HOPE REVIVED:

More Reasons Not To Dispair:

Where’s my optimism?

Why is it always so easily slipping away?

I have no reason to fear

Except that fear comes so naturally,

In the world today.

Every piece of news we hear is

Telling us to worry about something,

Or everything.

But everything is still alright with you,

Everything is still just fine with me.

We’re still fitting together,

Almost seamlessly;

So there are no tears in the fabric,

No matter how hard I might try

To spot them, and stop them, before they spread.

Yeah, you’re still hoping to see me,

And I’m still hoping to see you,

And hope is something grand.

Small words can work miracles

On minds that are off-kilter.

So why should I dismiss this small talk?

It’s more than useless chatter.

Every word is a small step

In some future direction.

A building block to add to a stockpile of hope,

And these blocks have values, even in themselves.

If the mountain of hope does crumble,

The pieces will remain as

Pleasant memories.

VIBRANT MEMORIES HAVE I STOLEN:

Without Hope, What Then Do We Have?

Memory is indeed a precious thing -- but as I have experienced it, tenacious, fickle and ever-fleeting -- you who have the better memory must revel in its riches -- while I, ever the forgetful, am left only to hope; yet I often pause, when I am able, to partake of such fond rememberings.

I remember you wore a green dress, and carried a white parasol. We spoke with the vendors in the market, and played music on our balcony; I feel it did exist in truth, and yet it cannot -- whose memories are these?

It would have been a grand one -- think you not? Yet ever now, both alas and alas. How strange the world would be should they be enemies -- yet, who decides? Are we truly safe in one another's care?

What desires they would have, what untold potentials -- but would they share with us in our vision -- or would they turn, only to destroy, usurping their creators?

Whom would prove most cunning and most brave; most deceitful and most loyal; most hatful and most strong? Such worlds do but swirl into existence before our very eyes. How lonely we must be -- destined makers of such empty worlds.

The sunlight in your eyes, and the wisdom in your song -- we walked white beaches, amidst the call of many birds, and the flowing of pristine waters. Our travels were vast, but it was hardly the distance that was important -- rather it was always within the heart of the imagination, and within the depths of the illusion.

They must needs be -- for they are as glorious as they are intangible.

Perhaps I should write, one day, of our travels -- while it is not you, nor is it I -- who travel on this vast, translucent tide of odd, unsettled dreams -- we are altogether elsewhere. Yet something of us each remains within, lurking near the shadows of a vision of perfection.

If only because it revealed some truth we are, ourselves, somehow, uncomfortable to comprehend -- yet such truths are valuable -- even as they are unwanted.

We gave heed to none, passing through the vines of ancient gardens, peering through the gates of forbidden vales and holds -- we would speak with all the hidden peoples of the earth, and they alone would display for us their beauty. We climbed through vaulted palaces of marble and of gold, to reach the sombre, untamed peaks of long forgotten monastaries, where we studied in the libraries of the elder ones, and wrote of our discoveries, all within the sacred books we call the soul.

Who are these bright, uncanny travelers, and what secrets must they hold?

MY NAME IS JANE:

Spare Any Change?

I dunno why I want to talk to you, but it just seems right, somehow. I want to tell you a story. I ain't much of a storyteller, so I'll tell it just like I used to read those little stories to wee Ruth, my little girl.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. She wasn't no peasant girl, but she weren't no princess, neither. She didn't have so much money, but she worked hard. She wasn't too pretty or too bright, but she got along. Ordinary, y'know. And one day, she met this man. He was nice enough, pretty ordinary too, if anyone else had seen him, they'd hardly have batted an eye. But he was a good man, a gentleman, in his own way.

Well, you know how these things go. They were friends, and then best friends. They would hang out everywhere together, at the movies, in the little cafes all around. It was a great time. I don't quite remember how everything happened, but then one day, they were getting married.

The night before the wedding, they were out at the beach, just looking up at the stars, and the man said something I'll not forget. He was all quiet for a bit, and then he started saying to her, "I don't know quite how to put this. I'm not the best or the smartest man in the world, I'm no one special, really. But tomorrow, I'll be the happiest man in the world, because we'll be sharing the rest of our lives together."

I dunno if I'm quite remembering it right. It sounded real impressive at the time. Anyway, so the wedding went on and everything was as happy as happy could be. She gave birth to a beautiful wee girl, and the two of them, they loved the girl, just as much as they could.

As the little girl was growing up, she was a pretty wee thing, but there was one thing people were always asking questions about. Y'see, she didn't play with dolls and Barbies, like the other wee girls - she wanted to play with dinosaurs! She was so smart too - she knew all their names, and which ones ate plants, and which ones were bad and wanted to eat the other dinosaurs. So her mummy, she went out and bought her a big stuffed dinosaur, all cuddly and soft, and brought it home for the little girl. That big stuffed dinosaur became the little girl's absolute favourite! She would take it everywhere - sure enough, I remember she even brought it with her to the dentist and asked if the dentist could do a quick checkup on the dinosaur's teeth! She didn't want it to be getting no cavities.

Not long after that, the mother, she started forgetting things. It was kinda funny at first, but then it started getting scary. I can't remember much of this - strange, that.

Anyway, it got so bad that the man decided he couldn't live with the woman anymore. He took the little girl, and they moved far away. The woman was really sad, but what could she do? She knew she couldn't take care of the little girl anymore. one day, she was trying to clean the house, when she suddenly realized that the man had forgotten to take that big stuffed dinosaur with him! She rushed out of the house with the dinosaur, thinking that at least she could send it to her little girl.

But she got all turned around and lost. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't even get back to her own house. She wandered around the streets, clutching the stuffed dinosaur, looking in vain for anything familiar.

Finally, she gave up. She found a dry patch to lay down on, and fell asleep.

It's almost a year now, since she left that house, clutching her little girl's stuffed dinosaur. Today's her birthday. All she wants is to find a post office and have enough money to send the toy to her little Ruth.

Can you spare any change? And can you show me where the post office is? Please?

THE BUS RIDE HOME:

Reflecting On One Gray, September Day:

Welcome to the Great White North, both strong and free,
Tell me Ms. DiFranco, do you still want to move here
To escape from the powers that be?
'Cause down on de Maisonneuve the sounds of shots rang out,
We’re just of free here to buy weapons to scream to shout.

Hey, Coupeland, won't you come take a look,
Will these kids live and die living like those in your book?
Hey, Michael, your Canada theory doesn’t stand,
Because there’s no less fear in our native land.

There’s no explanation that quite explains the root,
Of why some folks transform pain to terror and then begin to shoot.

Guns flood the streets of Toronto, girls die on boxing day;
Young men terrorize students, with weapons both legal and paid,
And Bill’s in Japan, feeling this pain all alone,
While I ride past the school, everyday on my way home.

They used to ask, where you when Kennedy was shot,
Or when man landed on the moon?
Then, where were you on 9/11 when the war began again so soon?
And for the next day, for the next week, it’s all that’s on our minds,
Where were you when Dawson became a word synonymous with Columbine?

We search for some explanation but still we’re at a loss,
And the best we can do now is to ask,
How many lives will this one cost?