Archeology

I comb through the ruins
like an archeologist eager
to find the answers, looking
for signs in the dust that
offer the why, the how,
and the who. And the site
that marks the destruction
of "us" tells the story so
clear. Your reasons are
etched into the fibre of
your character, always
protecting and shielding
others from the beautiful
turmoil in your mind.
Oh it seems like you've
forgotten the day you told
me you loved me, the letters
and the flowers, the little
momentos and the way
you would stare into my
eyes and just whisper how
beautiful I was to you.
And since I would have
chosen to patiently walk
beside you through every
dark valley, had I been given
the chance, and loved you with
a quiet love, that lets you free
and lets you think, I have to
conclude that it was not I,
that destroyed this wonderful
gift, but you. You let go
of my hand and chose to
go through the war alone,
when you've always wanted
someone to know the very
depths of your wild heart,
We had seen bigger catastrophes
and weathered more treacherous
storms, but you through away
our love, and me, along with it.

Birds

My friend, I know he wants
your mind, he wants your
heart and the blood in your
viens, and he wants your hands
and your feet, your drive and
your will. He wants you to
bend to his darkness,
collapse under the weight
of the sin that he reminds you
of constantly, replaying
behind your eyes like a movie,
clear and detailed, he whispers
your thoughts, the ones you
suppress, but he knows, oh
he knows. And my friend,
I need you to see that he's
driving you into the cave
of your own head, isolating
you from the life that you have,
and magnifying your every fault,
shaming you for your humanity,
your unavoidable imperfection
and pulling you away from every
good and wonderful thing you
ever cherished, he's stealing
your joy, and selling you lies.

My friend, how much more
do you pray?

Emerald

Weeks until I touch the
ground of the only place
that has ever taken me as
its own. The only place
where I have danced in
the rain without looking
foolish, and seen the stars
unfold like a quilt, pulled
down from the attic. And
it's all I can do right now,
to hope in those weeks of
retreat, where I can stand
full and complete in who
I know I am, without fear
that it'll in some way be
perceived incorrectly.

How I long to be
bright again.

War

His lies are simple and easy,

swallowed without much 

difficulty, accepted without 

much push-back, and I only 

see the truth for what it is 

from the bottom looking up. 

He whispers oh-so quietly 

into my ears when I'm not 

paying attention, preying on 

my idleness, his only aim is

to suck the life out of me. He 

tells me I'm repulsive and 

underwhelming, the sole 

reason you've had to walk

away, and that I'm too 

weak-eyed and spineless 

for you to have ever cared 

for me at all. Undeserving 

and unworthy of you, and 

not enough to help you 

through. He rails on me as 

if he fears what I would do 

if I were allowed to stand up, 

and from the ground I only 

see the pure hatred in his eyes, 

drawing me into his deceit so 

convincingly, and he mocks 

the deepest parts of my soul.
With every day he tells me
you never wanted me at all,
and with every morning he
reminds me of the rejection and
its sting. He tells me your 

words are lies, he promises me
my opinion of you is false,
and he says that I'll always be alone. 

In a life of relational equations 

that always end up in the red, 

he tells me that I'm the common 

denominator. And I know, it's 

only the weakness in me and 

the cunning in him that stops 

me from seeing the truth. 

I promise that I'm trying.

Cold

There are days when only 

tea, and The Scientist 

will do. Through my 

tears and my cup of 

cream earl grey I sing 

"I'm going back to the start."

Tennis

The ball taps the pavement
on your side of this line,
acting as the metronome
to which you make your
next steps, while I am left
with no pace or way to
mark the time. My side of
this court contains nothing
but the wildness of my own
heart, and the chaos of
emotions too big for my
little body to handle, and
I enviously watch you
calculate your every movement
in order, and with thought.
You pick up the phone,
knowing I'm waiting on the
line, but you put it down again,
knowing it's not time,
knowing you're not quite
there yet, and I anxiously
wait for the call that might
never come.

I am strong,
I am strong,
I am strong.

Submarine

Today I caught
a middle-aged bald man
wearing your green
plaid shirt. You know,
my favourite one, with
the pocket over your
heart. He sat in our
usual seat on the subway
from St. George to
Bloor, reading the paper.
I couldn't think of anything
else but the smell of
your green plaid shirt,
and the way your eyes
shone when you looked
at me, holding my hand
as we arrived at the
interchange station,
and the smile on your
face as I shot you my
funny looks. He turned
the pages of the newspaper
while the announcer said
"arriving at Bay, Bay station"
and as he got up to leave
I could do nothing but stare
at his empty seat.

And you were gone.

Paul

Tell me of a single man,
from Genesis to Revelation
that was properly equipped
for his task? Pin point every
instance, where he was
perfectly ready for the call
to which he was given?
Explain to me how he was
wholly able to fulfill his
responsibilities. Because
all I see are pictures of
men who were human and
broken, fallen and completely
incomplete. I see a picture of
David, just a boy with a
handful of stones, and I
see Moses unable to speak
and I see Jacob afraid and
on the run, and I see Paul,
poor and wandering, rejected
and downcast. What makes
you think the Twelve had any
time to prepare for the most
arduous task when Christ asked
them to follow immediately?
When has our God ever been
in the business of calling us to
task "when we're ready?"
But you, you assume the need
for perfection in spades, for
readiness that is only ideal,
and because of the blindness
of your own mind you have
undone your responsibilities,
taken away from your maturity,
let go of your support,
and told God "you're just not ready".

And I sit here and pray with ferocity
that He shows you you're trusting a lie.

Consolation

As my chest rips open again
I beg You to hold me
closer
than you've ever held me
before,
because this sort of confusion
and unrest has never been so
potent.
And you lull me to sleep again
promising
that everything will make sense
in Your time.
You tell me it's not I that has to
see,
not I that has to be
changed,
but it is I that has to
trust.

Trust,
that You are good.

Ice Cream

He took your letters
from my hands, as
I sobbed into the
placemat. He told
me I wasn't allowed
to have them back.
And I just cried as
he put them in his
pocket and he said
"I know, I know."
And the anger in his
eyes, the confusion
and the frustration
towards you was
the perfect picture
of what my own
heart must look like,
and he told me it was
okay to want you back.
But then he said
if you didn't want
me back, then the regret
would last you a lifetime.

And through my tears I prayed,
for the strength to believe that.

Alarm

Even though I must refrain
from dialling your number
at 6:30am, I wake up on
my own, nonetheless, waiting
to hear your groggy morning
voice once again. And in these
days of absolute desperation
and aching, it takes all the
strength in me to lift you up
to someone greater, in order
to control the endless sobbing
and unimaginable pain. So
even though you sleep past
7 and have forgotten the
beauty we'd share at
daybreak and sunset,
I cling to the early morning,
lift my hands to the heavens,
let out all the tears my eyes have left,
and pray for you.
For your peace.
For your clarity.
For you to remember.

For the strength
to get through the day.

Blanket

I push back against the
morning because the
truth has never hit me
so hard before, and I'm
tired of soaking the pillow
case, and I'm running out
of Kleenex. I shove yesterday
out with the fleece blanket,
pulling it over my head to
be covered by you, praying
for the ability to wake up,
praying for the strength to
remember, praying for you
to know how little I want to
live like this, and my chest
aches right in the middle.
I tore it open as you walked
away and let you steal the
most precious thing I have
to give, and now I don't
walk around with life in me.
It is only grace that keeps me
breathing, only mercy that keeps
me upright, and only forgiveness
that pushes me to hope.

And I am awake.

The Fatherless in York

I wonder if he'd see

his mothers brown eyes 

when he looked at me 

and know that I was 

his, or if he would 

notice my crooked smile

and know the only other 

place he's seen that was in 

his high school graduation photo. 

I wonder if he saw me on the subway 

and thought he'd seen me 

somewhere before. Or if 

he thought back to the 

woman he spent a night with 

some 22 years ago 

and wondered if I were 

the evidence. I wonder if 

he entertains the thought of 

walking the same streets as me, 

or if he pushes my existence 

out of his mind. 

Most of all, I wonder 

if he wonders about me at all. 

The Gardner

Plant me in that perfect 

place, where my hands 

first met yours in our 

innocence, where our

hearts aligned and danced

until the morning. Root 

me in the meadow that 

is only meant for you 

and me, where no other 

feet have trod, no other 

name has been whispered, 

where only our love is 

known by the trees. There 

I will flourish under your 

sun, protected by the shade 

only meant for me, watered 

by the words you save, 

nourished by the time you 

invest. Fence me in, 

let me be wild in the confines 

of your heart, and keep me 

forever by your side. 

Cashier

My till is short by
about three hours
and thirty cents
and I know I
counted everything
two and three
times, but my
balance is still
off. Tell me where
the time went,
my dear, because
I'm still here with
the phone off the
hook waiting for
the dial tone to
stop, but it never
seems to end. And
I'm not okay with
this aching, not
okay with this
breaking, and when
my hands never
reach yours, as
far as they stretch,
I'm not okay with
this distance.

I'm not
okay.

To Sleep

If you read my poems
you would know.
I know you haven't,
because of your aching
silence. You've stopped.
And I hope to God
there's a reason why.

Blush

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
before they're doubled
over
with their pretty little
heads
breaking their little
necks,
beaten by the rain,
overwatered
after too much neglect.

They were ever so
perfect
when you planted them,
good-intentioned
but lacking the discipline to
water,
they dried and cracked,
until
the sky opened up and
poured,
drowning the delicate
flowers
in a sea of disappointed hopes.

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
and protect them,
while you still can.

Duvet

My fingers drop the
phone again, as I
decide against my
incessant initiation,
always leaving me
unsatisfied and unsure
of your affections,
while mine become
overwhelmingly
clear.

Please, do not
think you can stop
chasing after me,
just because you've
won my affections.

Old MacDonald

It's not that I'm trying to
convince you to come
home, or make you feel
guilty for missing me
grow, or even remind you
of what you're losing
out on. It's just that I
miss you, more than I
could have ever hoped,
unavoidable at best, and
desperate at worst. And
sometimes I just wish
I could call you after a
bad day, or have tea with
you on a rainy Sunday,
or share my greatest
moments with you.

But you've chosen another life,
other children,
and not me.

Champion

You are my second
thought in the morning,
my first phone call,
my last conversation
before slipping into
sleep, where you are
my champion above
a hundred others, and my
forever-first-choice,
always chasing after
me, and never outrunning
me. You are my constant
reminder of faithfulness,
example of grace and
embodiment of strength,
my hand to hold when
mine are shaking, and
lover of all my broken
parts. You are the only
human on this wide earth
who knows my biggest
secrets, the first one
I write poems about,
and the last voice
I want to hear.

Another poem about you,
and the hope for a thousand more.