Prayer for lost stones

Do not weep for the story
that cannot now be told
Do not hold to the history
that seems to you incomplete
Do not lament for the lives
that have been lost to you
Do not cry
for lost stones

Lost stones will lay buried
in millenia of ash and rubble
to be found early one morning
by a man building
a house of worship

Lost stones will be put into
the foundation of a new home
will become the keystone
of a fortress of honour

And new hopes will rest
on their strength

The story of lost stones
will seep through
the earth to rise in a tree’s
outspread arms to the
sky where the sun
will rejoice in their tales

The pain of lost stones
will sink through the earth
run through it to the
lifeblood of flowing water
tears puring into the
sea where they mix
with the music of the Ainur
and finally find peace

What you have lost today
These stones upon which
is built the history of your life
will not be forever lost
and cannot be forgotten

You carry their joy
in your song
and your feet dance
across the face of
these lost stones, broken stones
and pattern their love
into the heart of the world

(October 7, 2006)


The dragon

the dragon peers at me
asking questions with his eyes
beckoning me to come closer
i should hate him
he is my enemy – or so i’ve been told
but i can’t see the malice
cannot hear the venom
he sees me as i am
and it is intriguing
gently he warms me
with breath that could scorch
this flesh to vapour
if he chose it
what do i make of his choice
mercy instead of death
understanding instead of anger
i can speak no words
for they are too rough and
bound to this world
my mind answers him in
thought pure as crystal
and he laughs
i am so near to him now
that glowing eye focused
on all my smallness
all my weakness
but he does not move
to him, i am intriguing
softly he sends tendrils
of thought down my shoulders
cascading like golden
droplets inside my skin
i drink in his burning gaze
before i approach
and lay my palm on copper scales
with touch we are one
it is the way of dragons
so i’ve been told
we will always dream of one another
a silent kiss in my mind
so gentle, so gentle
i cannot stop my tears as i
draw close to him
to hear his heart beating
he leaves only love behind
when he flies into the rising moon

in the ruins

playing about the candle-lit ruins
golden shimmer dancing in her hair
like the ghost of the long-dead sun
the echo of joy that should be there

small feet treading a delicate dance
through the sagging wisdom of stones
small heart beating with gossamer hopes
delicate laughter amid old bones

candles grow quiet as she sits to think
flames are steady soldiers at rest
her mind without the historical weight
of the ruins her feet know the best

they watch her, these eyes of flame
stand guard over her innocent ways
encircle her in their protective light
enrobed in the warmth of long-spent days

she is free to conjure grand visions
to walk the silver path of fairies’ tales
quietly now, she draws pictures of them
the ones whose lands cannot fail

unicorn bears her away from the stones
stained with blood in hidden places
they run through her mind to ancient oak groves
where are secreted in-between spaces

she can stay here in the safety of friends
live without tears, without longing
dream without the fear of the dark and
the whispers that sometimes follow her thronging

her mind at rest, little feet grow quiet
the candles nod over head
flickering light plays with ghosts of stone
gently hushing the wails of the dead

(February 17, 2004: written for Aleysha in Martin’s story, Playing at Darkness)


the muse descends in tattered wings
to brush my tired head with silvery fantasies
of places I will never go to meet creatures I will never see
spinning, colliding and swirling
he entices me to send all of my thoughts
to the realm of the imagined
in a rocking boat on a purple sea
with a talking unicorn and a bat
flying into outer space
to talk to god who wears
a spacesuit and speaks jive
‘leave me!’ I cry and
so he goes
and I am left within beige walls
in the centre of a green lawn
on a grey street in Toronto 
working the way that people work
eating each other with words
because they lack the courage
to be real
using their jobs as an excuse to
be inhuman, as a reason to feast
on the spiritual fat of their brothers
the only gifts are trees
and strangers
for neither has an interest in me
and both give me joy
‘muse!’ I cry to him
take me away!
and like a stubborn wench he sneers aloft
echoes into the greyness
and as night slips into the crevices of my mind
crooning sleep
he touches me softly on my cheek
and wakes my mind to dancing with
sunflowers in fields of pink paisley
I skip through streets of water skimming
along on fairies’ wings
we sing arias in g minor bawdily
until he dumps me back to myself
staring at candle stumps sputtering out
and refuses to be called again

(November 14, 2003)