It doesn’t matter anymore


There is time to change your mind
After all the decisions and revisions
The visits and the conversations
The conversations and the visits
But time says it doesn’t matter anymore.

If perchance we should meet on the way
What way I do not know but it is inevitable
The birds are always there singing in the background

And the rustle of the leaves… the tires on the asphalt
The constants that are always there reminding of the
Tedious time spent in useless endeavor.

When only the moment is precious, the now… what else
Is there that we can fully appreciate
There is time to change your mind
It doesn’t matter anymore…

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2015-04-12 02.59.17

There are pins in my head tacking
Notes to my brain
To remember what I forgot to mention.

Some have coloured plastic heads
So I know what temper the notes are

Green for natural thoughts
Orange for purple thoughts
Blue for the sky… seagulls.

Why not as it is such a nice day?  Wind surfing is blowing in your ear calling…

Or telephone rings on your fingers that points beyond the horizon.

There is no going back… as the notes fade and the pins rust, their plastic heads falling off and rolling into the soup.

Waiter?… more water please.

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Into the Light

The path is straighter than before.
I can predict how my footsteps will fall
with accuracy,
but I must shield my eyes from the light
for it is too bright to see
what is ahead.

I can look back and see where light has faded
but there is no reason – what is behind me
is already gone…
There is no hope there, no dreams, no possibility.

Ahead, beyond the blinding light I know the direction
For it is my direction, clear and concise.
It is my design.

But if I were to place myself miles up the road and look back
to where I am now… what would I think?
Is it someone who would present ideals that would please me?
Charity, acknowledgement, generosity, wisdom, compassion…
Are we ever enough?
What other words could I add to try to create the ideal person I
would want to find looking back?
Or do I find passivity, disregard, obtrusion, obstruction – perhaps a
place I do not want to go – or maybe just words I do not want to hear.
Perhaps I am only a trace, a vapor.

Still, we all have our legend. It is our resolution.

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Dear Charles

Dear Charles,

May I intrude, that I might take a moment of your time?  I have a matter of much importance that I
would most like to pursue.

It causes great distress that I find need to discuss this situation; you see it should not be necessary but current events lead me to believe we have strayed from our nucleus, our central being.

May I implore, does our existence stem only from the monetary?  Are we solely marketable commodities, pecuniary, bought and sold as meat, met with prevarication by our representatives and left to die based on the quality of our social health plan?

Is it an individual’s wealth that should determine our right to exist?  Is it their ability to accumulate, connive, scheme and manipulate to build wealth?  Do we not need builders, teachers, painters and poets, drivers and shoe makers? Can we not be masters of our chosen trade without being dragged through the gutter by wants and desires created solely to foster the needs of accumulated wealth?

We are pawns, plebes, and peasants.  Even as masters of our trades we are still low, humble servants to those that accumulate masses of wealth, those that account.  We are given superhighways and shiny cars only to be stalemated and stagnated in traffic by manipulation, taxed through gas and license, robbed by those that insure and by shorted by false economies.  We will pay carbon tax to those with wealth to sit with 1 million cars on the highway each day, grid-locked, spewing pollution and eating away our precious fuel supply.

And we pay our taxes, on taxes, with taxes and then pay penalties and build debt to pay off interest so we can have all the things that
we are hypnotized to believe we need.

What we have is not enough, who we are is not good enough, and if we are not inconvenienced or blamed for causing the problem we need to be ashamed that we are somehow the problem.

Wealth, ambition, false economies, the stock market and its permutations, each designed to confuse, manipulate and enshrine the magnitude of the dollar.  Trading of property, leveraging it, pre-ambling and re-aligning value, creating illusionary value, taking profit from nothing and leaving less that was there to start.

Poppycock! Nonsense! Thievery!

May I ask, Charles, now that you are receding to the shadows how will you design your future?  May I suggest we need someone to bring to the light the pompous few that populate the sparse miserly, someone to expose the parsimony, someone to provide vision and strength, to provide a society built on culture, focus, harmony, and a spirit of sharing.  A country where people can be proud of their contribution and in return be rewarded for their participation.

Where do you stand?  Can you stand for the modicum of our election?

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in anticipation of you…

the phone rings..
run to answer
heart pounding
blood rushing..
cannot see
but for the thought
that the call
might be you.

when the door
sounds a knock,
soft and particular
heart beats faster
chest gets tight
cannot breath ’til I know
it is you
that is knocking

when you leave
without your sweater
left behind on the chair
I know in an instant
it was you..
your essence is omnipresent..
intoxicated with the
sweater that is alive with you

when you are here
we are wrapped together
as one..
everything and
nothing else matters
except that
I am alive
only to be with you.

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Today I am cardboard
i’d rather be chocolate
or raisin or orange
just not cardboard.

Today I am nails
i’d rather be hammer
(excuse my grammar)
but I ain’t much if I’m nails

Today I am floss
of different candy colours
sweet and delicious
saucy; capricious

Today I am flux
i’d rather be melon
go round like Magellan
but today, only flux

Today I am crepe
i’d rather be leather
honed and together
crepe has no shape

Today I am air
i’d rather be water
swim like an otter
instead i despair in air

Today I am paper
i’d rather be pencil
vernal and tensile
but by write i am paper, today.

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If We Only Had a King

If we only had a King
We could have a Queen
We could have Princes and Princesses
and Knights and a round table
and Knaves and Pages and Jesters and Fools (God forbid we have enough of those now!),
a King who would ride horses and play Polo

If we only had a King
(a good King, that is)
He would project an image of Power
and confidence that would reflect on his subjects
He would abhor sloth and gluttony
Favoring those that benefited the Empire
and serving repudiation to those that conspired.

If we only had a King,
We might have plotting and conniving
Those that would want to create obtrusion
But our King would have an Army and his own fierce guards
Dressed in bright colours; trained in deadly arts.
He would travel secure and live above the populace, not as
a God but merely as a man destined to be the ruler of men.

If we only had a King
We would have occasions to celebrate
His birthday, His conquests, His successes.
He would attend the festivities
Rejoice and engage all in his joviality
And we would laugh along knowing our
King was pleased and content with the world.

If we only had a King
We would have a sole representative
Who could see without blinders, who would
not want, and therefore could judge and administer
without tainted inducements.
Those beyond our borders would admire and fear his
capabilities and we would feel secure and safe in his circle.
He would provide the glue to hold the populace
As one entity obedient to their sovereign.

If we only had a King,
He would have allegiance from all the
Robin Hoods. He would aspire to their missions
and they would be leaders in his shadow.
He would believe by power in numbers and treat
his subjects as treasures that one by one make the Kingdom strong.
He would acknowledge the minorities but his wisdom is with
the power within the masses.

If we only had a King
We could have a Queen
We could have Princes and Princesses
and Knights with a round table
and Knaves and Pages and Jesters and Fools,
a King who would ride horses and play Polo.

(Postscript: These words were crafted in response to a letter written many years ago titled “Dear Charles…”, which remains unpublished.)

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I think I need a hardhat
One that keeps my brain,
From the nagging pain
Of inconsistent thoughts;
from contrary plots
that endlessly plunders life from my days.

I know I need a hardhat
To protect my head
From morning to bed,
From all the falling bombs
And sadistic calms
That endlessly promise my life malaise.

I could use a blue hardhat
To protect my thoughts,
Mingling tingling lots
Of visual black and white;
numbing lack of sight
Ideas that keep me alive in my ways.

I have to have a hardhat
That sits on my head
In case it is said
That something might fall,
Or someone might call
When I am not piqued from callous cliches.

I need to have a hardhat
That shields my matter
From vacant natter.
Something indiscreet
Something incomplete
Or something that endlessly betrays.

I think I need a hardhat
One that keeps my brain
From the nagging pain
Of inconsistent thoughts
from contrary plots
that endlessly plunders life from my days.

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In Paddocks Corners

There stands an old petrol pump
dulled red in the sun
rust spreading
grass growing long
days growing short,
it stands like a expired sentinel
outside the old clapboard house
with the white picket fence
at the crossroads,
in Paddock

Across the road is a barn
weathered and beaten
not enough to hold the old Dodge truck
that peers out;
bulbous fenders and glass lamps
it’s colour forgotten
it’s purpose ended,
an endless wait on the corner
at the crossroads,
in Paddock.

And if Babe Ruth were to take his stance
and hit a ball,
(perhaps not too hard that is)
he may land it on the expressway
that passes by
with no exits
and no notice
of the crossroads that sit waiting,
in Paddock

And there is a field that was rich
with wheat or rye or barley or corn,
harboured cows or sheep;
that sits fallow, feeding weeds and foreign grass,
it changes from yellow to purple to white
with flowers of the wild competing, winning and losing.
and no one notices the void
at the crossroad that waits,
in Paddock

I am floating over the expressway and ahead I see
the sign and the frozen approach;
and as I draw near I am absorbed by the stillness
disappearing into the quiescence
that is comforting when the finale is close,
so close that one can be rendered part
of the lull that is the crossroad, the essence,
of Paddock.

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Fine Line

there is a fine line drawn
across the foundation of life.
it places no limit
on the pieces of your life
that hang out for all to see;

transposed by the air and the collective thoughts we share;
but we deny this link to humanity.
we are solitary, stiff, unyielding;
unwilling to move beyond the borders that we are.

Our flag of reason slaps in the wind of mediocrity
we will collectively perish if we do not agree to survive.

but we deprive;
we contrive ways to control, to siphon off the last remaining sparks of life;
extinguishing the light.
at the end of the tunnel
as the fine line flutters, yields to staccato and disappears.

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