I found a hole in my bucket list
Like an hourglass
My dream are slipping,
Dripping on my bare floor.

I should be really ******
Because I'll miss
Entering through unknown doors.

I haven't time to fix the hole,
The grains are moving,
And Mammy's calling her babes home.

My favourite just hit the ground,
Like a blood stain,
Or a sewer vein,
It  makes not a sound.

Two floats in the air,
Three's on the lip,
Four swirls near a hole,
The remaining dreams
Are caught in the eddy;
The final drop's precariously ready.

Eliza's fix would surely falter,
My bucket list can't hold water.

I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.

You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.

It’s easy to be the biggest wheel,
Passing out the lollipops
Stolen from the little kids.

It’s not difficult to save the world,
When the whole thing fits
Atop your breakfast table.

It’s not so hard to be a hero
When your uncle runs the war
And stations you in Malibu.

It’s a cinch to win the prize
When daddy buys up all the tickets
And mom will draw the numbers.

What’s really hard is to grow up
And be a man of principle
A man who does the thing that’s good
Even though no one will see
And crowds will not shout out his name.

To be a man who does the work
To see his vision through
Without expecting miracles
To make his dreams come true.

The world is waiting for this man
It may not even be a male
But someone with a Hero’s heart
Who isn’t bought with promised gold
And only cares to do what’s right.

Hopefully that person will be found
Before the final trumpets sounds
ljm

The moon’s still high In the dawning sky
And the streetlights cut the gloom.
I go for a walk and a mental talk
That sweeps my mind like a broom.

The desert air, to which none can compare
Banishes all thoughts of doom
I walk the street to an eager beat
Like a Bride on the way to her Groom.
ljm