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Poems & Commentary

The Children of the Stone


The Children of the Stone

do not weep quietly to themselves.

Their noise is as vanquishing

as the silence of bullets.


Their fears are hollow-tipped

and brazen.  At sun up, they

sneak like paupers come to mourn;

gathering food from the lines.


They do not speak as a word

is a deadly thing.  They are thin

so as to twist themselves between

prison bars.


The Children of the Stone

cross themselves gently in the night

for they are of the earth.


Sarajevo 1993

  The White Wall Review


A piece about a village and its inhabitants under seige. Each morning the soldiers would arrive. The children would pelt the invaders with stones, then run away.  Vonnegut might have called it a modern Children's Crusade. 1,500 children killed, 15,000 wounded.


It is late at night

when you receive me

Beyond anger and prayer

I creep under the light

which crosses before our bed


I draw off my jacket, my shirt, my

shoes, my socks

My watch on the night table


And I find a note left on my pillow

my tired hands and half shut eyes

And in your best half awake writing

you’ve told me

my friends

call way too late


 Toronto 2006

Abbotsford Station

The World When We Were New


The world before us

must have been a very different place


I remember us

at the beginning

wherever that was

whatever that was meant to be


I walk through the house

as if to smell you

like the mute

left with but one sense


In due time, you always said

and you recount stories of mended hearts

and people who have moved past their


own frailty

but how can you understand the dream;

the second life we life


I think of the world when we were new

and I want to touch you

for all the times you made love

to someone other than me.

Toronto 2006

Abbotsford Station

I don’t think we ever spoke of love. We spoke of its mystery, its music, its laugh and its tears, but we never bent down to examine it closely enough. I still think of her. It’s one of the few memories which survived our relationship.

Admittedly this is a carefully fabricated lie at the behest of my editor. (Damn you, Cara!  Damn you to hell!)  I never crept around her. I adored her as if a perfect picture not to be desecrated by the class clown.  She slept so still she never felt my head against her chest counting each slow heartbeat, (years later I came to realize that was the sound love makes) counting down our time together. 

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