Missing Jordon Alexander Holling

  My boy did not come home last night
  My boy did not come home last night
  My boy did not come home  any night

  I toss I turn I live in nightmare scream
  My boy my baby my love my life son
 Where are you dead or alive I got to know

My only son did not come home last night
My heart has stopped beating I am dead
Walking waking dead my son is  not here

When will this nightmare end when when
When will I know what happened will I
Will I ever know what happened to my son

Who are you

She said bold as brass
who are you
why are you in our parade
this is for veterans
very old nearly dead veterans
why are you here
your not a veteran
I looked her dead in her eyes
Said I was a nurse in Belfast
Picking up body parts
I was a nurse in Belfast
You did not know
About the war
They kept it quiet

I live on an island

 I have become a recluse now I love it
being alone everyday with my husband
we have a rhythm that suits us both easy
one day flies into another this romance
grows and grows and sometimes blossoms
He loves his computer his world of research
I have my own computer we sit in the office
Between lunch and dinner we share stories
Sometimes we go for coffee in the afternoon
take a ferry and drive to Courtenay north
shop at various stores it is a nice place the
people are so friendly and helpful they smile
We are so blessed to live in this island place
The beauty never fails to amaze coming home
we see the whole island bathed in blue hues
of fall the ocean the mountains the snow sky
If this is the road home we are in bliss already

I live on an island

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The Apartment

 Hell is a long empty corridor badly lit
numbers black metal numbered doors
sounds of many televisions or radios
blaring no pictures on walls no color
drab Ontario cheap apartment blocks
dim  lights number elevators that rumble
three stories or twenty three all the same
how do people live here do they lever laugh
It all sounds the same behind the closed doors
only the television blares no one is ever home
It is three in the morning I cannot sleep hot
I go to the window and there I see some men
carrying a coffin in the dark of  street lights
no ceremony here for the dead no neighbors
no community no cups of tea the corpse is
 hurried away in the middle of the night and
no proper goodbyes to the walls the cat the dog

In this slow death come to the land of plenty now
Stay at home I say stay at home and fight the right

Memory

We came in the winter now who does that
Like Mary and Joseph trudging in slush in
a dark  Ontario evening endless cars passing
we had no donkey and I was not with child
we were immigrants ten dollar Canadians
I hated him forever after that the cold bit
The central heating bled our noses dry
No one was real language was meaningless
no sound no music no birds singing winter
snow gathering in corner and large tractors
plowing down roads scrapping pavements
cold cold cold evenings and cars rushing on
winter boots with treads and big fat parkas
gloves scarves and the  blessed  long johns
two laned streets and trucks swissing by
Not caring if they splashed your legs at all
blind indifference everywhere no one cared
or faked it when they heard us talking Irish
The they would gush about being Irish but
born in some obscure little place in Ontario
Oh my God that made me so sad for their
grandfathers and grand mothers who died
died here with the longing and the memoirs
but the stories that they tried to share how
Yes over time we had to adapt learn to talk
shallow Canadian pleasant dull accommodating
no passion nothing just empty words useless