Some topics seem to require a more expansive treatment than others; for a few of these, I have tried to use the trilogy and quartet format.
1. The Shipwreck Trilogy
On the Shore (A)
I stand on the shore
near Our Lady of the Harbour,
my soul at one with waves
that swell ever higher,
and offer Her a prayer
for those lost and forgotten.
What dreams were theirs:
days spent in the sun,
full of laughter and love,
floating on the ocean
as if in amniotic trance;
but dreams fade into shadows --
reality is the coming tide,
strong enough to sweep away
the debris of their existence,
yet soft enough to offer rest
when the moon is full
and the sea is surging.
At Sea (B)
Storm clouds swallowed the horizon,
no line between the earth and sea,
a growing conflagration raged
and flexed its might to swallow me,
sharp lines of lightning cracked the air
and thunder crashed against my ears,
in the void that closed around me
I struggled with my inmost fears:
that I might die upon these waves,
my body doomed to drift unfound,
no funeral procession formed
to lay my bones beneath the ground,
but just a granite cenotaph
to stand above an empty grave,
cold witness to the life I lived
when I was far from deadly waves;
yet as my ship took each new blow,
and as I prayed to God on high,
a calm acceptance filled my soul
and I grew unafraid to die,
for in the time I had with you
my heart had felt the joy of love,
and nothing greater could I know
interred in waves or earth above.
Alone (C)
Alone upon a balcony,
her eyes cast to the sea,
a woman cloaked in black
sheds bitter tears;
her husband's ship was missing,
with not one sighting made,
and stormy clouds above
increase her fears.
A captain's wife a watcher,
ever left behind to wait,
her love upon the ocean
tossed by angry waves,
while she, in silent prayer,
begs her Lord for mercy,
imagining her darling
denied an earthly grave.
Tonight may be the last
for her to be a wife,
a widow's walk her destiny
as hope begins to dim;
so she rages at the waters,
with their fickle, savage wrath,
pulls a veil around her head
and slowly walks within.
2. The Alcan Trilogy (for Robert Service)
Yukon Gold (A)
I wandered far away from home
in search of respite for my soul,
like the others gone before me
with yellow riches as their goal;
I walked the paths they stumbled on,
sustained by only rice and dreams,
I heard the cries of fallen men,
I heard the horses’ dying screams.
Their ghosts attended on my steps,
still searching for those veins of gold
that beckoned them to stake their lives
in landscapes overwhelmed by cold;
at night I heard their muffled groans,
saw desperation in their eyes,
felt the blood within them thicken
as, one by one, the miners died.
The Yukon sang its siren song,
“there’s gold, there’s gold enough for all,”
and men deserted paltry homes
to answer her beguiling call;
yet, as I walked past rivers wild
and gazed on mountains frozen still,
I knew this land held more than death -
I want to go back, and I will.
Ice Child: Alaska, Hubbard Glacier (B)
First comes the noise:
a cannon in the distance,
the crack of an angry whip,
the groan of giving birth;
then comes the splash:
waves quickly leaping up
as the newborn falls
into a cradle not of earth.
How slowly it drifts away,
its back upon a mother
unable to nurture
her child any longer;
on newfound currents floating
ignorant of its fate –
doomed to diminish,
to never be stronger.
The ice child fades from sight
as more siblings descend,
leaving the land for water,
orphans on the sea,
now moving on in silence
and never to return –
in other lands than these
they will simply cease to be.
Poseidon in June (C)
His touch was cold, his face was grey,
and even as we passed today
I felt the ice flow through his veins,
encumbered by the northern rains;
his heart felt not the sun above,
untouched by nature’s warming love,
sad silence filled his waters deep
as if for someone he did weep,
perhaps a maiden of the light
who could not bear his endless night,
perhaps a sailor lost at sea
who saw the storm but could not flee;
his breath was frost, his hair was white,
and as I wait to sleep tonight
I think of him beneath the moon,
rejecting the embrace of June.
3. The Cosmos Trilogy
Cosmos (A)
If we could sail among the stars forever
I would give you the moons of Jupiter
and the dancing rings of Saturn,
so that you might know
the infinite beauty of the Cosmos.
I would lead you to distant galaxies
where new stars are born
as old ones fade and die;
I would hold your hand
as we neared a blackened star
and tell you that there will be
no darkness waiting there.
We would gaze upon all that is light,
all that fills our human senses,
and feel the power of Creation;
and we would know,
as we cannot know now,
the love of God for all that exists,
without limit, beyond all boundaries,
and we would find eternal peace at last.
Falling off the Earth (B)
Late at night, in the jet black sky,
I look up and see them sparkling:
so many stars filling my eyes
that I become dizzy at the miracle
of Creation, falling off the Earth.
Then the ground, so solid once,
begins to move under my feet,
suddenly opening up beneath me
the maw of a hungry black hole.
So full of beauty, so full of power:
how did this cosmos come to be,
I wonder, as I fight with gravity,
struggling to watch the celestial parade;
and as the stars revolve around me,
I understand that physics alone
cannot explain this universal mystery.
The Cosmos and I (C)
I am cosmic:
every part of me
is cosmic dust,
particles so small,
invisible, eternal,
unlike me;
for I shall pass,
my flesh decay
back into the soil,
back into the cosmos
from which I came.
I hope for no more
than existence
without pain,
without hurt –
but cosmic indifference
only sees my atoms,
never sees my soul.
So be it:
some day my dust
will sail the stars,
and that is enough.
4. The Dream Weaver Trilogy
Dream Weaver (A)
Old Dream Weaver draws from an amber egg
strong links of chain for her primeval web
that catches the seeds newborn in the light,
training them all for the darkness of night;
for each dream must journey at her decree
to seek out the end of its destiny,
each has been crafted for just one alone
and set down at dusk, by winds to be blown
over the moonrise and into a mind
adrift on soft clouds and waiting to find
a vision to heal and not one to harm,
one to bring hope and to banish alarm;
but Dream Weaver knows what each soul deserves –
no false-fashioned face escaping from her –
so sleep tonight in the dream she has sent,
knowing precisely for whom it was meant.
Feathered Arrow (B)
A feathered arrow pierced the sky
swiftly stalking its destined prey,
the time of darkness had drawn nigh,
the Weaver had shot it away
to strike the soul of one who slept
alone beneath the summer stars,
grieving vows that were never kept
by hearts fast bound by fatal bars.
This feathered arrow brought a gift
much sought by those in deep despair:
a dream in which the heart would drift
to find a lover standing there,
an end to sorrow born of loss,
a hope that dawn would bring release –
and nothing did this arrow cost
as Weaver wove her web of peace.
Trickster Dream (C)
Her dream came slowly in the night
as moon and planets filled the sky,
a feathered arrow burrowed deep
to ease the pain of one who cried,
and soon the world was full of love,
her loneliness at last withdrew,
she stared into the darkest eyes,
herself reflected in their view.
She heard his heart beat next to hers
and felt his arms form an embrace,
she gave herself into his hands
as if there were no safer place;
his lips sent flames into her soul,
a fire arose where none had been,
and for a moment time stood still,
the magic of the woven dream.
But arrows fade away at dawn,
and she awoke as she had feared:
the battlefield ran red with blood,
the one she loved had disappeared,
but still she felt a spark within,
gift of the Dream Weaver’s feather,
a promise of the end of time,
of eternity together.
5. Summer Trilogy
Summer Winds (A)
Summer rides the winds of May,
her chariot a blaze of light,
a whiteness born from winter’s snow
that promises to vanquish night,
to nurture flowers in the fields
where caribou pass by in peace,
the northern clime that sings to us
the Siren song of sweet release,
where glacial rivers quicken pace
as they rush to kiss the sea,
where you and I cast off our chains,
by summer sun at last set free.
The Promise of June (B)
The clouds are turning white again,
the grey of winter left behind,
the sea reflects a sky of blue
that carries winds of gentler kind;
no ice remains within the bays,
no snow to hide the land reborn,
the cloak of darkness falls away –
its heavy garb no longer worn.
Bright June arrives with promises
of days enchanted by the sun,
of time to watch new flowers bloom
and know that winter’s rage is done;
I bow to worship summer’s gift,
to smell the fragrance of the breeze,
to look ahead to sweeter days
and push away my dark disease.
Summer Flame (C)
The end of August blows in,
bending trees and roiling waters
that prepare for winter's rage;
the birds of summer depart,
leaving only memories of songs
to wake the soul in joy.
I watch as leaves change colour,
a living rainbow, soon to carpet
the cooling ground I walk upon;
even the sky seems different,
now hoarding the sunlight
as the days grow dark so quickly.
Summer stays with us too little,
a hurried guest longing for home
as savage winter nips its heels;
in the grey months I see before me
I shall hold summer in my mind,
a fragile flame to keep me warm.
6. Christmas Trilogy
Sing hymns of rejoicing
in settings so sublime
that Beauty reigns supreme
beyond the curse of Time,
and raise your voice in praise
of skies released from storms,
in which the smiling sun
greets life in myriad forms.
Lift eyes unto the hills,
like holy men of old
who saw in God's Creation
a glory still untold;
cast darkness from your soul,
reaching towards the light,
for unto us a Saviour
is born this hallowed night.
Bethlehem, Now and Then (B)
Pilgrims fill ancient streets
in festive mood,
a celebration of life
moving beyond death;
it began here in squalor,
a humble manger
offering protection
from prying eyes,
for some mysteries
must remain unseen,
hidden from men,
sacred to God.
Now they sing carols
to sweet silent nights,
when a star blazed
to lead the way,
when all was calm
as a young woman
first felt deep within
the pangs of birth;
a Saviour was born
for these pilgrims,
to bring a peace
yet to be fulfilled.
Christmas at Home (C)
A little boy with large dark eyes
gazes with wonder on a tree
glistening in decorations,
colours dancing everywhere,
a kaleidoscope come alive,
and I watch his celebrations.
A mother gives thanks for this child,
precious gift of a loving God,
life never taken for granted,
for too many tears she has shed
in sorrow over life denied,
and I see her grief supplanted.
A grandmother endows all here
with her abiding faith and love,
a love gracious and affirming,
foundation of this family,
a glowing candle in the dark,
and I smile to see it burning.
A kind man offers me a gift
immaterial and priceless:
love built upon pure emotion
that sees beyond this earthly flesh
to the soul that dwells deep within,
and I treasure his devotion.
All to pass this sacred season
in worship of a special child,
one sent to us from God above
to die upon a cross of wood
in penance for all human sins,
and I accept His Selfless Love.
7. Peace Child Trilogy
Peace Child 1 (A)
Voices raised in raging hate,
violence roams in every land,
like a demon cloaked in black,
blinding eyes and numbing minds.
The Peace Child sheds sacred tears,
watching in mournful silence
as Humanity betrays
all promises made to him.
His hope struggles to remain,
waning beacon for those lost
on roiling seas of anger,
when clouds disperse all light.
Far away, a new prophet
rests until the time arrives
to awake and sing of love --
sleep in heavenly peace, child.
Peace Child 2 (B)
The land ablaze with hatred,
cities burning to the ground,
a child of peace arises
to preach brotherhood and love.
Rejecting acts of violence,
dreaming of a new born age,
he walks on roads of rancor
to take up the Peace Child’s cross.
Thousands come to march with him,
an army without weapons,
determined to free the land,
break the chains of prejudice.
But one man hid in shadows,
waiting for this child of peace ---
the assassin’s rifle roared,
and the flames burned red as blood.
Peace Child 3 (C)
Anointed by blood, she stands,
unseen guardian of peace
in a world crazed with slaughter,
no compassion to be found.
Shedding tears for the children
as if Niobe reborn,
the cycle still repeating:
violence begetting violence.
Many speak of peace, but lie,
no weapons become ploughshares,
bodies piled upon bodies
witness only more madness.
She lies down upon the cross
and awaits crucifixion --
alone at the End of Days,
lost the hallowed name of Hope.
8. Easter Trilogy
The lamb is brought forward,
head wreathed in ribbons,
body hung with decorations
in preparation for the gift
now to be given the gods.
For our sins we must make
sacrifices: even the innocent
may be offered in recompense
for all the evil we have done.
Seize the gold-gilt victim,
place his neck upon the altar
and take the double axe:
one to suffer for the greater good,
one to shed his blood for us.
The Tragic Messiah (B)
The curtain rose upon the stage,
revealing a scene of mourning:
a saviour had been long awaited,
one to heal the sick and dying,
one to feed their starving souls
and bring them back to God;
prophets had eagerly predicted
a Messiah, come to save,
to release mankind from sin:
were you to be this One,
unlike all others, unique,
divinity made flesh and blood,
gift bestowed by a gentle God?
Did you understand your role
in the tragic play you lived,
were you willing even to die,
nailed to that brutal cross?
Even in doubt, calling on God,
in the Garden of Gethsamene,
you understood, did you not,
the ending that must come
when the final curtain fell.
The Empty Tomb (C)
Pilgrims at the tomb,
homage to the fallen,
tears flowing in flood,
anger at the death
yielding to confusion:
the corpse vanished.
Had he really died?
A Roman trick perhaps,
stealing his broken body
for further humiliation?
Or had God spoken,
not in words, but images:
a spirit rising out of death,
ascending to Heaven,
all flesh abandoned,
the lamb become the lion,
the defeated victorious,
Death itself defeated?
Did this One save us all,
cleansing souls from sin?
Faith alone survives
for pilgrims at the tomb.
9. God and Man Trilogy
Upon a jet black canvas,
devoid of all existence,
a Master’s hand, held high,
encountered no resistance,
but keenly drew the Cosmos,
each star a cleansing fire,
each galaxy a fertile womb
for all Life would require;
a myriad of elements
embraced the cosmic dance,
spinning round a Universe
sacred and entranced,
for what the Master fashioned
had never been before,
created in an instant
set to come no more –
an explosion of Creation
spiralling through Space,
calling us to gaze on high
and see the Master’s face.
Elemental (B)
Earth became flesh,
man fashioned from clay
by kindly Prometheus
in defiance of Zeus;
Fire became magic,
a Titan’s gift to mortals
exposed to the cold,
subject to death;
Air became prison,
a god sentenced to live
bound to a lofty crag,
food for hungry eagles;
Water became release,
the new Prometheus
cleansing ancient sins,
offering life restored,
enduring the fated lash
upon flesh made of clay,
the fire of betrayal,
air and water denied –
saviour gods enchained
that others might be free,
accepting brutal hatred
that others might know love.
Affirmation (C)
Dead End, No Exit:
once a path lay here,
open and inviting,
full of promise,
embracing the pilgrim
weary of heart,
stretching as far as
the summer horizon;
an enticing illusion:
for the path diminished,
grew close and narrow,
ended in tears.
The pilgrim hesitated,
the betrayal of hope
making mock of trust,
chilling the soul;
crossroad in winter:
that other path rejected,
its rocks and brambles
holding out new pain,
crept into memory,
and the pilgrim turned back,
steeled to start again,
faith never deadened.
10. The Virgina Tech Trilogy
Before You Go: April 16, 2007 (A)
It looks like rain,
might even snow –
better take your jacket
before you go.
I’ve fixed you a lunch,
no need to wait,
I see the bus coming –
you don’t want to be late.
Be sure that you call me
after your classes,
we’ll meet downtown
to get you new glasses.
Now pick up your books
and go on your way,
we’ll talk about laundry
maybe later today.
Just remember I love you
much more than you know,
so flash me a smile
before you go.
The Time In-Between: For Liviu Librescu (B)
That final moment of resistance,
images of gas chambers,
faces of those he had lost,
sounds of screaming children,
the acrid smell of flesh —
all racing through his mind,
years disappearing
as if the time in between
had never existed.
His survival unexplained,
a miracle never expected,
and now he knew at last
why he had been spared –
pushing against the door,
buying time for new faces
to escape their holocaust,
it all suddenly made sense:
this had been his destiny,
the sacrifice his God asked
for the time in between.
The Garden: Jocelyne Couture-Nowak (C)
The season of gardens came earlier here,
a place set free from winds of the north,
a warm land, a place for new roots to grow,
a haven for children in nurturing innocence,
nothing to fear, the barren cities far away
on an April day with flowers already bold
in bright promise of the months to come,
the sweet allure of gentle summer days.
Time, there would be time for every bud
to unfold, to disperse its fragrance into the air,
to bask in the sun before its ordained demise
back into the earth from which it arose –
then time brought seconds of confusion,
thorns of death that would erase time,
the garden corrupted and soaked in blood,
the nascent flowers too soon cut down.
11. The Solace Trilogy (In Memoriam: Jack Layton*)
Feeling lost and angry
as life bares its fangs,
I call out to You
for the granting of solace;
are you listening, Lord?
Do You even exist?
When I see suffering --
the plague of poverty,
the blood lust of war,
the triumph of evil --
I confess my doubt,
but one I love falters,
stricken by an illness
ruthlessly indiscriminate,
and each night I pray
that Your merciful hand
touch him with grace,
begging You to hear
the halting words I speak,
prodigal child that I am.
Let him feel Your holy balm,
let his flesh be healed,
let his spirit sing again,
let this prayer be not in vain.
Solace: Past: Dying Day (B)
I sat by her bed each day
as her body gave in to disease,
too long the struggle, no victory,
her spirit yielding inevitably
to the drawing near of death;
I was unable to protect
the one who had protected me,
who had healed my wounds
and given solace to my mind.
On that last day, the dying day,
when she would pass over
and leave me far behind,
I spoke, not thinking she heard,
I wept, not thinking she saw,
but when I took her hand in mine,
reaffirmed my love for her,
I felt the life force respond
as she clenched my hand
with a strength unexpected,
as if to tell me she was leaving,
in her final act of solace,
her final testimony to our love.
Solace: Future: Newborn (C)
A shadow fell across the land,
the source of light extinguished
amid the triumph of hope --
too quickly he passed from us,
and we were not ready to let go;
his final words brought tears,
words penned in pain, yet resilient,
urging us to love, and by loving
to turn the world from hate.
To those he loved and left behind
flew words of consolation --
inadequate for their loss,
yet graciously received;
his beaming smile, his laugh,
his brave fight with illness
they alone would truly know,
and in the passing of time
a child came into their lives
to bring back a sense of joy,
a blessing in return
for all that he had given,
and they named her Solace.*
(Shortly after Jack's death, a baby was born, his granddaughter, named "Solace.")
12. The Joy of Insomnia Trilogy
Turn off the lights,
settle back in bed
and pray for sleep –
remedy for pain,
concealer of woe,
blessed oblivion.
But sleep escapes me,
throughout the night
it lies beyond my grasp,
a tantalizing presence;
it almost dances around me,
mocking my desire to rest.
This night will be long,
I will think too much
of things better forgotten,
the debris of my life;
and when morning comes
my eyes will still be open.
At 2 AM (B)
No sound in the house
except for me,
walking around,
my mind too full
to rest in sleep,
depriving my body
of peaceful oblivion.
Nightmares await me,
stealing my breath,
drenching me
in cold sweat;
I become Tantalus:
sleep so close,
yet always receding,
a glimpse of heaven
stolen by clouds.
He was doomed forever,
and so am I.
Prayer of an Insomniac (C)
I have become a ghost,
haunting my own house,
night after night,
watching the clock
as each hour strikes.
Sleep plays his game,
watching me pace
from room to room,
laughing at me,
taunting my exhaustion.
Oh God of Sweet Repose,
how have I offended
your mighty power,
what insult did I give
to your divinity?
Tonight I will offer
a sacrifice to you,
pour libations of wine,
beg you to return to me
and grant me oblivion.
13. The Colorado 2012 Trilogy
The Garden of the Gods (A)
The garden is ever-changing,
from year to year nothing stays the same
as wind and water sculpt its face
in the age-old geologic game.
Whatever gods paraded here
were simple spectators at a show,
but how they must have contemplated
forces far beyond their ken to know.
But now I walk where they once strode
and see the rock forms tower on high:
earthen fingers held in prayer
and boulders framed by clear blue sky.
How glorious the soaring landscape
that surrounds me as I venture forth --
any gods inclined to come again
would never note this human dwarf.
The garden is ever-changing,
from year to year nothing stays the same
as wind and water sculpt its face
in the age-old geologic game.
Whatever gods paraded here
were simple spectators at a show,
but how they must have contemplated
forces far beyond their ken to know.
But now I walk where they once strode
and see the rock forms tower on high:
earthen fingers held in prayer
and boulders framed by clear blue sky.
How glorious the soaring landscape
that surrounds me as I venture forth --
any gods inclined to come again
would never note this human dwarf.
Lightning fell upon a land
parched from years of little rain,
at trees too dry to stand more heat
the strike from heaven downward came;
each spark begat another,
until the forest blazed with fire
spreading wildly tree to tree --
a frenzied wind-born wooden pyre,
from which arose a roaring voice
to tell of doom upon the ground,
the death of forest-dwelling life,
with no asylum to be found.
Then houses burned and people fled
as flames grew ever fiercer,
the earth itself felt racking pain,
as if a spear had pierced her;
in time the rains would come again,
but fall upon a barren land,
deprived of living beings,
with not one tree left to stand;
the cycle must begin anew,
with life emerging from the ash,
but what wonders had been lost
to just a random fiery flash.
The Revenge of Prometheus (C)
Despised by his fellow gods
and banished from their Garden,
yet still immortal he remained --
his only crime the gift of fire,
stolen from the sacred sky
so that mankind be sustained.
Hidden by a shroud of smoke,
to the hallowed land he came,
revenge his single-minded thought --
and approaching the Garden
after countless years of exile,
searing flames were what he brought.
Soaring crags obscured by haze,
trees that burst by force of flame,
mortal creatures compelled to flee --
Prometheus turned his rage
against this ancient landscape,
and all the gods within did weep.
14. The Power of One: A Trilogy
One born of Apollo,
god of sweet order,
his lyre resonating
in time with the mind.
One born of Dionysus,
god of wild ecstasy,
his thyrsus calling out
in abiding dissonance.
Siblings, like the gods,
each seeking fulfillment,
together creating a world
in balanced harmony.
Energy from their union --
remove one, no spark remains,
humanity demands duets,
two congenial souls comply.
Gone (B)
While you were gone
we lived in dread,
not knowing the illness
for which you fled,
and fearing the worst
from your silence extended,
afraid that the magic
too soon be ended;
we gathered your songs
like reapers in fields,
these treasures to keep
from your bountiful yield.
Months would go by
before we would know
that you were recovering
from life’s reeling blow,
that you would return
with music to share,
and when you appeared
we would be there
to welcome you home
with laughter and cheers,
to banish the silence,
and silence our fears.
Distant Strangers (C)
I never presumed it would happen,
one chance in a million I thought,
for we were only distant strangers,
each path assigned a separate slot;
like ships at sea we passed on by,
our sails attuned to vagrant winds
that sent us out on different waves
no matter how the sheets were trimmed.
But far from seas of separation,
in a land hemmed in by mountain peaks,
I caught a glimpse as you passed by,
and how my heart desired to speak --
but I stood fearful of rejection,
hesitant to call out your name,
for you were such a shining star
and I a pilgrim of no fame.
But sudden courage gave me strength
to turn my footsteps toward your path,
and face to face we finally stood,
and I saw not a trace of wrath,
our words exchanged in warmest tones
as that gracious smile upon your face
proclaimed that in your hectic life
even distant strangers had a place.
15. Three Artists: A Trilogy
Vincent (A)
Restless wanderer, a pilgrim
ever searching for mystic light
powerful enough to release
an imagination chained by fear,
you found your freedom here,
where the southern sun rose
to touch unshackled hands.
Forms took shape upon canvas:
billowing fields, bending trees,
peasants with humble lives
transfused with heroic grace;
the swirling brush, the bold hues
conspired to create an intensity
born of demons in your soul –
endless pain, sorrow beyond cure,
tears that even the mystic light
could not arrest long enough –
the passion within became too great,
and, in your despair, you set it free.
Restless wanderer, a pilgrim
ever searching for mystic light
powerful enough to release
an imagination chained by fear,
you found your freedom here,
where the southern sun rose
to touch unshackled hands.
Forms took shape upon canvas:
billowing fields, bending trees,
peasants with humble lives
transfused with heroic grace;
the swirling brush, the bold hues
conspired to create an intensity
born of demons in your soul –
endless pain, sorrow beyond cure,
tears that even the mystic light
could not arrest long enough –
the passion within became too great,
and, in your despair, you set it free.
Peter (B)
The swans upon the water
performed their graceful dance,
serene in their beauty,
majestic works of Nature,
in your imagination floating
to the soothing strains
of a celestial symphony,
music and movement
perfectly joined as one.
Your eager hand set down
each step, each harmony,
composing in a troubled fever
no illness could inflict.
The swans upon the lake
could never set you free
from the pain in your heart
or the fear in your mind;
and when the music ceased
to mask the shame you felt,
you danced away from Life.
Sergei (C)
Your hands were beautiful,
elegant fingers extending
as if to kiss each key,
then exploding in rage
and falling into sorrow;
I yearn to hold those hands,
tell you how they reach
deep within my soul,
arousing emotions latent
until you entered.
How did I fall in love
with a man I never knew,
how did he understand
the turmoil I hide within,
secret and unspoken?
Your eyes gaze at me
from a worn photograph,
eyes of utter sadness,
yet I take strange comfort
in granting them my heart.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Indian_residential_school_system
1. Before
Great Spirits smiled, and guided them
through hunting grounds of teeming game,
where bison drank at rivers free
until the ice of winter came;
at night the Elders told their tales
as lambent fires pierced the dark,
to teach the children of the tribe
the meaning of each track and mark.
Each dawn those children rose from sleep
to roam the forests or the plains,
to hunt and gather from the earth,
to feed the blood within their veins;
nomads of the northern clime,
clans the Great Creator blessed,
the first to cross a continent,
all free to wander, then to rest.
Even winter in its violence
could never make their spirits fall —
these children of abundant lands,
until the white men took it all.
2. Then
Round up all the children,
God commands us to remove them,
take them south and far away,
from their parents’ savage sway,
make them live in unknown lands
subject to remorseless hands,
extract them from their nations,
they require education.
Take them while they’re very young
so they forget their native tongue,
starve them into righteousness
in your quest to see them blessed;
don’t hesitate to use them,
take the girls, abuse them,
satisfy your private needs —
penetrate until it bleeds.
Let the boys learn to obey,
they must live the Christian way,
lash them hard if they refuse,
save them with enlightened views;
and if some die, then so it be,
punished for their savagery,
no need to mourn their passing —
Christ’s blessing you’re amassing.
We do the work decreed by God
as we strike them with the rod —
and who will know or disagree
when we lead them to divinity?
In Jesus’ name we claim them,
in Jesus’ name we maim them,
blessed be our sacred mission
to make of them an exhibition.
3. Now
You see them on the streets,
ghosts of the past,
voices muted,
eyes like hollow glass,
and you walk away so fast.
Apologies were given
with dollar bills that cannot heal
their homelessness,
their hopelessness,
the sense of loss they feel.
Violated and abused,
unable to forget,
hearing still incessant screams,
haunted by recurrent dreams
as if in concrete set.
Nomads of the urban streets,
no return to ancestral lands,
the feathers and the fur
become a distant blur,
now alien to their hands.
The schools have all been closed,
confessions have been made,
but nothing can outweigh
the wounds we seen reflected
as they pass in mute parade.
16. Residential Schools Trilogy
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Indian_residential_school_system
1. Before
Great Spirits smiled, and guided them
through hunting grounds of teeming game,
where bison drank at rivers free
until the ice of winter came;
at night the Elders told their tales
as lambent fires pierced the dark,
to teach the children of the tribe
the meaning of each track and mark.
Each dawn those children rose from sleep
to roam the forests or the plains,
to hunt and gather from the earth,
to feed the blood within their veins;
nomads of the northern clime,
clans the Great Creator blessed,
the first to cross a continent,
all free to wander, then to rest.
Even winter in its violence
could never make their spirits fall —
these children of abundant lands,
until the white men took it all.
2. Then
Round up all the children,
God commands us to remove them,
take them south and far away,
from their parents’ savage sway,
make them live in unknown lands
subject to remorseless hands,
extract them from their nations,
they require education.
Take them while they’re very young
so they forget their native tongue,
starve them into righteousness
in your quest to see them blessed;
don’t hesitate to use them,
take the girls, abuse them,
satisfy your private needs —
penetrate until it bleeds.
Let the boys learn to obey,
they must live the Christian way,
lash them hard if they refuse,
save them with enlightened views;
and if some die, then so it be,
punished for their savagery,
no need to mourn their passing —
Christ’s blessing you’re amassing.
We do the work decreed by God
as we strike them with the rod —
and who will know or disagree
when we lead them to divinity?
In Jesus’ name we claim them,
in Jesus’ name we maim them,
blessed be our sacred mission
to make of them an exhibition.
3. Now
You see them on the streets,
ghosts of the past,
voices muted,
eyes like hollow glass,
and you walk away so fast.
Apologies were given
with dollar bills that cannot heal
their homelessness,
their hopelessness,
the sense of loss they feel.
Violated and abused,
unable to forget,
hearing still incessant screams,
haunted by recurrent dreams
as if in concrete set.
Nomads of the urban streets,
no return to ancestral lands,
the feathers and the fur
become a distant blur,
now alien to their hands.
The schools have all been closed,
confessions have been made,
but nothing can outweigh
the wounds we seen reflected
as they pass in mute parade.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1. The Ariadne Quartet
Ariadne’s Brother (A)
She was her father’s darling,
a princess fair and clever,
born to rule the island folk
when he would rest forever;
she roamed the palace chambers,
her grace unlike another
hidden in a labyrinth,
her ill-begotten brother.
His form struck men with horror,
yet his sister dared to gaze
with love upon a monster
held imprisoned in a maze;
for though his face was twisted
and a curse ran through his blood,
Ariadne’s tender heart
deemed him worthy of her love.
Within the maze they cherished
the time they had together,
for love denied the darkness
that brought them both such terror,
and each night she begged the gods
for a hero to appear,
one to break apart the curse,
one to put an end to fear.
Theseus (B)
Sails were seen from the royal court,
a hero come from far off Greece
to prove his right to gain a throne
and make the rule of Crete surcease;
to the port went Ariadne,
and as the young man left his ship,
she felt a passion deep within,
so strong she feared her heart would rip.
He said his name was Theseus,
a prince in search of fame and gold,
she gazed with love unknown before,
and listened not to what he told;
she led him to the palace doors,
her father waited deep in thought –
behind closed doors they formed a plan,
the union Ariadne sought.
But marriage in a royal clan
demanded more than love alone:
no princess would be given one
who did not have the strength of stone;
to prove his worth unto the king
the hero mighty deeds must do,
the gods expect an offering:
a Minotaur of loathsome hue.
Fatal Love (C)
He heard the footsteps slowly come,
he smelled the sweat of one afraid,
but only Ariadne knew
the maze his hateful father bade;
how could a stranger find his lair
without the help of that brave maid?
An emissary this must be,
his sister would not send a foe –
and so the trusting Minotaur
expected not the fatal blow,
the spear that brought him to his knees,
an offering to gods below.
Yet with his dying breath he sought
to learn where Ariadne lay,
for surely she would never yield
to one who would her brother slay;
but Theseus just smiled, and said
“she sails with me to Greece today.”
For promises of royal thrones
and vows of love forevermore
had fed the maiden’s burning heart
with passion never felt before,
and now she sailed with Theseus
to Athens’ fabled golden shore.
Ariadne Abandoned (D)
At dawn she awakened
to find Theseus gone,
he left her on Naxos –
just a prize he had won –
and sailed off to Athens
to lay claim to a throne
while she raged at her fate –
to be lost and alone.
No one ever heard them –
the words that she screamed
when nightfall descended
into desperate dreams,
when hope lay forsaken
in the well of lost days,
and courage meandered
through a minotaur maze.
No heroes came forward
with balm for her grief,
she hid in the darkness
like a penitent thief
till she had no words left
to hurl at the winds,
in silence she yielded
to the demon within.
2. The Pilgrim Quartet
Pilgrim (A)
A fork in the road, a choice to make:
everything in life hangs in the balance,
whatever path is chosen must remain
the only path the pilgrim slowly treads.
The road behind means nothing now:
it is done, the seeds have been sown,
and what the earth brings forth in time
cannot be altered, but only accepted.
The pilgrim pauses, rests upon a staff,
praying to whatever silent God there is
that the chosen way will lead to peace,
to a life that knows more than want --
for it is love the pilgrim longs to find
upon the path that now is forever fixed;
no turning back, no change of course:
the pilgrim walks alone, as pilgrims always do.
A fork in the road, a choice to make:
everything in life hangs in the balance,
whatever path is chosen must remain
the only path the pilgrim slowly treads.
The road behind means nothing now:
it is done, the seeds have been sown,
and what the earth brings forth in time
cannot be altered, but only accepted.
The pilgrim pauses, rests upon a staff,
praying to whatever silent God there is
that the chosen way will lead to peace,
to a life that knows more than want --
for it is love the pilgrim longs to find
upon the path that now is forever fixed;
no turning back, no change of course:
the pilgrim walks alone, as pilgrims always do.
Bitter words are arrows
piercing through my heart,
my tears the blood I shed,
wounds to tear apart
the bond that once was forged
from love and willing trust,
bonds of steadfast iron,
reduced to crumbling rust.
I cannot be what I am not,
my path has been decreed,
I am a pilgrim of the night,
not the sun you need,
but if perhaps you wonder
why darkness clouds my face,
know that in your friendship
I touched the hand of grace.
Pandora (C)
A pilgrim with no face
talked with me today,
emerging from my soul
with many things to say,
words of dark despair,
questions born of pain
from journeys incomplete
and roads not seen again,
words of gentle comfort,
replete with endless pleasure
at the miracle of life,
an unexpected treasure;
this pilgrim with no face
knew love as well as woe,
and told me one great truth
before she had to go:
that life was ever changing,
each day a bright new start,
and I must never lose
the hope within my heart.
Pilgrim’s Quest (D)
The pilgrim wandered every night,
his eyes cast towards the ground,
uncertain that his path was right
or that redemption could be found,
for faith was draining from him
as his heart grew cold and dark,
the world around was growing dim
and even heaven held no spark –
no stars in constellations,
no moon to light his way,
how he stumbled in frustration
at the price he had to pay:
to ever journey all alone
along a darkened path,
forsaking all that he had known
in atonement for his wrath.
For he had slain another
when evil war had roared aloud,
bereaved a gentle father
of the son who made him proud,
the blood upon his tired hands
would never wash away
until he came across a man
to lead him to the light of day,
to grasp his arm in sorrow
at the sins of foolish men,
to offer him tomorrow
and give him life again.
But when all hope was leaving
and the pilgrim wished to die,
another traveller, old and grieving
came one night to pass him by,
in mourning for a son now lost
upon the field of war,
aware of battle’s deadly cost
he vowed to fight no more.
Two pilgrims met in silence,
each soul in grief and pain,
and each rejecting violence
in hope of peace again,
and as the old man gave his hand,
the stars came out to witness
the greatest act of any man:
the granting of forgiveness.
3. Winter Quartet: Canada
The Bitter Guest (A)
He wandered in one night in Fall,
a stranger, yet familiar,
as if a long lost relative
had come to call.
He took a chair beside the door,
pretending he would not stay long,
as if there were other places
he would like more.
But days, then weeks were creeping by,
and still he sat and smiled at me,
a captive to his hoary hand
and ice-cold eye.
The sun no longer showed its face,
the northern winds grew stronger,
and I began to beg my guest
to leave this place.
But not till April did he go
in flight from springtime’s melting gaze,
and even then he left behind
one final blow.
Escaping from his bitter might
I drew a bolt across my door,
breathing in the flowers now born
from healing light.
Yet freedom was a fleeting gain
as long as seasons take their turn:
he would return, this chilling guest
of baleful mien.
The Sailor's Prayer (B)
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.
December Blight (C)
December falls upon the land,
a curtain drawn by an unseen hand,
too swift the sunlight disappears
to leave behind souls crushed by fears;
in darkness monsters claw the heart
as hopeful dreams haste to depart,
and nurture only nightmares doomed
to trace our steps from room to room.
December seeps into the ground,
a poison with no elixir found,
and those infected must endure
a pain that knows no human cure;
and so we wait with eyes downcast,
abiding each new blow and blast,
till January’s healing light
puts an end to December blight.
A Canadian in Winter (D)
For this winter to depart
I am indeed much eager,
I sit at home too long
assailed by cabin fever,
adrift in sun-kissed daydreams
of grasses in the fields,
imagining my freedom
when this season finally yields.
This climate is a harsh one,
replete with ice and snow,
no wonder to the southern climes
so many of us haste to go,
where ocean lingers warm
even in December,
drinking in the sunbeams
Canadians remember.
But solid to my native ground
I remain forever rooted,
looking at my summer clothes
which now seem so ill suited;
the time will come to dance
in the woods amidst the flowers,
but until that fateful day
I nap, and count the hours.
4. The Intolerance Quartet
The Full Man (A)
He knows every secret,
the truth his purview,
he read it in tabloids
and saw CNN news;
research is for weaklings,
not real men like him,
out yell the doubters,
slander women as dim;
dare not to challenge
a word that he speaks,
he knows he is special
while others are weak;
his knowledge is vast,
a man of such wealth,
alone in the end,
too full of himself.
The Hatemonger (B)
She comes spewing hatred,
her mouth just a sewer,
calling down curses
on those unlike her:
banish the dark skinned,
exterminate Jews,
jail all the Muslims,
put Gays in the zoos.
Intolerance rampant –
that’s what she seeks –
raking in money
for each lie she speaks;
it’s all just a business –
her way to get by –
but hearing her taunts
how Jesus would cry.
The Couple (C)
Together over forty years,
growing older, still in love,
savouring retirement,
roaming the world,
minds still eager to learn,
to share this knowledge
with boundless energy,
exulting in existence.
I observe, and take delight
in their unflinching love,
admire their perseverance
when that love brings pain;
they are remarkable treasures
gathered into my life,
their names are John and Paul –
please don't hate them.
Spawn (D)
He exists everywhere,
in time past and time present,
the summit of creation,
master of all dominions,
aware of his importance,
resenting those beneath him –
just usurpers and posers,
inferior, unworthy.
He remembers the garden –
must remove all those weeds
threatening to displace him –
the divine right of his birth,
and with a gun in his hand
he bravely enters their lair,
regaining what is stolen –
his superiority.
This time in Montreal,
then in Pennsylvania,
planning for the future:
the cleansing of the garden:
Blacks and Browns,
Yellows and Reds,
Jews and Queers,
Women, and you –
he destroys those unlike him,
this spawn of Adolf Hitler –
and all that he requires
is that the Good do nothing.
5. The Injustice Quartet
Rumours and Lies (A)
Rumours and lies
litter the ground,
coming with vengeance
when she’s not around;
blacken her name –
revenge is so sweet –
falsehoods run rampant
on pernicious feet;
put words in her mouth
that never were said,
then eagerly wait
for blood to run red.
How good does it feel
to lie and defame,
to try to smear mud
on her honest name?
Rumours and lies –
the damage they do
will fast become clear
when turned against you.
The Bossman (B)
Give me your sweat,
give me your tears,
serve me in silence
the rest of your years;
dare not to cross me,
dare not to speak,
I am the bossman,
you are the weak;
forget what you love,
forget what you dream,
accept limitation,
stifle your scream;
you cannot escape,
you cannot succeed,
chains lie upon you,
compel you to bleed;
a slave you were born,
a slave you remain,
I am the bossman –
you have no name.
Blood on the Ground (C)
She was minding her business,
looking after her stuff,
when you came along
and got really rough –
you bashed her up good,
and told her she’s crap,
you may as well rape her
and call it a wrap;
but the fault was all hers,
because she was there,
the handiest target
for a bully to scare.
She really deserved it
for being a broad
who stood up to you,
you wanna-be god;
and yes, you’re the victor,
you’ll get away clean,
and brag to your buddies
about being so mean;
it’s such fun being violent
with no cops around,
so just let her lie there,
her blood on the ground.
Bucket of Swill (D)
Obscenities flow,
vitriol fuelled,
he thinks he’s supreme,
this arrogant fool;
calls me a bastard
with greediest aims,
knows nothing about me
to fling out such claims.
His soul is so pure,
no one can compete,
this ignorant clown
on clay covered feet;
he sputters and spouts,
aflame in base lies,
but everyone sees
the greed in his eyes.
His jealous foul mouth
speaks for itself,
revealing a coward
with no moral wealth;
judgement will come
whenever it will,
for no one believes
his bucket of swill.
6. The Phoenix Quartet
Song of the Phoenix (A)
My birth in fire,
from ash I come
to sing to you
till life is done,
till all your dreams
are dead and gone,
and nothing left
to dream upon,
your life consumed,
with no love won,
your heart in sherds,
your course now run;
come then to me
and find the Sun,
its fires will cleanse
and make us one.
Flight of the Phoenix (B)
Soaring high above the earth,
I am the fabled Phoenix
risen from the fire once more;
below, the ashes that were me
begin to drift away upon the wind:
from Death comes Life.
I ride these winds alone --
no others such as I exist --
seeking the meaning of my birth
from death, I weep
to see these ashes scattered:
from Death comes Life.
An endless cycle haunts me
as I fly, not knowing where
or when I will come to rest;
for what divine, ordained purpose
do I cheat the deadly Fates?
From Death comes Life.
As you watch me in my flight,
you who gaze aloft in awe,
and see my misshapen form,
pray to whatever gods there are
that my spirit win release at last:
from Life let there come Death.
Song of Rebirth (C)
In the darkness you bring light,
distant star looking down on me,
what can I sing unto you
as singer of all that can be?
I am the Phoenix, reborn now,
pushing the ashes away --
if only you could see the soul
that burns in me this destined day.
A bird forgotten, long ago
I was the voice of ancient bards;
would that I might lift my voice
and not find only broken shards.
Song of Extinction (D)
Fire is calling me,
singeing my flesh
with hungry flames
that hunt me down.
Fire is my mother,
I sprang from her
eager to soar,
to leave ash behind.
Fire is my lover,
ever caressing me,
filling my lonely soul
with constant yearning.
Fire is my death,
ending my sorrow,
granting release
as it consumes me.
Fire is calling me,
and I shall return
to end the cycle,
welcome extinction.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The "Pindaric" Odes (for fun)
1. Pindaric Ode to a Hard Drive
O Zeus on High, what have I done
that troubles woeful to me come,
have I displeased your majesty
so that the Furies fly to me?
For on this day my trusty friend
has met a most untimely end –
one who served me day and night
now lies afar in fatal fright,
waiting for the god of health
to soar within the cloak of stealth
and fix the heart that beats no more,
that it return through my front door.
A hard drive prays unto the gods
in spite of most oppressive odds,
and as I long to learn its fate
my troubled mind doth hesitate:
what shall I do if he comes not,
what other hardware must be bought?
For funds are running very low –
O Zeus on High, a tragic blow!
2. Pindaric Ode to A Cat
Oh ye who rest on cushions
plush with fairest cloth,
a model of propriety
with just a hint of sloth,
and gaze upon thine servant
in mute exasperation
when dinner comes too late
to ward off foul starvation,
when things are out of joint
and fur requires a brush,
but she who dotes upon you
exhibits yet no rush………
May Zeus on high bear witness
that things are out of joint,
that human beings are dimwits
too slow to see this point:
the cat is born of Royalty,
her every whim to be obeyed,
ignore her at your peril –
for you may end up spayed!
3. Pindaric Ode to the Sun
Helios on his chariot rides
unfettered by Zeus’s grim wrath,
bidding his long dormant steeds
to rush across the solar path,
as in days remote in time
when the sun passed by in haste,
that mortal lovers on the earth
could of passion longer taste,
when Nyx did linger past the dawn,
affording shadows to each kiss,
the gods for one time granting
those of flesh the realm of bliss;
Poseidon played the shepherd,
locking clouds within his pen,
no rain to put out passion’s flame
burning in the hearts of men.
Just so the sun returns to us,
a pilgrim with a transient light,
we must bask beneath his rays
until the quick return of night.
4. Pindaric Ode to “A Pop Star on Her Birthday” (Pindar Rolls Over in His Grave)
A mystic, empyrean sound
yet hovers softly in the air,
the nymphal chorus born of Zeus
seems to echo everywhere,
as if celestial gods release
a balm of comfort on the earth,
and angry winds of Hiems yield
to Gaea’s season of rebirth;
Apollo’s song doth ever grow
in witness to the Muses’ grace,
soothing Dionysian sorrows
and planting violets in their place;
oh, child of enchantment vernal
who in the long grass now doth lay,
may all the blessings found in life
descend on you this coming May.
5. Pindaric Ode to a Penguin
Oh Zeus on High, have you heard
about a flying underwater bird,
in search of fish in ice-cold seas
it surely need not deal with fleas,
but how the orcas seek it out,
a tasty morsel without doubt –
beneath its feathers so much fat,
enough to fill a massive vat,
yet to escape these hungry foes,
it leaps upon those passing floes
detached from glaciers far away,
so as to live another day.
Yet on the land how odd it walks,
and how it calls in high-pitched squawks,
most gracious Neptune took from me
the odor of its rookery,
as foul a smell as ever known
to offer any creatures home,
and yet the tourists come along
and form a picture-taking throng –
so cute these southern creatures seem
despite the messes and the screams,
Oh Zeus on High, though it seem absurd,
give shelter to this fish-breathed bird.
6. Pindaric Ode to a Muskox
To gods who dwell upon the banks
we sailors gave the greatest thanks,
but as our ship lay by the docks
there came nearby a fierce muskox,
whose shaggy pelt grew all around,
whose hooves did thunder on the ground,
and what a roar came to our ears --
a sound creating boundless fears.
This brute upon our barque did gaze
as if a monster from a maze --
the Minotaur of ancient song
had been a muskox all along!
But having seen this massive beast,
we prayed our ship to be released,
that we might sail to other lands
where no muskox would be at hand;
as we did utter frantic pleas
to all the gods upon the seas,
the muskox simply disappeared,
to be replaced by Arctic hares.
And so we came to recognize
the miracle before our eyes --
O mighty muskox of the North,
‘tis by your grace we venture forth,
to ride upon the waves once more
encouraged by your fearsome roar,
and we shall tell all men and flocks
the story of the Great Muskox.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
6. Pindaric Ode to a Muskox
To gods who dwell upon the banks
we sailors gave the greatest thanks,
but as our ship lay by the docks
there came nearby a fierce muskox,
whose shaggy pelt grew all around,
whose hooves did thunder on the ground,
and what a roar came to our ears --
a sound creating boundless fears.
This brute upon our barque did gaze
as if a monster from a maze --
the Minotaur of ancient song
had been a muskox all along!
But having seen this massive beast,
we prayed our ship to be released,
that we might sail to other lands
where no muskox would be at hand;
as we did utter frantic pleas
to all the gods upon the seas,
the muskox simply disappeared,
to be replaced by Arctic hares.
And so we came to recognize
the miracle before our eyes --
O mighty muskox of the North,
‘tis by your grace we venture forth,
to ride upon the waves once more
encouraged by your fearsome roar,
and we shall tell all men and flocks
the story of the Great Muskox.
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Ten Poems on War
1. Homer’s Last Song
Lyre in hand, he took his seat,
prepared to sing the stories
of men like Agamemnon
and all their martial glories,
how Troy gave up existence
when Helen came ashore
to set the wheels in motion
so the city stood no more;
how Achilles slew each soldier
sent against him in the fray,
the bravest of assembled Greeks
who always got his wilful way,
till pride destroyed his mercy
and turned him from his path,
a prey to fatal arrogance,
a slave to mindless wrath.
And as he sang his ancient tales,
the sightless Bard forgot himself,
enraptured by vast images
of captured slaves and golden wealth,
for his own life lay in tatters,
his soul confused and lost,
adrift upon the wildest waves,
a ship spun round and tossed;
yet not one of those who listened
as his voice rose to the sky
could sense his desperation,
his hungry eagerness to die,
but when the morning came
on a day so bright and grand,
they found him in his quarters,
a cup of hemlock in his hand.
2. The Song of Achilles
My honour has flown
from the field of war,
the best of the Greeks
considered no more,
degraded by those
far lesser than I,
unworthy of glory
and having no pride,
who laugh at my tears
and mock my despair,
then ask me to fight,
expect me to care.
I stood by their side
for ten years of woe,
fast leading the charge
when others were slow,
not fearing the men
begotten by Troy,
but beating them back
with power and joy;
King Priam himself
stood scared at my skill,
my thirst for revenge,
my quest for the kill.
But now that is done,
my troops sit at ease,
relieved of the blow
of war’s mad disease;
Agamemnon will pay
the price of my pride,
that arrogant fool
who cowers inside,
and learn at great cost
the knife’s edge of words --
his soldiers lie slain
and savaged by birds.
3. Crazy Cassandra of Troy
A prophet stripped of honour
roamed the streets of ancient Troy,
accursed by Apollo,
victim of his deadly ploy,
punishment for spurning
a god’s inflamed desires,
he made her see the truth
that others all called lies.
Cassandra was just crazy,
the Trojans knew this well,
“Ignore her wild laments,
she has nothing more to tell,”
and so they never listened
when doom was prophesied,
but saw the Greeks sail off,
and dragged the Horse inside.
A wildness overcame her
as she pleaded with the men,
begging them to burn the Horse,
but they laughed at her again,
until, at night, the Greeks appeared,
escaping from that womb
to slaughter sleeping children,
begrudging them a tomb.
The streets ran red with blood,
the flames were dancing high
as every Trojan warrior
prepared himself to die,
and Cassandra in her madness
shed tears for all those lost,
and knew that angry deities
exacted painful costs,
that she herself was destined
to die a captive slave,
to lie alone forever
in her dishonoured grave;
the gift she had was futile
and never could be shared,
and in her final vision
she saw that no one cared.
4. Antigone’s Burden
Her brother dead upon the field,
a new king sitting on the throne,
decreeing that those still alive
leave off interment of their own,
let their kinsmen’s flesh be gorged
by hungry dogs and birds of prey,
allow devotions owed the gods
this time to simply fall away;
for kings must wield their power,
brutal force come from their hand,
and never let a woman scoff
the talons of a new crowned man.
The sister saw her duty clear,
obeisance to god over king,
and if her brother lay defiled,
filial love meant not a thing,
so let them call her arrogant
and condemn her as they may,
the burden of her kinship
would decide her fate this day,
for men could never understand
a woman who was much like them,
strong, and proud to stand alone,
unbowed beyond the bitter end.
5. The Dark Knight
From out the west he came
with a torch of fire in hand,
to drive forth the wicked foe
and bring peace unto the land;
his dark fury knew no respite
as long as Evil reigned,
a bond he forged with Good
for all those killed and maimed.
A man of peace in bygone days
who ne’er had drawn his sword,
now compelled to fight and slay
in the name of his grave lord,
for Evil must not conquer
the loving hearts of men,
and so he rode upon his steed
to join the fight again.
He fought with blazing wrath,
a whirlwind fierce with fire,
until the foe had fallen back
stripped of power and desire;
he gazed upon the field of war,
triumphant in the end,
felt the force of Evil leave
the tempted souls of men;
and when the land was quiet,
and Good was now enthroned,
he knew his task was over
save one deed of his own:
for Goodness needed heroes
free from stains of bloody strife,
and so he drew his weapon
to take his own lost life.
6. The Refugee Ship, WW II
Crowded in squalor
with rats down below,
it came to our shore
with nowhere to go;
the cargo was scorned,
the scum of the earth,
not worthy of love,
not worthy of birth.
Women with children,
men with fading hope
stood at the railings
while bureaucrats spoke:
“One is too many,
so turn them away,
send them to Europe,
no mercy today.”
No harbour stood wide
for vessels bereft,
the cargo was doomed,
all sentenced to death;
and those in the land
who lived proud and free
all turned their stern backs
and tried not to see.
That long ago ship --
a ghost in the dark
whose memory haunts
my Canadian heart.
7. London/Derry
In the square
two bronze statues
are reaching out,
hand toward hand,
across the divide.
The space between
never grows smaller,
dreams unfulfilled
as each year passes
and hate remains.
In the streets
marchers still rally,
old grudges linger,
not to be allowed
the grace of death.
At the barricades,
face to face,
children wonder why,
then take up rocks
and fling them across.
A city divided,
wounds festering
through generations,
Time without end.
8. Just Another Day: Madrid, March 11, 2004
Never enough time,
the morning rush
obscures the sun,
eyes cannot see
flowers of spring
emerging from darkness.
Her daughter’s hand
clasping her own,
eager to hurry
into the world,
a child’s delight
in unknown wonders,
a mother’s love
unbound by limits.
Just another day:
errands and chores,
schoolwork to do,
an ordinary routine;
at the station,
waiting to board,
talking of weekends
and special treats,
visits to make,
holidays to plan.
Mother and child,
Madonna and Christ,
vulnerable in innocence,
tomorrow in ruins,
fragments of flesh
all that remain,
victims of madness –
never enough time.
9. Dying in Kabul
The crack of rifles,
the blast of bombs
ripping steel to shreds,
screams of the dying,
silence of the dead;
our children lie in dust
stained with their blood,
in a land far from home.
War knows no innocence,
grants no forgiveness,
turning youthful dreams
into fatal nightmares;
we praise their courage,
enshrine them in pictures,
but nevermore will hold
those we love so much.
10. The Soldier
He lay upon the battlefield,
one more casualty of war,
and slowly took his final breath,
relieved to fight no more,
no dusty hamlets yet to burn,
no sleeping child to slay,
a welcome rest from killing
had finally come his way.
He left the golden prairies
to serve his country well,
trading rolling farm lands
for a never-ending Hell;
his parents had been proud
to see him marching tall,
and now a tearful padre
would pay that dreaded call.
And as he lay there dying,
the souls of other soldiers came,
reaching out their hands to him
and calling him by name,
from every nation did they come,
in different wars they died,
so the soldier joined with them
as every angel cried.
2. The Song of Achilles
My honour has flown
from the field of war,
the best of the Greeks
considered no more,
degraded by those
far lesser than I,
unworthy of glory
and having no pride,
who laugh at my tears
and mock my despair,
then ask me to fight,
expect me to care.
I stood by their side
for ten years of woe,
fast leading the charge
when others were slow,
not fearing the men
begotten by Troy,
but beating them back
with power and joy;
King Priam himself
stood scared at my skill,
my thirst for revenge,
my quest for the kill.
But now that is done,
my troops sit at ease,
relieved of the blow
of war’s mad disease;
Agamemnon will pay
the price of my pride,
that arrogant fool
who cowers inside,
and learn at great cost
the knife’s edge of words --
his soldiers lie slain
and savaged by birds.
3. Crazy Cassandra of Troy
A prophet stripped of honour
roamed the streets of ancient Troy,
accursed by Apollo,
victim of his deadly ploy,
punishment for spurning
a god’s inflamed desires,
he made her see the truth
that others all called lies.
Cassandra was just crazy,
the Trojans knew this well,
“Ignore her wild laments,
she has nothing more to tell,”
and so they never listened
when doom was prophesied,
but saw the Greeks sail off,
and dragged the Horse inside.
A wildness overcame her
as she pleaded with the men,
begging them to burn the Horse,
but they laughed at her again,
until, at night, the Greeks appeared,
escaping from that womb
to slaughter sleeping children,
begrudging them a tomb.
The streets ran red with blood,
the flames were dancing high
as every Trojan warrior
prepared himself to die,
and Cassandra in her madness
shed tears for all those lost,
and knew that angry deities
exacted painful costs,
that she herself was destined
to die a captive slave,
to lie alone forever
in her dishonoured grave;
the gift she had was futile
and never could be shared,
and in her final vision
she saw that no one cared.
4. Antigone’s Burden
Her brother dead upon the field,
a new king sitting on the throne,
decreeing that those still alive
leave off interment of their own,
let their kinsmen’s flesh be gorged
by hungry dogs and birds of prey,
allow devotions owed the gods
this time to simply fall away;
for kings must wield their power,
brutal force come from their hand,
and never let a woman scoff
the talons of a new crowned man.
The sister saw her duty clear,
obeisance to god over king,
and if her brother lay defiled,
filial love meant not a thing,
so let them call her arrogant
and condemn her as they may,
the burden of her kinship
would decide her fate this day,
for men could never understand
a woman who was much like them,
strong, and proud to stand alone,
unbowed beyond the bitter end.
5. The Dark Knight
From out the west he came
with a torch of fire in hand,
to drive forth the wicked foe
and bring peace unto the land;
his dark fury knew no respite
as long as Evil reigned,
a bond he forged with Good
for all those killed and maimed.
A man of peace in bygone days
who ne’er had drawn his sword,
now compelled to fight and slay
in the name of his grave lord,
for Evil must not conquer
the loving hearts of men,
and so he rode upon his steed
to join the fight again.
He fought with blazing wrath,
a whirlwind fierce with fire,
until the foe had fallen back
stripped of power and desire;
he gazed upon the field of war,
triumphant in the end,
felt the force of Evil leave
the tempted souls of men;
and when the land was quiet,
and Good was now enthroned,
he knew his task was over
save one deed of his own:
for Goodness needed heroes
free from stains of bloody strife,
and so he drew his weapon
to take his own lost life.
6. The Refugee Ship, WW II
Crowded in squalor
with rats down below,
it came to our shore
with nowhere to go;
the cargo was scorned,
the scum of the earth,
not worthy of love,
not worthy of birth.
Women with children,
men with fading hope
stood at the railings
while bureaucrats spoke:
“One is too many,
so turn them away,
send them to Europe,
no mercy today.”
No harbour stood wide
for vessels bereft,
the cargo was doomed,
all sentenced to death;
and those in the land
who lived proud and free
all turned their stern backs
and tried not to see.
That long ago ship --
a ghost in the dark
whose memory haunts
my Canadian heart.
7. London/Derry
In the square
two bronze statues
are reaching out,
hand toward hand,
across the divide.
The space between
never grows smaller,
dreams unfulfilled
as each year passes
and hate remains.
In the streets
marchers still rally,
old grudges linger,
not to be allowed
the grace of death.
At the barricades,
face to face,
children wonder why,
then take up rocks
and fling them across.
A city divided,
wounds festering
through generations,
Time without end.
8. Just Another Day: Madrid, March 11, 2004
Never enough time,
the morning rush
obscures the sun,
eyes cannot see
flowers of spring
emerging from darkness.
Her daughter’s hand
clasping her own,
eager to hurry
into the world,
a child’s delight
in unknown wonders,
a mother’s love
unbound by limits.
Just another day:
errands and chores,
schoolwork to do,
an ordinary routine;
at the station,
waiting to board,
talking of weekends
and special treats,
visits to make,
holidays to plan.
Mother and child,
Madonna and Christ,
vulnerable in innocence,
tomorrow in ruins,
fragments of flesh
all that remain,
victims of madness –
never enough time.
9. Dying in Kabul
The crack of rifles,
the blast of bombs
ripping steel to shreds,
screams of the dying,
silence of the dead;
our children lie in dust
stained with their blood,
in a land far from home.
War knows no innocence,
grants no forgiveness,
turning youthful dreams
into fatal nightmares;
we praise their courage,
enshrine them in pictures,
but nevermore will hold
those we love so much.
10. The Soldier
He lay upon the battlefield,
one more casualty of war,
and slowly took his final breath,
relieved to fight no more,
no dusty hamlets yet to burn,
no sleeping child to slay,
a welcome rest from killing
had finally come his way.
He left the golden prairies
to serve his country well,
trading rolling farm lands
for a never-ending Hell;
his parents had been proud
to see him marching tall,
and now a tearful padre
would pay that dreaded call.
And as he lay there dying,
the souls of other soldiers came,
reaching out their hands to him
and calling him by name,
from every nation did they come,
in different wars they died,
so the soldier joined with them
as every angel cried.
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