A what-ever-you-call-it

​Recently, I happened upon a 1978 letter I received from my deceased brother, Danny (1951-1996), from when he was living in Labrador City, Newfoundland.
 
It was a reply to a letter I had sent him before my 18th birthday on what I was up to with my silly teenage burdens and the political situation in Quebec. My letter also contained a few of my rhyming poems of that time.
 
In my brother’s return letter, he gave me advice and encouraged me to pursue my passions, of whatever it was I enjoyed, be it as a DJ, a writer or whatever my passion was. He said, “Look for something which you will enjoy doing for the rest of your life, and you will be successful.” Great advice from an older brother, at a time when everything seemed possible.

However, in today’s day and age, it’s easy to say, but hard to do in a world controlled by gatekeepers that won’t allow exposure to those of us who speak out on the crimes committed by the ruling class. I guess you know by now that I chose to write. lol
 
My brother also made the space in his letter to give me a little constructive criticism, saying that, “You’re hard to get along with because you don’t listen.” 😉 Well, that was and is true to a point, even now, I guess. However, there are some things I just can’t listen to, such as bullshit. LMAO  
 
What captured my attention the most in his letter however, was something he said about my writing,
 
“You write very good letters and very good phrases or Poems, or what-ever-you-call-them?”
 
I started laughing (in the present) because I could never put my finger on what it was that I was writing. I used to think of them as poems but that label never really fit my political expressions and rebellion and I never really followed the rules in poetry to be called a poet. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever been a good rule follower in Quebec society, especially if it forced me to do something like learn French or submit to inoculations against my will, but mostly because my rebellious self prefers equality, justice, honesty and peace of mind. 😊
 
But a “what-ever-you-call-them” seems like the perfect description for my activist rhyming stanza’s, couplets and poems. So, I’d like to share a ‘what-ever-you-call-it’ with you today, that speaks of the current dystopia via our national division, coldness to each other and disunity that seems to be forever under a cloud of illusions.
 
A ‘what-ever-you-call-it’ is a political expression or rebellion of how things really are or how I feel about those in control. They are usually in stanza form with an explanation below them where I get to shine light in dark places. (See the Activist Poet books) The one I share with you today is more of a rhyming prose, what-ever-you-call-it.
 
So, here it is, my what-ever-you-call-it, post for today.
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I’m lucky. Lucky to be alive in twenty-five after my health took a sudden dive. I feel, like a new man made of steel, the wounds did heal, and I’m back with my old zeal.
 
But I still feel the pains and strains from oncoming trains, and the drains that left our communities sprained in divisions of the brain. I mean, two point five billion for Ukraine? When our economy’s under strain?! That’s insane! Has the mystery of history taught us nothing?
 
Oh yes, the good ole days…those days when we were raised, phased and praised, are gone. Days when the only thing that seemed to matter was keeping up with the chatter and fitting in with the others. Keep your nose to the grind, stay confined and never mind the man behind the curtain.
 
‘I remember when’ unfolds today with its brilliant light. A time when we knew wrong from right; the height of delight, when most were polite…and upright. We thought we would live forever under that bubble of seclusions or were they just delusions in a pool of illusions?
 
However that may be, the days we see today are filled with dark shadows, where division of the nation by rules made by fools, and tools of the ruling ghouls, that champion those cesspools of narratives; are now doubling down.
 
And reality is worse; we’ve been divided since birth, for what is our worth all over the earth if they take our fire and hearth and enslave us to poverty by the barrel of a gun?
 
It seems the criminals are in charge, by and large, with no way to discharge their parge on our homes. Scavengers, every one; candidates that grow like mold and then unfold like cancer of the brain that takes over the veins and arteries of our nation. A festering scourge that we cannot purge for it employs our delusion within the illusion of their so-called way of life.
 
And as that poison runs its course, to catch us all; where one by one we fall into their squall, as they build their wall and gate our disunity, the majority remain deaf, dumb and blind.
 
I plea with thee to see, for we might agree on community, and how that looks with a guarantee for our family tree. If we stand together, put community first, all the pain would be reversed. We’d no longer be cursed or disbursed but in unison on common ground.
 
Let us begin the new year without fear; to persevere and engineer a new path and frontier. That we might turn the page on this disastrous age and engage together, to navigate the weather and build that beautiful dream, that supreme theme, called Canada.
 
Thanks for reading my, ‘what-ever-you-call-it’.