On this day
We share the notion
That a Child
Born long ago,
Called us home
To live as children;
We hear our name,
We're not alone.

          Gather round,
          Sit at our table;
          Stretch your arms
          Increase, expand.
          Bless our children,
          Bless our parents,
          Count our Blessings
          While we can.

For today
We share believing
That the Child
From long ago,
Called us home
We are the children,
We heard our names,
Never alone.

          Gather round,
          Sit at our table,
          Stretch your arms,
          Increase, expand;
          Bless your children,
          Bless your parents,
          Count your Blessings
          While you can.

Borne on the promise
Of a notion,
On the promise
Of a seat;
By our Love
And our Devotion
To the Living Son,
Our Living Feast.

I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.

A lost castle
In Galway called Lynch's,
Long lost
Its princesses and princes;
The blood took its chances
On foreign Romances,
Now Lynches
Spread over the globe.

Free will
Comes with a heavy price.
Spend it wisely.

That first Christmas,
We cut four branches,
Under the clouds,
From the three pines
On the other side
Of the backyard hedge.
If I went there today,
I'd see the nubs.
The pail full of sand
Came from Daddy's
Circle of cement making.
We firmly planted
The four branches
And wrapped them
With newspaper chains,
Made with the extra edition
From the morning's route.
That night, the moon streamed
Through the bay window,
Spotlighting our tree.
In later years,
We bought trees from the Farmer's Market,
Roping them with twinkling lights
We plugged in.
Daddy never bought a gift or a card
For any special day;
But he annually re-gifted Canada.
This Christmas, the full moon
Will stream again,
And I will tell
His great grand-daughter
The story about the tenacity
Of paper chains,

Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.

Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber.
Bare branches reach in silhouette
For crowning stars where none now sit.

Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us from our home.

Stars held in place by poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glitter red and green.

These lights that through our window stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams

I don't know destitute.
I could use the bathrooms
In McDonalds,
If I eat there.
I'm no refugee.
Neither are you.
We have computers, not canvas.
I warmed up the coffee today
And the dishwasher needs to go through
For the third time this week.
Homeless:  We have them.
Poor:   We'll always have them.
Hungry:  Look to the soup kitchens.
Sick:  The gurneys are lined in the halls.
Death:  It's all around, and increasing.
And still, in that tent or Uber taxi
A child is born to change all this.

What did Sisyphus know
About a slippery *****;
Shoulder to stone
His feet groped,
Shifting inclinations;
Each step consequential,
A mythic joke.
Wiggle the toes,
Feel for the edge,
Sliding is inevitable.
We have no victims
On  fallacious slopes.

Which lost hair defines bald;
Which millimeter makes you tall;
How many dimes makes one well off;
Which freckle makes you cute or beautiful;
Which ounce makes you fat,
From thin to Bottacelli.
Where does one begin?

Removing sentiments,
One at a time,
You find you straddle
The love/hate line,
A line drawn on a mountain top,
And splitting  your Sisyphus rock.

There was the first look,
     It snapped by in a second;
There was the second look,
     It was alluringly fecund.
Like reading page one again
     On the face of a friend;
Don't close the book,
     Take a second look.

To lift a thought to a song,
To redress perceived wrongs;
To relive my youth,
To expose the truth;
To express my love,
To see a pigeon as a dove;
To foresee the future,
To capture the elusive;
To give voice to the abused,
To find refuge when refused;
To immortalize loved ones,
To embrace the shunned ones;
To know stars are fireflies,
To scrape away lies;
To explain time is just a moment,
But enternity's in a sonnet.
Simply put,
It's the right thing to do.

Sign outside a restaurant:
Today's Special:
*YOU

They met
When but sixteen,
She called herself
His ****** Queen,
And he her ****** King.
Thus they remained
Til seventeen,
When his lowered drawbridge
Breached the moat,
And for forty years
He paddled her boat.
But coldness grew,
The ice-palace too,
She was an Ice Queen,
His armor tarnished,
His sword was sheathed,
The Lady and her King
Severed bonds,
Relinquished rings
And set new realms and dreams.
He's a western-style S.O.,
He didn't know
Cowgirls rode backwards.
He's now a sexagenarian,
And the Ice-Palace,
A planetarium.

El Nino El Nino El Nino
(Sung to "Let It Snow...")

Oh the weather outside's delightful,
Not a flake of snow, it's respiteful;
And what's to credit for this show,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

The southerlies aren't abating,
The greens they're still awaiting;
I'm happy not to have a chateau,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

When I'm out gawking at the night,
I don't see the clouds of snow;
There's the flicker of firefly lights,
Dancing over green meadows.

The days are slowly growing,
Warm winds caress as they're blowing;
It's fifteen above zero,
Thanks El Nino El Nino El Nino

I wonder if I'm losing my mind.
Who, in their right mind, would think:
                     Our world is losing gravity,
                      And no one can escape...
I've a sensibility that sees the world:
                      There's a smell of beach on you...
Perhaps I'm too sensitive.
Perhaps I'll end up sitting in a corner,
Drooling verse:
                       Poets die, it's sad but true,
                       And it matters not what their bodies do...
A million years ago I was one to jeer
At the elderly,
Laugh at jokes in poor taste,
Avoid or ignor the extended empty coffee cup;
I wasn't thinking:
                        Charity is never wasted,
                         Even when refused;
                         A simple act of selflessness
                         Cannot be reduced.
What's to become of me?
Is it infectious?
What would happen if I sneezed at the world?
A pandemic of sensitivity?
Then where would we be!
I just might be doomed, and left drooling.

Donald has a comb-over.
******, a funny moustache.
Hair Donald?
Heil ******!

Life's not laundry.
Don't separate
The colours
From the whites.

I can't but think of you
When those old familiar songs air;
As familiar as the friends we shared,
Songs we once grew old to,
That played as you ironed hair.
Tensions grew as the volume raised,
As your parents worried upstairs.
Songs of innocence, songs of experience,
Were on the radio,
And you'd find a station
In Daddy's car
As we drove back to school.
Lyrics I didn't know I knew
After all these years;
No photo could make you
More vivd than now;
Songs that immortalize
Those moments of our youth.
You tanning in the sand,
Transistor craddled in an alabaster hand;
The smell of beach on you.
Lips parted as you whispered words
To the ****** burning in me.
Then you dance close,
Your hair a symphony...
Some songs I hear
Are too much to bear
Beneath a firefly night,
When nothing came between us,
But the notes of songs we liked.

Our children stay
Forever young,
When they stay
At home.

It's December in Ontario,
And an early morning fog
Has cancelled school buses,
Again.
In a few more years,
We'll worry about frost
In our orange groves,
As Florida digs out
Of another blizzard.

I've a job to do;
One element leads to the next,
As in a domino effect.
I'll research the outcomes,
Assess the inventory of supplies on hand.
I sit in the chair, with notepad and gavel
And scribble an entry plan.

     I've done this before
     With previous bankruptcies:
     When the intake exceeds any dividends,
     When demand superceded supply,
     When demand was pervasive.

Job prospects are looking up,
And my Resume reads well:
Especially the Work Related Experiences.

     Early retirement is inconceivable.
     I'd hire me on a probationary period.
     You see, there is my family to consider.
     I'll be the first domino.

The past is safe where it belongs,
Gathering dust between my brain and skull.
It has no business in the present.
Recent publications are now on the shelves,
Sharing space with crisp HD shots.
Keep it from invading tomorrow,
Which belongs to the kids,
Who'll have their own burdens and joys
That need no comparisons with past lives.
Their present is in the forefront.
We'll be rightly blamed for this unpredictable world
Of warm Gulf streams, war posturing and threats.
Troubled places belong in the past, safely stored,
With warning labels,
Away from the twelve year olds.

Addiction issues are certainly predominate with the sensitive souls of writers.
Is the cause the world they perceive and abhor. The greed, despair, hunger, hate and such. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we celebrate the beauty we see in charity, love, generosity and such, too much. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we just prefer to mix our drinks?

I was never an adulterer,
I did **** myself over,
And ****** alone;
But the "A" that keeps sticking
Is as prominent as Hester's.

I was never an abuser,
But I can do a real fine job on myself;
And then the guilt sets in,
Like a hard-packed snowbank,
And I need to get the shovel.

That amber-coloured "A"
Always leads to the stairs of shame
I climb like my cross;
Then lie in state
Until the resurrection.

You don't see real ghosts;
The ones that drink Sprite,
Or sun on the sands of Lake Erie.
Most ghosts have better things to do
Than haunt you.
What you do see
Are spirits, holy or otherwise,
Taunting, egging,
Generally bothersome.
They're in pictures and mirrors,
Songs and places
You'd like to re-live,
Or forget altogether,
Past and present.
No, gimme a ghost anyday
Over a spirit.
When it's my turn,
I won't see you.

Charity is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Your simple act of selflessness
Cannot be reduced.

Kindness is never wasted,
Even when refused;
To think we think of others first
Cannot be diffused.

Courtesy is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Shake a hand, open a door,
Say Please and Thank You.

Patience is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Bide your time contentedly
Dealing with the obtuse.

Faith is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Believe in what cannot be proved
Even if confused.

Hope is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It gives the taste of fine red wine
Brimming o'er the cruse.

Hate is never wasted,
I know you feel abused;
It's just a tact under attack
That haters like to use.

Love is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It's educed, then enfused,
And spreads as it accrues.

My heart is a boiling cauldron stewing with
A pinch of kindness,
A sprinkling of hope,
A dash of hate,
A gram of generosity,
A dram of charity,
A tablespoon of despair,
A measure of temperance,
A teaspoon of patience,
And a shake of faith.
Now, simmering on the element,
I can ladle out bowls of love.

Try not to think more of yourself than others.
Try not to think less of yourself than others.
Don't think less of yourself more,
But more of yourself less.
Sometimes, think less of others more,
And you won't think less of yourself.
But do so with charity and courtesy,
Lest we forget.

Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.

They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.

They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.

They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.

They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.

They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.

The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.

On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.

(A perfect metaphor, thought I).

No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.

We should re-name
The AMA:
*American Music Awards For Canada.

The maple was neither proud nor noble.
No more than a buck in the cross-hairs.
Chance is out with certainty.
The tree is pieced out,
Like fingers in a cigar clip gangster clip;
Or a gangerous WWI leg.
The sound the tree once made
By catching the passing wind,
Falls to the ground,
Never reaching the roots.
The cutters are as sure as orthopedic scalpels.
They notch limbs that give the final thump.
A sound I dread.
And yet the most pleasant irony
Is the chipper.

So many signs slip by.
The big ones, like stigmata
And the leaves changing
Are easy to spot.
If not, if missed,
The sun still shines.
Other signs will surprise us,
Births, texts, disappointments, so ons;
But before the sun fools me again,
I'll perceive the smile,
The whisper and whisp of eyes
While the spin continues
Revealing the daily signs.

If you've lost someone,
Check out the Personals.
Keep your eyes to the ground;
Only tourists look around,
There we'll find the jetsom
Of someone's empty pocket.
A book of Vegas matches
With the middle ones missing;
Neither left or right-handed.
You'll not be found.
There are tissues,
Stained with mascara,
Lying
Beside beads from a broken necklace
That gilded your skin.
You'll not be found.
Blowing across the path
Are shreds of paper
From the note she wrote,
Swirling towards the river.
Chase them to the bank,
Watch them float
Towards the falls.
The meaning is smeared, blurred
Then lost.
This is what finds me out.

I shared an outside table
With two young American graduates
On an amber Scottish day.
They were completing
The European tour:
Not unlike the Romantics
Walking the continent.
A cap to an illustrious degree.
One scholar was blunt:
Do you believe in God?
No.
Why do you say that?
His companion leaned in for my answer.
Because you asked.
Both reclined into a smile.
Of course.
Then settled
Into a half-empty glass.

Our foes,
Some of whom we can surely name,
Pray to the same God.
A rose is a rose is a rose.
The rain and sun
Cover the same game site;
There's no referee calling foul,
Illegal procedure or out of bounds.
This is more like Gaelic Football,
No perceptible rules for finger pointing
From the spectators in a very large stadium.
But, make no mistake,
Every game has a timer,
And his thumb is poised
On the stopwatch.

If in love,
It's a crime scene.
Raise your hands.
Fall on your knees.
Wrap yourself in yellow tape.
Surrender.
Find a window to look out on the world.
Walk in the compound.
Contemplate a break out.
You're in love,
And it's captivating.

Take me first.
I stood witness at the bed
As Mammy withered
To a stick, so small,
She couldn't cast a shadow.

Take me first.
I was one to agree
To stop the whirring machine,
And stood there
As Jimmy flat-lined.

Take me first.
Marlene asked me
If she was dying.
Thirty-nine is too young
To give an answer.

Take me first.
Daddy left in a hurry;
No good-byes in life
Or in death.

If I'm not taken first
Before my girls,
I will surely be second.

I have declared a detente
After negotiating a truce.
My head is a no-fly zone;
The bombadier chutes stay shut.
I sat at the table
With my privy council,
And we have signed an accord.
Peace in my time.
Peace in my mind.
Forget, to forgive;
Forgive, to forget.
It seeps unmeasurable,
Infectious,
Air borne as a nucleur summer.

A cancer's eating
Through our core,
With tendrils gnawing
Every shore;
A virus leaping firewalls,
A dis-ease too apalling;
Advancing by some sick allure.

No use in praying for a cure,
The saviour is the saboteur;
No vaccine can **** its spore.
Its mucous is racist;
Its nucleus is sexist;
Its atoms are prejudiced;
Its carriers are bigots;
It's hungering for more;
And it's at my front door.

They believe I did it,
They saw it in my eyes;
But I didn't really do it,
You know the kind of lie.

I simply compromised;
And so, I didn't do it;
But I know I lied I did,
Have you used this disguise?
Caught up in your silly lie?

It started out sincerely,
I really meant to do it;
I had the plan in place,
It took me by surprise.

I honestly didn't do it,
And they believe I did;
But I know I didn't do it,
And I can't ****** answer, *Why?

The further I travel
By time or land,
Over the water,
Through the air,
The talk of home
Snaps on my tongue,
Telling strangers of comfort zones:
Like sipping tea,
With jam and scones,
Yet now I sip the air alone,
Thinking of our loose leaf tea,
And the soda bread you baked for me.

I'm standing where a tree once stood,
It's branches, leaves, and roots weren't good.
Perhaps they used it for a rood,
Down in Alabama,
Where skies are lit with flames,
And chants are raised to holy names,
As though they understood.

In the park, an empty swing
Is twisted by a changing wind;
I cannot hear the children sing
Of lambs gone to market.

In the class an empty desk
Draws one's eyes to stare and rest
On a sharpened pencil
That scribbled with regret,
The names we'll soon forget,
For they have gone to market.

What was here,
Now is missing,
It's as if no one's listening;
And it began with our christening.
Like a ship I too am listing.

Here's what they'll say of me:
*He stood once like a tree.

I got stuck on Skye;
There were many
Reasons why.
The ring of mountains
Walled me in,
The blue above
Was closer then,
The blue around
Was too deep,
And the whiskey
Was smooth and cheap.
The chatter of the lads
Was keen;
The beauty of the lass,
Serene.
Yes, I got stuck on Skye,
Managed to get off
Before I died.

The story I read, some forty years now,
Burns inside my head.
A young woman, ***** violently
By two brothers,
Hands and face mutilated,
The horror on her father's face.
Vengeance was his alone,
As he murdered her assailants,
And boiled down their bones.
His name was Titus.
The story was four hundred years old.
Re-told from a story three thousand years older.
Re-told today.
Rwanda, Bosnis, Syria, Jordan, Dahlmer et al.
Disfiguration with acid,
Limbs gone missing,
Tongues cut out, black sockets,
Missing parts of humanity
In prison camps and resistence movements.
We're still baking pies and feeding on human flesh.
Shakespeare was never so violent.

Be sure you get a house
With an attic.
Basements can be dug up,
But attics burn down.

Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.

Write?
I write!
I write more.
I continue to write.
Then I even write more.
Soon I can't stop writing more.
So I get more paper and write.
Forthwith, I've written myself an eight word poem.

We need to talk to strangers,
If we wish to make new friends,
Get a date, find a mate,
A partner til our end.
My children were the strangest ones
Ever I did meet;
So I introduced myself to them
As they arrived, toute suite!
Some strangers become family,
Some life-long friends;
Some become your colleages,
Team mates and your kids.
And some become your enemies,
And that's good to know;
But we need to talk to strangers
Whether friend or foe.
The alternative is you're by yourself,
And that's okay too -
But you shouldn't talk to yourself,
And answer yourself too.

If you've a writer's block,
Keep chiselling.
You'll get relief
When you release the piece.

Every face has its glory;
Every scar has its story;
Swipe left,
Swipe right,
Hit like,
Hit dislike,
You're judge, gavel and jury.