Free speech: the ultimate distraction

Usually this blog does not serve as my arena for rhetorical flushes of opinions that I intend anyone to adopt, but kids...that time has come.

While seated in the waiting room of the doctor's office one morning last week, I attempted to occupy myself by fixating on the television, since the View was on, I changed my mind and decided to read. While sifting through a pile of Good Housekeeping and US Weekly, and almost giving in to the fact that this particular doctor's office intended only to feed on the completely useless and mundane thus having nothing for me, I was delighted to find a Maclean's magazine with dog-eared pages staring up at me.

On the cover there was a picture of an African child, ravaged by Quashicore and wearing the tired, burdened face of a terrorized war-zone refugee. The point of the picture was to draw attention to the cover story inside about the latest element of the conflict in Darfur, in the Sudan. Of the many important topics facing the international community today, Darfur is absolutely near the top of the list.

While I feel that the resolution of this conflict is vital to the people of the Darfur region, and to the greater progression of the African Union, I'm writing for another purpose. The article begins on page thirty (or so) in the magazine, and after five pages, is interupted by...wait for it...Christmas 2006 holiday gift ideas. That's right...talking about today's important issues apparently has to come packaged with an intermission to remind us of a superficial holiday, where the 'haves' get more, and the impoverished are made to feel even worse then they already do.

After ten pages of advertisements for the color availabilty for IPods, chinos, and toy cars, the Darfur article continues. I realise that breaking up a coverstory is not a new thing, or a freak occurence, as magazines have to share column inches with other important issues, I just don't think that interupting a story on such an important issue is necessary to make way for advertisements. This is surprising to me coming from Maclean's magazine, but maybe not.

The question the editors have to ask themselves is of course, 'how best can we be the servents of two masters?' Everyone educated in the 'real world' knows that publications are paid for by advertising revenue, and editors and news directors have to hold the microphone and give ad-execs a reach-around at the same time, all the while presenting hard news that stabolizes, or increases a circulation. Circus show? Perhaps, depends on who you ask. Personally, I think this time they lost sight of the fact that the readers make the magazine not the other way around.

The people at Macleans have to realize that it is actions like this that fertilize the opinion that free speech is abused, and that advertisments are a waste of ink. Don't get me wrong, I like the Coke-a-Cola polar bears, but at least that's funny. Filling up advertising space should never come in the middle of cover stories that are trying to draw the public's attention to important issues. The editor's at Macleans need to realize the entitlement to free speach goes hand-in-hand with keeping it honest.

The article was about how rebels from waring tribes are crossing into neighboring Chad and are looting the homes of people that live there. This is the reality of a continent that needs all the support it can get, and I think North Americans are not only able to give that support, but if we consider ourselves the moral and political authorities, our news outlets should help cultivate that message, and not serve as greeting cards for the 'in-croud'.

The people are the magazine, and without us, there is no magazine!

this flight tonight...

paper airplane, please come back again.
come down through the clouds,
before my very eyes.
arrive on time to my surprise, I'll meet you at the gate.
hopes and dreams have set with
the sun, as we lie awake over the sea.
Come down through the clouds,
come back to me.

New Birth

My first face
as I glanced out
in space,
and starred at the
darkness beyond
the moon.
Orbiting the earth,
became flying
only to land;
floating only to
stand.
Late into the night
continued the flight,
over the rivers, oceans
and land.
O'Ryan's explosion
gave sight to the earth,
a distant star
untainted at birth,
a new face among
the crowd.

3 fingers pointing back

verbal abuse
is no excuse,
to scratch an itch
with a trigger.

spray-paint the face,
destored in space
staring you back
in the mirror.

every you

Every night,
I stay awake and listen
To the waves.
Invade my space and crash up against my ears.
Forgot his face,
Cause he hasn’t been around in years.
He returns again to disappear,
Before our eyes, starry night
In the clear.
Every day,
I thank the Gods that you’re okay.
Does your face hurt?
From where you landed
When you were falling down.
Is this our time and place to go,
Strike the match
And watch the glow.
Fools are we,
Who lie in the sea.
Casting stares into its depths.
We float,
But we want to sink.
Down to the bottom just to make us think.
About words we’d say,
If we came back to this day.
We found you sitting near,
The drive,
Beside the stairway to the basement.
Is this what they meant to say?
Blow kisses goodbye,
And call away the stars.
Light your lovers eyes,
With a spark from your flaming lips.
Let her feel your warmth,
you're floating away
in sinking ships...

passing time and space

Kissed by the ocean,
and swallowed by the waves,
Footprints in the sands of time.
Wanderers we all,
pass under the sun,
finding the shelter we crave.

Buildings amass, and cathedrals mundane,
locked by gate and key;
voices of the insane.
Laughter forced a smile,
showed teeth of glittering white-
Be that which destroys,
or that which creates;
of Frankensteins or doves.

Dilute the real with spirit or poison,
whichever, to pass a day.
Tired and weary,
distorted and dreary,
blots of ink that link and bleed.
Passes on stages, from one to the next,
without though of danger or speed.

Lockit...

hidden
secret
under-exposed.
darkened
hibrination
slumber
repose.
moisture
blurrs
vision
impaired.
silence
occured
hearing
dismantled.
brain
down
memory
low.
tonight
one
moon,
under
the
earth
I
go.

hopeful

So let us lay here,
drowning in the fire light.
Listening to the waves meet the shore,
and part again.

This is where I leave you,
staring at the ocean.
Place in your memory,
come back to it again;
A keepsake of time,
echoing the rythm
of laughter and friends.

Sunrise so beautiful,
and tears;
What's left to recollect,
a stamp for all the years.
Voices in the graveyard,
are calling out your name.
you try to answer me,
it just dosen't feel the same.

Wear a smile

Hide away,
listen to the angry mob,
speaking in different tongues.
What will they say,
when they see the sparkle,
in your eyes;
rise up and fade away?
Last night,
won’t happen every day.
Their turn to say,
that it wasn’t their fault,
because it never really is;
doesn’t make this nightmare okay,
like the rain that won’t go away.
Tonight, tonight,
this has all been about a dream.
Things are just as they seem,
replay in my head a thousand times.
Keeps skipping on the track,
where you were lost,
but I took you back.
Read a book,
and count the pages as you turn them.
Does it add up to your disappointment?
Was this your idea,
of pain and torture.
Or will it move you from this torpor?
Isolated in repose,
you changed out of your clothes.
And dawned the features,
of a dharma bum.
Take it back,
came from a book by Kerouac.
Your mind is traveling in circles;
replay the track.
Recordings of your voice taped back,
when you wore a smile.

Subdue the fever

Give me this day, the last day of your life. Walk with me through green fields, hands holding tight. On to memories where we left them, by eyes of passers by. We’ll walk under the moon, and comment on the stars. Jets over our heads and the red ball of Mars. High atop the cliff, over looking the houses down below, our pulses raise with pleasure, on lookers from the crowd forming below. Look into the mirror of the sea. What does your reflection look like in the red light? Of scars and burns, another day spent doping up our innocence and subduing the fever. Do you know your neighbor? Can you tell him that he’s going to die tomorrow, sipping on black comedy and floor disasters. This is today, what will your death bring to us?

REM cars...

streched out head to toe,
dream's hand catches me while I sleep.
turning covers to and fro,
without question, I've decended in deep.
stars twinkle and burn, and light up the sky,
throwing glare and fragments to obscure my eye.
floating above the earth, in a catatonic state,
drops of wax fall from candles at the wake.
the sun and heavens, play the field for the stars,
we slip between them in REM cars.

this call

last night, i woke you up on the telephone.
said I had gone out on my own,
can you take this call from heaven?
I'd seen your face on a picture downtown,
were you wondering if I was still banging around.
I had cried myself a river and proceeded to drown,
but would you reach your hand in for me.

I was crying out for the attention I crave,
some people are great, and some meet their grave.
can you take this call from heaven?
Telling you about the trouble I was in,
could you take me in your arms and make me whole again.
I was wondering was it possible by now,
could we sit down and write the story of how,
you and me, and it was all that it could be.
We walked right down, and laid beneath the sea.
Can you take this call from heaven?

We were on the mountain top, counting shooting stars.
Saw the big black sky, the red dot was Mars,
got lost in the milky way.
You turned to me and with a tear in your eye.
in front of all of this, you started to cry.
And you left me wondering why.
Hold my hand, cause I have something to say,
we never knew it then, but things are better this way, and hey...

can you take this call from heaven?

a birthday message...

Covered by the stiffness of the night, I walked the streets I used to know. Every corner screamed a memory, every face brought about a name. The orange glow that leaped from the windows of the old stomping grounds seemed comforting against the breeze. I crossed my arms and tightened myself up, as the pain of memories abandoned began to overtake me.

There were lines that snaked along the street like rivers. Among them, jovial faces gleamed like gold in the sand. These were the times made special by the gentle touch of a friend, or by the telling of story experienced by all. We were laughing about it then, and each knew this feeling would never cease.

Year passes year, and before you stop to realize it, the image staring back in the mirror no longer reminds you of yourself. You've slipped, but you're hanging on, motivated by the memories yet to be made. And, for a moment that seems more pure than any other, you look over your shoulder at your friends...and smile.

demons

It's all in a dream, things are not what they seem.
The feel and pulse of a new living thing,
crawling deeply underneath my weathered skin.
It's shadow lurks beneath me when I crawl,
pulls me down to the depths where I fall.
The fog has set in filling my head,
with answers to questions I dislike and dread.
My likeness in the mirror has not one head but two,
the unsettling difference between me and you.
It's path grows for miles like a cancer,
unravelling hope, and prayers for an answer.
These things haunt me throughout the night,
between these two sensations,
is the war that I fight.

there was...

There was a field, where we would dance in the rain.
There was the porch where I used to sit, screaming your name.
And you ran away from me.

There was an image of you, vanished much too late.
There was your face, red with the ravishing color of hate.
I was your dream.

There in the meadow, when your heart skipped a beat.
There was a poem in my head, I knew it complete.
The stars provided the light.

There were good-byes and tears and over the years.
There were good days and bad days, and hot ones and cold,
and some were so much wetter.

Memories missed...

Close your eyes tight and jump from this cliff.
The memories made and the memories missed. Scream your name with silent gestures.
Their shadows dance on the wall of your epitaph.
We jumped high from this dream,
and landed in it's ashes.
This broken home stands empty.

River of Tears

a river of tears flows underneath
wind-swept bridges.
the fingerprints of small hands
adorn her ridges.
this place they came, to cool the burn
of hate, of poison, they wait their turn.
to see life as it was before
evil cast it's spell.
to quiet the screams
of a fire breathing yell.

dream stare

- a new song

I took your photograph, in black and white.
And hid behind the stage, out of sight.
It was a rush, a thrilling blur. You were never there,
I only thought you were.
Your red eyes burned right through the paper. They caught me waiting,
in the background of this dream stare.

I held your photograph, with shivering hands. And marked it on the back,
with black pen. I knew you needed me,
but couldn't do it then. Those judging eyes,
calling me again.
Your eyes burned right through the paper. They caught me waiting,
in the background of this dream stare. Took the light away from my eyes,
left me running away from the dark.

I placed your photograph, under my bed at night. My mouth was open then,
and you climbed right in. Took the words right out of my mouth,
stole the screams right from my lips. I couldn't move away,
you locked me in right from the hips. Your face was like a black hole,
and it held me and sucked me in.
I couldn't escape the merky afterglow.

Your red eyes burned right thought the paper. They caught me waiting,
in the background of this dream stare. They held me there,
while I was burned up limb by limb.

in the end

so you were lonely,
i it heard through the phone.
I left you next to disaster,
while you were waiting for the answer.
From a voice that calls you,
from beyond the grave.
You didn`t know it was me.
I didn`t feel the same.

Walking through these meadows,
and beside these homes.
Your greatest fear was that,
you`d be alone.
If you looked up to the sky,
you`d see.
That stranger hiding out in the clouds,
is me.

So now the story`s over,
you`re at the end of the road.
You feel so much better,
unburdened by this heavy load.
This radio still belts out your name,
it`s tongue is dretched with your poison.
It`s got no way to run.

the message

I wrote this while sitting on a bench in Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. A wonderful place to think about doing things better.

For a moment, evil held the world in it's hand, and let life slip between its fingers. Shadows of the people are all that remain, in this place, their final stage of passing.
In the background, a bell tolls, attempting to bring them home, as a group of worshipers call to their spirits. They see not the light cast from the peace flame.
They know this fortune cannot come to pass. Much less their loved ones returned. The powers of the world are against them, but still their mouths move in prayer as one.

They look toward the heavens for answers that may never come. For the silver lining that was once painted black with the scars of burns and the horrors of their nightmare. Peace blossums like a flower from the dust and the ruble, and must be aided by the blissful touch of a mother's love.

In the shadow of war, let a great beakon shine down on us all, so that our flowers can grow once more.

Japan...arrival

August 15-6pm.

After a twelve hour flight, and a couple of pictures of the Alaskan mountians, the Boeing 474-400 aircraft landed in Narita, Japan. After a 1 hour train ride, I arrived in Toyko.

What`s amazing about the city is the amount of people, large crouds, moving unimpeded through narrow streets that reflected the glow of the many bright neon signs high above. It`s strange to be the outsider in a foreign place. It seems that everywhere I walk, the eyes of strangers follow. Before I take a step, they know where I will go, or so it seems.

My first food experience was a sushi bar. The setup was unique. All of the chairs were placed in a circle, and in front, a track brought around the food the resturant served. There were many different types of sushi, not that I can tell you what they were, but nonetheless, I welcomed the fresh taste of athentic Japanese sushi.

More to come. Tomorrow Mike and I head for Kyoto.

mystic flight

Through the air at night,
a mystic wonder.
Sound passes over the houses,
rattling them like thunder.

Closer to the heavens,
than ever before.
Grab the stars with your hands,
listen to the children roar.

In jaded heaps the passengers creep,
through the gate and into the world.
To change it one by one,
each a vision inspired.
While evil took another step,
the villagers grew tired.

Frozen heels

I walk this ground on frozen heels,
and through a forest of trees.
At night I hear your voice scream,
the sounds brings me to my knees.
No blanket to trap escaping heat,
nor veil to block the sun.
This place, this rythm, these echoed voice through time,
but thinking only of one.
Your eyes in front, but cannot see,
the vision of me is blurred.
A life of peace, of freedom of speech,
most certainly seems absurd.

ever after the sunrise

the sun followed the rain,
as the clouds began to retreat.
the air was cool,
and my life was complete.

waves lapped against the shore,
while our feet dangled in the sea.
the room was small, fit for two,
nothing beyond the walls of you and me.

the waltz

take your face out from behind your hands.
Let me see your eyes.
Let me listen to your secrets,
I'll let you tell me lies.

We are standing alone in this empty room.
No pictures on the dresser,
and a corner without a broom.
I'm hoping the wind will carry you to me,
I'm hoping this time we can run free.
Give me all your worries, and cry on my shoulder.

These walls and halls, miss the jovial faces.
The piano sits silently, hasn't made a sound in ages.
Outside on the patio, next to the bbq.
You were talking to me, and I was looking at you.

her wings

look up to the sky,
and see your angel.
she's smiling down at you,
in this wonderful arrangment.
she's all you'll ever need,
and you're all that she knows.

there's a strong wind outside,
and that's all she needs.
listen to the air, sail through the trees,
she's speaking your name.
it's late outside,
and cold beside the fire.
you feel half like yourself,
cold blood and no desire.
Your angel has lost her wings.

A thought for today

If you were a bee for a day, what would you do? Would you sting people, or fly around peacefully sucking on flowers for nurishment?

these ones are not...

a ballad of the soldier read aloud,
his chilling words froze over the crowd.
on his face, the scar of nights spent in the field.
while the fires melt the earth,
we wait for them to yield.
to the human spirit, a greater calling.
to the child unborn, all hope is falling.
he warned the people of blood's red in the sky.
he held the hands of the victims, set in their place to die.
they wanted better, they wanted more.
they wanted peace, and a life free from war.

You're DOA

So you came to the door DOA,
with a smile trapped on your face.
There was nothing we could do for you,
nameless, and helpless and fallen from grace.

The tag on your toe read,
she is mad and insane.
They could feel the hurricane,
rotating inside of your brain.

They tucked you in,
and slammed the morgue room door.
Witches and demons,
screamed too loud for you to ignore.

The first stage of your afterlife,
is complete.
They buried you next to the barn,
in a blue dress nice and neat.

cocktails on the moon...

what have you got to say?
You asked me then ran away.
Or can you even feel,
me and you and this is real.

Close your eyes for a second.
Then open them again.
Tell me what you see.
You saw your friends and flames,
in this life we lead, we're wasting away.

We'll burn as we fall from the surface of the moon.
The sun burns warmer, and there's killer flood water.
The old man burned alive in front of his daughter.
She watched with tears and silent screams.
Felt like a dream but this is real.

Stand on the side of the road one by four.
The nails are rusted in the frame of the door.
Getting to us like a secondary cancer.
There's nothing left, no path or chance here.

empty

I can hear your footsteps,
I can hear your name.
You're standing over my empty grave,
wondering why I went away.

The space beside mine, lies hollow and silent.
The winter's night spent covered and violent.
No marks on my headstone, no body or soul.
The tears you cry won't make me whole.

saves me...

save me for a rainy day, when the sun has gone away.
let me learn your laugh and turn around.
I cock my head when you make a sound.

Your shadow I can feel, my second skin has begun to peel.
Angels rose up from the earth one by one. Last night,
you gave up your only son.

Heaven was lost in the fires of hell. The light at the gate cast on you it's spell.
I for you and you for me, back and forth the prisoners flee.
Over the hills and under the sun. The people had won back their chosen one.

Listen to you and lie corpse-like and still. I am moved by the spirits against my will.
Desperate enough and though I may fight.
The world is lost on me tonight.

your happy corpse.

Like desert wings and fickled feathers.
By bonded rust it's held together.
It rocks, it sways, it moves with the breeze.
It begs of winter for a deathly freeze.

beginnings

I can see you standing in the rain. Holding a telephone without a cord.
You were searching for something you lost, a photograph in a crowd. Shadows passed by left and right, all you knew was not in sight, there you were...alone.

The skys above seemed to sing your name. A life kept inside a fancy picture frame. We never saw you again, but we always heard your name.

spirits awaken...

The following was said, after the lights were turned down. After the night had set in, I closed the door and felt the draft. Of your spirit escaping me from within. I walked outside of your old house. Still trying to figure out all of your issues. You left your tears on a thousand tissues. They've piled up on the floor. Next to the crack in the door, where from underneath there was a light breeze setting in.

Don't fall down tonight. Everything isn't all right, but it's not the same as it used to be. You've heard them say these words before. They're just flash cards for you to ignore. Billboards and advertisements on the television set. There's never been a chance like this. It's too much, so much that you can't miss. All lies and camera tricks, smoke and mirrors and mannequins without heads. So close your eyes and go to bed. Dream softly and rest your head.

ships and stars

ships and stars, the view from mars
and all the astroids in between.
the earth looks so small compared to it all,
a boiling third rock from the sun.

hope and dreams, go up in flames,
with your smile they come back again.
though we may never be the same,
we can see the sun through the rain.

Death by mini-bar

Tiny voices in empty rooms,
black sheets cover the sun.
Windows baring crescent moons,
a battle with keys gone unwon.

Sitting on the bed,
little bottle in hand.
Head in the waste basket,
mouth parched like sand.

Look at the clock,
tick one, two and four.
Clothes strewn about,
headache raging, pills galore.

Out in the morning,
passing people stop to stare.
Lipstick on your teeth,
and yellow scrunchies in your hair.

It'll all be over soon,
you tell yourself while you smile.
Turn down the music, and the lights,
you'll feel like a human in a while.

Greasy food and a cozy bed,
some place soft to rest your head.
Across the room, sits the empty bottle,
soon enough you start to waddle.

Hour passes hour, the friends begin to call,
already plotting your next place to fall.
Back on your hotel bed and turn to the right,
the mini-bar sits, seeking its prey on this night.

along the way

you didn't see, you only heard.
you didn't speak, you turned away.
there were lies, and there were words,
and there was nothing left to say.

because it was the two of us it was harder,
because there was only war, and never peace.
two destinations on a troubled map,
roads never crossing, only bridges,
and all the water underneath.

only silence on the telephone,
no spoken words, only radio static.
I found your picture in the addic,
I wiped the covering dust away.

The face I saw, I used to know.
outside the world was layered in snow.
there was a ringing at the doorbell,
it was you,
you were on your way.

There's wasn't two of us, there was one.
We'd found eachother along the way.

Eyes open

I'm looking for an angel,
there's nothing left to say.
Didn't realize that you had wings
until you left the other day.
The world still spins around the sun,
the sun still sets in the west at night.
The lights of Vegas still shine brightly,
as desperate people place their bets.

They don't know about the spring time,
only promises washed away.
Like looking at that poor school boy,
asking how'd he get that way.
He was a brick sinking in the water,
waves lapping against his head.
He didn't have all of the answers,
liked to shake his head instead.

Marathon: field notes...

So it appears that I have not been writing weekly updates about the half-marathon training I'm doing. Well, two months, too many kilometers to count, and some minor aches and pains have past since then, with much to report.

It's Easter Sunday, in the am, just got back from a run. Today the faithful Running Roomer's and I set out for 16kms. 10 weeks into the training schedule, this is the biggest test, though not the farthest our group will run. Temperature wise, I couldn't have asked for a better day to run, though a little less wind would have helped!!

Today's course had us running from the corner of O'Connor and Wellington to down past the War Musem, along the riverside bike/running path, heading west toward the bridge to Alymer. (I forget the name). Getting to the bridge was tough this morning, the past two weeks I've had to keep the running to a minimum due to an ankle injury I can't seem to shake. I've been riding my bike alot to keep up the strength in my legs while I rest my ankle.

As I arrived at the bridge, I turned to face north to head across to Quebec, when I was greeted by a gale force wind!! Not really, but it felt like it. At this point my watch read 31 mins. I could definately feel the off time creeping up on me, as the bodies of my running mates ahead up me dipped below the horizon and out of sight. I was alone. However, training for something like a half-marathon is 90% mental, so you have to keep focused on the task at hand, even if it is getting across a damn bridge with 20km wind in your face!

By the time I reached the crest of the bridge, I regained the vision of my running mates, but that comforting visual quickly faded, as they ran behind some trees. Passing some bikers and a couple of runners, saw me reach the end of the bridge and head onto the path, to follow it back downtown. Running along the path was a great test of strength, as the terrian dipped and rose at several points along the way. It took me through marsh land, over some plank-covered bridges and through a small community park.

At this point, I could feel my ankel starting to scream at me, evidently I'd been ignoring it all this time. It didn't catch up to me until I reached a portion wherein, I had to cross a set of train tracks. One problem; a train was being loaded with extra cars, making ready for a trip. My watch read 67mins. An attendent working on the train told me to wait 5 mins, so I waited...and waited. I got fed up with waiting so I hopped a fence and continued on my route to the Alexandrea Bridge, past the mesuem of Civilization.

I stepped foot on Ontario soil, as my watch read 78mins. Before coming out this morning I set myself a goal, to run the 16kms in under 90mins. Though the pain in my ankle was increasing with vigour, I made it back to the corner of O'Connor and Wellington at 87 mins, and continued down to the store in a total time of 89:31. Not too shabby, for a guy with a throbbing ankle. Next weekend we run 12km, then two 18's, a 20km, and a final Sunday run of 6km, so hopefully i can rest my ankle enough to keep up my speed. Otherwise, I'll have to play through the pain!!

wishing well

make a wish,
throw a penny into the well.
I've wandered all around,
asking strangers what's your picture of hell.
the sun hasn't been shining in days,
need a ladder to escape from this purple haze.
is it door one, two or three,
this resting place is big enough for you and me.
a night like this so black and cold,
watch your step this dock is old.
bring your book, and we'll read aloud one verse,
she doesn't even carry a purse.
grab some wood and we'll start a fire,
let go of your earthly desires,
come with me and you will see,
we'll paint a picture of heaven.
Somewhere, away from this distaste,
landminds and toxic waste.
At night we'll look up and see the moon,
asking if change is coming soon.

Sheets over your head...

Help me out,
cause I don't know what you're looking for.
Put one foot in front of the other,
and walk right out the door.

Now and then,
could you let me be your friend.
If you're crying underneath the pillow,
let me try to make it better.

I'll be right behind you,
your personal fantasy guide.
You can trust me,
don't hold out your hands,
as you're following down.

fireflys

last thursday,
four years ago.
I saw your footprints
on the wet grass,
leading to the hill.

I went searching for you,
but never got that far.
The light outside was dim,
only shining from one star.

And I walked through the darkness
outside your house.
Screaming at the top of my lungs.

Ended up at the lakeshore,
staring at my reflection in the water.
Dad said you'd know the feeling,
when you have a daughter.

nonsense

the roses aren't red,
because the petals are dead.
and the demons danced,
at the foot of the poet's bed.

the hardest day...

it's the hardest day
some might say...when you have to say goodbye...
there's a candle burning,
on the table...and the wind comes and blows it away.

I've got your image in the mirror
the picture couldn't be drawn any clearer.
As I walk out of this house...I turn to say...

it's the hardest day
some might say...I think I found something out about you.
When the rain is falling...you're name I'm calling...
I've got something else to say.

You packed the car
and drove down the street...I could hear the radio.
They were playing sad songs,
about boys and heros...

I think that they were talking to me.

you and I today

Are you out there,
are you waiting for me...did this happen
can you come for tea...
and I'll be sittting,
out by the tree...I'll see your shadow underneath the door

I'll put my head back,
and you drive the car...foot on the gas
taking us far...
Away from the nights...out past the lights
out to the place where they don't know our names...

signs of life

The world is waking up again, the sun is beginning to spend the day beyond the reach of cloud cover. All over the city people ride their bikes, walk their dogs and meander through rows of sidewalk sales. The grass is beginning to show signs of life, as blankets of snow retreat to puddles and slowly, they evaporate into the sky.

ad for cheap cigarettes

I need time to help create.
To sow the seeds of love,
in the fields of hate.
Spoken words are a beating drum
next to a pile of broken bones.
The world is watching as you climb to the stage.
Looking people straight in the eyes
to expell your rage.

Ghosts of the fallout

When she closed her eyes, her mind always returned to the crying and the deafening screams. She walked carefully, taking each step slowly as she made her way through the thick blanket of smoke and screams, that blurred her vision and dulled her senses.

She could hear the sharp, high-pitched cracking of the fire as it moved through the concrete and fallen timber of the once proud homes of her neighborhood. Like a cancer it spread, from one house to the next, and almost as quickly as her eyes could blink, the neighborhood vanished. Nothing was left but the soft sound of smoldering ash and the dark, drab colour of soot.

There was no laughter, there were no children playing capture the flag in between the rows of homes. She kept walking, and, willing the sunlight to break through the sufficating layer of smoke covering her head, she dropped to her knees.

She could feel her pulse rise and fall, and rise and fall...it repeated itself for several minutes. She couldn't hear the birds, nor see the sky... she was lost.

Marathon...I'm running for.

Presently, it's snowing outside. The wind is coming from all directions and it's causing a burning sensation on my face. The first few minutes of running in weather like this is tough, something most people, even runners won't think about. I must admit, I usually head inside to the nearest treadmill, as insipid as that sounds. No trees, dogs or people to watch as I'm running by, blood coursing at a steaming pace through my vains. But today isn't about running outside or inside, in bad weather or on a sunny day...it's about running.

As I communicate this to you, I am training for a half-marathon, that's 21.1kms folks!!! It's my first and hopefully not my last, baring any unforeseen injury I might sustain along the way. No, no, so far it's been good, week three of a sixteen week training schedule. I have always been athletic, so this comes sort of naturally to me, not to toot my own horn! But, even with prior athletic experience, I'm learning the joys of having to get up on Sunday morning and run.

At least I'm not alone, I have the rest that fill out the Running Room clinic on Slater street. Every tuesday we meet for a talk and a run, usually a short one that I try and run too fast!! Last tuesday I noticed a sign on the front door of the store. It was an annoucement for a breast cancer run, 'Run for the Cure'. I started to read the poster, a date, time, the distance, all the usual suspects that pertain to advertising an event. Then I noticed something else.

Though it wasn't hard to miss, sitting in the center of the post. They were little cards, like name cards at a wedding. Each one had writing on them, and each one had something different written on them. One said, 'For my daugher, my hero' another read, 'For my father'. On everyone, there was a dedication of one form or another, in memory of people's loved ones, who had either died, or as one read, 'For my sister, keep fighting', for those who were finding the courage to live on. On the bottom of the poster there read a single question- who are you running for?

Seeing these cards left me thinking of a few different things for the rest of that night's run. One was my loved ones, my grandmother fell victim to cancer ten years ago this passed year. Another feeling I got was, what I'm a running for? Though I'm not running in that breast cancer race, I must be doing it for a reason. On a basic level, I'm running because I want to get back in shape. On another, I'm running it to see if I can. Then there's the 'cross it off my life's to-do list' which is a good motivator.

As I sit beneath the glow of a candle flame, outside the snow still falling without hesitation, I'm wondering why I'm running this marathon. There is another 13 weeks, so this won't be the last I have to say...

my recurring...

When I close my eyes, I return to it. The image remains there, forever and still, burned into my memory. When all is quiet and there's not a soul in sight, I let myself slip back and slowly give in to it's forces as they draw me closer. All is black and quiet, just the gentle accompaniment of the sound of noise, nothing in particular, no focal point.

In my dream it's always raining. Not violent like during a rainstorm, but certainly more than gentley. The sky is gray and dark, as the sun has run off for another day. I'm standing next to a window, which plays host to quite a view. An innocent rush of cool air runs up and down the length of my body, raising the hair on my neck. I can see the grass, bent over from the wind, and trying to win back it's upright position.

She's wearing a white blouse, and jeans that hug her waste. Her cloths cling to her like a second skin. Her feet are bare...I noticed while she lightly stepped her way toward a red-brick garden path. My face is pressed against the paine, the fog from my breath forms on the surface and blurs my vision. Ahead of her, a row of cedar hedges.

At this point, my mind cannot take it. Screaming at my body, it commands me to give in to chase. She is the target of my desire yet I cannot move. Conflicted, I stand there helpless and vulnerable. The sound of the rain drives past my ears harder with every minute. I want to give in, I must give in. With one last brust of meloncoly, I start for the door and grab the handle.

As I went for the door, she disappeared from slight...

Through the window...

Through the window, I saw her pain.
I put my ears to wind,
and listened to her whispers.
She cried to nobody, to anybody.
Her face had sunk below the glastly exterior she hid behind.

Silence wrapped around her like a blanket.
By the fire she sat staring into its flames.
She watched the pattern of shadows
cast on the wall behind the brillant flashes of yellow and orange.
She thought about each tear, as one by one,
they escaped from her eyes and ran down her face,
like children lost in a reckless abandon.

Pictures lined the mantle left to right, black and white.
She looked past the blank faces looking as though directly at her.
In her memory she heard the laughter,
in her memory she saw the smiles and felt the warmth.
Through the window she reached out her hand...

The men we'll be...

Great men are not born, they are created. They are molded from the world that surrounds them, taking shape as time progresses. They experience every experience, expose themselves to every exposure...Their heightened sense of awareness and belonging makes them in tune with the world spinning around them. They are critical of the masses, and know that they know not...these are great men, these are great women...

At first glance, the above may sound like the mother of all rhetorical flurishes and nothing more than pretenious words spoken to nobody. However, I urge that this is not the case. They are the by-product of a moving conversation between myself and a friend who is more like my brother.

What makes great men, or even simplier, successful people flurish while others are struggling to find their way? Some people have money, and all of the benefits that comes with having a network of friends in high places. They finish highschool with perfect marks, practically breeze through the university of their choice, and go on to fulfill dreams found only in make-believe, or Hollywood.

Some people blossum at different times, my friend says. They have a goal from early on, and stop at nothing until they have reached it... or they have help. Maybe their roads aren't lined with as many complications as some, they had love and support to back them. They had a place where, even in failure, they could come back to and hide.

Being one semester away from completing my degree, I have devoted much time and energy to, well to be frank, to being nervous about my future prospects. So much that once I wrote to Dr. Noam Chomsky in search of some inspiration to cure my discouragement. What he said was simple, but very effective. He told me that even the greatest men, himself included, had gone through times in their lives where they were scared or unsure about what their futures would bring them. Laughter or saidness, successes or failures, even those with the most meraculous of accomplishments had experienced them all, and managed to save face.

So it's not all tragedy and tears...which is good for me because being painfully average, I kid myself alot. Truthfully, it's too soon to tell, my grandpa would say I'm still wet behind the ears. When I write the next chapter of my life, I hope they are good pages, that take my to exciting places, taking from them something to charish and savour.

A champion on the field, when he wins, who always wants to stay trapped in the moment, hanging on to it like it's his last. For that moment his was great, and he will be remembered for it, even if his endevours never take him their again...

My best to Mr. Spencer

It started in 1999, but for some reason I didn't catch on until mid 2005 just how great the show was. I can only surmise that I wasn't very political during my middle years at highschool and therefore hated political shows. Makes perfect sense...but I was missing out on the drama, the sharp, whitty dialogue, and the memorable characters.

However, I was soon sent down the right path by my roommate, who had become engrossed in the show during the previous months leading up to the beginning of my own addiction. Once, upon finishing a cliff-hanger of a season finale, I actually witnessed him foaming at the month while frantically searching for a rental store that had Season two of the West Wing in stock, and that would be open at 1 am.

While his target remained out of reach that night, as dusk turned to early dawn, he eventually watched the series up to the point where it was airing on NBC. In May he went home to work, while I stayed here in Ottawa, with little to do after work during the week. So, one hot night, since I didn't feel like moving and the seasons were directly in front of me...I watched the first episode. That turned into watching the first disc, which then snowballed into watching the first season in two nights.

I didn't get much sleep, but I didn't care because I was living out those hours with smart, animated characters, albeit fictional, but nonetheless worth watching. And over the course of my nightly West Wing feasts, I began to look up to one character in particular. He always knew what to say, but didn't live in an ivory tower...

This person my friends, was Leo McGarry, the man behind the man. For those casual glancers, he was a meek old man in a suit, but for those who knew him and loved him, he was a brillant political mind with the heart of a lion. He scarificed his marriage for the job of Chief of Staff, and on most nights, many hours of sleep. On-lookers watched in awe as he helped mold the plot to assassinate Defense Minister Shariff of Qumar, and we winced when he suffered a heart attack that rendered him unable to continue as President Bartlett's COS.

He would not stay down however, the end of season six saw him rally to become the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, sharing the ticket with Congressman Matt Santos. Currently, the seventh season is heating up with new edge-of-your-seat, hightly political shows, as the plot jobs back and forth from the White House, to the campaigne trail. The highs, the lows, we have been taken on quite a ride thusfar.

I take this time to thank the man that gave Leo McGarry depth and illuminated him in ways no other actor could. On December 16, 2005, actor John Spencer was taken from the world by a heart attack.

His face will be missed. His skill will be admired. Whenever Leo McGarry's name is mentioned on the show until series' end, we will remember with heavy hearts, the name that gave him life.

My best to Mr. Spencer...

A lover's quarrel with the world.

Less than a month before his assassination President Kennedy gave a speech at Amherst College in honor of the late poet Robert Frost.

The Purpose of Poetry- by John F. Kennedy

A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers...

The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the nation's greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power, or power uses us...

When power leads man toward arrogance, poerty reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows then areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgment. The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, "a lover's quarrel with the world." In pursuing his perceptions of reality he must often sail against the currents of time.

If sometimes our great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes them aware that our nation falls short of its highest potential.

I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him...

In free society art is not a weapon, and it does not belong to the sphere of polemics and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But in a democratic society the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist, is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation.

- JFK, 1963

Remember me

Remember me as I am,
my image etched in stone,
outlining the vast caves of your memory.

Remember love's warm embrace
on harsh winter nights.
Remember soft, gentle whispers,
and the lies you let slip by.

Let not one night's trechery
ruin a life's accumulation of love.
Remember me for my ambition,
for the things I cannot say,
for the plan I cannot write down.

Remember me in triumphant glory,
lest I should wallow in defeat.
For the love we shared,
I did not die alone.

Forever shall I be comforted
by the memory of your face,
looking back at me,
as I faded away.