The Pen & The Sword
You’ve been stabbed in the back and grown cold as stone
But I’m no King Arthur, just a boy with his poems
And no strength left to offer, none I can afford
Do you believe the pen is mightier than the sword?
Too Simple a Symphony
I wake to a wondrous melody
And fetch my pen as it comes to me
Words I write off for simplicity
Carve, into paper, a prophesy
A chilling future I have foreseen
The bitter taste to my sweetest dreams
So I fall back to my old conceit
Yet, wonder why I never sleep
Coming Clean
I’ve been wearing my heart on my sleeve
I throw my shirt on the floor
She takes off her dress
And leaves a sock on the door
I think it’s time that we come clean
We’ve got to much dirty laundry
The Apple Can Never Be Blue
There is a man perched on the Manhattan Bridge. He has abandoned his car in 6 o’clock traffic, hopped the railing and left his hands, reaching back, to hold himself high above the East River. Faint screams come from the crowd that has gathered in a sadistic amusement. An idiot, with a megaphone and one to many degrees, pleads detached and uninterested with this stranger who seems so determined to die. But I know this man. He is just like me. His name is Reuben Cole and he is a patient of mine. Reuben walked into my office two years ago and I asked him the same question I pose to all my patients, “Why are you here?” Unlike the others, who responded haplessly, “I’m depressed,” he told me a story.
When Reuben was about five or six years old, some state officials came to his school to administer a test. Him and his classmates were given two pieces of paper. On one they were told to draw an apple and on the other a human. Reuben, not being much of an artist at the age of six, drew a haggard stickman. His apple wasn’t any better. He coloured it blue. Blue was his favourite colour. A week later Reuben was dragged to the administrator’s office. His parents were there. His mother was crying. The administrator, who had seen his drawings, tried to convince Reuben’s parents that he was retarded. Apparently Reuben’s stickman indicated a lack of knowledge of the human extremities. His blue apple was also a sizeable concern. However, his father, somewhat coming to his defence, asked if Reuben could retake the test. So he was given two more pieces of paper and asked to draw the pictures again. Reuben drew another stickman; but this time he gave it hands, each with four fingers and a thumb. He gave it feet with five toes, a head with two ears, two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. And Reuben, demonstrating his naive knowledge of human anatomy, drew a penis. The penis was quite large for the corresponding stickman; but Reuben smiled feeling he had now succeeded. However, he was dragged to the office once again. His parents were there. His mother was crying. The state workers now accompanied the administrator as they again barraged Reuben’s drawings. His apple, perfectly round and red, was acceptable. His seemingly “aroused” stickman was of much greater concern and Reuben was deemed a sexual pervert at the age of six. He told me he has been in-and-out of therapy ever since.
In my two years of analyzing Reuben, you could say I have gotten to know him. He has ironically turned into quite the artist. He is a creative, inspired, and successful writer. He is an intelligent and humorous gentleman. He’s a poet. I had always wondered why Reuben had found any form of counselling necessary. I had always wondered what good forty-odd years of it could do. Or what damage? But as I drive to Manhattan, being summoned as the only one who knows him, I can only think of what Reuben had said to me just hours before.
He came for his regular monday afternoon appointment and appeared happier than usual. When I asked him about this, he told me he had tried to kill himself the night before. He told me that the moment before the bar in his closet collapsed and the moment before his apparent death, he felt the unshakeable desire to live. Like when death is so distant, we don’t fear it. But when it’s close enough to feel, we abjure it. By some miracle Reuben, lying face down in his closet, found his therapy. He found his thirst to live.
Traffic has come to a stop on the Manhattan Bridge. I am forced to abandon my car. As I walk towards the distant commotion I ask myself, “Is Reuben just trying to regain this thirst?”
Since he was a child, Reuben has been told that you have to look at the world through a certain lens. He’s been told that everything is predetermined, that even creativity must adhere to certain logistics, that apples can never be blue. So what if this lens makes everything blurry? Can someone like Reuben, who’s nature longs to burst through these limitations, bear it? I can’t imagine how. Agony.
I walk beneath the triumphal arch and I see the crowd of people who have left their cars and swarmed towards the edge of the bridge. They show such interest in the strains of a stranger. But I know this man. He is just like me and I have a long trek ahead.
A quick tribute I whipped up for this bullshit Canadian weather we’ve been having.
Coming Around
It’s time to sell the family home
We wont be coming around anymore
Every closet is cluttered by skeletons
Buried by the locks that kept us in
But couldn’t shut the demons out
Running free through every inch of this house
Always creaking the third step from the top
Where ounce was a home, stands an empty lot
So draw your sword
Made of the branches from the trees that lined our backyard
Its time to do battle
With every sinister creature that hides amongst the shadows
Every one with a familiar face
As you raise your hand to strike they call out your name
Seems the monsters in the closet were real
But you were told to go to back bed, never mind how you feel
Acapella Christmas Photo Sneak Peak! Get out your sweaters, bundle up, and be ready to doo wop
