Anthem

{For Mr. Harper

[and us all],

 

For us to become little

spheres of democracy

that reach beyond our norm.

 

Like a painter who only paints in red,

is a polititian who rules

over all the mediums

and the colours,

but only knows his inner circle.

 

May we all

encourage one another to

push past bounderies and

listen,

learn,

grow.

 

 - C}

 

{p.s. I was told by my professor

that I could complete my final exam

in poetry,

so this is

part one of three

pieces reflecting on

some of the most important

lessons

I have taken from the

past 6 years.

:)}

 

- Part 1 -

 

Anthem

 

Listen.

Mister Prime Minister, please

listen to me,

one of your “democracy.”

The song you sing

calls for strong and free,

so I pray that you would see

God’s face does not just

resemble

thee.

True North - or rather the

false north with

false smiles - ignoring

the weak and the unfree.

“Home” for who,

if not the “native” or the “refugee,”

shoved into walls and categories:

“home” is for the

True Patriot - or rather the

false patriots with

false smiles - glowing

with the daily grind of apathy.

“Home” for the

indebted to security,

on guard for thee

and the

True God - or rather the

false God with

false smiles - keeping

land locked with fear and key.

“Home” from far and wide,

you can dream and you can see,

but this land will never be

“home,” strong and free.

Sing your anthem.

Built not on peace

but inequality:

exclusively

V.I.P.

(unless you’ll work in our factory) -

you will have to pay a fee

and/or flee,

for your dreams exist not in reality...

this

is what you call our “country.”

Listen.

Mister Prime Minister please,

God’s face does not just

resemble

thee.

- C Gray

Amateurs All Along

{For Julia,

For those times when 

we just sit and 

"remember when..."

and

"wonder what..."

and laugh through tears at

life,

getting no more clear 

as time goes.

So

we just sit and

paint like we are five years old -

as we should.

much love,

C}

Amateurs All Along

The 
     painting of a pot
                          not
                              turning out
               quite like
               the life
               that you
          sip on after serving
                           (or being served)
               tea with friends and
                                   other annoying people -
     picturing Polish pottery,
                    but 
                    out of
          your hands
                         create country with
          your hands
                         and 
     burn
          your mouth 
                         while
          sipping from life served,
                                        which can
     burn 
               like a flame flickering and fueling our
               grumblings and giggles - us
          amateur painters
                         on the canvases of life and
     burning
          with hope that our conversations
          warmed by tea
                              and glow of beeswax
          warm us with the
                              colours of our
                              collective creations - 
                                                             amateurs all along the way.

 - C. Gray
     

The Reasons of the Birds

{spontaneous and simple;

recorded and read

the next morning

in memory

of a

great and small

memory

of the night before

the birds and friends

added to the beauty and mystery

of life.

Thank you,

 - C}

silhouettes of five hundred and forty seven crows
outlined against the flat dark gray,
perched in tableau
on the tips of winter trees,
resting on the fingertips of branches... in the
middle of the city.

she came to fetch me from the
street - eagre to
share the
stillness of the crows...

standing to
marvel, from the glow of hospital parking lot lights -
shivering with each attempt to take a picture; eyes
searching our screens,
squinting to see the
scene on the other
side of the lens; failing to capture a
moment while
missing the
minutes and the chance to
marvel the
mystery of the crows.

sitting, staring,
searching through all the reasons of the birds... perhaps a
meeting of the
minds; perhaps they know
something of the end of the world - keeping
secrets from us; perhaps their beauty hovers over as a cloud of death, in
solemn
silence for their view; perhaps they are watching over the
maple
syrup taps; perhaps it is a
singles
meeting for crows; perhaps...

she said,
"you
know,
you don't have to
know the
why..."

see and
simply be -
no pictures
nor reason captured in this
moment, framed and
standing for itself -
sit,
spirit free to
wonder at, and rest
with the birds - in awe -
without the
why...
of all the reasons
of the birds.

***

I came to
fetch her
from the
street - eagre to
share the
stillness of the crows...

"oh,
that happens all
the
time,"
she said.

Mechanical Ocean

{ok.

if there is one poem you call me hipster for,

you have my permission on this one.

but only on this one.

and maybe

"24 Hours" -

but that's it.

 

I couldn't sleep,

and I was annoyed.

the following was the result

and was typed onto

my phone -

no ink spills.

 

C}

Mechanical Ocean

Waves of cars and
roars of drunken skirts and shirts
rolling by
with the
siren and street lights
across my ceiling -
the new moon
to ponder its meaning
by the
cold cell waking me like the
cold wind:
warm glow of the screen
scorching like the
eternal sun -
no sleep.
Distractions from wanting
to ever
wonder at the ocean...
drowning in the sea
of technology
and me.

Flame the Next

{There is hope.

Synicism is welcome, 

but not allowed to take over...

Remember

that within you 

(metaphorically, of course ;))  

are shadows

created by the lights

that exist

within the same space.

We have it in us to love -

just as much as

we have it in us to do much worse - 

All is not lost...

Thankful for being created with potential...

for you too

are able to love.

Merry Christmas :),

- C} 

Born into dawn,
Born into dark -
          under threat of certain death...
     Dark 
     always 
     returns.
Creator 
     becomes the created.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Born into love,
Born into light -
     into arms 
          raised and made 
          strong by love
          in days gone by -
     arms 
          strengthened to 
          hold and
          love the next.
     Light 
     always
     returns.
Creator 
     learns love from the created.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Sun and moon
          in sync with our 
          souls of 
          various gray...
     Neither one 
          nor the other:
Dark and Light 
     continue their dance.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Break of day
     (as always)
               bursting forth
     with rays
               from our hearts - 
     to raise 
               the Light
     to raise 
               from the Dark.

All is not lost.

Born to raise
God;
     light ushered into 
     darkness:
          welcomed by a candle
          already 
          lit.

All is not lost..
     
     For 
          we must remember:
          we proved 
          we could love, before 
          we stooped to kill.

Again and again.

Light preceeded 
     light.
Cycle:
     flame the next 
          flame.

All is not lost.