Grey Stoned Church and Morning

Unpublished pieces

We woke up, that day,  to 
shrill sounding alarms 
broke the myth we had 
been pretending. 

The dog snuggles closer to us 
as we draw apart 
and wonder why we 
exchanged vows. 

Do you remember the grey stoned 
Church we attended, the same 
one where we were married? 

I am thinking of it now, its' stain 
glassed windows glistening in 
the shining sunlight. 

Altar of stone as hard 
as our distaste for 
one another. 

I wonder what it would be 
like to visit this place again? 

Would the shuffled memories come 
crashing like incense burners 
into the heart? Or would it 
be empty and silent 
as the words of 
love we no longer 

I wake up to a tiny 
glistening of memories 
that flicker like a 
computer screen 
across the picture frame 
I've put around my 
feelings for you. 

They are so mixed up and 

Yes, I suppose there will always 
be this lifting entrance of 
a love song that 
will play in my thoughts 
at the mention of your name. 

But like most things, 
the song is old 
and not contemporary, 
reflecting nothing but 
a taste of something 
I no longer have to eat. 

Mixed with this oldie is 
a new tune of jangling 
anger that burdens 
any attempt to 
enshrine your name 
in my being. 

Nudged into my 
shrouded collection of 
photographs is an old 
hint of nostalgia. 

It stays about as long 
as the ringing of the 

Answering it, nobody answers 
me, which is fairly much like 
the words we now use 
with one another. 

They are polite and strained 
and like the city 
around us, the isolation 
is constant. 

I am old enough now 
to accept that 
the fickle heart 
is never happy with 
what it has. It is always 
seeking things it is 
not familiar with. 

That is you now. A 
comfortable place I like 
to recall from time to time. 
Like the silent morning 
in the church before the people 
arrive to pretend 
their faith. 

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Vous êtes un génie. Un

Vous êtes un génie. Un artiste vrai.

Vive le Quebec libre!