I had a feverish night

Sweat soaked sheets

Drifting in and out of dreams


Even though

I was living in a different home on a different street,

And it was sumner

Not the start of spring.

some of the same sequences played out,

Missed calls.

My heart pausing

My words stuck in my throat.

You were dying in my sleep

And I did not know how to change this ending.

I walked along the street in

The scorching sun,

Bobcaygeon playing

From a near by cafe.

And as you were breathing your last breath

I saw your reflection

In a memory,

For a second ,

Looking back at me


Waiting for me.

You slipped away.

by J. Hamilton



I hear the leaves rustle around your feet.

You sniff the air with a thirsty curiousity

Then you disappear behind a dogwood that has turned from red to gold,


Curled up

Ready to fly.

After a minute or two

You return

To my side,

Nudge my hand

And as I reach down

You rest your head inside my hand and

The world around us seems suddenly so small

And you

The centre of it.

By J. Hamilton

There is that point when

You stop pretending

Because others see through you.

The wounds that hurt

Your story that weeps

The sores that never heal

Because they don’t know how to heal.

You have always wanted your children to see the other side of you

Not the broken shell you have become.

You have tried so hard to fly

Yet here you are



every spring

I walk among these woods.

I know every tree

every rock

and stream.

Everything is alive again

thriving with a fervent desire

to leaf, bloom


creating life

-even between the trees that have fallen


woodland poppies grow,

where small yellow blooms like drops of morning light


the soft

curious smell of

trees and earth

always smells the same

year after year

in may.

a smell of musk

and sweat,

that intimate perfume

that lovers know,

drifts from tree to tree

and along the forest floor.

In these woods

life is made,

and I walk through it

or sit in it

listening to the heart beat of trees.

By J. Hamilton


your silence is as heavy

and as

claustrophobic as the weighted blanket

that tried to crush anything that breathed beneath it.

the calls you dont answer,

the messages that remain unread

make me wonder how I can reach you.

there is a huge disconnect between you

and all around you.

how do I disentangle the stories from the truth

when I have not heard your side of the story.

you fail to respond

as’though you have failed to exist.

and all I want to do is reach beyond the weight of silence to see your face.

by J Hamilton

Your life

After so many years

And seasons between,

You left your door open.

Small, white espresso cups

Sit unwashed in each room.

Proof that waking up

Is still not easy for you.

A conference poster,

Hangs in your kitchen,

With your name emblazoned,

A date that has already passed

corners curled

Letters faded,

Of a city I may never see.

Your life still seems so exciting.

There are other places you have seen since then,

Many more places you will see.

On a plain pine table


A vintage

Collected Works of Carl Jung.

A  book you have only read a few pages from.

You are waiting to find the time to read it.

You are waiting to find the time to visit your mother country,

Sit on an open veranda of a coffee shop

And read it,

Because in its words, there is meaning for you.

You say that,

Maybe you will retire soon.

Live in Canada for half the year,

And the rest

In Europe.

My mind repeats those words again and again

As if trying to grasp what it can.

Because for so many years

You were absent.

It was almost as if you stopped existing.

Then suddenly,

Here you were again,

With that familiar

Smell of stale cigars

And espresso.

By J. Hamilton

Morning bloom

You have taught me

A new way of loving.

As a morning bloom of sun

Lays across your back

And your quiet breaths rise and fall

Like slow, soft waves

I know how lucky I am to know you.

Your love sits in that cove

That beats inside my chest

And even in the coldest of winters

I know I am not alone.

You lay beside me,


Lids pressed shut and dreaming.

J. Hamilton

Continue reading

Where words are buried

Words are buried

Deep inside

Along bone

And muscle,

Inside the blood

That travels through me.

It is too hard to release the burden

Of these words

Because they no longer sit on my tongue.

They ache

Inside me,


Like the way skin feels from.a fresh cut


Like the moment anguish replaces clarity,


Like the tumor silently growing.

By J. Hamilton