stepping stones and lonesome stars

when the stepping stones
don’t seem enough,
just follow the path
that you make
with each step.

then take a moment, or two –
glare at the empty sky,
and realize that
the shooting star
is a lonesome star.

dream as you might,
as many as you like,
as many as the night may give.
one step at a time, my dear,
is all you should ever take.
one breath at a time, my dear,
is all you should ever take.


I drove downtown to work. I don’t like driving to work. I’d rather take the TTC. Sure, it’s tiring, you don’t always get to sit. You have to transfer from one mode of transportation to another (bus, RT, street car, subway, etc). But it gives me time to read. I look for patterns. The seats that are empty that no one will sit on. The types of shoes people are wearing. Yeah, I’ll listen in on conversations here and there. Oh, and I’ll sleep when I’m really tired. Sometimes it’s a battle having to choose between sleeping and reading (and all the other things one can do while awake), though sometimes it’s not a decision I make. My body will do it for me.

I find myself walking west on Bathurst after lunch with a friend I hadn’t spoken to in years. “Wow, that makes for a great story!” he said, after I’d caught him up on things, “Debatable whether it’s good or bad, but a great story.” But back on Bathurst I continue to look for patterns in the streets, or just interesting out of the blue things. I come across this wall and think about taking a picture, but I don’t have a camera with me. For shame, I think. I make a mental note to come back to this spot. Even as I’m making the note I understand and recognize that the odds of me coming back to that spot to take a picture are very low. If I was a betting man I’d wager on me not going back to that spot again. To give myself a fighting chance and leave a glimmer of hope, I wouldn’t double down. But I know this, despite the mental note the odds are low.

That night walking out of class I wonder about how easy writing is in comparison to other things. Regardless of whether it’s good or bad. Even bad writing is easier than bad photography. The word is so powerful. It seems like out of nothing you can create images, transcribe them into words and transfer that image to another mind. You’ve used nothing more than the tool set of words you already knew. The structures of sentences and grammar that you naturally realized while growing up. If I was to take a photograph of something, I’d have to be in the physical location with all the gear in hand. I’d have to reach out for colours and brushes if I were to paint. It gets more involving if I was to make a cartoon or a movie. Words have this element of laze to them. They feel easier in comparison. I don’t need anything more than I already have. Almost out of nothing. Just my/our experiences and imagination. How awesome is that?

So I figured, “Shit man, writing is easy…”

And here I am.


a thousand smiles, a thousand frowns
a thousand miles, a thousand towns

a thousand words, a thousand lines
a thousand hurts, a thousand times

a thousand tries, a thousand falls
a thousand cries, a thousand calls

a thousand beats, a thousand sounds
a thousand streets, a thousand rounds

a thousand pains, a thousand highs
a thousand stains, a thousand lies

a thousand burns, a thousand joys
a thousand turns, a thousand toys

a thousand ways, a thousand whiles
a thousand days, a thousand smiles

zindagi aarahaa hoon mein
(life, here i come)

hold on

what the hell
is free verse?

this is why
poetry is such
a sham.

how in hell
can charles freaking
take a couple
of (run-on)

one, two
or three words
per line and
call it

even kasparov has to
go the full distance
of the board
every time
before he can turn
a pawn into
a queen.

beauty, i suppose,
is in the eye
of the beholder.

it’s just that
some of us
have to go through
many more eyes
before someone

holds on.