I feel most alive
Walking and gawking
In a graveyard.

Years ago,
More like lifetimes,
I was better
Than most anyone
In any sport.
A champion.
I was very good,
Better than most anybody
In my education, with family,
Had two closest pals.
I had cars, motorcycles,
Clothes, girls.
I always had the better part
Of a North American middle class life.
Today, I'm elated
To be one of most anybody.

The Sphinx's riddle
Ended with a stick man holding a stick.
The cane.
Those Egyptians were on top of the chain.

What will Lady Liberty's Riddle be
For today's Empire.
After the machines, tubes and electronics
Have made us blade runners.

With a cane.

I have sacred relics
Buried in my altar
To sanctify my life.
I don't kneel in supplication;
Still they know
My devotion,
My adoration,
My fealty.
I am blessed.

There's a ******* dog
Prowling our streets;
Not the kind that likes to eat,
But devours us,
Piece by piece;
Whether we're up,
Or trying to sleep.
Relentless in pursuit,
Dripping, pausing at each dark house,
Crouched and listening
For tears and shouts;
In the shadow, drooling,
And then there is a wooing,
For one to run out
To its insatiable hunger.

It tears my peace asunder.
Have you seen it loping by?
By God I know I'm in its eyes,
This mongrel escaped from Paradise
Before we knew its name.

This devil dog
Feasts on losses,
Gorges on gains.

A ******* dog
With its bone,
A rapacious beast
Best left alone.

If you're the needle,
Keep your eye
On the point.

The corner house
Has three missing fence planks,
So the boys got their short-cut
Across the front lawn.
It was three a.m.,
I saw them, I yelled from the window,
Hey guys. Stop that!
They tossed their cans onto the asphalt.
Her bedroom light came on;
They were the night.
I heard their hurried pace,
Their laughter like warning fog horn blasts.

Butch's mother next door died.
It was a year before I knew.
I thought she went to Florida.
I pictured her sitting in the sun.
But she was gone.
Butch shovels snow,
Obsessively.
That's what I know.

The doobie brothers
Live next to the cop.
Their driveway's a busy spot with comings,
And goings.
But the cop's part of our hood,
Disrection's understood.
Besides,
Officer Bob has his troubles to tend to.

Then there's small Mary,
She lives two doors down.
She has to be over a hundred,
Once lived on a farm.
She rakes debris with her hands,
Bent over for hours,
Cleaning her lawn.
     (Butch shovels her walkway,
     but stays to himself)
I've waved to Mary
When she's out and about.
Good to see you, I shout.
Nice to be seen, she replies.
No doubt.

The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.

I lost all my great comparisons
After you'd gone.
No constellation metaphors,
Or moony similies.
It's as if...
I'm ten,
And I hadn't heard of black holes.

It just doesn't feel like love
Without the palpitations
And loss of breath,
When you still had a shine
Like an unwrapped gift.
I don't feel the tingle
With your presence,
Or the anticipation of your call.
It just doesn't feel like love
Until I see old pictures,
Hear old songs,
Pause home movies.
So, I will bring ribbon home,
And tie a bow,
Wrap you like a new gift,
Like someone I once knew.

Easter's over.
I rose to the occassn.
More than once.

I only make promises
To myself,
To ensure
I dissappoint
No one else.

When did we last touch?
Time is playing tricks.
I remember we were young,
I touched you on the knee.
And then,
I couldn't have been more moved
When first our lips met;
I touched you then,
So very long ago.
There was light in your hair,
Softness in your eyes,
The invite of your smile,
That said that touch was fine.
So very long ago.
Time plays tricks, you know.
You slipped
Your hand into mine
When a certain song came on;
And ever since, and without reserve,
I'm touched by that song.
But when did we last touch?

There's a patient
In my bed,
There's nothing wrong
Inside her head.
She sleeps restless,
She breathes deep,
There's reason for her
Antic raving,
I understand she's misbehaving.
There, she shakes,
And chills and beads,
Calling names
And personal needs.
I'm no doc, but I'll prescribe
A script to calm her passionate side.
Take two pills,
I'll take mine,
Call in the morn,
Call anytime.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with hard rain that night
I was trudging uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

Beware the highs of March,
You've forty-eight hours.
Sliante!

I won't hear you breathe
During the night.
My left arm is useless,
My hipbones need replacing.
I make three cups of morning tea
When six was once the norm.
When songs we knew so well are heard,
They don't sound the same:
This has gone on far too long,
I'm spinning on refrain.

I won't see your breath
When you're in the winter air;
I can't forget the way you looked
Retiring up the stairs,
You required lead time,
Before you'd be mine,
In the hollowness,
Somehow bottomless,
Heartfelt phantom pains.

Here's a few legitimate refugees:
political, poverty, drought, war, and religious.
They're right in the top drawer zone,
But who gives a flying Whoopi
That Miley will claim assylum in Bali Bali;
Or Rosie will fly over camps on her way to Switzerland.
I hope Cher,
Doesn't apply for residence on Cape Breton Island:
We don't want you, Babe.
These are the celebrity refugees,
Bailing out on the touted
Greatest Democracy on the planet.
****, if you don't like what you elect,
Look to history,
Stove pipe hats,
And the wonders to be achieved
Before the end of this decade.
They got enough cash for space,
For Mars!

Winter's pristine blankets
Have seeped into the ground.
Animal ****'s like scattered landmines;
Cigarette rubble and plastics
Are strewn about like the aftermath.
I look for survivors.
The thaw has people
Stumbling out of winter
With hands covering faces,
Hiding tears and smiles.
They wave,
As if okay.
Now the reconstruction
Begins.
I like the simple garden. Grass.
Some vegetables,
No ponds or waterfalls,
Or barrels with trickles.
Lost two limbs out the back
Last fall. More sunshine.
A *****, a mower, a compost box,
And a watering hose.
Equinox, **!

Elections
And euchre,
Chance and chaos.
Elect to make it trump,
On a hope and a prayer
Your partner tricks,
Getting tricks,
You're in a game
With one
Who's guiled
On tricks.

Peter, my closest friend,
Worries.
Name it - he worries.
Shows it too,
In everything:
Cause I worry
Bout everything, he frets.
What advice can I offer:
Don't use Compound W.

Ones who look
But never see,
Are ones who won't
Agree to agree.

Ones who hear
But never listen,
Never get
One's position.

Ones who touch
But never feel,
Have heavy hearts
Forged in steel.

Ones with answers
Who never ask,
Are usually blowing it
Out one's ***.

Ones who smell,
Well...
Avoid those ones.

Teach me  about anatomy
And cosmology,
So I can understand
The universe
In your eyes.

He tittered and cackled
At the refugee plight,
Revelled in innocents
Running for life.
Spends his eternity
Stoking flames,
Mixing ashes
Through worldly pains.
Each closing border
A fire's refrain.

Then humanity stood up,
Spoke up, rose up
To feed and clothe
The homeless hordes:
Lucifer wept
Over our good world.

There's a fog over Inverness,
Wrapping the banks
Of the river Ness;
Enveloping me
As you once did.
A fog that will not dissapate,
A mist that mirrors
The break and ache.
A fog that chides
Lonely distress.
This fog can't hide
What I can't forget.

It's early in the day.
The birds chirp Spring awake;
The trees are in their underwear,
They've yet to brush their teeth.
The rain will wash their faces;
Right now they're a disgrace.

He moves slowly in the morning,
Scratching bark and boles;
He ambles to the frozen lake,
Before donning fine green clothes.

Spring is waking up now,
Sap's running from his nose,
Spring is waking up now,
Rubbing blurry eyes,
Spring is waking up now,
And winter's in repose.

I met you with a full bag of promises,
Leaking out a corner hole;
Leaving a trail even Gretel could follow.
You were lurred, picked up the droppings
Til you were sated,
Then turned back home,
Turned away;
The hook fell out -
We fell out,
Those promises lost their flavor.

I saw Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled;
His nose a puck.
He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He drives the zamboni,
Making the ice sheet a giant mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.
He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

Forever and ever
Without a choice,
Roofs were raised
In booming voice:
God the Father.
Proclaimed the choir.

In our two millenia,
The communal host blessed pro-choice,
With Omni-this and Omni-that:
Christ the Son.
Christ has won.
The carollers rejoice.

The Spirit transubstantiates
With tongues of creativity;
Is One with femininity.
What greater God!
What Trinity!

Today, International Women's Day.
I wish the whole world believed.

I won't accept the end
Gently or gracefuly,
But begrudgingly,
In private anguish:
That is truth;
Unadorned,
And sure.
I've not dealt with the vanish
Of comrades in battle;
Or happened upon
A loved one
At the end of the rope.
I've felt the tug,
The smell of CO,
The hardness beneath
The Bluewater Bridge;
The bottle, blade and pill
On the frozen faces of friends,
On family:
Michael, Marlene, Jimmy, Eucheria.
The family innocents
Whisked off
In the maelstrom of bounding youth.


But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some time..

Claudius speaks the cold hard truth,
But Claudius was childless;
Such guileless advice.
And Shakespeare's kids were playing
In the yard
As he penned his tragedy.
But,
Bury a child
And have an eternal membership
In the
******* for Life Club.

At twelve years old
S/he recognizes
The s is now mis-placed;
S/he's not a tom-boy,
But a real boy,
Running
His own race.

A male child born, ***-wise,
His mind not made-up,
Not by a long shot.
He needs time to grow,
For now he could dress
Like Oscar Wilde,
Anyway's good for this child.
At six he follows
Male role models,
So confused.
Dysphoria soon insists,
Sets in to ambiguity,
Leading him to his feminine side,
Where her gender surely resides.

Today, we sketch ourselves.
Draw a circle for the head.
Two dots for eyes,
One for nose.
Draw the mouth.
Truer than the mirror.
No narcis-stick needed.
No Leonardo or Sigmund.
A self-introspective selfie.

The perimeter
Has been laid out;
A fine frame
To encase our landscapes.
We choose where to start,
Working from the top, bottom or sides,
And moving towards the middle ground,
Where land meets water,
The mountains are snow-capped,
The autumn skies are resplendent
With patterns of red and blue.
The copse is shadowy,
With dark green pines ******* soft clouds.
The white-capped lake will never quieten;
But we piece our puzzle.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

Somehow the gate's been opened
To the urban zoo;
And the rural petting farm
Is something gone askew.
The wildebeests and monkeys
Are leading lambs and lemmings,
They're trumpetting their call,
I hear them through the concrete wall.

Trust a liar
To equivocate.

Trust a thief
Won't discriminate.

Trust your government
To disappoint.

Trust Justice
To miss the point.

Trust your parents
Til you find a voice.

Trust education,
If you want a choice.

Trust your friends
To have your back, front and sides.

Trust your children
With your life.

Trust your partner,
Like no other.

Trust one's self
More than anyone else.

She frequently checks
Her trap lines;
Stealthily stalks.
She's an ***** grinder
Looking for a wild monkey.
She stuffs prey for mounting,
Prefers it that way -
Her animals on display.
She likes to bell collars,
Puts favourite food
Near worn, torn blankies
Where chair and whip
Tames the beast in me.

I've a question
Needing resolve;
It's not as big
As the start of the universe;
Or the existence of the netherlands.
It's not a To be or not to be,
Or anything about the Papacy,
Or the question of the Trinity;
Or any other religious decree.
It's not a question of good or bad,
Or why I'm here,
Or why we're sad.
I'm not asking about nucleur waste,
Or our desire to travel outer space.
Those are big ones
I couldn't ask,
I can't answer ones so vast.
No, this itch I have
That needs a scratch,
This ***** of an itch
That archs my back:
What should it be.
What will I make,
A caf or decaf?
My great debate.

Laughter is universal.
Extraterrestrials **** themselves with it;
Martians **** their pants;
Venutians titter til they cry;
Earthlings **** themselves with it
Splitting a side,
Rolling on the floor,
Chortling all the while.
Politicians shake hands gleefully,
Snickering, cackling,
Standing us against the wall.
A good roar, hoot or howl
May be good for the soul,
But is dangerous,
Especially if you
Have a fit
Of tee hees, ha has and yuk yuks
While orbitting.

So, you wanna be a poet;
Well, tell the truth.

I just want to cry,
Heave my back;
Contract where it hurts
Like I'm six.
I haven't cried in years,
Like that.
I don't mind being alone,
The evidence is clear,
The phone recorded everything;
He cried
Alone at home.

If Sallinger hadn't written Catcher in the Rye,
Or Lennon hadn't sung, Helter Skelter;
If we'd not met in August
Would I write this? This!
This counter-productive
Counterfactual.

What universe would unfold
If I had no match,
I wasn't a match.

If I stayed home;
You'd stayed.
History's a roll of dice.

Is this a good day to ask the question?
O, the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

I'll not wear a watch...
And you,
Had you gone to the bathroom
Before driving off,
Would you have returned?
Or if Disney hadn't turned my head,
I wouldn't wish so much.

*******. Pure and simple. *******.
Be like a vampire
Refine your tracking trait,
Saving time and disappointment.
Recognize it when you hear it,
See it, read it.
I've had to eat beside it.
It rarely smells until identified,
You sense the patties are everywhere,
Inside and outside the paddock.
Speak out when encountered:
*******, plain and simple.*
Point in its direction,
Be a searchlight.
The room goes silent
Like a stop-action clip,
Frozen for the stink to seep.
Everything has the stench.
They're skilled,
But shallow.
One needs to go home and wash,
Do the laundry. Clean the kitchen.
Honestly!

You dream.
You dream like me.
I dream.
I dream of you.
Submit.
Admit to twilight swirls,
You dream,
You dream like me.

During the night,
Out of the blue,
Not always,
Yet always,
In the most unusual settings:
The dreamer and the dream concur
The reality is not so sure.

There's those you expect to see,
Leaning into conversations;
There's others there
We want to talk to,
The scene eludes you,
Trying to get through.

The conversatin goes nowhere:
A room full of comfort people
We're surprised to see.

We think it not quite possible,
But the talk makes us believe
These unreal cacophones,
You see,
You dream,
I dream too.

I've been tested,
Yes, I'm arrested:
I freely confess
Being under the influence.
I'm compromised
By breathalyzer eyes.

We aging poets
Scribble hard in the passive
Recalling the active;
I envoke your separate, central parts,
Merging in the hard ripples of you
In August's evening lake;
Re-absorbing the yellow blur
That dries the pressed grass.
These passive lines from past lives;
This aging poet loses clarity
Re-capturing the passions
Of the young poet's life.

Lives
Are problematic
Only
If we seek
Resolutions.

I've no master
In a lofty mansion
Forgiving wrongs,
Addressing my transgressions,
Throwing my daily sustenance
To be foraged before the dogs;
All-powerful and glory-ridden.
That's reserved for the down-trodden,
Praying from boxes,
Lucky to inherit the wind,
They're told.
But don't bank on it.