Invitation to Sup

Shepherd -of-the-Twilight,
He found me in my tree.
He calls to me at night,
And bids, "Come feast with me"

Feral is my host,
His offers I decline.
And should I throw a roast,
I'd ask him not to dine.

He's gone again at day,
I take this time to roam,
To figure out my way,
From his banquet to my home.

From tree to tree I steal,
Crafty like a thief.
A battle of wits has no appeal,
When just one side has the teeth.

Caleb

Starving in our captors’ jail,
Caleb spoke to me.
His voice was rasp, his skin was pale,
Four and eighty days we’d not been free.
Of all the Charges to our name,
But smuggling was the truth,
And even then the saddest shame,
Was that they had no proof.
Proof was never needed,
Burmese law prevailed.
And the longer that you pleaded,
The longer you were jailed.
Of release there was no hope,
They’d hang us both as spies.
Our necks broken by rope,
Woven of their lies.
Caleb was in denial,
But my spirit they’d broken first.
Between the present and our trial,
With beatings, hunger, and thirst.
He’d attempted escape twice,
But twice he hadn’t made it,
They deemed his eyes the price,
And sadly Caleb paid it.
He stumbled eyeless round the cell,
Means of escape he’d vow to find.
While I sat there wondering how in Hell,
He had such hope while he was blind.
I had met my match,
My powerful need to eat.
Hard were the rats to catch,
And little was their meat.
Caleb’s one reliance,
That we would survive.
His idea of defiance,
Was to stay alive.
His hope was sheer madness,
But I would play along.
Instead of facing the sadness,
Of knowing he was wrong.

Then one day he turned to me,
Eerily he spake,
“I told you brother we’d be free,
And it is no mistake.
“I can see it all so clearly,
He was here, he came to me,
He held my hand dearly,
He told me where we’d be.
“Behold he has a table!”
Caleb stood suddenly,
How he was able,
Was vastly beyond me.
“Such a wonderful spread,
Finally we shall eat.
Warmth, joy! We’ll be well fed,
We need but take our seat.
“He is unlike any other,”
A grin formed across his face,
“It’s time to feast my brother,
He calls me to my place”
“I’ll see you in a while”
He fell and moved no more,
Just lay he eyeless smiling,
Upon the cold stone floor.

Gambling Borrowed Monies

I owed a small sum,
I had to pay a debt.
To reduce the cost,
I played it on a bet.
All the funds I lost,
All I won, regret.

Party Crashers

Death came to my door that day,
He came and would not go away.
He crashed my party with his friend fear,
Uninvited, they should not be here.
Their presence made us all quite sad.
Whatever shall I tell my Dad,
What will he say when he returns tomorrow,
To find the trio, Death, Fear and Sorrow.

From Whence I Came

On a map you will not find,
My hometown, 'tis no physical place.
I dwell within a state of mind,
Where thoughts manifest into space.

To End a World

Every life has it's own World,
A unique view through unique eyes.
To take a life, would end this world,
To say, "No more shall your sun rise."
To strike down a man through hate,
I do not deem that wise.
To hastily forge one's fate,
And so a world dies.

The Dress

An empty chair where a husband sits,
A favourite dress that no longer fits.
Gone are all her favourite bands,
Faded like the youth within her hands.
Winter pain, it now lingers,
Inside all her tired fingers.
No longer able to use a sewing kit,
To mend a dress that does not fit.

Her

I dream of her without a chance,
I look at her without a glance.
A million years could pass me by,
Without the hope I'd catch her eye.
Why pursue her who sees not me?
Love is my favorite futility.

My Father's Armour

My Father's Armour,
He shall wear it no more.
An end to him,
But not to war.

If every Father gave his life,
Would that then put an end to strife?
It was the burden he did bear,
My Father's Armour,
Now mine to wear.

Salute

Through those Gates,
And through those Jaws,
Where Flesh meets Steel,
To the sound of Applause.

TRIUMPH, GLORY, DEATH, or FAME
A way of Life, a simple Game

Surrounded by Eyes,
We make our Stand,
To shed not our Coils,
Upon the Sand.

And should we fall,
We best fall well,
Lest they forget,
Just how we fell.

We are those left,
The resolute few,
We who are about to die,
Salute you!

Oddly Specific Advice for Life a Small Strange Man Once Gave Me as I Clamoured Through the Woods on a Rather Cold Day

Walking through the woods one day I found myself short of breath,
My knees were weak, my back did creak and I was freezing half to death,
To rest up and catch my breath I sat upon a great stone,
But in my haste I did not see that I was not all alone.
On this stone there was a small man, he lay there deep asleep,
In an attempt not to wake him, I tried to move without a peep.
But as I quietly tried my hardest to simply slip away,
He sprang awake from his rest and asked me what is the day.
I apologized for waking him, and stated today’s date,
He thanked me for my info, and asked me why I wait.
I told him I was resting, that my trek had made me tired,
He said life did the same to him so he sat here and expired.
I was confused by his words, they were cryptic to say the least,
He then listed everyone he’d ever seen, man, woman and beast.
Once my breath had returned I said farewell and was back on my way,
He stopped me for a moment and said he had more to say.
I listened to his parting words and continued on my walk,
Reflecting on this strange little man and our strange little talk.
Back at the cabin I enjoyed a fire, and let it warm my soul,
I brewed some tea, sat by the stove and slowly stirred the coal.
As the coal stirred, my thoughts did too on what had passed,
I remembered the specific words of what he said unto me last.
To this day I do not know if he was merely drunk or wise,
But I’ll never forget the words he spoke as I looked into his eyes,
“Do not live your life in waiting, sitting on a stone,
But rather take a path and walk it, and make of it your own.”
Maybe he slept there specifically, to give advice like that,
But who could say he’d known the rock upon which I’d have sat.
Either way the words matter, but not for how and when they were said,
They only matter how I choose to use them, when I replay them in my head.

Little green men are on our streets,
If you see them you will go.
Then the red men, they step up,
And redirect the flow.

A Night of Self-Purgatory

And in a time of joy and frivolity,

he turned his back on the festive mob.

Rather he yearned to be alone and free,

To sit and tend to his head's harsh throb.

Sequestered he sought to live that night,

A mind at ease and heart at rest.

Away from the group and their plight,

This solitude his one request.

Who could understand these feelings from him,

Normally one happy and loud was he,

But the night was long and his eyes were dim,

And on his own he had to be.

So he did retreat to a place they'd never look,

To lick his wounds and dwell in peace,

For rudeness his retreat would be mistook.

Hopefully these feelings would soon cease.

They could not understand his mood,

Or why he randomly felt down,

Just offer him drink, song and food,

So he wandered off, alone with a frown.

These people so well he could understand and read,

Yet never to them he could relate,

For it was the nature of his breed,

And therein was sealed his fate.

To know them inside out with but a gaze,

And detect in them emotions so fine.

But this gift does not work both ways,

The misunderstood life of a canine.

A Curmudgen and His Latch

Prologue:

On number five of Marpole drive,
Old Rob McGudgen did reside,
In his home he did thrive,
A curmudgeon of great pride.
An aged carpenter extraordinare,
With crooked back and greying hair,
Nothing short of perfection he could abide.

But no tale is complete,
Without a challenge to meet,
A foe he had most foul,
That upon him grew a scowl.
And this is that very story,
Of how he met his match,
In a battle for firth and glory,
Against the gate with the creaky latch.
So now begins our tragic tale,
Of an old man who was sure to fail.

Part the First: A Creek at the Cul-de-Sac

Marpole drive was a sleepy little neighbourhood that seemed to be perpetually trapped in autumn. It was a quiet little drive, majority of it's traffic was orange sun-kissed leaves dancing down the street on a gentle breeze.
The Realtor's listing for homes along the drive read as default "an introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy. "

Of all the quaint little homes one could argue that number five was by far the quaintest and most secluded. It sat on the end of the drive by the cul-de-sac. There was a sharp embankment on the lot, so it was elevated above the other homes. But it didn't stand out due to its natural camouflage; an army of stoic old oak trees surrounding the lot and obscuring the home from the street below. Down on the cul-de-sac, sitting between the cozy drive, and the enchanting home hidden in the trees, was a large mahogany gate with a mailbox designed as a miniature log cabin. The gate was the border between a small serene community and and even more secluded world belonging to one solitary man. All one could see behind the gate was a well crafted and beautifully up kept elevated walkway, weaving its way through the trees and up to the house above. A veritable stairway to heaven, hand cut and placed, and polished to perfection leading it's way to the hidden home.

The mailman would always swear the he caught glimpses of a footbridge traversing a small creek further up, all overlooked by a majestically fabricated gazebo. These rumors were of course unconfirmed as nary a guest had set foot beyond the gate. Perhaps the neighbours doubted the existence of such a creek out a jealousy as well, for surely it would be unfair for a brook to flow exclusively through only one of the homes at the end of the cul-de-sac. So often the mailman and his chatter of hearing the cool waters running through the yard were dismissed due to resentment. Only a group of secluded retirees could covert a creek.

Part the Second: A Curmudgeonly Craftsman

This secret suburban Eden was the dwelling of one man, Rob McGudgen. He was an old carpenter who had spent years crafting everything a man could construct from wood, be it a shed, a barn, a table, or a chair. But he specialized, as many tradesmen do in one specific sort of fabrication. For him, the pride and joy of his work was the creation of decks, verandas, patios, and porches. And if one was smart they would never let Rob catch them calling these the same thing, for he could lecture for hours the obvious and complex differences between these forms of platformed house-huggers. He took pride in his work, as would anyone who thrived at a single trade for six decades. And who can judge the career path of a man who shares his occupation with Jesus Christ? This was the mentality of the Octogenarian master craftsman.

Aside from what he did, few around knew a thing about the mysterious old man. He had lived at number five marpole drive for forty six years, and since the passing of his wife he refused to move out...and quite frankly refused to step foot out of his home.

However curmudgeonly he may have been, he was no crank. Granted he enjoyed his seclusion and solitude, as did most on the drive, but he just felt no reason to go out and meet people. Why would he? All he had ever known and loved resided on the inside of the gate st the base of the culdesac. Sure he was lonely, but his loneliness was outweighed by his love of his trade, and his appreciation of peace and quiet...something that Marpole drive was not in short supply of.

The only time he would venture beyond the boundary of the mahogany gate would be to retrieve his mail, and his delivered grocer goods. All these items he would procure not three feet beyond his sanctuary, from the quaint log cabin mailbox. Some say at night they could hear him sawing and sanding away, working on his walkways or repairing his gazebo. But these rumors, much like the tales from the mailman were lacking in proof and verification, no matter how intriguing and likely they sounded.

Glimpses of him gathering mail described him in brief simplicity: He stood slightly crooked from a lifetime of hard work, and sported a wild tuft of grey and silver hair. Only one thing was certain, for a man of Eighty Three, he was very shrouded in mystery, and surely quite agile; for he seemed more elusive than Bigfoot.

Part the Third: A Lecherous Latch on a Gorgeous Gate

One morning while quickly slipping out to retrieve the contents of his cabin on a post, Rob was confronted by the most heinous of noises. A creak. A creak so eerie and shrill it sent a shiver down his spine and a furrow up his brow. On his attempt to open the mahogany gate he was greeted by such a sound. And it wasn't alone, the noise was accompanied by a sad groaning attempt for the gate to open. It seemed that the hinge and latch were on there last legs, and very near a melancholy demise.

Not one to stand for anything short of excellence in his trade, Rob vowed to momentarily amend this issue. He turned with an unnatural spryness for a man so old and crooked, and scurried his way back up the winding path towards his hidden home. He left in such a hurry, with his mind so focused on repairing the gate, that he left the newly delivered bottle of fresh milk near the log cabin receptacle, where it was sure to sour.

Moments later he re-emerged triumphant from his home brandishing a box of tools, and sporting ratty old pads on his knees. He knelt beside the gate still as night, unflinching. Just remaining there studying the problem, the old clock like gears in his mind hidden under the tuft of wild grey hair (not unlike the way the house was hidden by trees) turned away. He stayed there for minutes, long enough for one to mistake him for a piece sculpted by Rodin himself. Then without warning, he sprung from his assessment to life. Pulling tools and supplies from his box with a fervor of determination. He grabbed an old lugnut and an old bolt and began to size them up for the gate. He worked with the experience of a man his age, but the vitality of a lad a quarter so. He truly was in his element. Things were going well.

Half way through removing the old latch he hit his insurmountable roadblock. his old Phillips head screwdriver snapped, its head lodging firmly within the grooved bolt with which it had been jousting. With the true nature of an old curmudgeon he muttered a curseword from generations long lost at his misfortune. He equipped himself with the hammer, and careful to not bash the mahogany his wife so admired, began to thump some sense into the bolt. However, it did not break free, and moreover it got worse. Trying to keep his cool he attemped to pry the whole thing off, risking slight marks to the finish of the wood. But alas, in the cool seemingly ever-autumn air it would not budge.

Once again be turned to scurry back towards the house, determined to repair his stubborn yet stunning gate latch. For he was atleast twice as stubborn as an creaky latch could be. Unfortunately, his heart wasn't as stubborn as he, and halfway up the path it decided to stop beating. Rob McGudgen fell flat from a massive heart attack on the beautiful woodwork of his pathway. His eyes struggling to stay open as hee peered at the glorious view of his gazeebo by the creek. Blinking to focus at the beautiful birdbath surrounded by roses at the foot of the creek; a serene detail the snoopy mailman could never have imagined. But luckily for Rob, his new neighbour was twice as snoopy as any mailman could ever have been.

Mrs. Gladys Fullbrood had just purchased a home on the gorgeous selling point that her Realtor had described it as "An introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy" and that morning she had been drawn from watering her lilacs by the curious sound of Rob thumping away at the latch. Knowing only what she had heard from the gossiping mailman since moving in a week prior, and being curious as many old ladies who own cats are, she wandered over. Peering over the lovely mahogany gate she spotted Rob, looking more cozy than curmudgeonly as he lay on his walkway. She lingered for a moment to attempt to spot the gazebo and creek the mailman had mentioned, but being to petite it eluded her spectrum of vision. She promptly turned and moseyed off to call for help.

Later on the paramedics would say that they had little hope of getting to Rob in time, for his gate was simply too formidably constructed, and the latch was sealed shut tighter than a jar of gerkins. By the time they had smashed the gorgeous mahogany to splinters to get to him, he was seconds away from death. A double edged sword of being with the woman he loved, but being away from the home he had built for her. There was but one saving grace for old Rob McGudgen, his master craftsmanship and constant constructional vigilance. The paramedics were quoted as saying that the footpath beyond the gate was so well kept and smooth and level that it took them mere moments to rush a stretcher up there, load Rob and rush him back down. Proving that as stubborn as that latch had been, he had at least proved more stubborn by outliving it.

His gorgeous gate one innocent casualty of his struggle with the latch. But he vows that as soon as he gets out of the hospital, Rob sill construct a new gate in memory of his wife, one that simply swivels on a peg with no latch. Making it less likely to betray him, and easier for guest to come over. His home to be a welcome haven for visiting neighbours, with a very warm and inviting gate out front.

Fin

Epilogue:

Now the story is finally told,
Of a carpenter crooked and old,
Who by a latch was tested,
His old heart heart bested,
But he proved strong in the end,
And his heart opened wide,
Now he's made a new friend,
And letting others inside.
They'll view his lovely place,
Beautifully crafted and great,
A mysterious tree-shrouded space,
Just beyond a mahogany gate.

A neighbour's snoopy ways kept him alive,
On number five of Marpole drive,

Every broken bone,
I only mend some
A futile defiance,
to the dust they all become.

Today's the perfect day,
But it's the day I die.
At least I got it right,
On my one and final try.

Uncle Stranger

The Afterparty

When the last bell tolled on the hour of ten I swept myself in a hurried fashion from the study. It had become apparent that I was now alone, the party guests who’s arrivals hours ago I had anticipated with a scurried eagerness had now ebbed to a departure. My thoughts and breaths echoing alone together about the now empty manor walls. Beneath my footfalls the creak and cry of floorboards my sole escort about the lengthy dark halls. A lantern in hand flickering dim, spectacles on face squinting thin, I peered and paced the great hall in search of one last evening farewell. Alas, as a lonely hope faded to a grim dismay, there was no living flesh inside this vast citadel, beyond the aged groans of my own heart there was not an ounce of life. Beyond the beat beating a dull rhythm therein, just enough to move my blood, but not enough to move my soul. Tired and alone yet again in this giant catacomb of art and class. What purpose would my timid old heart have to patter away if I had not a person to hear it, if there was no other to share the beating of my heart with. I sighed a lonely groan and groaned a lonelier grunt. Would this truly be the last of my time with friends? It seemed years since I’d entertained the notion of entertaining guests. Had these past hours gone by on a calendar rather than a clock? The hour of ten came so swiftly fast that I felt it surly had twice surpassed the days and months since my guests had come and gone. Have I really been alone so long? Dash it! Think not of this quagmire of pain, my internal monologue piped resolute. Come, there is much you can do upon these grounds that’ll put some breath into those old lungs. “Nape”, I hissed aloud, instantly regretting the resonation of such an ugly sound. Lucky thing no guests were about, for such a lack of manners would surely offend, and ensure I’d be alone. But I was, so why dwell upon it. “No loss” said I and ascended the stairs. A good nights sleep will end this rut! And off I clamoured through the hallowed lonely halls, the residual ring of a festive evening fading from my old grey ears. “A Demain” I muttered. A garden needs attending, a fountain cleaned until the sun kisses it with reflective light. Yes, Shining that water bearing stone should surely shine my heart to a warmer hue. A demain it is, a day to behold the manner in the sun light, so that it may cast a better light upon my predicament. My emptiness inside a large empty home. Mind as well trade it for a tomb, at least therein I’d be comfortable interred. What a thought? Dare I let such mad wishes grab a hold of me? Not two hours past I had the most sensible notions about me. Shame, how time and space unfilled by one small man can take its maddening toll! Alas again, off to bed. And up the stairs I hopped hoping to awake for another day to recommence my lonely call. But only the night can decide should I again see day, and so in his hands I place my humble heart, and on his pillow rest my balding head. Shall bells first toll beckon my sunrise, or shall the boatman beckon my soul?

Life Unlived

Had I but more time to live this life,
And more time to sing your praise.
Grow I closer to the morticians knife,
With my impending end of days.
I struggle to write and for my mind to be free,
Grasping at words I soon forget,
For instead I struggle with mortality,
My lifestyle Death's aide and abet.
Far too often I dwell in a macabre den,
Pierced by fears of the strange unknown,
My minds own makings of a cold prison,
These thoughts force man to live alone.
The brief sands of my time flowing fast away,
As I sit and cower in a frightened haze,
Passing swiftly each God given day,
Plotting escape from death's steely gaze.
Would I but take my eyes off his,
And live a life happy and free,
Then I'd dwell not on his business,
And need not live for eternity.
For a life can be big even if short in size,
After all, is brevity not the soul of wit?
So instead of fearing my demise,
I'll enjoy life by actually living it.

Breakfast of Champions

New and Improved Honeycomb Cereal

Now with a thousand Angry Bees in every Box!