1989

Chapter Two: 1989
              Song like the Beetles would sing it about a person dying after WWIII;
created in the tub.

        Hello Yellow Swan
                                    Yellow Swan
                                    Yellow Swan

                          Hello Yellow Swan
                                    Yellow Swan
                                    Yellow Swan

                          Won’t you come to tea
                           We’ll have it in the tree
In the tree that has fallen
down
down
down
Untitled
Who is the girl
that lives behind my shoulder?
Where does she come from
Why does she love me

I can see me singing inside
A silent tune that is shouting
out loud.
Louder than the sea on the sand.

My eyes are blind
I can not see. I
have not my specs with me.
I have not got my specks
with me!

Afterwards
These ears hear all sounds
And the eyes see the sights
My nose smells the
Smells of the world.
And my mouth tastes its foods.
My hands — oh these
Hands feel sensations
Sometimes if you’re self –
Involved you may think
The world is piling too much
On you.
But, these hands can create for you
This mouth can sway a nation
This nose can wrinkle in
Disgust and the ears
Pull back and tense.
And my eyes — oh my
Eyes show you my soul.



            Song for all the blacks I don’t know and the Civil Rights movement.

        When you’re walkin’ the streets
And you get the look you’re wrong
Nobody’s gonna greet you
And believe in your song.

You’re an Alien with Power
They are afraid — that gives you strength.
This is Your shining hour
Show them what you mean.

Show your beauty
Your freedom and your love
Its like a blinding light
That they tried to cage
But now you are marching out
Let me hear your freedom shout.

Are you a cat that’s gonna scratch me.
Or some transcendental spirit.
Are you a people fighting collectively
Are you this nation’s hidden spirit?

I want to have your intensity
I want to break down and cry with emotion
But it’s more than the colour of our skin.
You are better, and you know it.

In my room
My deflated underwear
are scattered across the room.

The more I write the harder it
is to speak.

My oversized lampshade
will one day burn down the room.

I had tried to make a good start.

I have my old dragon Pot
to smile down the gloom

And my dad to spread
ashes of doom.

My mother whose fleeting white wings deceive.

Her plants that slowly
lose their leaves.

        Social non-conformity!       
Strangely enough
    I feel tired of these petty cycles

Of the answers we find
    in the neat little files

I feel sick to think of this
    boring life

Of my house and my clothes
    of my dad and his wife.

The reasons for my actions are
    so readable.

This steam-training through life
    so unfeelable.

I want mystery and romance,
    cobwebs and dust

But when its all done and through,
    I believe in nothing.



Interest
is pricking me,
sticking me
flicking me
Molesting me
Testing me
Besting me.

Lynching the witch
Screech in the centre
Of a circle made of
Cruel people
Who are poking at you
With their brambles and sticks.

The sky is grey and
No clouds have silver linings.
Your soul is the pit,
Enshrouded, at the centre
Of a wounded fruit.

You are looking out at
Those leering, sneering faces.
They are spitting, hating you.
You are totally
Alone.

A black crow
flies over the crown of
a lifeless tree.
The group is standing
in a shallow hollow
of this barren land.

The rocks are covered
With frozen lichen
The people are dressed
in black.
For your funeral.

The little seed
that is your soul
is stagnant
it will never break out
like it has countless times
in your dreams.

You are caught
Screeching, in the centre
Of this circle
Of  people who are poking,
hating you.

You are caught,
In a cage.
This moment is timeless.
As your soul leaves your body
You watch the crow.

You are caught
On the tails of a crow
You are flying!
You see a circle of people
below.

They are poking
At a crumpled heap.
They finish — pointless.
They file away, leaving the heap in the dust.
You are flying.
You pity the people
As their silhouettes disappear
Over the horizon.

to trevor
Muddy,
My Mind is Muddy
Floundering,
I’m searching for the right
Words
To say to you.
Wishing,
I could make things be
The Way
they were before.
Wanting
Us to be on the same level.
Like,
we were before.

Untitled
Ah!
I just want to break away!
Please,
Show me how.
Help me
before I blow
Because
I am frustrated and fed up.
HERE
I am alone in my room.
here
I am alone in a crowd
Of familiar strangers
Who have never known me
Even though
They all think they do.
They make a web to net me in.
Block my vision to a better place.
Please
Show me how to get out
Without hurting any
Of these stagnant but familiar strangers.

Bottled doves
There is a scream caged inside of me
Like so many wing-clipped birds.
That flutter and flap in their pointless boxes
Of everyday, grey life.

Their cycles are going in circles
That ever so gently slope
Down to destruction.
The intricate web is being woven,
The delicate net of times untold!

Slowly, softly, I follow it down
Because there is no way
for me to break free.
I am caught in the ropes that tug and try
To tempt me down to hell.

I will grab for Nirvannah; the ultimate shore
The rim around this swirling cesspool of endless bodies.
But the one push I need is a scream
That is tightly locked and caged inside me.

Untitled
My inner soul
Was in the dark
And no one noticed
It howl and bark
Squander the wind
Or fly in the night
Drown in the muck
Cringe with fright
At times almost lost
But denial to see
Saved it from perishing
In that inner sea
Of emotion and hate
And wanting hopelessly
To hold her again
Next to me.

Oh how lovely
to be a star
Alone in the darkness
Of near and far
I’d give my right arm
To be up that high
And dance with the shadows
That thrive in the sky.



        See death pour out of
Everyone’s little black pipes.
See the red flags of glory
Smother the golden rule

The following poems were written for school English class, Grade 9

Art poem: Chichester Canal
The morning sun is dawning
Turning the English landscape to gold.
The trees blowing gently,
The waves rippling quietly.
The stark silhouette of a Spanish ship
Is intriguing and mysterious.
Oh how the curious mind
Of a child from a small town
Can dream of sailing the open sea
With pirates, littered with riches and rum.
So far away from the land one’s always known.
But does this young mind stop to think
Of the things it’s leaving behind?

Abstract/Concrete poems
RESTING is…
Floating on a cloud
Flying away
A desert island
The water of life
A few minutes of peace.

SEEING is….
A mirror breaking
Dreams shattering
An animal being run over by a car
Primary data
Believing, but not wanting to.

Alphabet Poem: My Thoughts As I Walk.
Am I in a dream
Beneath a sheltering
Crown of everlasting
Deciduous trees?
Eternity is now,
Forever holding me.
God seems closer to me here as I look into the
Heavens above.
I look down and see
Junk thrown on the ground.  I pick it up.
Kindness.
Loving.
Never have I felt so at
One with myself.
People in the city should enjoy their
Quickly ending lives.
Relax.
Sun slants through the leaves.  We need these
Trees but we will poison them
Until they have all died.
Victory goes to the human race as the
Wind sweeps its remains away.

Newspaper Poem:
The contribution of Immigrants and refugees to Toronto’s economic and cultural wealth will be discussed at a conference next Tuesday sponsored by the Mayor’s Committee on Community and Race Relations.  The conference takes place in the council chamber at city hall from 9 a.m. to 4.45 p.m. Registration is required.  The Toronto Star

A handful of men have come
With the dawn.
Not your ordinary citified people.
They are wearing togas and tea leaves.
They are surrounded by
Styrofoam coffee cups.
They find themselves trapped
In a styrofoam room.
A woman with chemically induced curls
Confronts them
“We are here to discuss the contribution
of refugees and Immigrants to Toronto’s
economic and cultural wealth.”
There is no translator in the room.
The meeting is canceled

Simile: In The Cafeteria On A Hot Day

This cafeteria is like
A sty!
A pig pen!
A stagnating, yellow cage!
They must think we’re crazy
Like rabid foxes
To shut us up in a
Box like this.
We must be crazy
Like a rabbit stung by a bee,
A claustrophobic stuck in an elevator,
A traffic jam in Los Angeles,
Like starving wolves
Like a baby with diaper rash,
A cat in the dog pound
Or a rock musician at a math convention!
We must be crazy, hyper kids
Shut in a sty to act the way we do
In the cafeteria.