Invitation to Sup

Shepherd -of-the-Twilight,
He found me in my tree.
He calls to me at night,
And bids, "Come feast with me"

Feral is my host,
His offers I decline.
And should I throw a roast,
I'd ask him not to dine.

He's gone again at day,
I take this time to roam,
To figure out my way,
From his banquet to my home.

From tree to tree I steal,
Crafty like a thief.
A battle of wits has no appeal,
When just one side has the teeth.

Strength in Numbers

Strength in numbers!
We shall prevail,
Marching to one beat.
Their best efforts to no avail,
They’ll tremble at our feet!

Strength in numbers!
We quest for glory,
United in one cause.
We shall clutch victory,
Out of defeat’s jaws.

Strength in numbers!
Together make our stand,
We shall take our fate.
That noble day’s at hand,
To cleanse that which we hate,
And purge it from this land.

Strength in numbers!
If Jack can slay a giant,
Then man can fall a tyrant.
We only need rely,
On each man, each ally!

Strength in numbers!
We shall prevail.
We march to one beat.
We cannot fail.
They’ll soon taste defeat.

Strength in numbers!
Behold us now.
Strength in numbers!

United as one voice!
Surrender their only choice,
For not even a lion would chance,
The wrath of 10,000 angry ants!

The enemy is to be met.
Tyranny soon slumbers,
Should we not forget,
That we have strength in numbers!

Caleb

Starving in our captors’ jail,
Caleb spoke to me.
His voice was rasp, his skin was pale,
Four and eighty days we’d not been free.
Of all the Charges to our name,
But smuggling was the truth,
And even then the saddest shame,
Was that they had no proof.
Proof was never needed,
Burmese law prevailed.
And the longer that you pleaded,
The longer you were jailed.
Of release there was no hope,
They’d hang us both as spies.
Our necks broken by rope,
Woven of their lies.
Caleb was in denial,
But my spirit they’d broken first.
Between the present and our trial,
With beatings, hunger, and thirst.
He’d attempted escape twice,
But twice he hadn’t made it,
They deemed his eyes the price,
And sadly Caleb paid it.
He stumbled eyeless round the cell,
Means of escape he’d vow to find.
While I sat there wondering how in Hell,
He had such hope while he was blind.
I had met my match,
My powerful need to eat.
Hard were the rats to catch,
And little was their meat.
Caleb’s one reliance,
That we would survive.
His idea of defiance,
Was to stay alive.
His hope was sheer madness,
But I would play along.
Instead of facing the sadness,
Of knowing he was wrong.

Then one day he turned to me,
Eerily he spake,
“I told you brother we’d be free,
And it is no mistake.
“I can see it all so clearly,
He was here, he came to me,
He held my hand dearly,
He told me where we’d be.
“Behold he has a table!”
Caleb stood suddenly,
How he was able,
Was vastly beyond me.
“Such a wonderful spread,
Finally we shall eat.
Warmth, joy! We’ll be well fed,
We need but take our seat.
“He is unlike any other,”
A grin formed across his face,
“It’s time to feast my brother,
He calls me to my place”
“I’ll see you in a while”
He fell and moved no more,
Just lay he eyeless smiling,
Upon the cold stone floor.

Gambling Borrowed Monies

I owed a small sum,
I had to pay a debt.
To reduce the cost,
I played it on a bet.
All the funds I lost,
All I won, regret.

Party Crashers

Death came to my door that day,
He came and would not go away.
He crashed my party with his friend fear,
Uninvited, they should not be here.
Their presence made us all quite sad.
Whatever shall I tell my Dad,
What will he say when he returns tomorrow,
To find the trio, Death, Fear and Sorrow.

From Whence I Came

On a map you will not find,
My hometown, 'tis no physical place.
I dwell within a state of mind,
Where thoughts manifest into space.

To End a World

Every life has it's own World,
A unique view through unique eyes.
To take a life, would end this world,
To say, "No more shall your sun rise."
To strike down a man through hate,
I do not deem that wise.
To hastily forge one's fate,
And so a world dies.

The Dress

An empty chair where a husband sits,
A favourite dress that no longer fits.
Gone are all her favourite bands,
Faded like the youth within her hands.
Winter pain, it now lingers,
Inside all her tired fingers.
No longer able to use a sewing kit,
To mend a dress that does not fit.

Her

I dream of her without a chance,
I look at her without a glance.
A million years could pass me by,
Without the hope I'd catch her eye.
Why pursue her who sees not me?
Love is my favorite futility.

My Father's Armour

My Father's Armour,
He shall wear it no more.
An end to him,
But not to war.

If every Father gave his life,
Would that then put an end to strife?
It was the burden he did bear,
My Father's Armour,
Now mine to wear.

Salute

Through those Gates,
And through those Jaws,
Where Flesh meets Steel,
To the sound of Applause.

TRIUMPH, GLORY, DEATH, or FAME
A way of Life, a simple Game

Surrounded by Eyes,
We make our Stand,
To shed not our Coils,
Upon the Sand.

And should we fall,
We best fall well,
Lest they forget,
Just how we fell.

We are those left,
The resolute few,
We who are about to die,
Salute you!

Oddly Specific Advice for Life a Small Strange Man Once Gave Me as I Clamoured Through the Woods on a Rather Cold Day

Walking through the woods one day I found myself short of breath,
My knees were weak, my back did creak and I was freezing half to death,
To rest up and catch my breath I sat upon a great stone,
But in my haste I did not see that I was not all alone.
On this stone there was a small man, he lay there deep asleep,
In an attempt not to wake him, I tried to move without a peep.
But as I quietly tried my hardest to simply slip away,
He sprang awake from his rest and asked me what is the day.
I apologized for waking him, and stated today’s date,
He thanked me for my info, and asked me why I wait.
I told him I was resting, that my trek had made me tired,
He said life did the same to him so he sat here and expired.
I was confused by his words, they were cryptic to say the least,
He then listed everyone he’d ever seen, man, woman and beast.
Once my breath had returned I said farewell and was back on my way,
He stopped me for a moment and said he had more to say.
I listened to his parting words and continued on my walk,
Reflecting on this strange little man and our strange little talk.
Back at the cabin I enjoyed a fire, and let it warm my soul,
I brewed some tea, sat by the stove and slowly stirred the coal.
As the coal stirred, my thoughts did too on what had passed,
I remembered the specific words of what he said unto me last.
To this day I do not know if he was merely drunk or wise,
But I’ll never forget the words he spoke as I looked into his eyes,
“Do not live your life in waiting, sitting on a stone,
But rather take a path and walk it, and make of it your own.”
Maybe he slept there specifically, to give advice like that,
But who could say he’d known the rock upon which I’d have sat.
Either way the words matter, but not for how and when they were said,
They only matter how I choose to use them, when I replay them in my head.

Little green men are on our streets,
If you see them you will go.
Then the red men, they step up,
And redirect the flow.

A Night of Self-Purgatory

And in a time of joy and frivolity,

he turned his back on the festive mob.

Rather he yearned to be alone and free,

To sit and tend to his head's harsh throb.

Sequestered he sought to live that night,

A mind at ease and heart at rest.

Away from the group and their plight,

This solitude his one request.

Who could understand these feelings from him,

Normally one happy and loud was he,

But the night was long and his eyes were dim,

And on his own he had to be.

So he did retreat to a place they'd never look,

To lick his wounds and dwell in peace,

For rudeness his retreat would be mistook.

Hopefully these feelings would soon cease.

They could not understand his mood,

Or why he randomly felt down,

Just offer him drink, song and food,

So he wandered off, alone with a frown.

These people so well he could understand and read,

Yet never to them he could relate,

For it was the nature of his breed,

And therein was sealed his fate.

To know them inside out with but a gaze,

And detect in them emotions so fine.

But this gift does not work both ways,

The misunderstood life of a canine.

A Curmudgen and His Latch

Prologue:

On number five of Marpole drive,
Old Rob McGudgen did reside,
In his home he did thrive,
A curmudgeon of great pride.
An aged carpenter extraordinare,
With crooked back and greying hair,
Nothing short of perfection he could abide.

But no tale is complete,
Without a challenge to meet,
A foe he had most foul,
That upon him grew a scowl.
And this is that very story,
Of how he met his match,
In a battle for firth and glory,
Against the gate with the creaky latch.
So now begins our tragic tale,
Of an old man who was sure to fail.

Part the First: A Creek at the Cul-de-Sac

Marpole drive was a sleepy little neighbourhood that seemed to be perpetually trapped in autumn. It was a quiet little drive, majority of it's traffic was orange sun-kissed leaves dancing down the street on a gentle breeze.
The Realtor's listing for homes along the drive read as default "an introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy. "

Of all the quaint little homes one could argue that number five was by far the quaintest and most secluded. It sat on the end of the drive by the cul-de-sac. There was a sharp embankment on the lot, so it was elevated above the other homes. But it didn't stand out due to its natural camouflage; an army of stoic old oak trees surrounding the lot and obscuring the home from the street below. Down on the cul-de-sac, sitting between the cozy drive, and the enchanting home hidden in the trees, was a large mahogany gate with a mailbox designed as a miniature log cabin. The gate was the border between a small serene community and and even more secluded world belonging to one solitary man. All one could see behind the gate was a well crafted and beautifully up kept elevated walkway, weaving its way through the trees and up to the house above. A veritable stairway to heaven, hand cut and placed, and polished to perfection leading it's way to the hidden home.

The mailman would always swear the he caught glimpses of a footbridge traversing a small creek further up, all overlooked by a majestically fabricated gazebo. These rumors were of course unconfirmed as nary a guest had set foot beyond the gate. Perhaps the neighbours doubted the existence of such a creek out a jealousy as well, for surely it would be unfair for a brook to flow exclusively through only one of the homes at the end of the cul-de-sac. So often the mailman and his chatter of hearing the cool waters running through the yard were dismissed due to resentment. Only a group of secluded retirees could covert a creek.

Part the Second: A Curmudgeonly Craftsman

This secret suburban Eden was the dwelling of one man, Rob McGudgen. He was an old carpenter who had spent years crafting everything a man could construct from wood, be it a shed, a barn, a table, or a chair. But he specialized, as many tradesmen do in one specific sort of fabrication. For him, the pride and joy of his work was the creation of decks, verandas, patios, and porches. And if one was smart they would never let Rob catch them calling these the same thing, for he could lecture for hours the obvious and complex differences between these forms of platformed house-huggers. He took pride in his work, as would anyone who thrived at a single trade for six decades. And who can judge the career path of a man who shares his occupation with Jesus Christ? This was the mentality of the Octogenarian master craftsman.

Aside from what he did, few around knew a thing about the mysterious old man. He had lived at number five marpole drive for forty six years, and since the passing of his wife he refused to move out...and quite frankly refused to step foot out of his home.

However curmudgeonly he may have been, he was no crank. Granted he enjoyed his seclusion and solitude, as did most on the drive, but he just felt no reason to go out and meet people. Why would he? All he had ever known and loved resided on the inside of the gate st the base of the culdesac. Sure he was lonely, but his loneliness was outweighed by his love of his trade, and his appreciation of peace and quiet...something that Marpole drive was not in short supply of.

The only time he would venture beyond the boundary of the mahogany gate would be to retrieve his mail, and his delivered grocer goods. All these items he would procure not three feet beyond his sanctuary, from the quaint log cabin mailbox. Some say at night they could hear him sawing and sanding away, working on his walkways or repairing his gazebo. But these rumors, much like the tales from the mailman were lacking in proof and verification, no matter how intriguing and likely they sounded.

Glimpses of him gathering mail described him in brief simplicity: He stood slightly crooked from a lifetime of hard work, and sported a wild tuft of grey and silver hair. Only one thing was certain, for a man of Eighty Three, he was very shrouded in mystery, and surely quite agile; for he seemed more elusive than Bigfoot.

Part the Third: A Lecherous Latch on a Gorgeous Gate

One morning while quickly slipping out to retrieve the contents of his cabin on a post, Rob was confronted by the most heinous of noises. A creak. A creak so eerie and shrill it sent a shiver down his spine and a furrow up his brow. On his attempt to open the mahogany gate he was greeted by such a sound. And it wasn't alone, the noise was accompanied by a sad groaning attempt for the gate to open. It seemed that the hinge and latch were on there last legs, and very near a melancholy demise.

Not one to stand for anything short of excellence in his trade, Rob vowed to momentarily amend this issue. He turned with an unnatural spryness for a man so old and crooked, and scurried his way back up the winding path towards his hidden home. He left in such a hurry, with his mind so focused on repairing the gate, that he left the newly delivered bottle of fresh milk near the log cabin receptacle, where it was sure to sour.

Moments later he re-emerged triumphant from his home brandishing a box of tools, and sporting ratty old pads on his knees. He knelt beside the gate still as night, unflinching. Just remaining there studying the problem, the old clock like gears in his mind hidden under the tuft of wild grey hair (not unlike the way the house was hidden by trees) turned away. He stayed there for minutes, long enough for one to mistake him for a piece sculpted by Rodin himself. Then without warning, he sprung from his assessment to life. Pulling tools and supplies from his box with a fervor of determination. He grabbed an old lugnut and an old bolt and began to size them up for the gate. He worked with the experience of a man his age, but the vitality of a lad a quarter so. He truly was in his element. Things were going well.

Half way through removing the old latch he hit his insurmountable roadblock. his old Phillips head screwdriver snapped, its head lodging firmly within the grooved bolt with which it had been jousting. With the true nature of an old curmudgeon he muttered a curseword from generations long lost at his misfortune. He equipped himself with the hammer, and careful to not bash the mahogany his wife so admired, began to thump some sense into the bolt. However, it did not break free, and moreover it got worse. Trying to keep his cool he attemped to pry the whole thing off, risking slight marks to the finish of the wood. But alas, in the cool seemingly ever-autumn air it would not budge.

Once again be turned to scurry back towards the house, determined to repair his stubborn yet stunning gate latch. For he was atleast twice as stubborn as an creaky latch could be. Unfortunately, his heart wasn't as stubborn as he, and halfway up the path it decided to stop beating. Rob McGudgen fell flat from a massive heart attack on the beautiful woodwork of his pathway. His eyes struggling to stay open as hee peered at the glorious view of his gazeebo by the creek. Blinking to focus at the beautiful birdbath surrounded by roses at the foot of the creek; a serene detail the snoopy mailman could never have imagined. But luckily for Rob, his new neighbour was twice as snoopy as any mailman could ever have been.

Mrs. Gladys Fullbrood had just purchased a home on the gorgeous selling point that her Realtor had described it as "An introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy" and that morning she had been drawn from watering her lilacs by the curious sound of Rob thumping away at the latch. Knowing only what she had heard from the gossiping mailman since moving in a week prior, and being curious as many old ladies who own cats are, she wandered over. Peering over the lovely mahogany gate she spotted Rob, looking more cozy than curmudgeonly as he lay on his walkway. She lingered for a moment to attempt to spot the gazebo and creek the mailman had mentioned, but being to petite it eluded her spectrum of vision. She promptly turned and moseyed off to call for help.

Later on the paramedics would say that they had little hope of getting to Rob in time, for his gate was simply too formidably constructed, and the latch was sealed shut tighter than a jar of gerkins. By the time they had smashed the gorgeous mahogany to splinters to get to him, he was seconds away from death. A double edged sword of being with the woman he loved, but being away from the home he had built for her. There was but one saving grace for old Rob McGudgen, his master craftsmanship and constant constructional vigilance. The paramedics were quoted as saying that the footpath beyond the gate was so well kept and smooth and level that it took them mere moments to rush a stretcher up there, load Rob and rush him back down. Proving that as stubborn as that latch had been, he had at least proved more stubborn by outliving it.

His gorgeous gate one innocent casualty of his struggle with the latch. But he vows that as soon as he gets out of the hospital, Rob sill construct a new gate in memory of his wife, one that simply swivels on a peg with no latch. Making it less likely to betray him, and easier for guest to come over. His home to be a welcome haven for visiting neighbours, with a very warm and inviting gate out front.

Fin

Epilogue:

Now the story is finally told,
Of a carpenter crooked and old,
Who by a latch was tested,
His old heart heart bested,
But he proved strong in the end,
And his heart opened wide,
Now he's made a new friend,
And letting others inside.
They'll view his lovely place,
Beautifully crafted and great,
A mysterious tree-shrouded space,
Just beyond a mahogany gate.

A neighbour's snoopy ways kept him alive,
On number five of Marpole drive,

Bruce Banter

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Lyrical Justice

For a scaley man-fish Kevin Costner sure drowns in a lot of movies.

I am excited for my voyage to Stockholm, since now laureates get awarded for precognitive measures, I will be receiving the Nobel prize for Chemistry, because I said I was going to cure cancer. Once posthumous awards were king, now replaced by the preposterous!

Robert Rodriguez needs to stop being the drunken uncle who promises to take you fishing for your birthday only to vanish for two years then show up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to yell at your whole family. Translation: MAKE A MOVIE! Your empty promises can't keep my eyeballs enthralled Uncle Robert Rodriguez! Stop having sleepovers at Quentin Tarantino's house and get some work done! Your Sin City cast is slowy starting to die off! You can't make sequels without a cast! And he's dropped other projects he was slated to direct onto other people's laps and is taking the backseat as a producer. For a guy who made Sin City in a month, he's sure taking his sweet time! It seems all he can get around to these days are projects catered for his kids. Don't get me wrong, I loved Sharkboy and Lavagirl, and Spykids is on Imdb's top 10 films of all time list...but Shorts? C'mon Rob! Please, grace us with your first epic project since Grindhouse, which was amazing! So I guess the odd sleepover and playdate with QT is great if that's one if the byproducts...but he's already gone on to gift us with his masterpiece since then! And we keep hearing promises of a Red Sonja film, but "Rose just isn't in the perfect shape yet" Maybe if she worked out at the gym instead of your bedroom! BRAH!

Brendan Fraser is always an outsider of bizarre circumstances who has to adjust to life in modern America. ie. Blast from the Past, George of the Jungle, Encino Man.

Editors Note: I have never seen The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl

Every broken bone,
I only mend some
A futile defiance,
to the dust they all become.

Today's the perfect day,
But it's the day I die.
At least I got it right,
On my one and final try.

Uncle Stranger