates then emerged
to slaughter every single man;
they plundered all the harbour-land,
burned the houses, grabbed the jewels,
then sailed the siren ship away,
belittling the landsmen as fools.
Abandoned lay the harbour-land
as if defiled by magic spell,
when any pirate ship came by
the crew was swallowed by the swell;
and this the penance set by God
for those who made of others fools:
eternal life beyond the grave
in flames reserved for loathsome ghouls.
146. The Fragile Flower
She grew in barren soil,
standing in solitude,
in stunted growth;
each day she strained
to find the sunlight,
to reach the water
that would nurture her,
keeping her alive;
she fought the wind,
learning to bend
and not stand firm.
Loneliness her enemy,
waiting, every day,
for a companion –
one to gaze at her,
one to understand
her fatal fragility.
And then he came:
a lonely soul like her,
but strong and wise,
knowing that beauty
was ever ephemeral,
the child of a day;
and so he set his roots
into that barren soil,
that they might grow
and seek the sun together
until it rose no more.
147. The Fugitive
Perhaps she travels far afield
just to see what lies beyond,
to break the ties that keep her where
she never feels that she belongs;
some Shangri-La must lie ahead
where misfits may discover peace,
where tranquil rivers whisper
promises of sweet release.
The anchor stone around her soul
assumes an overwhelming weight,
and she must plan a quick escape
lest she succumb to angry fate;
so ever on a pilgrimage
she wends her way from place to place,
but looking back along the road,
she thanks you for your gift of grace.
148. The Funeral
We buried her today
with celebration
and with song,
yet even while rejoicing
the ending seemed
so wrong:
a cruel disease attacked
one known for kindness
and for laughter,
so we retain the hope
of life renewed
hereafter,
an existence far apart
from mortal suffering
and grief,
due reward for all
sustained in life by
staunch belief.
We said farewell today
in faith to meet with her
again,
and bid her soul take flight,
to soar in love
till then.
149. The Gift from Afar
The clouds of winter settle in,
drawing curtains against the light,
the photophobic visitors
condemning me to endless night;
their gales will swell the leaden sea
with gusts descending from the north,
the Arctic winds that chill the flesh
as all around they wildly course;
for months I pass the darkened hours
prisoner to the season’s whims,
to contemplate the punishment
that only ends when spring begins;
yet even on the dullest days,
one voice will penetrate the gloom --
a southern voice that sings of sun
lies waiting in my curtained room,
a gift arriving from afar
to settle in against the clouds --
to provide an antidote
and pull me free from winter’s shrouds.
150. The Gift of Spring
March recedes and sets us free,
gone the ever howling gales,
the ice-bound sea breaks its chains,
fishers mend their tattered sails.
April dawns with hope renewed,
the reign of clouds now ceasing,
each day the sun grows stronger,
the frozen earth releasing.
Gulls and herons call on high,
finches pipe their mating sound,
every creature of the wild
feels life rising in the ground.
A symphony of nature
soothes the pain of winter’s sting,
each new born note reminds us --
music is the gift of spring.
151. The Healer
He thought he was needed
so he offered his heart,
then held out his hand
that healing might start;
he fell down in prayer
and asked for God’s grace
on those who were stumbling
towards death’s quick embrace,
who saw only darkness
and despaired of the light,
believing that nothing
could aid in their plight.
He thought he could help
to gather the lost --
but all that he garnered
were nails and a cross.
152. The Hourglass
Watch the sand slip away,
think back on days long past,
mindful of mortality,
how briefly our time lasts;
what will I leave behind
as memory grows distant,
what acts have marked my life
as worthy of existence?
No answers spring to mind
beyond the ordinary --
life in all its facets
appears so arbitrary;
for though I dreamed, when young,
of things that would astonish,
deeds heroic or acclaimed
I never did accomplish;
but love, at least, I knew,
and gave it in return --
perhaps that is enough,
with nothing more to yearn.
153. The Hubble Telescope: Pillars of Creation
The watcher looks out,
eyes ignoring the moon,
too close, not the target
of this evening’s quest;
he gazes past the sun,
its flames of little interest,
then past the Milky Way,
its myriad stars spurned.
Beyond distant galaxies
to nebulae of dust and gas,
he hears the Siren song
urging him to peer farther;
suddenly he perceives it --
a cloud bold as an eagle,
its talons clutching tight
young stars still in chaos.
The watcher comes to rest,
eyes upon these children
eager to make their escape
from the pillars of creation;
but all is illusion, all is past,
these suns no longer exist --
cosmic beauty too ephemeral,
so he takes his photographs.
154. The Joker Not Wild
I read his poem last night
and imagined him so far away,
in a land unlike my own,
where desert sands hold sway,
under a sun that blazes hot,
where winter brings no fear,
I felt his heart beat in his song
and saw him shed a tear.
Perhaps he knows I miss him,
perhaps he will come back –
but the Joker is a man of honour,
not a savage one-eyed jack.
155. The Key
He is the key to my existence,
remove him from my life
and I become a shadow,
flickering in transient light,
a ghostly apparition
hiding in the dark of night.
With him everything is possible,
and no fear can lock my heart,
I stand in sunlight unafraid,
delighting in each day’s fresh start,
but take him from my eager arms
and then all hope, all love depart.
156. The Key of Love
I once rejected Love
as just childish fantasy,
a dream to be discarded
until you came to me,
unlocked a captive heart
and set my spirit free.
Now I look at life released
from chains of destiny,
eager to explore the world
I once did try to flee.
No longer will I veil my face,
too afraid to even see
the path that lies ahead,
for your love remains the key
to liberate my soul,
to send it soaring joyfully.
157. The Larinda: Rise Again (2003-2012)
Many the seas the ship had sailed,
and many the storms she survived,
but when the hurricane blew in
not much of her remained alive;
her hull lay on the ocean floor,
a broken wreck encased in mud,
shattered by the winds of Juan,
and victim to his raging flood.
But some who loved this aged barque,
who knew the glory of the sea,
took a vow to bring her up,
to rescue her, then set her free;
nine years they toiled upon their task,
despite the jeers from those land-bound,
who never journeyed on the waves,
and never heard the Siren’s sound.
Then dawned the day she came back home,
her sails flew proud above the planks,
and all the sea folk gathered round
to welcome her with joyful thanks;
Larinda rides the seas once more
as brilliant as a polished gem,
bold witness to their firm belief
that all who fall may rise again.
158. The Last Christmas
Gathering at the table,
laden with the foods
dictated by tradition
and sanctified by ghosts,
we watch her struggle
to take her special seat
as the honoured elder,
the burden of the years
weighing her down,
back bent by tortuous time.
Silence - then a whisper
in the ancient tongue:
“Is it Christmas?”
Yes, we softly say.
“Are there toys?”
Yes, by the tree.
“For me?”
Yes, for you.
“I want a sled.”
Her eyes look empty
but they see the old days,
the fresh fallen snow,
the horses and sleds,
the feathers and the beads;
today no longer exists
as memories return in flood.
She has gone elsewhere,
to be among the bison,
to hear the calling loons
and the incessant drums --
the burden of time falls away,
and once more she is young;
she smiles at us,
and we let her go.
159. The Last Reunion
Recess time in the schoolyard
with a ball game to be held,
the voices of the children
in harsh competition swelled --
they were calling out the teams,
players chosen one by one --
captains taking just the best,
those to drive in every run.
His name was not among them,
he had not much to offer --
too small, too slow, too awkward --
why should a captain bother?
Soon he felt a growing shame,
eyes cast down upon the ground,
listening to each name yelled out,
too afraid to make a sound.
These memories of childhood,
callous relics of the past,
became a growing burden
as his name was always last;
he saw himself a loser,
the sole target of their fun,
and at his last reunion
he sought vengeance with a gun.
160. The Lost
How do we go on
when a life is lost?
Ceremonial mourning,
rituals of death,
the last farewell –
none capable of healing
the shattered heart.
Death marks us all,
leaves scars on our souls
that will never fade.
We cherish memories,
touch photographs,
think of brighter days;
yet, deep inside,
in a dark and quiet place,
the grieving never ends.
161. The Lover's Heart
Many souls have come and gone
in the currents of my life --
a few have brought great treasures,
more have left me only strife;
they rush on by like rivers
racing headlong to the sea --
you alone have come ashore,
set your craft alongside me,
and together we have built
a haven far from dangers,
watching those who hasten on
to wend their way as strangers;
like islands isolated,
foreign to the sailor’s chart,
we need not fear the scoffers
who deride the lover’s heart.
162. The Pat on the Back
Few people took notice --
just a quick gesture,
not meant to be shared
with those outside,
yet so much conveyed --
“yes, you did well,
worked through the pain,
gave your very best.”
An act of kindness,
spontaneous in nature,
a secret communication
between loving friends,
words not always needed,
not always demanded --
silent communication
speaking more clearly.
Gentleness still exists
in a hardened world --
in hugging a child,
in helping a neighbour,
in welcoming a stranger
come in from the cold,
and sometimes it takes form
as a pat on the back.
163. The Pen and the Poet
The pen is useless without ink,
so the poet with no pain --
we only learn to love the light
after weeks of bitter rain,
and come to know the darkness
as harbinger of kinder days,
when love surpasses agony
and blessed peace within us stays.
So when I dwell within the dark,
I shall emerge with pen in hand,
set down in ink the memory
of days passed in a brutal land,
and sing of hope within my heart
for sorrow to have made its bow --
to live no more in yesterday
but revel in the joy of now.
164. The Pilgrim's Code
Each journey has a beacon,
a flame that bids us come
to gaze upon its beauty
before our lives are done;
our presence on the earth,
a gift we did not seek,
demands we travel on,
our destinies to keep.
Each journey brings the promise
of new wonders for our eyes,
mountains reaching skyward
or endless prairie skies,
rivers searching for the sea,
forests standing tall and green,
glaciers born from fields of ice
in places rarely seen.
This journey has been calling
my name for many years,
daring me to venture forth
despite my inmost fears,
and I become a traveler
once more upon life’s road,
bid farewell to those I love
and take up the pilgrim’s code.
165. The Prison
He built the bars himself,
set them in thick concrete,
forged the lock for the door
and sat in solitude;
nothing was good enough,
nothing really mattered
after what he had seen
but could not remedy.
A prison of the mind,
legacy of his guilt,
solid walls around him
to keep all others out;
when hands reached out in love,
he found his heart empty,
broken by his own hand,
clenched around a bottle.
166. The Quiet inside My Heart
In silence have I hidden
the haven you have come to be,
and as the storm clouds gather,
I fear that you are lost to me --
beset by waves I drift away,
too soon to crash on ragged rocks,
unable to resist the gales
that tear me from your gentle docks;
a battered wreck, I come to rest
with broken masts and shattered oars,
my heart in splinters torn apart,
doomed to see you nevermore;
too soon our bond was broken,
before I spoke my mad desire --
I lost the chance to speak aloud
the passion of a soul on fire,
and so this message I entrust
to winds that carry far my tears --
how I regret my lack of words,
the wasting of so many years.
167. The Request
Please take me soon,
release my soul,
just look my way
as I grow old,
my body tired,
my mind in pain --
take me in Autumn,
not Winter’s reign.
Why was I spared,
brought into life,
the odds were against
yet I survived,
grew to know love,
and loved in return --
one saving grace
too precious to spurn.
But soon curtains fall,
the end looms ahead,
let me not linger
apart from the Dead;
let my soul fly
free of the Earth --
grateful for love,
grateful for birth.
168. The Sailor's Prayer
The winds are blowing on the sea,
the northern gales that come to call
as boats are lifted from their berths
in terror of December’s squall;
the blasts that echo on the coast
are but a remnant of the force,
yet strong enough to tumble trees
that stand within their howling course.
The waves are wilder as they crash
upon the barren winter shore,
their foam flung high to coat the land
in ice that sings of sun no more;
and as we watch the waters reel
from savage powers now set free,
we ask whatever Saints there are
to gather us within God’s lee.
169. The Secret Conversation
If I could sit alone with you,
our public masks discarded,
the words I yearn to speak aloud
would be loving, and unguarded;
I would tell you that the thorns
that stab your soul with dread
are just illusions of the mind --
how you are a rose instead;
how you share with those around you
the beauty of that flower,
that flesh is but a covering
doomed to wither with each hour;
perceive the grace that lies within,
cultivate its lustrous hue --
these the words I dare to speak
if I could sit alone with you.
170. The Siege
Boreas, Demon of the North,
refusing to take his leave,
assaulting windows and shutters --
the angry sounds of insistence,
the howling of nature gone mad --
Boreas forbids calmer skies,
laughing at the turn of seasons
as if summer were a phantom
born of human imagination;
as each new day falls to his force,
how much bolder he becomes --
no bulwark against his power
still stands for those upon the land,
subjected to the endless wrath
of a god without compassion --
hostages awaiting liberation.
171. The Song of Saskatchewan
Not what I had expected,
a heartland that beckons with love,
eager to take the wanderer
and hold her in its firm embrace;
here breathes a spirit in the earth,
nourishing more than fields of grain,
giver of life to those who walk
upon the ancient soil above.
Her voice is quiet in the night,
a whisper only heard by those
asleep below her starlit skies,
receptive to her mystic call –
a gentle melody of peace,
a soft promise of redemption –
and in my dreams I listen to
the song that is Saskatchewan.
172. The Sparrow
A fallen sparrow on the ground,
the breath of life about to fail,
one smallest creature in God’s eye
attempts to fly to no avail;
victim of a predator
who attacked but could not hold
a bird determined to resist,
the force of life within so bold.
She raised it up most gently,
so as not to cause more pain,
and bore it home a willing nurse,
lest its struggle be in vain;
both day and night she tended
wounds left behind in violence,
broken wings regained their strength
as she labored on in silence,
until the day the sparrow rose,
and to the sky began to soar,
her farewell made with flowing tears --
for she was left alone once more.
173. The Stone Wall
It had stood there for generations,
rough hewn artifact of ancestors
fuelled by fear and hatred,
dividing two who would be one;
yet love existed long before,
intangible artifact of human souls
filled with longing to unite,
to break down barriers of hate;
and one by one each stone fell,
witness to the power of hope,
and hands reached out across debris,
two at last entwined as one.
174. The Tenth Muse*
He was her anchor when storm winds arose
and exile loomed like a grim cloud on the sea,
his love the centre of her existence
upon the isolated land of Lesbos.
But Atthis was the lighthouse calling her,
offering a flame to defeat all darkness --
opening her arms just as the others did --
promising escape from the angry waves.
But anchors had powers denied the lighthouse,
as decreed by the law of the patriarchs,
who saw only sin in female desires,
and turned their eyes away from those of men.
Sappho bowed to the will of the elders,
consigning her passion to the secret poems
written at night in the silence of her room --
furtive emissaries of forbidden love.
Centuries later other patriarchs consigned
those clandestine poems to merciless flames,
but there were those who refused to forget,
who understood that love transcends angry waves.
*Plato called Sappho "The Tenth Muse."
175. The Thin Line
An eclipse of the soul,
the veil of gloom descending,
hopes and fears colliding
as we await the diagnosis --
and at the sound of “cancer”
the world comes to a halt,
everything taken for granted
evaporates in a second,
as if blasted into atoms
by a cataclysmic impact.
The thin line between life and death,
the inexorable flow of time,
our ephemeral existences --
all become too suddenly real,
no longer abstract constructs,
no longer are we immune;
in that moment we ponder
not living, but how to live,
how to love, and how to rejoice
in the random, fleeting gift of life.
176. The Time of Ever Darkness
In the Time of Ever-Darkness,
when existence speaks despair,
we cast our eyes upon the sky
to see if you are watching there,
claimed by Death before you lived
the life you had expected,
deprived of watching children grow,
with all your dreams rejected;
we seek your face upon the clouds,
we hear your whisper in the wind,
too afraid to speak the truth:
that you will never come again,
but lie forever in a tomb,
away from hearts now shattered –
far from those who loved you so,
whose lives are left in tatters;
but even in our shroud of grief
with many things we may regret,
in the Time of Ever-Darkness
we promise never to forget.
177. The Troubadors
Hoisting guitars against the night,
the troubadours come bounding in,
always a song on their lips,
always a mischievous grin;
souls united in their craft,
harmonies that soar aloft,
how they brighten up each night
and make her slumber ever soft.
She knows not how to offer thanks,
for they disappear so fast,
leaving only memories behind --
memories long years to last;
but should ever they require
a kindly touch to heal a wound,
she stands in shadows to comply,
her heartstrings gently tuned.
178. The Unsung Song
I am the song unsung,
my words devoid of meaning
until the voice of a singer
sets them free to soar,
eagle-like, among the clouds
that now keep them hidden.
I am the poem unread,
gathering dust in darkness,
my words having no existence
until the reader comes,
and only then I come alive,
only then I touch a heart.
I am the melody unplayed,
every note lying silent,
mute swans upon the river
that winds between solitudes;
fear not my obscurity:
the gift I bring is love.
179. The Unwritten Poem
The pen a scalpel of the soul,
cutting through defenses
to reveal the inner emotions
I try to keep hidden;
for lying deep inside me
like an insistent tumor
lies a poem unwritten,
never to be read.
No remedy lies at hand
to ease its torment,
no surgeon would ever
even see it there,
but I know it infects me,
for I stood at a crossroad,
and out of mindless fear
denied a dream;
and so I pay the price:
there can be no healing,
only a constant sense of loss,
only an unwritten poem.
180. The Wayside
Dreams fall upon the wayside
like discarded autumn leaves,
all that remains is detritus,
remnants of what might have been.
Pandora’s box in fragments,
no hope contained within –
tomorrow destined to maintain
the darkness of today.
Perhaps a turn was taken,
a direction ill-conceived,
perhaps dreams soared too high
and strength could not endure.
But dreams are prone to dying
in the autumn of the soul,
we watch them pass away,
all innocence now lost.
181. The Whirlpool of Fear
Charybdis coming closer,
Odysseus at the helm --
ever the slippery prey
destined to escape --
but this captain hesitates,
fearing the whirlpool within,
congenital at birth,
her demon twin.
Fear her earliest memory --
afraid to let go
her mother’s hand
in a roiling crowd;
terrors grew and multiplied
in incremental scale,
each overwhelming the prior,
no end in sight;
this irrational sibling
haunts her each day:
she waits for Charybdis
to swallow her up.
182. This Poem
Forlorn I sat, pen in hand,
awaiting inspiration,
alas, my recognition:
my Muse was on vacation;
no metaphors sprang to mind,
imagery became a blank,
even adjectives had fled --
all my verses dark and dank.
I asked the gods for mercy,
to send the words I needed,
but, even as each hour passed,
my wishes were not heeded;
I looked for healing magic,
but my efforts were remiss --
for after days of trying,
all I conjured up was this!
183. Threnody for E.D.
Her life a masquerade,
she fled to cloisters dark,
to places where her will
could overcome her heart,
hiding her true feelings
in fear of disapproval,
pretending all along
to desire love's removal;
to forever live untouched
by passion's carnal sting,
she played the role of nun,
renouncing everything.
Yet in the evening hours
her soul cried not for Christ,
but knew for what it yearned,
no matter what the price;
and in the end she felt
the bitter sting of Fate:
for she had come to love,
but found it much too late.
184. Through the Lens
Rainbow colours
dance around me,
a cosmic spectrum
of infinite beauty
born of light set free,
the fleeting prey
of a magic box
that pursues images
destined to fade
before my eyes,
ephemeral visions
captured forever,
frozen in time
for the rest of Time –
that perfect picture,
ever elusive,
tantalizes me
through the lens.
185. Time
There was too much time for anger,
ingratitude’s scorpion sting,
the days and nights of wasted hours,
the unrequited offering;
there was too much time for sorrow
in a world where nothing mattered,
where others stood by laughing
as a crystal heart lay shattered;
there was too much time to worry
about things she might regret,
but time was not a remedy,
would not allow her to forget;
so much time to speak no words,
to play life’s game in silent stealth,
until the day she understood
there was no time left herself.
186. Time's Arrow
So many places yet to go,
so many people still to meet,
but her heart is growing weary
as time maintains its constant beat,
the arrow moving forward,
days to weeks, and weeks to years,
and never ending travels
cannot quell her mortal fears;
perhaps the time to rest has come,
to put aside her pilgrim’s cloak
and revel in the time of now
before tomorrow’s destined stroke,
before the gift of life succumbs
and into nothing she decays –
just a memory that flashes
across another’s fleeting gaze.
187. To Fight Oblivion
The slight weapon grasped by my hand
exists to fight oblivion,
to leave behind a part of me
able to survive decaying flesh;
with this trembling pen I set free
words long imprisoned deep within,
my mortal voice, too guarded,
requires an instrument of release.
These children I must leave behind
to speak for me when I am dust,
to bear witness to a journey
as ephemeral as a flower
that blossoms all too briefly
before it yields to looming death --
I fear what these words may suffer,
yet I also hope they will be loved.
188. To Give My Heart
Last night I spoke to you,
giving voice to all my fears,
pouring out my sorrows,
and bathing you in tears.
I gazed upon your image
in hope that you might see
a penitent in rag cloth,
with heart laid at your feet.
For I had come to bargain,
to ask that you give heed
to one who was in danger,
to one who was in need.
But all I had to offer
was torn and tattered rough --
the heart that beats within me,
I pray that is enough.
189. Together, 1: Immortal Presence
Words inadequate,
photographs silent,
I struggle to express
the inexpressible:
the soft touch of love,
the silent embrace,
the knowing smile
beyond expectation;
love descends unbidden,
never expected,
never predictable
but ever cherished;
immortal presence
transcending death,
never forgotten,
never diminished;
eternal magician
of the human soul,
love came to us,
love transformed us;
what was before
ceased to exist,
as two solitudes
coalesced, forever.
190. Together, 2: The Spark
A child of the land,
a child of the sea,
together embark
on life’s fickle lee
with love in their hearts,
and hope as their guide,
each moving forward
in confident stride.
No matter the trials
that may come their way,
the path ahead calls
and they cannot stay,
kin to the tulips
the north wind beats down,
yet spring after spring
they burst from the ground.
Though battered by blows,
with more yet to come,
two find resilience
unknown to just one;
how quickly they grasp,
when days appear stark,
the life force still burns
when love is the spark.
191. Too Many Tears
Trusting brown eyes look up at me,
young eyes, far too young to know
the sorrows and the pain that fate
seems ever eager to bestow,
how the joy of life can wither
when disappointment comes to call,
how even those with greater strength
cannot avoid a crushing fall.
Better not to know existence
arrives without a guarantee,
that even though a heart is true
lies can bring us to our knees;
may he retain his innocence
as long as youth is on his side,
for once he is as old as me
too many tears he will have cried.
192. Tragic Beauty
A curse lies upon her heart,
imposed by a malicious fate
that mercilessly hounds her;
at the first light of dawn
it shrouds her eyes in night,
drowns her flesh in tears.
Her life becomes a tragedy
played out upon a stage
that strips her spirit bare,
her wounds exposed
and not allowed to heal –
she wonders what catharsis
can ever come from this.
Yet tragedy cannot destroy
the enemy it fears the most:
a soul within that knows love,
seeks to give love selflessly,
despite the bitter lash of fate --
the beauty of the battered soul
no curse can ever obscure.
193. Transcendence
There are songs that touch the heart
in ways so unimaginable,
bringing respite from constant pain
and from the encroaching darkness.
In the mists of bleak despair,
when billowing clouds turn black
and icy rain pours down,
you are somehow there:
your voice banishes my fears
and dispels the dark around me,
filling me with a hope reborn
out of the ashes of my life.
By what magic you do this
remains an enigma to my mind,
but my spirit, however frail, knows
you will heal the wounded heart.
194. Transformation
A happy man so many years,
a smile, a wink, a laugh,
in darkness bringing light,
this welcome friend,
until he dreamt a dream
he could not have,
a prize not his to claim,
wealth he could not spend.
Falling into bitterness,
the world a black abyss,
laughter faded from his eyes
as love flew from his heart,
till even those who cared
felt his angry wrath,
with sorrow etched within,
watched all joy depart.
The man who took his place
a stranger carved by rage,
cursing in his agony,
his flesh on fire,
no healing art could help
save him from himself,
as anger killed a soul
wounded by desire.
195. Truth is the Weapon
She was tired of the lies,
rumours born of envy,
accused of words not hers,
and she cried.
To give all that she had
to those who would slander
and those who would libel –
trust had died.
Her tears turned to anger,
then rage at the bullies
who battered her spirit
in their game.
So her courage revived,
with truth as the weapon
to remove all their filth
from her name.
196. Turning to You
In despair, I reach out
for your guiding hand,
leading me away from
grim darkness;
in grief, I reach out
for your wisdom,
that I may understand
cruel loss;
in pain, I reach out
for your strength,
to help me endure
harsh torment;
in confusion, I reach out
for your steadfast love,
and begin to see again
with clarity.
Each day I turn to you,
finding in your heart
hope for the future,
and hope for me.
Boot up the pc,
check out the mail,
dread is pervasive
with so many tales:
“the fault is not mine –
lies have been told,”
time for resentment,
time just to scold;
“forget all the past,
what matters is now,”
with mirrors and smoke,
I only ask how;
days of confusion,
too much to quell –
I fight off the sorrow
of two days in Hell.
198. Two Poems for Anastasia DeSousa
1. In Memoriam
Past: her graduation photo,
confident and smiling eyes,
looking ahead to a future
under benevolent skies,
intent on more education –
the key to the world she embraced,
spending her evenings in study,
resilient, whatever she faced.
Present: a body covered in blood,
silent and still amid screams,
cut down by the madman of death,
extinguishing all of her dreams,
leaving behind her a family
destroyed by grief without end,
praying to God with a question
from hearts that never will mend.
Future: none.
2. Pictures of Stacey
Photographs, mute witness,
images never to speak
nor shed constant tears
of regret;
an infant newly brought
into a world of love,
the toddler on her bike,
so proud;
the second grade class
under the banner:
take pride in our school,
play safe;
high school graduation,
formal cap and gown –
her smile amid the roses,
no thorns;
Dawson College, 2006,
a vinyl sheet over her body,
lying in a sea of blood,
so still;
the funeral cortege,
a family broken by bullets,
forever shattered, forever numb,
grieving Stacey.
199. Under One Roof
My neighbor’s house, in disrepair,
may crumble into sawdust soon,
for those within have yet to see
the state of wood once finely hewn;
the window panes are shattered,
wild gales assault unhindered,
the front door hangs wide open,
its facade already splintered.
I want to lead them out that door,
reveal the splendor of the past,
in hope that time is not too late
to mend a castle meant to last;
though I hesitate to meddle,
I must try to give them proof
that a house in ruins cannot stand,
divided, yet under one roof.
200. Up in Smoke: Oklahoma City, 2011
The wild explosion of trees
into infernal orange embers
born to fall on wooden roofs,
raging children of destruction,
mocking the efforts of mortals
who fight on, into exhaustion;
those who dwell within leave,
bundling their lives into boxes --
choosing what must be saved,
and what must be left behind
in the ashes of their lives.
Years surrendered to flames
unconstrained by mercy,
eager to spread their wrath
across acres of memories --
memories of birth and death,
of love lost, and love triumphant,
the daily flow of existence;
dreams go up in smoke,
and only angry scars remain.
201. Waiting for the Rain
Rampant Heat, sun-inflamed,
dragons loose upon the land
to burn the once green fields,
turning grain to bitter ash.
They wait for the rain to come,
for clouds to gather darkness
and banish every dragon
from their long-parched midst.
Day after day, they look skyward,
then avert their gaze from the sun,
retreat from the world outside
into rooms with curtains closed.
Fevered nights bring no respite,
slep turning ever elusive,
and in the morning the sun
remains enthroned above.
Is this the future, they wonder,
the world predicted long ago,
when men gave little thought
to waiting for the rain.
202. Wallpaper
A party lay in waiting,
a “meet and greet” affair,
but in her heart she wanted
to be anywhere but there;
strange hands she had to shake,
and pleasantries exchanged –
perhaps about the weather,
how little it had rained.
No escape was possible,
her work was on display –
she took a pill to calm herself,
if only for this day,
and pondered all the forces
that coalesced to shape her –
still wishing she had power
to dissolve into wallpaper.
203. What Stands Between
A mountain rears before me,
peaks straining towards the sun,
a rampart I must conquer
before my time on earth is done;
a sea that mocks horizons,
stretching out beyond my view,
bridgeless valleys open wide,
deny my need to be with you.
Barriers forged by nature
join barriers made by men,
so many obstacles exist
before I come to you again;
but fear within me crumbles
with every step I take,
I will defeat what stands between,
risking all for love’s sweet sake.
204. When Janis Sings
I listen to her voice again –
words that burrow into me
in search of ancient scars,
to cauterize memories
I try so hard to push away:
the scars of ugly children
taunted by those of fairer hue,
the scars of later agonies
when life brought loneliness
and overwhelming sorrows.
Through the years she crafted
songs that told of hopes betrayed,
of sadness at the loss of love
even as she wished me joy,
and I drink up every word,
certain that she knows me,
sees the marks upon my soul –
what recognition flames
when Janis sings the soundtrack
of my lacerated life.
205. Will They Know?
Will they know the passion
that led you on life’s path,
will they understand the joy,
comprehend the darkest wrath?
What questions must be asked,
what answers to be given
when challenged to explain
how deeply you were driven?
How many will accept
decisions that you made,
or how you grasped the role
long destined to be played?
So many questions lying
like petals off a stem,
but one remains supreme –
will they know how you loved them?
206. Wind Warning
The southeast winds barrel in,
howling like a rabid hound,
fearing nothing made by men,
bringing houses to the ground;
trees that long stood firm and straight
crack and shatter in their fall,
while placid waves rear their heads,
cresting as the wild winds call.
These southeast gales rule our land,
batter all who dwell thereon,
watching helpless at such rage
till the madness be withdrawn;
but even when the blasts break off,
and flat calm the waves remain,
islands scattered in their path
must suspicious watch maintain.
207. Winter Solstice
So little light breaks through,
darkness even in my soul –
that hidden cathedral
in which only hope remains;
the candle I bring grows dim,
vainly fighting the despair –
a suffocating cloud
that swells on the longest night.
Invoke angels, summon saints,
fall before the altar –
seek the grace of divinity,
seek to keep the hope alive;
faith is ever tested,
as if I become Job –
crying out upon the Lord,
asking for reasons why;
and still no answer comes
to that hidden cathedral –
this night brings Gethsemane,
in the morning let me rise.
208. Winter's Kingdom
Outside the northern wind rages
with a madness terrifying to behold,
bending all to its will, uprooting
even the most fixed of ancient trees;
there is no respite from blinding snow
that blows its way into every space,
filling even our hearts with ice.
Only the roaring sound of the gale
can be heard, all else has left our ears;
battered houses, waiting in darkness,
shake and moan in tune with the gusts;
those inside huddle together, seeking
a communion of warmth, an affirmation of life.
Snow-bound, they await the dawn of tomorrow,
when they pray the storm will have marched
its way onto other ground, into other homes.
The stillness within and the tumult without
clash with a strident noise, like cymbals
punctuating the movement of a symphony;
but this is the music of wild destruction,
of nature gone awry with unknown fury,
of angry gods and avenging spirits –
a storm created by Wagner for the Valkyries
that live with us in Winter’s Kingdom.
209. Wired
Eyes close, surrender to the dark,
seek escape from penetrating light,
order the flesh to enter sleep,
in vain;
cruel Morpheus tantalizes me:
his hand extends a dram of rest,
dangles it before my weary brain,
but withdraws.
I am wired, mind in turmoil,
images appearing from nowhere,
thoughts struggling for domination
over me;
the chaos within will not retreat,
battering me throughout the night,
proclaiming ultimate victory
at dawn.
The harsh exposure of the soul
as a pen tears away its veil,
curse and blessing of all poets
as inner walls begin to fail;
a two-edged sword immersed in ink
dares to speak aloud the hidden,
to let the words come soaring out,
even those that were forbidden.
In fear she watched them flying by,
no revocation to be found,
her intimate thoughts their cargo,
the scars by which her heart was bound;
still sadder words, she came to fear,
might well escape as stowaways --
she sent a prayer to the Muse
to intercept, then lead astray.
211. Would You Be Surprised?
Would you be surprised
if I just disappeared,
surrendering to the lure
of solitude?
Or would you join me there,
far from urban cacophony,
your ears embraced by silence
in serenity?
Perhaps I dream in folly –
a neverland of imagination
where I escape the maze
now fashioned,
perhaps I have to dream –
no other cure for my malady,
no other hope for peace
long absent.
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