Sun thief

Someday,
I'll be a big bird.
And fly into the ocean,
to steal the sun
and plant it's rays like seeds,
for you and I.

The world will smile,
as the new sun grows,
reflecting the old.

The moon will be jealous!
The sun will need legs,
to run from the moon.
Who once called the sky her own.

Now the stars will sleep,
as the new sun weeps,
Reflecting his ocean home.
Sky's of blue remind him
of the water below.
The clouds are like waves,
roaming with the wind.

We are Kin of the fish,
Brothers and Sisters of the birds.
Trapped between two oceans
By our crippled machines.

Clear mind, clean hands.

In the recent past I have been on the fence when it has come to my faith; I am not prepared to jump on the Jesus bus to the big Super 8 in the sky, and frankly I’m tired of being disappointed by organised religion. I am a bisexual male, this means I can have as much intimacy in a relationship with a male as I can with a female. It doesn’t matter who you get into bed with; whether you are gay straight or obtuse, love is more than skin deep and sexuality should be an extension of that love, not a tool meant only for heterosexual couples to makes babies. So from this point on (or from the point of this morning at 3am on) I’ll put my faith into acceptance. I accept that love is more than the act of sex alone, no man or woman should be judged by who they wish to love.

Finally my mind is clear; I know where I stand and my hands are clean, clean of the ignorant hypocrisy that tells me I’m going to hell if I love a man like I should love a woman. I will tolerate your hate because I accept that your faith tells you to remain in the dark, accepting change is a sin after all; but I am not a part of your hate. My hands are clean.

Remembering insperation

I read a note put on facebook by an old friend and it got the brass gears in my head clunking. As adults we all have our little memories that tend to get pushed to the back of our head by the rigors of life. It could have been a trip that changed your view on life, maybe it was summer camp as a kid or the sound of Granma making the table in the morning during Christmas on the farm. Either way those memories are brought to the surface by similar surroundings, smells a photo or a memento. For a time we enjoy them, but as life goes on around us memories fade back behind the importance of paying bills and remembering your keys.

I volunteered in the kitchen at camp during the summer just so I could be there a bit longer. That generic smell of a clean commercial kitchen always, brings up the memories of late night kitchen raids and afternoons after lunch clean up spent in the councillor cabin on that dirty old couch, watching Princess Bride and drinking Jones soda. I can still remember the sound of Granma making the table for breakfast on Christmas morning, I remember Bob Dylan on vinyl in Grandpa’s office that doubled as the guest bedroom. Last summer was a time for major change in my life, one of the face knuckle sandwiches that got me to realise I needed change. My friends were there for me, they were my comfort, a solid during a time when everything around me was diarrhea. We almost ran away together and toured Canada on our feet; I spent a lot of time with them and thought that they would always be around. Life happened, and although they still are close I feel like I need a plane ticket to find them. I don’t know why these fond memories tend to be bitter sweet, maybe I shouldn’t say good-bye to those who aren’t gone. Why live on the fraying threads of past memories when new one can be weaved from the same loom.