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Category Archives: Tragedy

Poem: Degenerations

Nominally normal
generations of degenerates
germinating

Again
and again
and again.

Wild seeds
dispersing freely
without preconception
Replacing the complacent
With the unconstrained

The river is never the same
and neither are we.

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Poem: I Promise Nothing

I promised you nothing
and I promptly delivered
exquisitely forged
wrapped in leftovers
from the Emperor’s new robes

You remain unhappy
hungry with expectation
in the same way my cat
greets each morning
full of purring and rubbing
mewling to have
your emptiness filled

I promised you nothing
and you promptly begged
for just a little bit more
offering me nothing in return

The truth is
your honey nothing
is better than mine.

 

Poem: Indulgence

no amount of time
can quell this raw ache
burning between us
sending us reeling

no amount of words
would ever explain
the madness we feel
when we are alone

no amount of gold
will equal our love
we’ll never need more
than this bare caress.

Poem: Where do the Words Hide

In celebration
I thought I would write
long lyrical poems
each April morning

Then
nothing
happened

The blank screen mocking
it’s cursor laughing
at my dysfunction
of failed lexicon

There’s
nothing
inside

Imagination
is a dried desert
drifting in the wind
whispering of death

Til
nothing
remains.

Ramble: I’m not white…but sometimes I play one…

It happened again. That funny question that irks and tweaks the underbelly of self-identity. “What are you?”

The snark rises and I stutter, “Ahh…huu..man?”

The smirk flashes annoyance, “No I mean like where are you from?”

“Oh I am Canadian – born in Ontario. Not far from here…”

Interruption arises, eyebrows raised, “No I mean your people where are they from?”

“My parents were refugees, fleeing tyranny. And…”

A spark dawns and interjects before I can finish, “Oh you are Middle-eastern. Turkish?”

Now I am annoyed, and I can feel the emotions brush across my face and furrow my brow.

“How about I finish. They came from Europe. 1956. The failed Hungarian Revolution made my father realize he couldn’t stay because he would be arrested and tortured again. And my mother had just had a baby. So when the river froze in December of 1956 they walked across the ice to what is now Croatia.”

A nod. I see they are listening.

“My mother’s brother was in Toronto, so he sponsored them to come to Canada. And in July of 1957 they arrived in Quebec on a refugee ship. And…”

I can see the question coming before it becomes sound, “So you are European – cause you don’t really look white. Kinda Asian actually. Your almost black hair, and skin with a hint of colour and your eyes are almond which is why I said Turkish…”

My turn to speak up and over, “Yeah. Hungarian-Croatian. Well actually Croatian-Hungarian is more accurate. The village was mostly Croatian, but in the Hungarian side of the border. That part of Europe is a mix of people spilling between tribes and blending. I hear there is some Gypsy – Roma – ancestry in my genetic makeup. And some of the tribes that settled in the area had Asian and Middle-eastern origins.”

The other listens, and nods. And summarized my label, “So you are white then..huh. So hard to tell.”

I sigh, and reply, “Nope I am not white, but I’ve been mistaken for one before. I am human. And while my skin has a lighter-tone, my attitude is universal. The place of my birth, and the colour of my skin has nothing to do with how I have experienced the world, or how I think. My advice to you is top labelling people based on outward appearances. You cannot judge a book by its cover; Nor can you see the human inside the body if all you see are the shape and colour that they wear. Yes indeed we are each unique individuals; but close your eyes and open your ears! And you will be surprised to learn that we are all more alike, than we are different.”

I can see my words have offended, as they turn and move away. Truly they meant no harm in asking such an innocent question. Yet it wasn’t innocent at all, merely unthinking and presumptive. ¬†As I watch them leave, I can hear my mother’s voice in my head, “This is why you can’t have nice things – you always break them.”

Yes Mom, I do break them. Because I expect them to be better than that to begin with…