Pictures

The world is entirely too concerned
with pictures.
     [SAY CHEESE!]
     (Ahh... That's a bad one!)
     {Take another! I look fat!}

A day an a half exists no more
     because of a disfunction
     (it wasn't the camera...)
The art is forgotten in the nostalgia.

My life wishes to be measured in
coffee spoons again
     When simple talk
     made the memories

     which made a life
     that made me

Quiet

Today is a lovely day in Vancouver.
The birds are chirping
     (or so I see)
The leaves are rustling in a soft breeze
     (is that what I feel?)
The world glistens
     (I know this to be true)

With music blaring,
I bounce along, ignoring you and the rest of the world
To the personal rhythm in my mind
I feel the day.

We have lost the ability to live.
     I no longer feel.
     I only know

This influx of emotions is
overwhelming

short
stilted
sentences
incomplete....
Oh i'm confused

All you need is love, love... Love is all you need

I plug back in.
And the world goes quiet.

My problems are soft
    They fill my head
     And I think

But soon, I no longer do that

Gate

To be hated from all sides

but loved by the man beside you.

To represent a wall

     A face in the concrete

     An arm reaching out to stop

A fate in the barrier

     The expect me to be human

     I am a wall

They can't escape through me

I reserve that for myself.

Excuse me sir

     Sir

The wire is there for a reason.

      To keep you filth out

Were defending out identity

And splitting it al one

Quick, no one's looking.

Slip a key into my lock.

It softly clicks

     A thunderclap in the mountains.

Leave the door ajar.

And flee

A Trojan Queen

A queen watches a battle from a raised platform to protect her life. The old king sits beside her, watching his sons, as much worry as his queen felt for him.
The queen doesn't feel protected.
She sees more fighting, hears more screams than the soldiers on the battlefield. The battle rages on and the sun beats down. He brow worsens. Why must she watch? She's supposed to be innocent and lovely.
She's tainted by war.

Onwards and Away

And the slightest breath of wind
curls around the leaf,
nestling it in unsupportive coldness,
sending it up and North,
a ballerina, twirling out of control
     and dropping-
     a career ended.
The leaf lies inanimate once more
just staring at the cloud as they too
are moved onwards and
     away.

To a Place

Meandering with no direction and
no cause for alarm,
street lights extinguishing as we pass by

And still we walk.

And still we joke and kid
as the night closes in

The Cold holds my hand under my glove
while shared experience
envelopes the entire form.

We meander from place to place,
wandering with no real direction.
     We'll get there eventually.
     Land has to end somewhere

A fire in the distance seems too far away,
tempts us with it's wicked smoke

Let us wander, you and I
To a place beyond matter

The Kite

Today is the day he’d always hoped would come. He hadn’t been able to put a name to it for all of his seven years, but he just knew. This is where he would begin. The park is beautiful the day the boy and his dad carry the hand-me-down kite to the open field. The sun shines mercilessly, but in a comforting sort of way. His dad walks beside him slowly and confidently while the boy bounds all around the park.

He was about to begin. 

He just knew it.

Across the park, a lone man watches the dad and son with sadness. The boy looks so happy, and the dad so proud. The man looks down at the kite in his own hands and sighs, his body collapsing with the sheer effort of living. A shiver runs down his spine despite the comforting warmth of the day. He glares at the shade encompassing him.

This was the day to end all his days, all his pain.

He was about to succumb.

He just knew it.

Grasping his kite, the dad smiles down at his son. His smile wavers ever so slightly. He knows that he’s waited too long to give his son this chance, but it was a necessary wait. The kid needed to grow up a bit, know that being a child wasn’t given liberally. It needed to be earned.

Never mind his reasons. Today was the day. And it couldn’t be more important.

He solidifies his smile. It matches the sun.

Why does he hesitate? The man is confused at his own gasps for air. How futile they are.

Tie the knot just like daddy taught. Tie the knot good and tight. This can’t fail. This can’t be added to the list his daddy has.

The dad preps the string, his boy for the event. Tie the string to the kite good and tight (can’t let it get away); give the roll to the kid. He goes through his checklist methodically, just like his father taught him. He often tries to forget this fact. But it’s still there, and so it will always be.

“Are you ready m’boy?” he whispers to his jumpy son.

The boy nods and grins, settling down into his practiced stance. It was finally happening. Him, and his dad, and the kite. And only at age seven! How could life get any better? He took five deep breaths like his dad told him to. Five deep luscious breaths. The warm spring day filled his lungs and created a new body for him to occupy.

He’s no longer the same.

He is ready.

The man looks out from the trees one last time. He scowls at the dad and his boy with their kite. Damn them all to hell, he thinks miserably.

Slowly he breathes in and out, enjoying the feeling. He might as well leave being happy.

A bang, rather than a whimper.
           He knows he’s only a whimper. He knows this and checks his knots more carefully still. Can’t let himself down now. Limb by limb, he finds his way into the selected tree. The tree that housed his childhood when nothing else went right. His escape tree. How fitting.

From here, he can see his house as well as the rest of the world. His world. Not his alone, he has to remind himself. That was always an argument. Now he’s getting mad. Five more breaths. Five more. He needs to be calm.

Tracing the old lines of the tree, he knows that it’s time.

He has never changed, always been the same person.

He is ready.

The dad looks at his boy reassuringly, face partially obscured by the kite. He breathes in sharply and the delicate fabric of the kite trembles. He calls out to his son, refocusing them both. The boy concentrates all his thoughts on the kite string in his hand.

“Ready Dad!” he shouts out over the faint breeze. His heart is beating furiously with anticipation.

“On the count of three...” the dad responds.

“ONE!” Get ready.

“TWO!” Get set.

“THREE!” Blast off.

The man checks his own kite string, repositions the kite, places the string about his neck, checks on the father and son in the field. All systems go.

He thanks the tree for the memories, the kite for its use, and his saviour for the life he has lived, reassuring himself that forty-seven is a perfect age to die. He’s already left a note at his mother’s place. These announcements are just superfluous. He looks to the ground.

One. Get ready.

Two. Get set.

Three. Goodbye.

The dad releases the kite and the boy releases all his fantasies about racecars and rocket ships and submarines and hot air balloons and jet planes and kites. He screams as he runs, voice drowned out by the wind racing through his hair and jacket. The kite lifts off and soars above his head. He thinks about stopping only briefly – the kite is flying so high and he’s so free. He can’t stop now! He continues his run towards the trees where the man had been. The dad smiles at the boy’s retreating form. The lesson has been taught. He sits down on the lawn chair he’s brought and opens a soda, melting into the sunshine and releasing himself to memory.

The man feels himself fall. He feels the string slice into his trachea. The sun pushes away the shade, lands on his kite. He smiles.

He feels nothing more.

The boy stops just before the trees to admire his kite. The kite trembles on the ever-increasing breeze while its thin fabric glistens in the sun. The colours shine down onto his smile, tinting his cheeks with green and gold. He’s overcome with just how perfect this feeling is. He’s playing tug-o-war against the wind, his hands on the ball of string, the wind’s grasp on the kite. The boy glances back at his dad and is surprised: his dad has never sat down and succumbed to memory before. Then again, this is the first outing of the kite. He quickly waves at his dad (who waves back absentmindedly, preoccupied with thoughts of fishing trips) and redirects his attentions to the kite.

The forest is quiet. A man hangs motionless from a tree, his blood still warm.

A smile has been frozen onto his face.

The boy has lost himself into thoughts of greatness. He concentrates the battle he is fighting with the wind for the kite. He softly whistles “Let’s Go Fly a Kite”, a tune he picked up from somewhere he doesn’t know.

He dreams of what he’s going to do with his life.

He imagines palaces and money, horses and cars, rooms of his many houses devoted to kites. He sees himself flying in the sky like a kite. A kite assisted by machine. A human tethered to earth, never entirely free.

The dad is not aware of these thoughts. He’s remembering his own dreams. He sees the kite float lazily in the sky, a newspaper heading about a war.

The man sees nothing of this. His memories have been buried. His last smile is directed towards paradise, leaving on a run away kite- the ball of string has been let go.

Suddenly, the wind attacks with force, catching the boy off guard. The kite wavers and drops uncontrollably. The boy's cry is muffled by the sound of the wind in his coat. In his surprise, he dropped the ball of string.

Before running into the forest, he glances at his dad. Luckily, the accident was not seen. The boy sighs with relief and darts into the forest, following the roll of string. He feels like Hansel and Gretel, trying to find their trail of breadcrumbs to go home. Where is he going? Where is his kite?

Turning left, he sees a thread hanging from a branch. He lets out another sigh of relief, thankful that no witches with houses of candy appeared in between the trees. As he nears the thread, something seems wrong, but he can't tell. It seems like an older material, one that he can't name, one from the era before his kite. The tree it landed in is old and gnarled, evidence of a tree fort still visible. The boy ignores it and hurries to the tree. A tip of a kite peeks out through the leaves, but the boy does not see this.

The boy stops in confusion. This isn't his kite. This kite is different. This kite has stopped a man from falling.

“Excuse me... Sir?” the boy whispers.

He's answered by a smile. One that hasn't faded. Rigor is setting in.

The man's neck is mangled, the boy can see that. His feet dangle and his hands move according to the breeze. The eyes are open, the mouth smiles... The man looks happy. Why is he hanging from a tree? Why is his kite supporting him? Did the kite do it?

All the boy can do is look. He doesn't see what's wrong. He sees a man and a kite in a tree. He stares at Death and doesn't see.

Looking away from his reveries, the dad tries to find his boy. The field is empty. His heart is throbbing. He scrambles out of his chair, spilling his soda in the process.

Where to start looking? He scans the top of the trees for the hint of gold to tell him where to find his son. There it is, to his left. He sprints into the woods, slowing enough to avoid hitting trees. He sees a thread, hopes to find a boy.

The boy hears his father's footsteps thudding on the forest floor and calls out. He goes back to staring at the man, imprinting the image in his mind.

The man's kite is purple with red tigers.

The father sees the green and gold kite hanging from a tree, unharmed, the string still wound nicely into a ball. He carefully listens for a small voice. He hears it... More to his right. Scooping up the kite, he walks carefuly towards the sound of the boy's voice.

There he is. Crisis averted. He's standing in front of a tree, with some other poor boy's kite. It is reminicent to the designs he used to see. He smiles and goes to embrace his son. Just before reaching the boy, he sees why the boy has been so still, so attentive. There's a man in the tree. A man who has lost his way.

He drops the kite.

“Dad... Why is the man hanging in the tree? Why is he smiling like that? Can I have tigers on my kite too?” the boy asks.

His dad puts his arms around the boy, picks up the kite and leads them all away.

“I'll tell you later pal. You don't need to know just yet.”

The boy accepts this answer and takes the kite from his dad.

“I'll see you back in the field daddy!” the boy calls as he races off.

His dad nods slowly.

The rays of sun seem kinder and the day brighter back out in the field. The dad gazes back into the forest and the secrets it holds before jogging to help out his son.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.