"Painting flowers on a canvas .."

Attics creek from childish footsteps .. 

Painting flowers on a canvas erstwhile
The man with no face smiles with purpose
Banished soldiers wave the flag
Wearing blue ribbons and a red attire

Attics creak from childish footsteps
Of infants not born, raised or mangled
Memories lapse too easily here
Lovers lived poorly but died in style

They keep me from wanting, lusting and watching
From my window figures luscious and wild
While they make loud sounds of fun and frolic
Away from my sight, blinded and tired

A jungle of houses, a river of roads
Have circled my nights and grasped my dreams
Where once there were raisins of woodland and grass
Hang grinning gargoyles of glass and tile

Whisper gently, hushing your message
Take the rotten fruits of your labour
Guard them well for the angels are coming
The bounty they seek is not on your file

Start a fire if the cold has bled you
Taken your sinners saints and prophets
Burn tonight the papers of truth
Clench in your teeth the root so vile

Marry the madness and womb its offspring
Welcome its message as the last to bear
Feed the youngling of hatred and scorn
Let it grow as a killer for hire

I have painted thorns where reason would let me
Drawn on rock that shapes the water
I have riddled the book with pictures of battles
Pictures of Hope's defeat by Denial 


(dedicated to that awful, awful man: Frederick Taylor)

Goodbye winter .. an Ode

Winter, lovely winter, I shall miss thee

As I look at my warm clothing

I feel a little bit sad,

Winter has come, now it is leaving

And it’s been the best I've ever had

The snow had covered my footsteps

The ice had slowed me down

For where I was once hurried

I brisked around this town

I did not miss the green

Nor fear the mighty breeze

The numbing of my skin was a delight to me

I welcomed the daily freeze

No need to show my face

No need to pick my shirt

It was all covered in thickness

The kind that hides the dirt

Oh the joy of a world in white

Where the colors come from within

The birds just sing in their homes

The hunters commit fewer sins

The winter has always been my friend

A companion that stays besides me

In winter I can feel the air

In winter I can breath more freely

Now the summer sun will burn us

Its harsh light will blind

My skin will glisten all day

My nights will not be kind

Each step will be a labor

The walking man must endure

As I keep moving forward

I shall be loathe to open my door

Shahbaz Ali-Khan

(dedicated to the snowplowing workers of Montreal)