Short Canonized Poems

I'd rather have piteous hands
Than blood stained ones
It may be a dismal conception
But through that threshold stands
No turning point in either direction.

The piteous are often the poor
While blood stained will throttle for more.
It's a dismal world upon reflection
So heaven's conception was to soften the poor
But man set the bar for that thresholds redemption....

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I sank into the depths of marbled 
Frustration.
Canonized in furrowed gasps,
I claimed my own footsteps were thieves.
We all skulk slunk-shouldered to the same sorrowful shore.
Though it ain’t all that bad.
Look through the lightened leaves
The maple glow will warm your 
Foiled, flagrant, tired eyes.
If you are not your own era,
Bring your illusions to the foreground and
Castrate your deadened pride....

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I'm rolling by these towers 
that swerve, these towers
that turn,
twisting, slow, into Mississauga
skies, I watch 
new windows
burn with light, burn
with life, yet I 
still remember when you were 
hardly higher than a child, then
ascending, rising
canonized from flat Ontario ground,
and now
the miracle is complete,
St. Monroe alive
for thousands-

"...a landmark of a town
         bathed in round Babylonian crystal..."...

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