Perfect Dreaming

Late Summer.
A boy sits alone next to a stream, surrounded by trees. He thinks of his family and watches flecks of sunset light playing along the tiny curves the flowing water makes as it rushes out of sight deeper into the forest. Mesmerized, he feels calm in this place as he seldom does among people. A wind comes gently to him while he sits, carrying a strange smell with it; the boy recognizes burning wood and mosquito repellent faintly before the dense vegetation absorbs the breeze and all is still again. He likes the stillness. He knows that voices will be calling his name soon, but he doesn't want to go back. He wants to be planted in this place like one of the trees or bushes he is hiding amongst. Only that would hurt his mother and he knows how much she's already been hurt and he thinks it would be unfair to her. He thinks his father shouldn't be hiding when she misses him so much and maybe if he came back the boy could leave and it wouldn't be so hard on her. But maybe his father likes the stillness too and can't come back. The boy wonders about this and then drinks from the stream. Slowly, carefully. He doesn't want to disturb the flow and he doesn't want anyone to find him and make him go back. The sun is a golden orb through the criss-cross lattice of the forest and the boy can look at it without squinting. It reminds him of a cat's eye and that reminds him of the Cheshire Cat from his favourite book. The riddle master, dancing and laughing and even disappearing! The boy wants to disappear too, and he shuts his eyes tight and tries hard. He thinks of the Cheshire Cat and holds his breath and digs his fingers into the soft soil like a plant, but it's too difficult and he lets out a loud "psshhhh" sound which disrupts the glassy quiet. An animal rustles at the disturbance, somewhere behind him. He feels silly for playing make believe and making noises that could give him away. They'll come soon, he thinks. If his mother comes, he won't hide. He wants to hide though, even from her. Even if she cries and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from crying. The sun is almost down and the stream looks darker than the ground, but he doesn't mind so much now that it's quiet again. He feels the coolness of the soil on his hands and remembers the time his father took him camping up north when his mom still let him go on weekends. They caught a big black catfish and it took hours to get in because it was fighting so hard, but they finally did. He remembers being all wet and dirty and watching his father hit the fish again and again on its broad, smooth head until it stopped thrashing and went still. He felt bad about that, but it was better somehow to see it still and then watch his father smile at him like they just saved a princess in a story. But he knew it was only a fish and not a dragon and there was no princess to save. He knew what his father thought of the stories he liked to read in private about imaginary worlds and strange creatures and he knew not to be silly except with his mom because she liked those stories too. She enjoyed reading almost as much as he did and he liked to see her relaxing with a book after dinner when everything was put away and he could do as he wished. He didn't know what his father did after dinner. He thought maybe he worked since that's what his mom said he used to do a lot when they were still together. The sky turns purple as the boy thinks of his father leaving and then about something one of his teachers told him about it not being his fault. The boy didn't feel guilty for his father going away and so he hadn't said anything and that made the teacher hug him. He felt sorrier for her; she seemed sad and he didn't know why it should be anyone's fault that people go away. He wanted to leave too, after all. Except he knew it would be bad for his family if he did that. He looked at the sound where the stream was and remembered the fish his father had killed. It was hiding too, in the river. Maybe it was just like him, thought the boy. Just enjoying the stillness and quiet and the water flowing past, but then it got hungry and that's how it was caught. It was this way for him also, he knew. If he didn't go back, he would get hungry and lonely and that was only another kind of hunger really. He wanted this forest to feed him and take care of him so he could stay and not make his mother worry, but then he heard her and she was crying. She was calling for him and he thought for a moment that it was the stream and not her voice at all, but the moon was out and he saw her coming through the trees and felt the stillness slipping away. She called again and he knew she was real this time because she was crying hard and he bit his tongue, but stood up in the moonlight so she could see him through the perfect dreaming darkness.

Dec 7, 2010

Some experiences are so broad it's hard to put a label on them. I could say that the past two years have been perfectly wrong, a kind of tsunami of decisions the me I'm familiar with never would have considered. Joining a dating site for example. It's the kind of thing I'd typically dismiss as delusional playtime. And you know what? It is like playtime, and there are crazy people. It's a bizarre and shifting thing; a real study of social dynamics or a collection of bad writing and worse pictures; it depends on your filter. But I never would have known that unless I got involved with it. I just would have kept thinking I knew. It's this tendency toward involvement that's been surprising. I'm not the type to explore novelty acts. Am I?

Getting older is a return to childhood. Almost everyone I know approaching thirty, including me, seems to be bracing for something, like kids gathering on a stormy day to watch for lightning strikes. Mouths agape, we're waiting for some colossal signal. Why? I wish I knew. It's hard to be sure of anything these days; my generation is caught in comfortable rebellion, simultaneously free and bound up by the conventions our parents helped establish back when the going was good. I feel hardly an obligation to anything besides the page, whatever it may come to, because it gives me peace, which is the profit I'm after. Tabula Rasa is the universe of possibility. Children are given the privilege of not knowing, while the rest of us are expected to be sure. Don't get me wrong, I like understanding the words, but it's the emptiness between that keeps me reading.

And speaking of reading, I came across an article in The Star recently that compared our twenty-somethings to the Beat Generation. I won't lie and say I wasn't gratified; for almost ten years, I've felt a real closeness to the big names of that movement. Kerouac's jittering genius hit me like a rogue firework when I discovered On The Road. His audio recordings are beautiful, full of love and a depth of ability which manifests as effortlessness. He comes off casual because he's given it all away; nothing left to hide behind or hold onto. This kind of thing appeals to me. The Beat movement was a reaction to its time; a collective of alienated artists, writers and wanderers, neo-sages and bums, seemingly fearless in the wake of a war which must have affected their opinions and values. They were post war, post depression, post hell poets. And what are we? We have mountains of surplus luxuries, without knowing why or what to do with them. We're hyper aware. Our struggles are stylish and our wars are corporate. But it makes sense, doesn't it, that this atmosphere of excess and pointlessness would breed a similar attitude of turning away, of simplification and starting again. It feels like one of those breakups when you've exhausted all the emotion and there's nothing left but to get out. 

Day In The Life Of A Non-Participant

The good doctor tells me
That God is not the issue here
But I hear much about sin
As though the universe required it
As though men needed it
And not just our slithering monarchs
Dragging poor Satan out of his sleepy insolence
To remind us who we work for
With such sacred persuasions
As coin, crucifix and truncheon-

These things are created to be used
Heaven and Hell
Faith and Fear
But our pet golem dichotomies
Have been too long at play
Grinding innocent bones
Not for bread
But simply for kicks
Or, as the newsman says,
For the good of the nation

Fundamental Principles

I'd write about a girl
If I weren't so tired of it
This moon is suitable for the job
Throwing silver in a clear sky
Perhaps too poetic for poetry
But the universe is vast and I'm sober
And so much for victory in art-

I remember the broken moments far better
And certainly more often
Too bitterly
And whatever I am now
It isn't tame
Nor is it the sleeping child
Alone and uncorrupted in his dreaming
Simple and nameless
Like the seasons
Beneath their gaudy quilts of meaning-

Turtles

I walk one way
And you lie down to sleep
Expecting celestial dreams
While fires burn
And waters flow
Over the green bodies of men
Their mountainous hearts
Lost again
In the blameless dark
Of holy notions
Like moon-streaked mirrors of dew

Gautama Buddha
It is what we are capable of
Dreaming nature
Until the mind-wall cracks
And the heart sinks to purple fathoms
Then deeper still
To cruise the emptiness
Of thoughtless form
While the blind seekers
Rescue us from Hell
One dumb ape at a time

Lakeshore Benediction

Living in Toronto
Changes how you love
Or maybe it's just
There's so much to covet
That you are hopelessly fractured
Unable to focus the totality of your affection
Into a person, artwork or discipline
But only and always, the city
Her streets inviting
Her histories, rich
Enough for any sorry Romeo
To die for
If he doesn't expect a sorrowful parting
In this city circus
Of a thousand stages
Where the dreamers dream
The greedy prosper
And the lost can wander in peace

Careful Now

A light in me is fading
Already I see less and less
Of my landscape
And the unaltered places
Once limitless plains
Of ease and honesty
And the roaming masks of the past
Now mystified
By the coming shift
I know this beyond reason
The way animals know
Which silences are safe
And which come dangerously

Game Time

Stamp your ticket and settle in
Here come the tanks
The main event
You paid good money, waited in line
For a rockets red glare to deliver your share
Of a peace so pure
It leaves no trace
Of blood or brains
Or the crippling shame
Seeing savage grins on ivory skin
And a coach
In fatigues
Trading jokes
Over tea
What murder? What greed?
It was part of our need
To kill who resists
Our infallible lead
And if children have died
They're safe in the sky
Where God is a man and women comply
Like any good team
Some smile, some scream
But the score is what counts
And the magical dream
That winning is right
And losing obscene

Casey's Story

There are six states of existence in Buddhism. All sentient beings belong to one category or other through the quality of their karma and therefore none of the states is considered permanent.

In order, they are:

-Hell Realm: Torture and Aggression
-Hungry Ghost Realm: Greed and Craving
-Animal Realm: Fear and Ignorance
-Asura Realm: Jealous and Quarrelsome Demi-Gods
-Human Realm: Threshold of Enlightenment
-Deva Realm: Heavenly Beings still subject to suffering




Seven AM is early for arguing thought Anna, as she listened vaguely to her chattering cellphone relaying something about attitude from someone she used to call mother. For longer than she could accurately remember, her mother had become a chronically disappointed and disappointing figure, heaping scorn on the universe to cover up what Anna could only guess was some long buried but still aching trauma. They never got far enough with each other to attempt any emotional archeology. All she could really do was bear out these intermittent storms of abuse with as much compassion as possible and then try to forget them. Like a television show, she told herself. A bad script with no purpose. She hated it.

When the noise from her phone finally ceased, she was running late. Instead of her usual leisurely breakfast of fruit and tea and quiet, she was reduced to scrambling for a banana on her way out the door and cursing the advent of telecommunication. Almost tripping over her feet on the stairs added a pinch of mortal danger to what was becoming a stew of bad feeling in her mind. She tried with some difficulty to recall the advice of her Tuesday evening meditation teacher and calm down by breathing, but her envy of the old woman's proficiency in all things spiritual soured the attempt.

Her phone rang again as she stepped onto the street and she swore in fright, forgetting that she'd turned up the ringer. It was her boss calling and Anna had to inject a smile into her voice or risk another "talk" about attitude, this time from someone whose opinion mattered. "I hope you're downtown, because I need you to stop by and get these files...", he was yammering on as usual. Anna felt like eating the phone. Or burying it. Anything visceral, brutal and satisfying. The sky was filling up with clouds as she listened and it seemed like her body was telling her to run for cover.

In Starbucks now and Anna feels small as the clerk flashes a condescending smile and hands her the coffee she desperately needs. Everyone in the place seems happy and productive on sleek laptops or sitting in attractive intimacy, removed from the mundane indignities of life. A current of anger runs down her spine as she realizes the pettiness of her thoughts. She knows better, and she's lucky. The beggars outside the polished glass doors prove it. She realizes with sudden clarity how many more beggars there are inside the cafe and feels gleefully righteous. Then empty. Then her phone rings again.

It's her mother. Anna almost screams into the phone, but then she hears sobbing on the line. "Hi honey? Are you alright?", her mother sniffles. "Of course I am, but I have a million things to do right now. What's going on?", her voice impatient and inexplicably trembling now. 'If this is another sympathy trip, I'm going to kill you mom' flashes through her mind, but she catches it. "Your father...", crying now, "Your father's gone, Anna. He's gone and I'm here and it's all going to pieces"
This makes sense, Anna thinks. This is what all the bitchiness was about, all the weak anger and empty malice. "I'm coming home. Stay there and don't drink anything. I'm coming now"

Anna's childhood home. She sees the gardens her mother once so proudly nurtured, now overgrown. She sees the swingset her father constructed for her still standing but rusty and dangerous looking under the looming autumn stormclouds rolling overhead. She knocks at the heavy oak doors and steps inside the house, transported back in time by the combined aromas of lavender and cigarette smoke which permeate every room. Her mother calls out through the silence and Anna goes in through the living room to the big kitchen where her mother is sitting up straight and glassy eyed at the huge wooden table Anna would play upon as a child. "Thank you for taking the time to come, dear. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I kept all this from you." Anna sits across from her and sees what's been missing between them glowing raw in her mother's eyes. "I'll make some coffee, mom. It's gonna be fine." As she turns to the cupboard, sunlight pours into the room.

Govinda

How can I record these moments
When even words obscure the way?
Moving forward on the path
All is silence
And only the fearless
Only the deathless
Can walk in harmony with it

What I've seen can't be described
Ask a river what it knows
And teachings fall like rain
Jump in the ocean
And you become it
Why knock at the gate
When patience is the key?

We leave home to find it
As we must leave again each day
Following what we trust is freedom
Setting aside the rest
And traveling with ease
To discover how a mountain
Can be sculpted by the sea

Carrie

We used to think being clever was it
The main thing
In the easy safety of those cynical days
And the music
We claimed for ourselves alone
Like the airwaves spoke only to our private dreams
The ones we locked up against the world
But then lost the keys for
And when I said you looked older
We both lost something
Without really knowing why or what it meant
Until the years taught us to forget
What we were
And made us what we needed to be

Two Of A Kind

How alone is a dead man-
We see his scarred hands
And think life is difficult-
His sagging mouth can't explain
Or tell jokes
Or kiss grief away-
His feet can't walk to her side
And hold him steady
For her weakened body

What fortune does death provide-
Some courage maybe
Or another memory to forget
And then remember
On selfish, solitary evenings-
I miss my grandfathers
Because they lived long
And made beautiful mistakes
And grew forgiveness in their gardens

The Route Returning

My home is a carving on a fireplace
And cold winter tiles
Under slow-morning feet
The safety of regimen and compassion
Of not doubting breakfast will be delicious
In sunrise dappled kitchens
For the children of good parents
Trying to be better
With their confident words
And broken hearts

My home is losing sight of home
Of being lost in the world
When the engine of youth fails
And the beating heart turns back
From its narrow path
Feeling the seeds of the past
Breaking through
And discovering once again
What it means, not just to want
But to need shelter

Disassembly Required

Dear, if you can feel me
Please send a kind word
I'm so tired of these conceited mornings-
Put me together again
Like these dawns never will
Crawling along on their rusty tracks-
I used to imagine what you'd look like
Naked in your middle age
And wonder if you'd still want me
After some quiet infidelity
Or the loss of a child-

Hotel Sensibilities

Ambition is carrying you away
Beyond my poor gentleness-
I hope it brings you something
Warmer than words-
A song from L. Cohen
Images by Marquez
And a lover stretched out
Under sunlit curtains-

I would have pretended
As long as you needed me to-
I'm an actor, you see
Well mannered and made to suffer-
Mostly son, or brother
Or tattered lover
Best new male romantic supporter
But never much for the final scene-

I'm afraid this morning
Of all the girls in all the cafes
Along Roncessvalles avenue-
Your shelter was too much for me
And my soul is cold now
Like a February night,
Spent organizing photos
For lack of company-

The Saxophone Bouquet

Within these walls, I can be your anything
Screaming midnight verses,
Or whispering from a bottle
My blood stained sonnets, endlessly
Until you reach out loving hands
To silence these orphaned songs
Kissing their life away
Colder than a blue morning's breath
Then, with a sigh
Laying bare the secret geography of your body
Its Mediterranean skin
Concealing all those ancient passions
Which fill you, like a fever
Whenever I speak of love

Fan Mail

I can't properly describe
What it means to be here-
She told me to write a happy poem
And I told her I would
But she will read it and say
"You've done it again"

This moment is perfect
It shines like a star, like a birth-
I reach out in my mind
And find a jewel in every memory
But still she frowns
And calls me "sad poet"

The Harvester

Out of sleep and beyond my window
The old maple is upset today-
It sways restlessly, like a dreamer
Reminding the wind to behave itself
In the company of an elder-
I've spent my days beneath that majesty,
Planting Autumn questions among ancient roots
And waiting patiently
For Spring's emerald sutras to unroll themselves in the sun
Swaying gently over hungry fields
As dawn rises
To collect her precious toll of dew-

Leaves And Leaving

I wasn't trying to make things simple
I know you don't believe in that-
The way an afternoon becomes an evening
And how we could see it together
Laughing long or in silent ease,
Is what made me stay-

Maybe that was unfashionable
And maybe it was just bad timing-
My karma isn't as flexible
As your convenient theories-
Though in this August heat, I'm liable to believe anything
Except that it was a mistake to love you-

A Quiet Universe

You were here again last night,
Sliding through my mind
Like some ancient ocean current-
And I might have held you, but like your element,
Flowing on ceaselessly under the moon,
Your body obeyed its nature-

I was looking out for you, as though it were my purpose,
Like following a ghost across the surface of the sun-
And it seemed to me a hopeless mythology,
These midnight journeys
Undertaken, not for Helen,
But for the beauty of the sea-

Purity Against Resolve

In the end, it will be you
Making up the stories of this world-
And if what is true and good,
Is what brings truth and goodness,
Then love is the only lesson worth learning-

For we love as we are,
Not as we're told-
And there's courage and there's fear
And so what?
Freedom is no orphan-

But there is sacredness too,
Lying impervious in some forest clearing,
Out beyond the shabby walls of progress-
Or staring into you like a lover,
Dreaming, as you dream, of happiness-

A Light On The Dock

If it were simply a question of need,
I'd have buried your name
With the rest-
They speak to each other in that place,
But not to any light I recognize
Their voices fading out
Before my ear can reach them-

And whatever exists of those silver mornings
Resides in our graves-
I never imagined the memory
Of a long pondered cherry tree
Would usurp my devotion to your silence-
Though now, in midsummer
Only cicadas write their stories on the wind-

A Dream Of Flight

It was easier not knowing;
To be born like a star, so pure,
Swallowing the darkness;
I was your dying breath,
The one that choked you
As you tried to say goodbye;

I shine now as you wanted,
For I can be nothing else;
Without guidance or sign,
A child still,
Rising small and golden
On borrowed wings~

A Bond

You're not the rebel, brother;
I know the tattoos seem a transgression,
But you are dearly loved;
And if you find me walking alone,
Sooner than you needed,
It's only to save myself;
For when the seas rise
To drown the obedient,
We will all be rebels;
The bad sons, and willful daughters
Of a dying world;

A Turning Point

I hope that you believe
In something meaningful;
Not magical, or even rational,
But fully integral;

I hope you have a seed to plant
When love floods your garden;

And I hope you have the courage to be happy,
Because we all live close to death;
No lights to lead, no words to speak;
Only fragile ships, on a wine-dark sea~

Of Innocence

I am what is left
Of childhood days;
Those luminous hours
I will never forget;

A home, a garden,
Two sons running free,
And all the world on bended knee;
Like royalty, unburdened by destiny;

It can't be surprising then
That a poet was the product,
Of such soil as this;
We are grown naturally, after all;

An apple seed, the universe,
And a few words too;
Between love and death, we labour best
Taking just enough for an evening's rest~

Sometimes, Dead is Better

I believe it's fine,
Just to be alive;
But I have more faith in Hollywood,
Than I do in heaven;

I see myself standing in line to meet God,
Wondering if hell would be less bureaucratic;
Will divinity laugh,
Like some lunatic hermit?

No loitering in pope corner;
Someone, shut the gates!
With John and George together,
Who needs Paul and Ringo?

Willows

You faced me with a smile,
Healthy and strong;
The picture I'd paint
If I were an artist,
And not a grim scribbler;

You wanted a promise;
I remember the pressure of it
Storming my shore, and dying
Against my wall;
No Achilles to save the day;

The rainy afternoons we spent
Tearing each other apart;
The nights we sculpted perfection;
And the mornings, when love actually came,
Like dusty sunlight on an antique frame~

A sweet face, hard to describe

All my poetry is love poetry;
Even the dirty, bloody lines
Are written by a hand that’s known tenderness;
And a living mind, still swimming
In the roseblood of its deepest wounds;

Love, the great wave
Drowning fear like a screaming weakness;
Love, the lotus blade, sharpened on wit;
So clean, it cuts through disgrace;
Shearing the universe, befriending death;

And as my world turned, love turned me to hers;
Words like “wife” and “mother” burning, like shrapnel, in my chest;
Too dangerous to look at; too beautiful to ignore;
Our bodies like stars, fully formed,
And immune to refusal;

Country Sounds

You are welcome to these words,
Out there, in the heavy night, roaming;
You are welcome indeed, O nameless brother,
So be still;

I know how the sun shines differently;
These sepia weeks are mine too;
And I know that your dying wish was to live
One more hour, just one more;

But I would kill you again, brother,
Just the same;
So gather your chains,
And leave me my pretty ashes

A Scrap Of Paper, Reclaimed

Standing in awe before a streetlight
All around, darkness mingling
With the ghosts I knew by name
Brushing up against a cone of illumination
Silent, silent;

Above, a red moon howling
Shearing stars, already dead
Themselves ghosts,
Masquerading as angels;
Their glimmering remains
Not unlike the light I sat beneath
Half a warm night, wondering
Where they end and I begin

Twenty Feet Of Ice

I'll never lose you
That's not how it happens;
You'll simply vanish
And all the reasons we'll weave,
Drunk on cleverness
Amount, in the end
To nothing at all
Except, maybe, our shared solitude
Born, as we are
So alone, elemental
Natural, and pure
Like the fading glory
Of a great glacial tide
Receding for the last time
Into memory;
But these journeys go on
Joining mountains with the sea
Carving continents like paper hearts
Everywhere, divided;
The spirits we see or don't see
Are brought together in time
Rock and water
Valley and sky;
Not finding is a blessing
Not searching, better still;
When I stopped to rest, and found you
Something in me disappeared
And now, lighter,
I can walk a little faster
Overland,
Distant and dreaming
To my northern home

Lawrence Was Here

For a long time it seemed like things had shifted
No more mountains crowded my imagination
And the river had long since vanished
Leaving a void desolation too terrible to contemplate
Only the scars of the past to remind me that I had lived
Like black jewels in the dust
Of a desert so far reaching and hopeless
I could hardly bear the sight of it~

But it seems an oasis can be actual or illusory
In the spirit of the seeker
I saw yours and knew I was saved, or doomed
And stayed my course in hope of something, anything
A little water, a little food
Perhaps a circle of shade to make my death easier
And in all my struggling, it seemed worthwhile
To follow the rising sun~

What We Take And Choose To Leave

I walked gently along cushioned streets
Stopping every so often to reach out my hand
For I was blind, in my dreaming
And reckoned the world by touch
Feeling the presence of objects unseen
The imposing mass of a house
The perceptible sway of passing trees
Though seemingly bound for some final end
I was content with the journey

A coastal wind, ocean scented and familiar
Swept me confidently along my path
And in my mind, it was a golden river
Filled with things half forgotten
The sad voices of the past
Swirling in the currents which surrounded me
Permeating so deep it was like a bonding
And in my sudden lucidity, I understood
That no journey is defined by its end

Front Porch Blues

None of my poems are ever finished
They simply grow and become strange
A syllable here, a comma there
Until all I can recognize is my own incompleteness~

As though I could ever write enough
To tie the whole monstrous thing together
This mass of memory and defeat,
Love and it's consequences~

All of it defies capture
Like some semi domesticated beast
Familiar, but still very dangerous
Barely suppressing it's natural violence~

Nothing honest is meant to be chained
I understand that much
And if we are insane, then let it be a liberation
Let it be a reason to live~

No Need For Sequels

I'm alone now on waves of terrible nostalgia
For places I will never see again
And perhaps never really knew in the first place
Only this pain in my chest to keep me awake~

I've swallowed the raw promises of life
Chasing each bitter mouthful with fine wine
And living hard within a silence too deep to define

There's no way to see past these walls tonight
How many miles now separate us
How many trials, verdicts and appeals?
A confused wind knocks at the window~

Then a voice of reason from my bedside drawer
Thoreau is expounding his pondless lament
With a comb for a table, and a sock for a tent

Deserve Has Nothing To Do With It

What did you think would happen
When I finally stopped asking?
Did you see a future full of joy
And the easy security
Of my predictable love?

Didn't you notice that our bridge
So carefully built
Was never meant to weaken
But only to endure
Or else collapse?

No logic could have saved us
There was never a purpose in words
Our perfection was silence
And the power to weave
Those things we need, but refuse to receive

Auspicious Signs

Looking back from a mountain top
One does not see the beginning of the path
A flower falls, we go on living
And say that death comes too soon
But too soon for what?

The flower is your teacher
Why speak of progress and live in decay?
The universe is blooming within you
So much more than words can express
In transient breaths of emptiness

Playing At Emptiness

"I'm dying to live", she said
Soft and meaningless in the velvet dark
While I lay still, absorbing nothing
Like the night itself
Indifferent to the illusions of love
Wanting so much for her to see
That living well
Is graceful disintegration
No lessons to learn
But like the moon, rise and fade
So I said, "life is a word, not what happens to us"
And closed my eyes
While she sat and cried

The Grace Period

The more I feel it slipping
The more I let it go
It's all or nothing
So I ask for nothing
And receive eternity
To try, try again

Not yet, not yet
Not ready, not set
Another year, another lifetime
Grinding out the dream
A kalpa for you
A kalpa for me

Adam's Rib

Don't come around here, as if the sun
Were your constant lover, and I
Some sort of sickly constellation
Too distant and dark for your mind

Because baby,

There's always extra room on a sinking ship
Disasters are a matter of opinion
Eve wasn't deceived by the snake
She knew Eden was a mistake

I Sleep To Be Closer To You

Hey beautiful, I saw you today
But didn't bother to call
For what could I say
After all this time away
Except that I miss you very much
And not a day passes by
Without your smile on my mind

So I'm here again, in the early hours,
Resorting to words
These empty symbols I can't seem to fill in
Without your blessing
As if every line and simple rhyme
Is your soul's gift to my impoverished heart
Long ago claimed by your wonderful name

But when dreams finally come
I'm amazed at the feeling when I see you
Sometimes it's too much
And I wake suddenly to an indifferent world
Cut off from your touch
A kind of dying, each time I lose you
To the callousness of dawn

Voyagers

Do you remember the tides of your birth?
I see the ocean in your eyes
From an impossible depth flows our common essence
It's form, your beauty
More enchanting than any horizon
Our names were written on ancient waves

Sun-kissed, radiant, gleaming
This planet's music is our mother's voice
Soothing an endless desire for freshness,
A need she is always willing to satisfy
Perhaps the only solace to be found
Adrift, as we are

In a solitude shared
Your spirit is what it chooses to be
Plant the tree of life and watch it grow
All things to their proper season
Your greatest perfection
Is your love, awakened

Autumn Enso

Sitting here in your open palm
It seems like a dream
For the lotus I plucked only this morning
Now rests neatly in your hair
And all the trees of my private valley
Have bent to your approach

Even the moon has begun to circle
Closer, to light our meeting
All the world is before you, my love
In every way, it is your servant
And yet somehow
We see only each other

The Rain Garden

People talk about nature
Using holy language
And say that spirits exist
In oak trees and oceans

I see the reason for this
But nature would not
For what is an oak tree
If not the ocean?

And what is a language
If not a million blades of grass
In the boundless expanse
Of our shared valley

So you can listen to rain
And ask for absolution
But the lake in the sky
Will never reply

For we are not guilty
Only lost in ourselves
Like the mountain and the river
We are the cause and the effect

Wandering

The way to Cold Mountain
Is not explained in any book
Unless you can read the autumn sky
Or decipher an ancient riverbed

So put down your pages and breathe
Open your mind and receive
What a poet calls his muse:
The freedom of formlessness

One Thousand Steps

Here come the saffron figures
Their all seeing eyes, fixed
On heaven's molten soul
Monks of no-man's land,
I am your worldly witness
No Gautama, but a prince
In a society of princes
A self-made royal peasant
Still turning the wheel

Ananda, where are your sutras?
The Fire Sermon has cooled
Buddha at the beginning, Buddha at the end
Our journeys are made on holiday
Without commercial interruptions
Lord, I am no warrior king
Full of death and honour
But a mountain worshiper
Searching for my Lhasa

Quiet Lives

Walk with me a while
And I'll show you where I come from
The rusty shacks and rosefields,
The dusty lanes and derelict dreamscapes
Of my interminable cradle
Set to the music of a wandering moon

Rising over a land bathed in transience
Too deep for a shallow stroll
This ocean of scenery
Is the heart of the matter
So walk with me a while
And I'll show you where I come from

Nautical Miles

Once more, you've led me away from disaster
From the dark seed in my soul
Creeping, silent as death
Once more, your light has withered the plague
By which I shall again be afflicted
That strange enemy, and brother, of my heart

My love, there is no time for empty words
So put away the pen, and I will not pick it up
Desire's muse is the open sky, and your wandering eye
Fixed upon it's mystery
Like Ulysses, borne away on winds of fate
To some lost and lonely shore

And though I keep your name upon my door
Who will you be after such a journey?
What terrible scars will mark your beauty
And deceive my loyal spirit?
If the sun is still your master, follow it now
Follow, my love, and find what remains of your native land

Dichotomies

I was never lost
Until I lost you
And discovered that life is not lived
For no reason
And, that reason is not found
In blind searching,
But rather, in helplessness

Cape Spear

There is no solace like an oceanic sunset
How it's light pours into you
And each gilded wave, rising
Tells the story of your life in splendid colour
While budding stars bless your eyes
And salt stained breezes
Carry distant prayers
To be born in the freshness
Of innocent hearts

Sea Level

When their foundations begin to shift
All mountains become pawns
Of a greater game
In which no mountain or man
Can hope to remain unchanged
But not understanding
We trample and rage
Leaving our scars upon the earth
As if we were the force of creation
And not simply
It's imperfect result

This Mountain Kills People

When I was eleven, it occurred to me
That Melissa in math class
Could in fact
Be the answer to all my problems
Her flowing hair and subtle smiles
Led my awkward mind
To believe in what?
Tentatively, we'll call it love

Then, at fifteen
There was Melanie
More than I could bear
She had me counting sheep
While the streetlights played shadow games
Through my bedroom window
Mixing Pearl Jam and Live
And all I wanted, was her soft hand in mine

Twenty gave me Kristin
But our town was too small
For expanding ambitions
And not even her eyes could see
That nothing really changes until we do
Those familiar afternoons
We passed without a word
Too full of the future

These I can see, plus a hundred more
And each is kept close
Defending their legacies from Time, that ancient thief
Of all that guides and nurtures the soul
The thief of love
So whether fresh and fragrant
Or set in stone
I'll keep them all, and continue home

Romeo

What I really want, old friend
Is to give you up
But my feet won't obey
They've gone off like rogues
To stalk the empty lanes
Of memory's twisted city

And thinking now, that the light of a star
Is the evidence of it's demise, I understand
For at their beauty, we've gazed and wondered
And steered our ships for home
Navigating by ghosts
Because death is reliable

And lovers are not
Just ask Romeo, if he will speak of it
How the centuries describe
Our blind devotion
To false endings, twists of fate
And the inevitability of stars

Four Years

If you've spent any time
On the Hamilton waterfront
You'll know how the lake shimmers
Just around twilight
When the couples are winding
Through Bayfront Park
And looking west
From the floating gazebo
Those sunsets of gold
Leaving empty spaces in your soul
And how the air seems to swirl
Around the dragon boats, moored
Like long sleeping serpents
Among the cattails
Waiting for their call of duty
And you'll understand
That these things are all simple
Honest scenes of an evening
In a city defined by raw truths
But with the right ears
You can almost hear
The gentle swaying of destiny's chime
Sweeping down the mountain
Over the bridge
And away beyond a smoky horizon

Days Apart

Climb the old maple
And it's strength becomes yours
One seed in the earth
Two hearts in the sky
All great lovers
Are born to die

The Ferryman

Siddhartha, you are lost now
Among the hungers of this downward life
On a pilgrimage of suffering
Waiting to become
The everlasting child of the sun

Much have you seen
From the wisest have you heard
Enduring all hardships, you have forsaken and renounced
Faced death and desire
Tasted lust and loss

Oh Siddhartha, do you hear your lover's call?
For Kamala is waiting
Beyond the garden you will find her
Sweet Kamala, a spirit like yours
Lying together, you will be as one

Or does the river possess your gentle soul
Whispering of life's passing
And the futility of mortal love
The many eyed river, your holy teacher
Listen now to it's emptiness

Siddhartha, your sadness grows the world
The moon is your companion
All paths your lotus eyes behold
Endless is your journey
Bearing the Om across time

A Dialogue Of Departure

You asked me to explain myself
But that can't progress
Unless we can listen to what isn't said
And see past what's written
Those clever little meaning traps, still fresh in our eyes
To go beyond everything, including ourselves
And maybe just try
To be what we are inside
Those children we can still hear
Under layers of age and acceptance
Because I think it's important not just to know
But also to feel
What can't be transferred in these dialogues
Like eyes open, minds free
And the simple human subject
Of maybe you and maybe me

A Formulaic Faith

There's no telling how long this can last
If a day were a month
Would it be enough to explain?
Could we walk and just let go the hours
Those dead days of wondering
And wandering too
Heads held high to support sinking hearts
Would it make up for all those lost evenings
If we saved just one?

Nocturne

The tyranny of a day lived
In samsara's wheel
The world beyond sight
Becoming a vague heaven
Where your body is a flame
Full of abstract angels
A purified corruption
Flowing deeper than love
Past the five gates
And all our words
The wheel renders mute
Until silent remains
Trace the edges of your smile
Like snowflakes gently falling
Into my evening tea

My Inheritance

The great irony of searching
Is that one loves the search
And not the finding
To have a thing destroys it's value
There is no integrity in ownership
We possess our hearts
And are the caretakers of our happiness
But a rose does not bloom
Because we expect it to
Neither will an oak tree grow
For our need of shade
So why do we suppose love to be different
And harvest our souls in the spring?

Half The Cat

Leonard Cohen, in his robes
Is he still writing?
I hope for more words
More wisdom, more love

Perhaps greed is not the way forward
Though it be a wanting for the best
Desire is still desire
Count flowers instead

It's raining now, small drops on the window
Mr Cohen is with the breath
Perhaps already a buddha
His path is a beautiful one

I drink my tea and try not to drift
Because I know these robes are earned
With poems, cups of tea
And raindrops on the window

Islands

Every time I return to you
It's a homecoming long awaited
Wherever I go, I am tied to your shore
And the hardships of my journey
Are dissolved at your door

Torres Del Paine

This is my path, freely chosen
To come so far and leave you behind
Planting a rose of remembrance
In the dust of your body
And bending to kiss the soil
That gave us to each other

But your kiss is also this summer moon
Inaccessible, you rise on dark waves
Beyond mountains, you speak to me
As our sorrows mix the night
And the words we left to die in silence
Surround me now like mist

Similar Scenes

I've never met anyone
More terrified of affection
The way I looked at you
Like pouring silk into fire

And your awful vacancies
Returning again and again
Without laughter or love
What kind of heart is blind to itself?

Nothing Given

Don't tell me about destiny
Because I've seen it's shadow
Creeping like poison
Across whole continents
Devouring the innocent
And smiling, shark-like
While we prayed
To hollow idols

Our great slogan of salvation
Lies in ruins
A defeated witness
It never had a chance
Not in these trenches
Where the dead sing
Like joyful prophets
Of a scorched future

Of Acceptance

All children can see the dharma
Being never hidden
From innocent eyes
Neither obscured
Nor buried
But flowing free
It embraces young hearts
Like a velvet sea

And our love too,
Was an acceptance of truth

So many evenings
I've thought of your questions
And my shallow answers
Which were actually pleas
Dying to be born
Of a sorrowful need
A spirit constrained
And forced to it's knees

And your moon-pale face,
Searching in vain

Lost in haiku landscapes
Or Neruda's golden coast
Your heartbeat echoing the raindrops
Of our first night together
Rhyming bliss and despair
The heralds of our love
A hopeless dedication
To a hopeless affair

For A Friend

Feeling tired, I sleep
It takes no learning to do this
Yet my mind rebels
Overburdened with lessons

The sun is not taught to rise
Only our hearts need such instruction
But a master understands
That the river of life

Is not a river

Salt Water

When I first saw the ocean
Standing in the waning light
Of an east coast evening
It seemed to me a dead thing
Ominous in it's size and wholly alien
And my father, more accustomed to the sea
Pointed out England
His hand on my shoulder
Reassuring and steady
His huge voice mingling
With the crash of wave on cliff
Suddenly so close I could feel the spray
Clean, pure scent of the Atlantic
Which is not dead at all
But so alive that I couldn't comprehend it
The mother of the world
My father's gift to me

Friends Of The Way

Lying in my bed
I remember the old stories
From birth to death
A momentary scene
Rivers and mountains
Do not meditate

You And Me

Because life changes too fast
For our slow longings
I want you to know
That here
In this unified heart
Lie the pieces
Of your poet's soul

Itself a vision
Born before memory
Sister of the sun
Child of the sea
Your eyes betray cosmic relations
Like speaking stones
Carved to match

You and me

Haiku

Midnight rain
Dispels my grief
The crickets too, are silent

--------------------------

Dewdrops in the sun
An old dog shuffles slowly
Past my front door

----------------------------

Evening mist
Obscures my path
Churchbells cut the silence

Foreign Affairs

Thousands are born in the morning
A thousand more die under the moon
What kind of teacher is war?

Families huddle together
Waiting for dawn
But the sun is well hidden
And the lamp is burning low

Tell them it's for God
And watch the tears flow
Bullets explain nothing

Words can make sense of death
But never relieve the pain
So I sip my wine, as devils dance
And angels pray for change

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somali_Civil_War

Cedar Street

They told me everything
As if they knew
Confidently blind
And floating on lies
I smiled at my accusers

Remember how we laughed
Like brazen gods
Along summer avenues
So natural and clean
More Eden than Adam had

Those great golden evenings
Are so much fantasy now
Baseball games and barbecues
Scent of burning oak
Revealing the tenderness of youth

The Southern Road

I can scarcely imagine
A mountain's joy
Heaven reaching
While rooted deep
In native soil

To be a lonely Everest
Conversing with the moon;
Prayer flags in the sun;
An eternity of solitude
Watching truth erode the lie

Holding

It wasn't the way we met
Though I remember it well
Spring nights like velvet
And your voice, wine colored
Flowing out
River-wide
Seductive amongst the banter
Of mannequin strangers
Inspired something
Long forgotten
But suddenly alive
In your beautiful eyes

Civil War

Your eyes were a judgment
A condemnation of broken pacts
Sealed long before my time
And left shattered
By some ancient nemesis
Writhing still in your memory
As the years pass slowly
Like autumn clouds
Across a vintage sky

Haiku

Midsummer storm
Old trees sway gently
In the rain soaked breeze

--------------------------

October sky
An eagle circles once
Then disappears from sight

-----------------------------------

Autumn campfire
This slumbering moon hangs low
Over ancient peaks

For The Road

More than the talks
And uncertain requests
The prideful demands
And intimate tests

What I miss

Is your breath
Sweet, as you slept
Cradled in dreams
And my soul, finally clean

Moving On

No wonder we suffer.

I can't remember ever being told growing up that it's a virtue to be content. Instead of compassion, I learned self interest. The terms "value" and "worth" were inextricably tied to the material world. I've heard it said that the advancement of a civilization depends directly on these principals. That without greed and dissatisfaction, there would be no progress. This makes sense to the kind of mind I'm supposed to be programmed with.

But it's not right.

It's not worthy of us.

And it reeks of cheap parlour trickery. Nothing about the concept of true progress suggests to me the continuation and development of a paradigm based on casual exploitation, veiled apathy and willed ignorance. To advance at all, we'd need to shuck off the entire mess and begin building from a level human plane of understanding. The proud myth of individual/familial/nation

al independence is quickly dissolving like so much magic smoke, leaving only a lingering sense of fragile smallness in those of us so long convinced of our self importance.

It puts me out of place.

It leaves me on the fringe.

I feel isolated as I write this. The further my thinking takes me from mainstream methodologies, the less connected I am to that ease of spirit which exists in familiarity. Why am I here? It's a question with innumerable answers, none of which can reflect the absolute terror I experience almost daily when confronted by a future not asked for or wanted. Separation is something so crucial and dangerous. And solitude has always been a refuge. But now it's different; now it's about getting in touch with what can only be described as a merging of truths.

Purpose

My parents always told me there was beauty in work. They would use expressions like "labours of love" and warn me against building castles in the sand. To my childish mind, these jewels of aged wisdom rang decidedly hollow, and I would cringe at their usage. Now I can see how appropriate the analogy is. The best works of our lives are not built with tools and toil. Those are just the surface elements. They're built with dedication and love and sacrifice.

I think we have the wrong idea about work because our culture has evolved a separation between what we do to survive and what we survive to do. There's no unity of purpose; just a few lucky people doing what they love and the rest doing what they have to. The explanations for this are many and true: a vicious consumer culture, social fragmentation, media manipulation, division of labour, overpopulation...on and on. And at the bottom of it there's this fundamental split, between occupation and existence.

But shouldn't our works be our lives?
Can't we alter this paradigm to develop something more human?

I think it's worth recognizing that beyond bank accounts and banter, there is another very important element of happiness. It's measured by our need to be engaged in meaningful effort. And maybe we should be listening to that instead of what our fears recommend.

Smalltalk

There is truth in the classroom
Among dusty old notes
Woven in lectures
And injected by rote

There's truth in the pub
Flowing raucous and free
In every old story
And smile you see

Truth's in the sunset
Beyond theory and song
But the moment you realize
It's already gone

Truth is in words
All tangled and stuck
Like a mind full of questions
Or a heart with no luck

Blindness

I found a little diamond
In the gutter, out walking
Shining bright in it's squalor
Proud and indifferent
To the busy passing feet
Themselves too proud to see
What treasures lie hidden
From frantic hearts

Traces

My hand on your trembling cheek
Is what I remember
When I need to remember

During long evenings
Or sometimes in dreams
I see the tears in your eyes

And when I start to say something like
"You don't have to go"
My heart swells up to silence the sound

The Merging

Through all our wandering
And waking life
Beyond dying, dreams
And transient strife
Consciousness flows
Like a river of flame
Formless and strange
Down ancient slopes
Through valleys of hope
Gently to merge
All wisdom and courage
In the golden womb
Of a lotus bloom

Dylan's Mode

Saying nothing, our eyes betray
Simple truths of separation
Subterranean promises
And long nights in the city

Moonlight falls in easy waves
Cold and close and calm
Kiss the sky, she softly said
And set to earth your weary head

Haiku

Mid winter storms
Your soft footprints, buried
Under fresh snow

--------------------------

Autumn in the forest
Falling leaves do not disturb
These ants on my path

-------------------------------

Cold rain on the window
This flickering candle
Illuminates my room
---------------------------

Early morning snowfall
The old church
Is silent

--------------------------

Afternoon sun
Walking by a pond
I notice my reflection

Ships

When the world you know turns cold
And the ships of your golden youth
Fade to pearls on the horizon,
Know that I'm gazing on that vastness
With the same blue eyes
That once saw only you

So take your withered heart
And wash it clean on the tide
Fill the ocean up with crimson tears
Let your shattered spirit bleed
Until, empty and free,
You become the evening sky

Forest Paths

I found you on the forest path
Sitting quietly by a stream
And when I asked for wise direction
You spoke words as from a dream:

To the west, you said, in gentle tones
No poet travels far
The roads are full of bandits
And the towns are choked with cars
A greedy mind rejoices
At the sight of such a place
But hear me well and watch your step
In the west is want and waste

Then glancing up to greet the sun
Your face a mask of time
You spoke again of distant lands
Spinning truth inside a rhyme:

The eastward road is winding long
With snares to halt the weak
A thousand tests of virtue
Shall a seeker surely meet
But if by chance you make it through
Your heart will find it's place
I see in you a thirst for peace
A desire best embraced

Your words, I mused, are very strange
But which way shall I take?
I see no clear advantage
The decision's hard to make

But the choice, you cried, is ready made
Does the wind not whisper it's name?
Listen closely to these ancient trees
Are your spirits not the same?

All My Friends Are Bodhisattvas

All my friends are Bodhisattvas
And when they visit, robed in red
I ask them twenty questions
Like a heart plays with a head

Faces framed by sorrow
Eyes like sun kissed seas
They speak of holy mountains
And tell me god is in the trees

I offer tea and coffee
With mindful, practiced care
But food is never mentioned
Their appetites are spare

And when evening's golden child
Has blossomed into night
I hand them each a poem
Expressing joy and deep delight

They come to see me often
These gentle friends of mine
Because my home is always open
For freedom's light to shine