Sunday, October 22, 2006

Deception's Wake

Le songe d'un promeneur (The dream of a wanderer).

Awakening to the dream
Of convolution,
The wanderer in me sings.

An aria?
It’s not revelry
Or recitative.
My song stills.

Where is time thwarted?
On my journey
Wandering resolute
To candour’s concord.

Captivated by presumption
By reverie
I form a vast rapport
Of deception’s wake.

Simply wandering
Between forms
Between terrain’s contour and firmament
I dream of impossibilities.

Neither up nor down
Junctures of meanderings
Create new beginnings.
Simply, there is a caress.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Stressing the Weak - Loss of Consciousness

Noun 1. syncope - a spontaneous loss of consciousness caused by insufficient blood to the brain
deliquium, faint, swoon
loss of consciousness - the occurrence of a loss of the ability to perceive and respond

2. syncope - (phonology) the loss of sounds in the interior of a word (as in `fo'c'sle' for `forecastle')


phonemics, phonology - the study of the sound system of a given language and the analysis and classification of its phonemes
articulation - the aspect of pronunciation that involves bringing articulatory organs together so as to shape the sounds of speech

syn·co·pa·tion (sngk-pshn, sn-)

1. Music A shift of accent in a passage or composition that occurs when a normally weak beat is stressed.
2. Something, such as rhythm, that is syncopated.
3. Grammar Syncope.
from Mozart's Symphony no. 25

Sunday, October 15, 2006


I am ever awake for you.
Ever wakeful
Ever awakening.

Even as your voice betrays
Your doubt
Your reticence
Your confusion
I am, for you awakened
To your need
Your call
Your need for me.

I am aching in your agony
Your ecstasy
Your rancour
Your resolve.

I am awake
And you remember me.

I mourn for you, my beloved
A body I do not see.

I am a widow
That had no husband
But a husband you were to me.

I bury my grief, my lover.

I want no one to see
My desolation.

Your friends are now your family,
But not one friend did I see.

I was a wife without secrets,
But secrets you kept from me.

I was not prized -A shame in your life.

I was the best kept secret
I was a source of your strife.
Those years of growth and compassion
Of intimacy
Is now fear.

Forgotten promises
Are plans we held so dear?

The price of misunderstanding
Is grave shadows haunting the day.

Your cherished darkness
Is my shadowed life -

Your darkness was enlightening.
Your solace was as near
As 'never', a word I hate to hear.

Our laughter, love and dreams
Were all dissolved away.

For your needs, my beloved
A price was paid.

I mourn for you;
You were a husband to me.

I mourn for my lover -
That memory
Shadows my life.

My heart aches for your touch -
Not that knife that
Sliced morality...
Not ambiguity.

You are dead to me.

a poem is in your eyes
when I see your face
in your picture.

It stares me down with
kaliadascope colours,
enlightened space.

Eternity is in your candid grace.

Your pure heart
has sung
a guarded tune.

That song is a spell
drowns my hope
dry -
compels me to cry.

Your longing,
burning desires
determined parting.

A cavern dark
a retreat, yours alone
and not alone
left me lonely -
emptied my soul.

Like a slow drip
water falling
drop by drop
dropping from that cloud
slowly love's light
seems replenished
with every word
you speak to me.

I want you to sing
a contented air
breath lightly,
abandon dispair.

Here is my song,
for you.


Today, after weeks of sun, the rain pours. Its a day when the deceit of the past is getting washed away from my soul. A day of reflection. A day of decisions about the future. A day of mourning. A day to beleive in myself. A day to replenish my joy in living. Rain, cleans my heart.


For my own part, I don't believe in a partial liar--this art does not deal in veneer; a liar is a liar right through.
The Lair of the White Worm by Stoker, Bram View in context
A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth.
Fables by Aesop View in context
This fellow is either a lunatic or merely a liar--just a plain, every-day liar whom Yountsey has no call to kill.
Can Such Things Be? by Bierce, Ambrose View in context

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Monday, October 09, 2006


Somewhere in Burnaby, BC, a family lives. Home to each other's spirits, they love and thrive on the untold peace of quietude. There is trust and friendship, understanding and joy.

Exasperation and deviation from this kind of life is my experience at this time. I trudge in a wilderness where walking in heaving footsteps, clouds of doubt destroys companionship. Restrictions are suspect. There is foreboding in the dreariness of a decayed relationship. I wish there was someone that might fix this hole in my heart, as a dentist extracts the action of tooth decomposition and can fill the gap with solidity. Would my wounded heart be my rotting teeth.