There is a heart shaped carve in rosewood.
There’s a line drawn in the sand.
I pray there on grace and wonder,
and there’s a baby, she’s in my hand.

There’s a virtue called forgiveness.
From a force we can’t see.
It’s how I deal with darkness.
Of how I feel when you’re with me.

I struggle now to hear you.
Seek approval in your eyes.
I hate you for your beauty.
Like I love you for your lies.

It’s a sad sad situation
Department sad but true.
You fear that they are coming
And you fear what they will do.

It’s a sad sad situation
Under heading sad but true
You fear that they are coming
No one is coming for you.

Dennis Mantin

The bad luck raised suspicions, on a path that was beat down.

No one dared to look within or see the wise men in the town.

It was happening for eons, as long as Grandad could recall.

Like a dark foreboding plank walk or a dream in which you fall.

Until the child spoke her words that, “Maybe somethings wrong with me?”

So we made a meeting with the Doc, down at the Family Psychiatry.

The doctor raised awareness and we all took a look.

Things are looking so good now, might take Grandma off the hook.

Now life is far from perfect however the family’s not so sad.

Looking in the mirror, not blaming blind luck, good or bad.

I’m not complaining. The world’s no longer new.

Management sustaining. I can’t speak for her or you.

I’m not complaining. There’s a fact in getting old.

Silence is not explaining. Walk away is my hands fold.

A storm is more than raining. The fears are in the lies.

Winds of change remaining. Listen hard, you hear the sighs.

It’s all on God and choices.

Oh my, how that time flew.

Your words are in your voices.

All complaining. Morning dew.

You’re not as smart as Tuesday.

There are far worse things than plain.

In the garden they are calling you.

They feel cold and serving pain.

Dreams are haunted by the unforgiving…

Those dark judgemental eyes:

Turning away.

Fuck you!

The unforgiving have a prison to the unforgivens key. When the unforgiven pray to God. They hear the unforgivings plea. The unforgiving has a prison that’s dark and bitter deep. When the unforgiving prays to God, then neither one can sleep…

Chances were the premium at the chances store.
Called up their proprietor and asked for just one more.
Inside information suggested relocate.
When they closed the chances store, it sealed the users fate.
With no plans for the future and the future, it is here.
Who knew that the sun would rise and whisper last nights fear?
So we headed for the highway, which ended at the light.
Looked upon arrival, no chances store in sight.
Searching for the answers that will ease the fears.
Some will stand there crying and find few are buying tears.
All are someone’s baby lost along the way.
Strangers and sojourners who have lost the need to pray.
And I say, “Pray”

Dennis Mantin

My mother was a Scottish Protestant from Cape Breton, and my father was an Irish Catholic from Halifax…

Naturally, my first joke was…

“I was the only person in my neighborhood who could say for certain that he wasn’t the product of incest!”

Their relationship was doomed from the beginning, stewed in that ancient religious war where both sides worshiped or mostly didn’t worship the same God.

By fluke my mother and I ended up living in this small community where we were outsiders, not related to anyone and everyone there seemed to be family.

A D.N.A. test shows that my Great Great Great Grandmother was born there. I asked an old friend, a local genealogist, if that meant I was related to some of the people who had the most common last name? He said, “No. It means you’re related to them all.”

Then he added, “You were right where you should have been. “

I have not gone hungry.

My bed is flat and large and firm.

I have experienced that elusive love you all seek and dream of.

I have been granted the gift of getting old.

The complaints have not yet begun.

There’s this feeling that’s just so nearly…

Like the battered and the bruised.

I wonder if I heard clearly.

Deep down, I’m just confused.

There’s a man who’s screaming something.

In the face of that sad clown.

There’s a juggler in the spotlight.

That didn’t use the right pronoun.

The siamese twins grow tired.

Two heads can not agree.

Cooperation is required.

No discernments they can see.

The wives they seem so angry.

The husbands have that look.

Doesn’t much matter which way I go.

Either way, I’m on the hook.

And the men