The most liberating part of facing my fear has been the blessing to build a new life with Mary-Anne.... I wrote a poem today trying to capture what's going on and how we have left our "old selves" behind as we step into the next chapter of our lives together.
"Uncharted"
I see all our now and past
Written on your face
Shudder with my breath
In the shadow of your grace
Slide my ‘self’
Out of the way
Turning to you,
Edges meld
and fray
Spent a lifetime imagining you
In one place
That no longer is you
Left is a hallow,
A whispering trace
A well-worn map, creased
Now tossed on the floor
Where we are headed
A life now free to explore
Baggage in tow from the journey
At the start
Abandoned by the road
We are free to depart
Take my hand
As we walk away from fear
A destination unknown
Feels safer with you near
I was in Boston for the marathon this year, and having already finished the race, I went back out onto the street with my wife just as the bombs went off. This traumatic experience was a contributing factor in the PTSD that forced me to go on an extended medical leave from work. While I was off work for 4 months, I started to write one poem a day, and this first poem was my attempt to make some sense of what we witnessed on the streets of Boston that day. I really need to humanize the two young men accused of the bombing because I wanted to get inside their head to see what brought them to that evil place.
"Patriots Day"
You arrived to a place much better than this
Escaped fear, bombs, and gunfire
For much needed bliss
You were looking for freedom
A simple respite
Instead you found resistance, incomprehension, and fright
So you built it day after day
That weight on your shoulders
Made you push us away
Grasping out of desperation
For the American dream
Got a wife, built a life
But things were not as they seem
Imported a loathing
Bred from abroad
Nothing that comes from Allah or God
Vindictive and evil
Your cold heart became
Seeking to kill, damage, and maim
A plan you did hatch
With your brother conscripted
Attack on the day of patriots
When our spirits are lifted
Along sleepy streets the families did come
Cheering on comrades for this heralded run
A dark shadow crept over
This innocent crowd
The bombs burst the innocence
Jarring and loud
We learned that your isolation
Has come with a cost
Bodies were strewn
Our innocence lost
From the blood rose heroes to the fore
While we all held our breath
Lest a patriot, even the score
We try to comprehend
Where your evil was born
You failed, by only planting strength
Neither hatred, nor scorn
A lesson we seek
But a moral we find,
Do unto others
Be gentle and kind
Next April we will take to the streets once again
The memories we will honor
Of our most dear fallen clan
This next poem is about "The Gatehouse" here in Toronto. This is a magical place that offers treatment for survivors of childhood sexual abuse. When I decided to finally disclose what had happened to me as child, a close friend recommended I go to The Gatehouse and speak to someone. This was the poem I wrote the night after my first group session with 9 other brave men who I grew to not only trust but also love with all my heart during the 15-week session.
“Beacon”
There’s an old house,
By the side of the road
Where stories of lost
Innocence are told
Around a circle we meet
Vulnerability at our feet
We seek comfort, and are told
Allow your secrets to unfold
We are passengers on the same train
In tow, our baggage and our shame
A reluctant journey without a destination
One fraught with fear and desperation
Boys who became men
Far too young
A blank slate etched,
Childhood dreams, left unsung
Follow a path
The brave lay down before
Toss us a lifeline
As we head for shore
We are souls set adrift,
We, who lack a voice
Tread gently together,
We have no choice
Shame is the anchor
Now tossed away
Hope that lay hidden,
Is our welcome stowaway
So if fellowship
You do seek,
Out of the shadows
We do speak
At the old house,
By the side of the road
Lay down your weary,
And heavy load
When I was off on my medical leave from work, I didn't have the concentration or the ability to read. As a result, I spent a lot of hours sitting in Starbucks locations around Toronto and talking to the "regulars" who inhabit these places every day. This next poem is about my Starbucks family down in the Beaches location.
“Opposites Attract”
A green siren hangs above the door
Where the lonely hearts club seeks rapport
They are broken in familiar places
Holding court, hoping it erases
Loss, where now friendship is found
Picking up the pieces, left on the ground
A crossword at the ready in one's hand
A thin rebuke, a gentle reprimand
Another is Oscar the Grouch
He likes to pontificate from the couch
An older woman sits by the fire
Her grace and solitude, does inspire
A tight knit circle, not a clique
Call it a dysfunctional mystique,
One needs the other to exist
It's neither furtive, nor a tryst
Come every morning right at dawn
Grab a coffee, suppress a yawn
Pull up a chair if you’re able
Join us rogues ‘round our table
This bitter elixir does wash away
Any worry, in this quaint Beach cafe
When I first started working through the issues related to the childhood sexual abuse is experienced, I went through a really dark period where I was very angry at my mother, who walked out when I quite young. I think a lot of that anger was tied up in my belief that if she had stayed around, what happened to me may not have happened. This next poem captures a lot of those "messy" feelings I have about my mother.
“Thanks, for pushing me out”
There’s a word you say
Where you let me in
Open a wire,
Pierce, my skin
Make me feel I belong
That nothing is wrong
A bond built in the womb
Now a smothering tomb
I remind you of bars
Deep emotional scars
A youth lost to a man
Where your spurn began
A time when
Hera had no voice
A faith, that left you
No choice
Became another man’s wife
Left a lost boy in strife
Fostered an illusion of care,
Courage seldom was there
And now
I am that man
Who questions
Your plan
A wife of his own
With a boy,
Not left alone
Today, I know to shelter this skin
Try as you will,
But I will never let you in
After my mother left, I was raised by father. Sadly, my father died when I was 22, so I never really had the chance to tell him what an amazing job he did bringing us up, and how I've drawn on the strength he instilled in me. My dad was both the saddest and strongest person I’ve ever known. So, this next poem is a few “snapshots” of a very poignant period of my childhood.
“Snapshots”
I have a few fragment memories
Of the time I was small
Try to bring them into focus,
But I can simply recall
There’s my mom
Chasing me with a wooden spoon
The arrival of our freedom
At the end of June
Fast forward to a ramshackle cottage by the lake
There’s a boat and a raft
My sister doing macramé,
Collage, or some other craft
There was cream of wheat for breakfast,
Kraft dinner for lunch
Snacking on jujubes and licorice
Drinking Hawaiian Tropical Punch
Labor Day would come,
And we’d head back to Toronto
All tanned and bruised
Like some skinny desperado
I remember waking in the morning,
My dad asleep on the chesterfield
His marriage had unravelled
Life's infidelity, no longer concealed
I can hear my dad tell me
Your mom won’t be coming back home
I can see tears in his eyes
I still smell his Aqua Velva cologne
That first Christmas we celebrated
After my mom had gone
My father despondent, and enraged
Threw our Christmas tree onto the lawn
As a lost young boy,
No better role model could I seek
My father taught me love and loyalty
But most of all, never be weak
Don’t feel sorry for me
For what I’ve been through
A father’s undying love
Has left a sweet residue
When my wife and I went over to England to get married, we had the opportunity to go for lots of day-long hikes through the rolling fields of Devon and along the cliffs of Cornwall. On one of these walks, we had just finished descending a long embankment, when we came across this magical field of bluebells as far as the eye could see. This next poem is about that happy time of my life.
“Bluebells”
On your way, a road
You must walk all alone
But the road you’re on
You are not,
On your own
Today I awoke in a world
All in enchanted
Looking for the place
Always taken for granted
Content with being lost
Not having all the answers
Guided by the singers,
Poets, and the dancers
The part that lay dormant
All these many years
Now suddenly awake
Brought to life with these tears
Like a teddy bear ragged
And missing one eye
Being hugged and dragged
Feeling love,
In great supply
Being perfect, or recovered
Is no longer my goal
I’ve discovered instead
The art to feeling whole
Walking through a valley
Bluebells as far as the eye can see
I’ve discovered in myself
What I always knew to be
There is a sex-trade worker I see most weekday mornings around 4:30am as I am running through the streets of downtown Toronto. Over the past 3 years, I’ve stopped and chatted with her, and gotten to know a little bit about her story. Someone who most people choose “not to see”, has become a friendly face for me out of the darkness. So, this poem is about this young lady, who I pray finds her way.
“Cornered”
Running over the steel bridge
And down to the lake
Shrieking raccoons, rats,
And skunks in my wake
Rounding the corner
Towards the sketchy part of the city
Soup kitchens, abandoned lots,
Bus shelters looking a little gritty
Out of an alcove
I see your shadow appear
You, a part of our city,
Hidden beneath a veneer
You look so skinny and cold
In your faux mink stole
Up and down the lonely street
Lethargically you trawl
What could you possibly carry
In that huge purse
A change of panties, mouthwash,
Or something much worse
The people who despise you,
In public on the street
Are the same people who pick you up
In a minivan, with a baby seat
To me you’re a friendly face
I see in the night
I wave hello, say be safe
You giggle with delight
Your sad brown eyes
Reflect a life you didn’t choose
A time before the needle ravaged,
All the unending abuse
I don’t pity you, for I too
Am broken in a place
Both seeking our way,
A path to God’s good grace
Just remember, even though at times
You may feel all alone,
Together through these dark,
Empty streets we both roam
There will be a day when together
We find that missing piece
And all that fear, shame,
And doubt, will suddenly cease
This last poem is what I wrote the night before my last group session at The Gatehouse treatment centre. I'd been through some fairly "dark" times during the four months prior to writing this poem, but now I was beginning to feel a lightness in my soul. All the shame and guilt I'd been carrying around about the childhood sexual abuse, now lay beside me and no longer inside me.
“Flight Not Fight”
Arriving at a place
Where the heart feels light
His story,
Is the past
A grateful soul,
Now alight
Spent so many years
Trudging boulders,
Erecting a dam
If I could only keep out
These wretched waters
Not let you know
Who I am
But the mind is like nature
She won’t adhere to your plan
Shame will bubble to the surface
Eventually expose who I am
Vulnerability is irony
It is strength, without wings
Within the reality of truth
This tender heart ripens and sings
In the warmth of your arms,
The dam has been breached
Now I lie amongst the boulders
My soul, the cool waters do reach
What happened before
No longer haunts this place
It now flows through this stream
Empowered by God’s sweet grace
"Uncharted"
I see all our now and past
Written on your face
Shudder with my breath
In the shadow of your grace
Slide my ‘self’
Out of the way
Turning to you,
Edges meld
and fray
Spent a lifetime imagining you
In one place
That no longer is you
Left is a hallow,
A whispering trace
A well-worn map, creased
Now tossed on the floor
Where we are headed
A life now free to explore
Baggage in tow from the journey
At the start
Abandoned by the road
We are free to depart
Take my hand
As we walk away from fear
A destination unknown
Feels safer with you near
I was in Boston for the marathon this year, and having already finished the race, I went back out onto the street with my wife just as the bombs went off. This traumatic experience was a contributing factor in the PTSD that forced me to go on an extended medical leave from work. While I was off work for 4 months, I started to write one poem a day, and this first poem was my attempt to make some sense of what we witnessed on the streets of Boston that day. I really need to humanize the two young men accused of the bombing because I wanted to get inside their head to see what brought them to that evil place.
"Patriots Day"
You arrived to a place much better than this
Escaped fear, bombs, and gunfire
For much needed bliss
You were looking for freedom
A simple respite
Instead you found resistance, incomprehension, and fright
So you built it day after day
That weight on your shoulders
Made you push us away
Grasping out of desperation
For the American dream
Got a wife, built a life
But things were not as they seem
Imported a loathing
Bred from abroad
Nothing that comes from Allah or God
Vindictive and evil
Your cold heart became
Seeking to kill, damage, and maim
A plan you did hatch
With your brother conscripted
Attack on the day of patriots
When our spirits are lifted
Along sleepy streets the families did come
Cheering on comrades for this heralded run
A dark shadow crept over
This innocent crowd
The bombs burst the innocence
Jarring and loud
We learned that your isolation
Has come with a cost
Bodies were strewn
Our innocence lost
From the blood rose heroes to the fore
While we all held our breath
Lest a patriot, even the score
We try to comprehend
Where your evil was born
You failed, by only planting strength
Neither hatred, nor scorn
A lesson we seek
But a moral we find,
Do unto others
Be gentle and kind
Next April we will take to the streets once again
The memories we will honor
Of our most dear fallen clan
This next poem is about "The Gatehouse" here in Toronto. This is a magical place that offers treatment for survivors of childhood sexual abuse. When I decided to finally disclose what had happened to me as child, a close friend recommended I go to The Gatehouse and speak to someone. This was the poem I wrote the night after my first group session with 9 other brave men who I grew to not only trust but also love with all my heart during the 15-week session.
“Beacon”
There’s an old house,
By the side of the road
Where stories of lost
Innocence are told
Around a circle we meet
Vulnerability at our feet
We seek comfort, and are told
Allow your secrets to unfold
We are passengers on the same train
In tow, our baggage and our shame
A reluctant journey without a destination
One fraught with fear and desperation
Boys who became men
Far too young
A blank slate etched,
Childhood dreams, left unsung
Follow a path
The brave lay down before
Toss us a lifeline
As we head for shore
We are souls set adrift,
We, who lack a voice
Tread gently together,
We have no choice
Shame is the anchor
Now tossed away
Hope that lay hidden,
Is our welcome stowaway
So if fellowship
You do seek,
Out of the shadows
We do speak
At the old house,
By the side of the road
Lay down your weary,
And heavy load
When I was off on my medical leave from work, I didn't have the concentration or the ability to read. As a result, I spent a lot of hours sitting in Starbucks locations around Toronto and talking to the "regulars" who inhabit these places every day. This next poem is about my Starbucks family down in the Beaches location.
“Opposites Attract”
A green siren hangs above the door
Where the lonely hearts club seeks rapport
They are broken in familiar places
Holding court, hoping it erases
Loss, where now friendship is found
Picking up the pieces, left on the ground
A crossword at the ready in one's hand
A thin rebuke, a gentle reprimand
Another is Oscar the Grouch
He likes to pontificate from the couch
An older woman sits by the fire
Her grace and solitude, does inspire
A tight knit circle, not a clique
Call it a dysfunctional mystique,
One needs the other to exist
It's neither furtive, nor a tryst
Come every morning right at dawn
Grab a coffee, suppress a yawn
Pull up a chair if you’re able
Join us rogues ‘round our table
This bitter elixir does wash away
Any worry, in this quaint Beach cafe
When I first started working through the issues related to the childhood sexual abuse is experienced, I went through a really dark period where I was very angry at my mother, who walked out when I quite young. I think a lot of that anger was tied up in my belief that if she had stayed around, what happened to me may not have happened. This next poem captures a lot of those "messy" feelings I have about my mother.
“Thanks, for pushing me out”
There’s a word you say
Where you let me in
Open a wire,
Pierce, my skin
Make me feel I belong
That nothing is wrong
A bond built in the womb
Now a smothering tomb
I remind you of bars
Deep emotional scars
A youth lost to a man
Where your spurn began
A time when
Hera had no voice
A faith, that left you
No choice
Became another man’s wife
Left a lost boy in strife
Fostered an illusion of care,
Courage seldom was there
And now
I am that man
Who questions
Your plan
A wife of his own
With a boy,
Not left alone
Today, I know to shelter this skin
Try as you will,
But I will never let you in
After my mother left, I was raised by father. Sadly, my father died when I was 22, so I never really had the chance to tell him what an amazing job he did bringing us up, and how I've drawn on the strength he instilled in me. My dad was both the saddest and strongest person I’ve ever known. So, this next poem is a few “snapshots” of a very poignant period of my childhood.
“Snapshots”
I have a few fragment memories
Of the time I was small
Try to bring them into focus,
But I can simply recall
There’s my mom
Chasing me with a wooden spoon
The arrival of our freedom
At the end of June
Fast forward to a ramshackle cottage by the lake
There’s a boat and a raft
My sister doing macramé,
Collage, or some other craft
There was cream of wheat for breakfast,
Kraft dinner for lunch
Snacking on jujubes and licorice
Drinking Hawaiian Tropical Punch
Labor Day would come,
And we’d head back to Toronto
All tanned and bruised
Like some skinny desperado
I remember waking in the morning,
My dad asleep on the chesterfield
His marriage had unravelled
Life's infidelity, no longer concealed
I can hear my dad tell me
Your mom won’t be coming back home
I can see tears in his eyes
I still smell his Aqua Velva cologne
That first Christmas we celebrated
After my mom had gone
My father despondent, and enraged
Threw our Christmas tree onto the lawn
As a lost young boy,
No better role model could I seek
My father taught me love and loyalty
But most of all, never be weak
Don’t feel sorry for me
For what I’ve been through
A father’s undying love
Has left a sweet residue
When my wife and I went over to England to get married, we had the opportunity to go for lots of day-long hikes through the rolling fields of Devon and along the cliffs of Cornwall. On one of these walks, we had just finished descending a long embankment, when we came across this magical field of bluebells as far as the eye could see. This next poem is about that happy time of my life.
“Bluebells”
On your way, a road
You must walk all alone
But the road you’re on
You are not,
On your own
Today I awoke in a world
All in enchanted
Looking for the place
Always taken for granted
Content with being lost
Not having all the answers
Guided by the singers,
Poets, and the dancers
The part that lay dormant
All these many years
Now suddenly awake
Brought to life with these tears
Like a teddy bear ragged
And missing one eye
Being hugged and dragged
Feeling love,
In great supply
Being perfect, or recovered
Is no longer my goal
I’ve discovered instead
The art to feeling whole
Walking through a valley
Bluebells as far as the eye can see
I’ve discovered in myself
What I always knew to be
There is a sex-trade worker I see most weekday mornings around 4:30am as I am running through the streets of downtown Toronto. Over the past 3 years, I’ve stopped and chatted with her, and gotten to know a little bit about her story. Someone who most people choose “not to see”, has become a friendly face for me out of the darkness. So, this poem is about this young lady, who I pray finds her way.
“Cornered”
Running over the steel bridge
And down to the lake
Shrieking raccoons, rats,
And skunks in my wake
Rounding the corner
Towards the sketchy part of the city
Soup kitchens, abandoned lots,
Bus shelters looking a little gritty
Out of an alcove
I see your shadow appear
You, a part of our city,
Hidden beneath a veneer
You look so skinny and cold
In your faux mink stole
Up and down the lonely street
Lethargically you trawl
What could you possibly carry
In that huge purse
A change of panties, mouthwash,
Or something much worse
The people who despise you,
In public on the street
Are the same people who pick you up
In a minivan, with a baby seat
To me you’re a friendly face
I see in the night
I wave hello, say be safe
You giggle with delight
Your sad brown eyes
Reflect a life you didn’t choose
A time before the needle ravaged,
All the unending abuse
I don’t pity you, for I too
Am broken in a place
Both seeking our way,
A path to God’s good grace
Just remember, even though at times
You may feel all alone,
Together through these dark,
Empty streets we both roam
There will be a day when together
We find that missing piece
And all that fear, shame,
And doubt, will suddenly cease
This last poem is what I wrote the night before my last group session at The Gatehouse treatment centre. I'd been through some fairly "dark" times during the four months prior to writing this poem, but now I was beginning to feel a lightness in my soul. All the shame and guilt I'd been carrying around about the childhood sexual abuse, now lay beside me and no longer inside me.
“Flight Not Fight”
Arriving at a place
Where the heart feels light
His story,
Is the past
A grateful soul,
Now alight
Spent so many years
Trudging boulders,
Erecting a dam
If I could only keep out
These wretched waters
Not let you know
Who I am
But the mind is like nature
She won’t adhere to your plan
Shame will bubble to the surface
Eventually expose who I am
Vulnerability is irony
It is strength, without wings
Within the reality of truth
This tender heart ripens and sings
In the warmth of your arms,
The dam has been breached
Now I lie amongst the boulders
My soul, the cool waters do reach
What happened before
No longer haunts this place
It now flows through this stream
Empowered by God’s sweet grace
