Like Gaza, the acts of genocide are hidden beneath the manufactured reality we are presented with, but you don't need to kill with guns and bombs when you can starve people out, deny them medicine, and make their very existence illegal. The methods differ, but the systematic elimination remains the same—dressed up as urban planning, healthcare policy, and law and order.  Genocide Of The Poor They draw the lines like battle plans in red ink on city maps, mark neighborhoods for "renewal" and "development," while sirens wail through streets that once held families now scattered like autumn leaves before bulldozers. The medicine costs more than rent, the rent costs more than wages, the wages buy less than silence from those who make the rules, and food cost prayers and tears, no money to buy it.   Buses roll through midnight streets carrying the displaced to nowhere— one-way tickets to forgotten places where the forgotten go to disappear....

My Sunday morning thoughts...   “Sanctuaries” They rise like fortresses of fortune, etched against the skyline— stone, steel, glass stacked in shimmering layers, palaces built to outlast time itself. Their gates never creak. They glide open only for those whose names carry weight like currency. Inside, the air hums low with comfort— climate tuned precisely, floors that shine like mirrors, chandeliers spun from light itself, hallways vast as canyons lined with gold-leafed words about generosity. They dine on imported delicacies, aged wines, discussing strategies for change , how best to guide the unruly world beyond their walls. Through rose-colored windows they gaze out, seeing only what flatters them back— poverty as a puzzle to be solved from afar, desperation as distant noise, a problem of policy, never proximity. They craft rules for those outside— codes, decrees, restrictions— shaping streets they’ve never walked, drafting laws with hands that have never touched a callus ...

 There are moments in life when the choices before us aren’t clear-cut—when we’re not deciding between right and wrong, but between two difficult, uncertain paths. Some are quiet, personal crossroads: whether to stay or leave, speak or stay silent, act or wait. Others are much larger, woven into the world’s violence and velocity—choices that ask who we are, and who we’re willing to become. The Narrow Path is a poem about those in-between places. It's about walking the line between action and retreat, resistance and resignation. It's about the tension we live with—individually and collectively—as the world asks more of us than certainty can offer. This piece doesn't aim to provide answers. Only to hold space for the questions, and the weight of walking. The Narrow Path Photo by Rachel Claire: https://www.pexels.com/photo/narrow-road-between-fields-with-plants-4993212/ We walk the line where shadow slips beneath the trees, not night, not day— but the hush between. Not the ...

 The world around me shapes my words and thoughts. Today, it was the story of a young woman— the valedictorian of an Ottawa high school—being punished for speaking out about the evils of this world. The same education system that taught her to think critically, to speak with conviction, is now trying to silence her. Unclouded They say the young don’t see the world for what it truly is— but maybe they see it better. Not yet blinkered by the cataracts of life: compromise, comfort, the slow erosion of outrage by daily bread and discounted dreams. They see with eyes not fogged by history, not dimmed by the weary math of what will sell, what will pass, what won’t rock the boat too much. We sit idle in the couch cushions we’ve moulded to our shape, not noticing how long we’ve sunk there, how the springs gave out years ago. But the young rise, refusing to settle long enough to shape the world to their laurels, choosing instead to push against walls, and break down barri...