Thirty-seven years later,

And he stands there,

Still.

As my wheels make a circle,

On the gravel of his no where. 

Bags in hand,

Without explanation or sorrow,

Yet he manages to smile,

In that broken-hearted way,

Of a boy,

Who is a man.

Because he has never learned to trace,

The path of his tears,

Which fall onto our window,

I stare out of for days.

I listen for his footsteps,

Which echo,

Inside the temple of my rage,

Because I cannot cry.

Only silently trace,

With tightly held fingers,

The outline of my heart,

On this cold winter’s pane.

With a band of gold,

Which has frozen the lock,

On this rusty door.

Chasing down pills with

A bottle of wine.

Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherised upon a table; 
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats       
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 
Streets that follow like a tedious argument 
Of insidious intent 
To lead you to an overwhelming question …         
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” 
Let us go and make our visit. 
 
In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

I have two selves. The public self and the hidden self. Only a few people know of this hidden self, most people don’t really know me.  Perhaps I don’t really know myself?  I catch a glimpse of myself when I write, because of the burden to release my emotions. The drive to express them through the written word and especially by writing poetry. I feel emotionally empty when I am not expressing my thoughts. I am a survivor though. Yes, I write. But publicly I teach, manage people, change lives and attempt to get through my own life as successfully as possible (doesn’t always work).

Privately, I dream and imagine a better world and wonder how I can accomplish that in the very short time we have on earth. Each person has the capacity to make a difference but very few can or are able to, and I have spent a lifetime battling the personal chaos that is my life. I use the ocean as a metaphor because of its powerful imagery. We sail along the surface, keeping ourselves from drowning, from sinking below the surface. We struggle valiantly to stop ourselves from sinking into the depths. But perhaps by allowing ourselves to drown, to stop being afraid of the bottom, to free ourselves from fear then perhaps there would be growth and enlightenment? But that is a risk so few of us are willing to chance and so we live our lives not free but shackled under all sorts of pressures and expectations. And we become lost because we have forgotten who we are as individuals.

Thomas Huxley once said, “sit down before fact like a little child, and be prepared to give up every preconceived notion. Follow humbly wherever and to whatever abyss Nature leads, or you shall learn nothing.”  I like this quote and yet so few of us can remember being such clean slates. I try to remember when I meet new people that they are like the ocean. I only see the surface, but below that surface are depths that I may never be privy to, and I try to remember that perhaps they too are trying their utmost to remain on the surface and that they too are trying their best to not drown.

Your breath enters me,

Softly,

As a breeze may,

On a warm summer day.

Re-kindling what was

Lost,

Into the tides of time.

Your voice,

A soft whisper,

Which remembers.

Something infinite,

As the sands are infinite,

In the arms of the water,

That dance forever.   

These tides,

Which bring the pearl,

Towards the center,

Of me.

Awaiting something beautiful,

To come of this,

With time.

For we are these tides,

Endlessly meeting,

Forever wanting,

Yet never reaching,

What was yours and mine.

Your eyes wander now,

With someone else,

Wishing.

I exist now only,

In the faces,

Of others,

Because you remember.

Your restless body gives it away,

Along with the dreams,

Which keep you awake at night.

I am no longer here,

And you no longer know,

And so we are even.

Denouement was never ours,

My love.

This poem is dedicated to my complex neuropsychiatric patients who are teaching me the meaning of life, the complexities of the brain and the unwillingness of the soul to let go of this thing we take for granted, life. This population is very under-researched and presently without adequate medical and psychosocial treatment and intervention presently available to other widely accepted medical conditions such as Alzheimers disease. It is my hope that with research and funding, this complex niche of people will be afforded a much better standard of living than they presently experience.

Blue and Orange,

Primary colors she said.

Her eyes seeing,

Only the halo,

Laying prostrate,

Upon the prayers,

Of my eternal dream.

Her eyes,

Frozen,

Wide,

In that ocean,

Of forever,

That once,

Was.  

She, a girl,

Tempered,

By the winds of chance,

Which brings judgment,

To the misunderstood.

And so we stand here,

In the silence,

Of dreams,

Which hang silent,

Upon the white walls,

Of destiny.  

Salvation,

Never coming,

To those,

Who chose.

Only prayers for that,

Which will never be,

The same,

Again.

 It was there, 

In the sound of the wind,

A fading memory,

Lost to the forgotten shadows,

Of time.  

 And still you whisper to me,

Quietly,

As footsteps do,

Where your name,

Once existed,

Beside mine.

Hands circling,

The rose,

You once held,

Now tinted with age,

As we are. 

And still,

I remember you,

As a child remembers,

The rose-hue fragrance,

And warmth,

Of a sweet embrace.   

My hands,

Forever folded,

Around the stem,

Where the petals,

Have fallen,

Into the winds of time.

Mmmm…..The use of technology and the computer for writing purposes is both a blessing and a curse. It is far more efficient than pen and paper, and fewer trees are sacrificed for posterity. And of course the lap top is far easier to use than those monoliths of the past, the old-fashioned typewriter.

I remember having to take typing lessons in High School under the rubric of Home Economics or Business, and at the time thinking this wasn’t going to contribute to a cutting edge skill set needed for gainful employment….

I can still remember the typing teacher as a colourful, hip-swaying individual with a soprano’s voice yelling, “keep going!” until our fingers would drop off or our knuckles tapped by a malevolent ruler. Back in those days corporeal punishment was still in effect and student discipline was encouraged. But I digress. 

The problem with using a computer is always having to back up your work.  I remember being in Sydney and having a spectacular computer crash.  I was working on three papers at the time and lost a significant amount of research. It was a Monday morning and I thought the world had come to a stand still. I now have a colourful assortment of memory sticks to choose from at any given time.  

Ah, technology, you have to love it. So I have written a few funny lines for those who are slaves to the writing craft.

Green lines mar the pristine white,

A squiggly mess,

On an unpublished masterpiece.

What shameful disregard for perfection!

The lines get removed with abandon,

Despite incorrect grammar.

This insolent reminding,

Of my inferiority complex,

Requires a hammer.

They trail in the wreckage,

Poor souls,

Their fading footprints,

Found on dusty photos,

Behind the Royal Doulton

Figurines. 

I have dressed them in suits and ties,

Some against their will.

Men look best that way I figure,

What with their straight lines,

And small hips.

They had taken me out to dinner,

And I had kissed them occasionally,

When the right moment struck,

Not very often.

We would dance until dawn,

Drunken stumbling aside,

Head over heels, deliriously happy,

They were.

Without realizing,

The inevitable crash into oblivion,

Would leave hearts trailing in the

Dust like so many rattling,

Tin cans.

All things happen for a reason. There are no mistakes in life. I have been fortunate enough in my life to meet and form relationships with people who have made a real difference in my life, sometimes very obviously and at other times more mysteriously.

I have always chosen the “road less traveled”.  And have at times wondered if I had chosen wisely. But in the end, I realize, that all was meant to be and I was wiser and more enriched for the experience or by the relationship.

This next poem, called, “Transcendence”,  is dedicated to an individual who is both my polar opposite and also a kindred spirit. Can they both exist at the same time?   

Transcendent bonds can both teach and transform us, helping us to realize the true meaning of love and commitment.  The kind of love that is predetermined and for which, for better or for worse, becomes our destiny. I hope you enjoy “Transcendence”.

In time comes transformation,

By convergence,

A light cord joined by unknown,

Forces,

Moving towards,

The center.

In dreams all possibilities exist,

Transcendence,

The polarities of which,

Unite the infinite,

Creating the improbability,

By which you and I,

Exist.