On the Bus

Just a girl
on the bus
a young woman
whose reflection
never noticed someone
outside, in the rain
wondering if,
wondering why

A passing fancy
some might say
a one night stand
if not for the implications
if not for their stares
but I, what about what I

The rain fell,
regardless of who it it,
why this day, so dreary was
why couldn’t the birds be singing
and I,
why couldn’t I have an other explanation
about how I felt

Someone on a bus
not possessing any indication
not requiring an explanation
who was your pretty boy?
some might have asked
the one you were dancing with
throwing glances into
his corner,

Not even having to tell her
what lies she wanted to hear
how she looked, why my movements
rigid and unfeeling were,

We just lie there, without a word
nothing to share in the moments after
should I tell her, what I felt
did she want to ask me, why it was her

A girl on the bus
going away from here, traveling
to there,
not aware of anyone outside,
waiting for a look of recognition, a faint smile

Wanting to board her bus
wanting to take what I felt was mine
not for anything special, not to say what I felt
just because the world was screwed together like that
just because we didn’t know what else to do

What else we wanted
to do

Dirty was it
as buses go
a non-committal reflection
on an ordinary means of transport,
while the towns in between
noticed nothing at all

at all….



She fed me
a lie
one of many

I placed it
secured it someplace
where the others existed
waiting for the day
when the light would shine
upon them,
freeing them,

We would dine together
her lies compounded
as we ate,
we tasted the lesser
we tasted the greater
the result being,
my greater love for her,

As we lie
together, but alone
she fed me stories
what had to be true
how else could she know
the paths,
leading to my soul,
knowing the truth,
knowing the lie,

Her lies to others
of lesser importance
than those
she kept special for me,
I listened, enthralled
as she let them fall
one by one
into the waters
those I hoped
would lead me to
her truth,

She laughed, then cried
wanting something
not even I
could give her,
the way, the path
the righteous thought
the knife that cuts
the sword that slices
separating the lies
from the truth,

One of these two
was left in the end
In my pocket,
on my plate

A quantity, an amount
of her lies, waiting
to be eaten, waiting
to feed the needy
those that
live on,
exist on
what lies have been told
since the start of time,

I turned my back
the truth beckoned,
her, she lies behind
hand reaching, seeking mine

but blackness ensues
when the blade falls
ending it all,

My truths,
her lies
non compatible
with each other,
separating us,

The swift cut of the knife
just another lie it seems….

The Fire, Hotter

She kicked off her shoes
high heels, red bright
the colors burned embers
into my eyes,

My first impressions
what she kept hidden
the door, barred and bolted
with curtains drawn,
her eyes closed
then opened with a glow
of recognition,
the evening covering the day,
the advent of the night, darkness
swallowing all truth, disguising
all lies,
The lies, something I told myself
why I wanted her, what drew me
drawn and quartered, her long hair
dangling, the noose hung low,
hung until death stopped all movement,
something that waited, watching
while I traversed the courtyard
hurrying while the darkness first covered
than ate all trace of my being
following me to where she lived
where she breathed, the fire
hotter, the embers burned an impression
in my hand, as I took hold of the handle
the entry to her darkness,
something lurked
someone, told me, whispering
rasping an answer, while I felt my way
along the walls, the glow pulled
and grasped some part of me
stumbling over, her high heels
red bright, glowing
the pain, searing my eyes,
blinding me, binding me

The night hid everything
it wanted to hide
no signs of life
no sounds

no sounds

except for her breathing, her breathing…


Screaming Inside

  • Sitting on the floor

surrounded by friends
and strangers,
screaming inside

The party, the moment
laughing, drinking, dancing
Her friends, so called
taunting and snickering
smiling through the lies
the ones that burn and cut

Sitting on the floor
her birthday dress is disarray
her feelings as well
no one sees her now
the music high, the drinks are flowing
the talk, the noise inside her head

Screaming on the inside
while crying on the out
her friends have moved on
another venue, another club
surrounded by strangers
indifferent, taunting

at the poor lass
the poor girl, no one reaches down
no one to help
the drugs change hands
while the music screams

While the voices still scream
inside her head,

A birthday to remember
or, one to forget
her friends, her well-wishers
the teardrop stains on the cards

“To our best friend”

“You deserve the best”

“Sincerely yours”

The screams are quiet now
the music too
she walks alone back
away from the noise
the City’s temptations,
empty promises, filled with lies

Another year older
and wiser…..


Lies becoming truths

I know
that truths can be to
lies, but is the same true
the other way around?

If I lie to myself
about how I really feel
about someone I know
will it catch up with me
turning itself into the truth
in the end?

That’s how it is with lies
rolling around, causing distress
never being able to call themselves
worthy, of being trusted again

If my lie becomes a truth
could I ever trust myself again?
would I be able to convince myself
that the feelings that I harbor
really are real?

Accepting the truth
is almost as hard as stomaching
a lie,
They are both sides of the same
coin, you see

Flip it, and wish!

I wish, I had told her the truth
in the first place….

Instead of lying to myself,
thinking that it would never be…


That Foreign Woman

She caught me
with another woman
in bed,
all those lies
and concealed truths,
the years waiting for me
to finally do right by her,
then when she thought
she finally could trust me
that fatal night happened
caught red-handed
with another woman

with that woman, just being her,
that’s all…..


Don’t you ever….

I don’t know about you. I would have thought that for once in your life, you’d tell me the truth, especially after I’d traveled so far?

We were walking on a large sand dune in the Northern Part of the Jutland Peninsula, when I asked, “Where in the world did all of this sand come from?”

and you replied, “Sahara”.

“We are in Denmark. The Danes are perfectly capable of having their own sand from the North Sea. North Sea on the west, Denmark in the middle, prevailing wind from west to east! How in the world can you tell me a lie like that?”

“The ships sail on the North Sea, right? On the western side of Denmark it is called Jammerbugten- The name is derived from when ships sank on that windy coast, causing  people to jammer – cry and weep. The people along the shore would then gather up the spoils from the shipwrecks. When they saw how easy it was to run aground, they decided the best way to transport sand, was to put it on the western side, and let it blow to the eastern side. Lower transport costs = Greater profit.”

You really think I’d fall for a lie like that? You probably thought, I was born yesterday? A young girl like me, being so impressionable on her first trip to Denmark, and all! How many other lies have you told me, while I was here?

“You know about burial mounds, right? They are found all over the country. The usual story is that they come from the Iron and Bronze Ages. They are actually missile silos! The Americans always have secret bases around the world, and this one has the perfect disguise. You can even go into some of them, but even there the deception is complete. It takes a trained mind to be able to hear the hum of the guidance system behind its fake walls. In the old days, there would be an American behind the wall, using his periscope to observe the world around him. They were much more effective than those concrete bunkers from WWII. They even found that Californians were the best suited for the job, allowing for their cunning and ability for deception!”

I was really getting ticked off. My dream vacation was being taken apart, bit by bit with these lies. I just wanted to know that the last time that we spent together, would be the most special of this whole vacation. It all culminated when he invited me over for dinner, together with his family.

“Hello and welcome. This is my wife, Helga. My daughter Freja and my son Ragnar. They have been looking forward to your visit, and have prepared a traditional Danish meal. We will start with Lebanese Pizza, then Italian pasta. The Dessert is a nice American pancake topped off with Sirop d’érable pur direct from Québec. All traditionally made in Denmark. Afterwards we will entertain you by having our Dog, Viborg try to flip over backwards, landing on his feet again! Not just once, but twice. Viborg times 2.  I will then drive you home, by the long route, describing the content of my collection of etchings. You won’t forget it, I assure you!”

More lies. Lies upon lies. I knew all of those things were false, even down to his wife and children. The dog even looked rented. “Rent your own dog today”. I read that ad in the local newspaper. I really thought for once, he’d tell me the truth. Just once for old time sake. Just once for our friendship. I guess, I deluded myself in thinking that.

I longed for the sights and sounds of Montréal once again. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother of my travels, but hesitated telling her that she had been right. That my so-called friend over here just wanted me for one thing, and he got it as well. I should have listened to my mother. I know if the truth comes out, my days will be like those of too much red wine, ending up with my father mowing the lawn outside my window. The constant noise of the lawnmower, pounding in my head. Pounding and mowing…pounding and mowing….

I guess, I deserve everything, I get. It was my choice to visit Denmark and I knew of his lies before I left. I just thought that this one time, it would be different. The last thing that he said to me still haunts me today:

“Don’t take it so hard. Remember what we have shared together and tell yourself, Things could not have been better! The weather was perfect as well as the Potato Chips! I treated you to no less than three large and expensive meals, and showered you with handmade gifts. I not only drove you around the country, but I drove you crazy as well! I treated you as good as I treat myself, perhaps even less so? I’m sure that Helga, Freja and Ragnar would agree to my words. God bless you, if you sneeze that is, and remember that we don’t say Goodbye in Danish. We say på gensyn, which is just like in your native French – Arrivederci!”……..