Cheri, Mon Amour

Je t'adore pour toujours, mon amour.


Tu me manques, I miss you
when I forget to realize I'm doing it.


Je t'aime pour le temps-de-loup
et l'aube et la rosee. 


Through seasons and storms
and rain and mist, je t'adore.


J'aime tes baisers comme ils me
brosser les paupieres.


My skin seems to hum at
your whispering touch.


J'aime tes levres comme ils
chuchotent mon nom.


Your voice is like music (les cloches),
a thousand choirs.


J'aime les yeux comme ils 
regardent dans las mienne.


Glisten and speak,
and tell me every secret thing.


Je t'aime, je t'adore, 
pour toujours,
mon amour, mon amour.

On Top of the World

I don't notice the rock scrape my elbow as I press further over the edge, longing for breathable air through the crowded observation deck. I seem to have discovered a secret. The crowds are drawn to the brightest lights, the tawdriest spectacle, the other side of the observatory. But I like this view. Central park, dark now, is a gaping hole ripped out of the center of uptown Manhattan, and the smaller buildings cast a soft golden glow over everything else. It's amazing to me how people overlook this. Even my friends are shouting and laughing beside me. But it seems like their voices are fighting through water, distorted and disoriented and unclear. My eyes fill momentarily with tears for this city I will never forget, for hoping to always come back, and for the fact that these people, my friends, hardly know me. But he knows me. I know he does, because he doesn't make a gaudy display, interrupting my solitude. He simply touches my arm to let me know he's there. We stare at the golden haze. When we both know it's time, we face each other. His face is lit sideways by the lights of the lower decks, illuminating his dark eyes glimmering with the same tears as mine.


"How are you doing?" he asks, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.


"Fine--holding it together," I reply, searching him with my gesture as if to say and you? I place my hand on the side of his waist for barely more than a second. 


"Me too." We look at each other, understanding. 


I wonder how we look to people who don't know us. A tall, brunette boy with his hand on the arm of a slender girl in an elegant dress. She brushes a fleck of something off the shoulder of his pristine, grey jacket. They hold each others' eyes, cinnamon and cobalt. Then the moment passes, and they both know it's time to leave, bound for their homes separated by seemingly endless distances and oceans. But they stay close as they make their way through the crowd, eyes glistening. Perhaps they always will. 

Swings

Flying through the air,
the streetlamp illuminates
two laughing figures,
two friends, too old for this
childish pass-time,
yet evidently loving the moment.


My red skirt swirls around 
my knees as I fly too 
high, and catch my
breath in surprise,
my laughter doubling
at the familiar
childhood sensation of
trepidation and exhilaration.


Decisions, reality, life
are on hold and
my feet graze the
sand to slow my
momentum.


I sit, rocking slightly
like a pendulum,
craning my neck uncomfortably
to look at the unusually bright stars,
failing to see a pattern 
hidden therein.


Tonight, I am a kid again.


Tonight, reality: fuck off. 

There's a funny sort
of fuzzy feeling that
occurs, spontaneously,
halfway between a 
memory and a dream.


An odd, shimmering,
misty feeling,
impossible to name
or quantify. 


It defies gravity,
yet at the same time
it holds you to
the Earth's slippery
surface.


This is the home
of so many moments
in time, that slip
and whisper sinuously
past one another
in this vague 
dream-state.


So many fragments of
a shifting world
lurking and twisting,
half forgotten,
halfway between a memory
and a dream.

I Know

I know the dark.
I know sadness.
I know tears, pain, melancholy.
I know these things,
intimately,
like a lover whose
every contour I could
trace with my eyes closed.
I know these things intimately,
it's true, and I know
I am stronger.


Too strong, in fact, to
dwell in the darkened 
recesses of that confused inferno.
Too strong to yield,
and let it consume me,
as I once did-


But no more.


I know the dark, sadness,
tears, pain, melancholy.
I know these things.
And they are not as strong
as me. 

A Chronicle of Silence

First there are words of 
love and affection, of
undying devotion and loyalty.


These words fade, 
quickly enough I imagine,
leaving words of 
sadness and loss, of
enduring pain and loneliness.


Then there are new words,
words of hate and fire, of
consuming mistrust and vengeance. 


Then, defeated, they slink back
to where they were born. 
What words remain to be 
spoken? What else could possibly be
said?


This is the dusky, unclear world 
where words finally fade into silence.
When all the fight has gone out
like a snuffed candle,
a rapidly deflating tire, punctured
by a nail.


And really, in this twilight,
there is nothing left to say.
Nobody will understand hasty 
words anyway.


and nobody really wants 
to bother fighting, finding the words
to penetrate the icy 
silence, the eternal quiet
that endures when words,
precious, live-saving words,
cannot. 

Imperfections

There are fractures
on the surface, or course,
but also inside


right down to the very
core. A house of cards
fabricated from the
most fragile glass, ready to


topple down at the
merest hint of a
breeze. Fragility


and imperfections 
that have become such
second nature, glue 
always on hand 
to reconstruct the
frail foundation of our


existence. A leaning
tower of imprecise
oddities, jammed together,
hoping, someday, to


get it right.

Colour Fill

I sit, and watch.
People come and go,
slipping through me
in a haze
a phase
of endless days,
blurring together.


I sit, still and silent,
letting the storm of
days wash my thoughts
away,
so I stay.


I live, barely,
I breathe.


I sit, disconnected from 
the blurred world
around me.
Wondering...
Do they notice me here?


Colours blur together
like a long forgotten paints
on a slanted easel,
dripping through each other,
until they are nothing
but a meaningless melange
slipping down, down, down,
like rain,
gathering in the gutter,
touched by new drops,
swirling into new pictures
that mean nothing,
but change persistently,
none-the-less. 

Full Circle

Finally, the world breathes,
slows down, 
takes a moment to let the
buds of flowers yet to come
tentatively test the air.


The unassuming white clouds
drift listlessly by.


The new flowers watch 
as the sun takes over the sky,
blinding the world with her
hot, white heat.


The water offers scarce relief
from the unrelenting heat.
The glorious hotness 
causes the leave


to shrivel, lose their green
glow, and fall to the ground,
quilting the earth,
protecting it from the first
white flake fluttering from
the tumultuous grey sky. 


The street in the lamplight
is postcard perfect,
and magic sings from every
dazzling light, 
even as the cold increases.
biting hands and faces as
fireworks stain the sky.


The cold drags on eternally,
the drifts closing in on the sidewalk.


Slowly, people and birds
begin to sing again,
welcoming the rain that
feeds the seeds that have 
been without its life-sustaining
succulence for months.


The rain stops.
Finally, the world breathes,
slows down,
takes a moment to let the 
buds of flowers yet to come
tentatively test the air. 

In the Middle of a Crowded Room

Surrounded by space,

yet there’s no room to breathe.

Surrounded by people,

and there’s nobody to talk to.

All my false friends hold me

so close

and I’ve never felt so alone.

They smile, and pretend

we are so connected.

We aren’t, of course.

It’s all a sham,

all a lie,

nothing’s real after all.

There’s a loop,

but I’m not in it.

I never was, and

somehow, I don’t think

I ever will be.

Once upon a daydream,

I was surrounded by people

who knew me,

and who I knew

just by looking at them.

But it was only a daydream,

only a memory.

Gone, before

I could suck the sweet

nectar from its

blossom.

Liar, Liar

Who do you think you're fooling?


The lies that perhaps 
seemed flawless
are now decaying,
exposing gaping holes,
like yesterday's 
moldy fruit.


You're diseased,
infected with falsehoods,
until you are 
nothing more than
a precarious tower
of lies, upon which
you base your existence.


We can see through you,
to your parts.


Once, you may 
have been able to 
charm your way through life.


But now


it's only a matter of 
time before your
world crashes and burns
and we step over 
the pieces.

Black Holes

It doesn't come from other things. It comes from you. It's a swirling vortex of grey sickness that is all-consuming. 


If you went into a black hole, people say your body would be wrenched limb from limb--disintegrate in the vacuum... They're wrong. I know where black holes lead. The swirling black void leads straight into a soul that knows darkness. So people that fall into black holes lose themselves, and become part of the soul they decide to torture, pulling it in a thousand different directions so that the person becomes a tentative holding place for the turmoil within--a fragile breeding ground for sorrow, and your worst nightmares. 


Try, and try, and fail to swallow everything, push it aside, cry out every voice so that the black hole will disappear, and you will be able to hear yourself think again. People who fall into black holes aren't people any longer. They come out at the other end, in some unhappy soul, and begin to swirl and dance, a tenuous, melancholy promenade around and around just under the heart and above the stomach, pulling everything into somewhere that it isn't supposed to be, melting their carrier into a twisted mess, that no longer resembles the vibrant whole that once existed there. 

After The Turn of The Seasons

It's hard to live here. Nothing else does. Everything is white, or grey. Except the lake. The lake is obsidian glass, as dark and murky as it is unforgiving. But the worst part is the stillness. Nothing moves. The trees don't settle. The snow seems to hang in the air, suspended on a breath from long ago. There are no bird to sing, no animals to jump, no life. Just a vast expanse of endless stillness and emptiness. Not waiting for anything, simply austere and unwelcoming. It doesn't want anything or anybody to disturb it. It's a picture from a book. Just a painting. A hundred thousand paintings of the same scene revolving slowly, letting the stillness hang, and cling to our bones. 


Until the footprints. The first footprints break the crispy surface, and suddenly it is a wonderland. The snow frosts the trees, a thousand bright diamonds glittering when the sun breaks through to cast our shadows on the icy terrain. Suddenly, it is our friend. It lives and breathes for us and because of us. It lends us weapons when we need them, holds us close to it, like a friend, a warm blanket, welcome after a long day. An old friend. Perhaps forgotten, but never fully left behind.

At The Turn of The Seasons

Fall hangs in the frosty air.
The leaves have fallen,
the world waits for a breaking point.


The grey dancers loom overhead,
foretelling what is to come.


Fall hangs on the trees like
tinsel,
on hair like water,
on our bones. 


It stands silent, poised and 
unmoving.


Waiting for something to 
shatter the calculated surface.

Wilted

A rose,
a whisper in the folds of time
so fragile in its
instantaneous existence


a picture of perfection.
No flaws mar the the crimson petals.
But the wind blows
            dead leaves in circles.
The once-brilliant petals
shrivel up 
and turn grey
and die.


The cold wind rattles trees
and bones
and death comes,
leaving the rose wilted.


Fragile beauty does not last.


It fades 
and disappears
and shh
shh
shh.....

Separation Song

It starts small, slowly.

the imperceptible fissure that will

destroy everything.

It spider webs out from

its tiny origin,

slowly turning into a mosaic.

When the light hits it,

it splits into a thousand rainbows,

glowing through the gap.

One day,

something will be too much for it,

and it will crumble, 

from the weakest point,

suddenly,

and without warning.

The gap will be filled

with the distance between

the pieces.

The distance that was never there?

Except, perhaps, it was

always there and we were

unwilling to see it.

Holding

My body is not your toy.

I am not your playground,
you do not get to
delve in too deep
with sweet words and
a charming smile,
and then strand me
in the cold
alone and shaken
to curl up into
the fetal position
and try to hold
myself together.

My body, feelings, heart
cannot be something
you use and destroy
at random.

I am not a doll
to be played with,
enjoyed, and
carelessly discarded.

I feel violated.
You know too much
and I feel sick.
There is bile in
my tear ducts
and tears in
my abdomen.

I'm holding myself together.

You don't get to know
these things about me.

I won't let you.

I won't ever let you
in that far again.

Unnatural

Poetry does not exist
in nature.
It does not spontaneously
occur amidst
the grasses
caught on the wings
of a gentle summer
breeze.


Life does not flow,
not like poems.


Life james together,
falling as easily 
into place as
deformed puzzle pieces,
clashing, and banging,
and awkwardly clinging
to the fabric of its
own existence.


That is not poetry.


That is slamming 
a hammer down on 
an ancient piano and listening
to the crashing chord
mingle with the splintering wood.


And that is not what I
consider to be poetry.

Le Temps de Loup

Twilight.
A felt hesitation
as the sun pauses
uncertainly, soaking
the sky in an eerie
blue-green hue.


A silence,
even while the city
breathes and pulses.
A moment of 
stillness and 
hope and
desire,
gone, even before
it is fully formed.


Le temps de loup.


The hour of the 
wolf, shouting his
pitiful, sorrowful cry,
calling the shy moon,
breaking the silence.


The frozen moment
is over.
Daytime hides from
the wolf with the
amber eyes.


Dark...
Dark...
Dark...
Until dawn.

Friend

Lately,
you seem unhappy.
You occupy your time
evading and avoiding.


Is it just me?
Do I see darkness
because I am 
possessed by it?


You tone is bitter,
annoyed, even though
life is just happening,
as it often does.


Am I annoyed 
because in your actions
I see myself?
My own selfish motives?
Jealousy, anxiety or
sadness?


Slowly, 
your pessimism is
infecting me.


Being a pessimist
by nature,
my fight for optimism
is an uphill,
losing battle.
It is pre-determined 
that I will lose 
to it.


It makes me unhappy
to see your thoughts
squirreling around
in endless circles.


It comes far too close
to reminding me of
the tangled, confused
stated of my own.

Maybe Not

Maybe not.


There are no bells.
No white horses.
No roses at my door.


But,
does that even matter?


Things,
chariots, diamonds,
meaningless displays of
affected emotion. 


(hollow)


And, so


maybe. 

not a rose

you exist,
but only in my mind.
the you I fell for,
I mean.


the real you is
unrecognizable.
if I passed you in the 
busy street somewhere,
I would have to 
call you by a
different name.


but you are 
not a rose,
you do not 
smell as sweet.


I do not want you.
I want the you 
who sends roses.
I want the you
I wish you were.

(no) Words

...and the world stops.

Sprinkler drops hang in the air,

the sun glinting upon them

like a thousand rainbow stars. 

The clock freezes at the

infinitesimal moment

between seconds.

The sun focuses on us,

a spotlight.

All I want is to lose myself

in you.

To taste you,

inhale you,

consume you,

and give you everything.

We are things,

one thing,

amidst an

infinitely large expanse.

But sprinkler drops must fall,

stars must burn out,

the seconds must tick by,

consumed in their own mediocrity.

Two things,

alike

and distinct,

separated by an abyss

too huge and unfathomable

for words.

In The Bunker

Looking out the bunker window, it can feel like home, in a way. The dingy floral curtains frame the scene outside, reminding of grandma's house. But outside, it isn't home. Everything is still and silent. The cold stings your skin, and will eventually take hold of your bones. The brief sun catches the snow, a blinding symphony of light and silence. The frozen lake is restless under the ice, the dark, dangerous waters anxious to escape their confines. They are alive--endless and unforgiving. 


The few hours of daylight are precious, and often slide by, slipping through our fingers like sand through an hourglass, disappearing into the night--the darkness. Suddenly it is a different world. The silence is all-consuming, the darkness is thick enough to be tangible, pressing on every fibre of our bodies, holding us down. Everything is grey. There is no colour, no movement, except those obsidian waters, seeking prey, always waiting to take, unmoved by love or pleading. They twist and turn to some kind of sinister dance, calling, sighing, silently.


Once, we were a we, marveling at the light, and dark, the silence, and the clarity. You can see for miles in the sun, and everything is constant and unchanging. In the sun, seeing the ice, for just a few moments we are a we again, and this is home. Until the memories twist in, wrapping my consciousness in an icy veil, ceaselessly crushing, unyielding.


I remember that day. The silence was heavy with expectancy, waiting for something to happen. The sun was just a line of fire on the horizon, casting strange shadows on the strangely formed ice. I remember the sound of splintering, and the yell, as if I were hearing it from underwater, distant and delayed. But I knew something was wrong the moment it was no longer silent. Suddenly, the world was disturbed, touched, marked forever with blood. I tried to run. It was like running through sand. Every nerve in my body was firing, every muscle was fighting, but the dark lake was an eternity away. Finally I knelt by the water, filling the twisting black void with my own salty tears. 


He was a rose, trying to find roots in the ice, in me. Thriving in the sun, wilting in the silent stillness. He was my light, my colour, my waltz with destiny. But even a rose cannot be beautiful forever. A rose does not adapt. And there was another waltz more captivating than mine in those twisting waters, so cruel and unforgiving, even for a beautiful, fragile, red, blood-red, rose. 

Gold

I remember a golden glow
and happiness.
I remember laughing, smiling,
loving as though tomorrow
would never come.
I remember golden leaves 
dripping from gilded trees,
pooling in a glittering puddle,
waiting for young lovers'
toes to disturb it,
dipping toes and
running,
leaving everywhere we go
a trail of gold.


But
nothing gold can stay.
Too soon,
always too soon,
the golden haze fades away.
Disappears,
leaving only cold 
and grey
tomorrow.
In gold, we glowed.
In grey, we exist.
Goodbye, sweet gold.


Goodbye.

NYC

The streets are busy
and impatient.
Polished crimson nails
click against a 
cellphone jammed uncomfortably 
against an ear.


People jostle across 
the intersection.
fighting to get to the still-red light 
on the other side,
anxious to get there
before the glaring walk-sign
shows its ugly face.


It's loud. 
Conversations on all sides,
no thought of privacy.
No one conversation 
in distinguishable through
the all-consuming babble.
Heads butt against each other.
They might argue the same side,
maybe opposite.
Nobody really cares,
as long as they have 
somebody to tango with.


Everywhere smells
like urine and
expectations. 


Tall buildings glitter among the stars
at night, against
the blacker-than-black sky.


It is song and dance.
The whole city has its
own kind of music.
This is my city.


I fucking love New York. 

Kangaroo Jack

It was another mother-daughter shopping expedition. He materialized, as if by magic, out of some darkened crevice in the city's underbelly.


"Hi. I'm Kangaroo Jack," he says in a poor imitation of an Australian accent. A scathing remark comes to my tongue (telling him not to put on a terrible fake accent when talking to real Australians, said in my own flawless Aussie tongue), but I swallow it. It tastes like bile. We turn into a shop. Maybe he'll leave. He doesn't. He follows us, telling us about the kangaroos he keeps hidden in cages underneath the sidewalk.


And suddenly, I want to laugh. I want to laugh for pity, for the ludicrous situation, for my own anxiety. The laughter bubbles up like yesterday's sour milk, unwelcome and inappropriate. I bite my lip and tuck my face into a rack of clothes to hide it. When he asks my name, I tell him it's Candy Cane. I can hardly restrain my giggles. The situation seems beyond hilarious-almost hysterical. 


Finally, he asks if we want him to leave. After what feels like an eternity of emphatic encouragement, he finally does. We are left to peruse. Bright colours and frills soon replace anxiety. 


He is all but forgotten, a lurking shadow in the cob-webbed recesses of my subconscious, nothing more than the fragile wisps of a barely remembered nightmare.

Storyteller

He sits,
spinning golden
stories into the 
air.
Warm, like
a blanket in 
front of a 
blazing fire, and
just as comforting.


Stories of magic
and delight
and love and
every other 
fantastical,
spectacular thing.


His spinning wheel
is well-loved,
his loom waits patiently,
to weave 
his golden stories
into fabric
to cling to
on a cold
winter's night. 

Still

The sun will still
rise
and shine.
The flowers,
lilies, roses, tulips, orchids, daffodils,
will still bloom, 
opening wide their
trusting arms.
The birds will still
sing,
heralding in springtime,
serenading the dancing,
breathing world.


Life goes on.


It will go on,
and we will go on.
After the darkness,
so obsidian it is
tangible,
it fights back,
like water,
there will be a glimmer.
The darkness will be
thinned by a 
fragile ray of
hope.
We will draw in 
a breath


and the sun will still
rise.