People are smiling with the back of their teeth;
Hookers are toiling themselves off their feet;
The cops avoid the crooks on their beat;
Scammers are conning cause we all want to cheat;
Fishes are breathing on the banks of the creek;
Government fingers can't stop the slow leaks;
The searchers stopped searching, there's nothing to seek;
Voyeurs are seeing without sneaking a peek;
The strong are loosing to the strength of the weak;
The jocks are surrounded by the number of geeks;
The circus is posting jobs for the freaks;
The Colonel's chicken has twelve secret beaks;
The beds are empty as no one can sleep;
The weeds are filling the cracks in our streets;
The guards are chained in castle keeps;
And all about us grows weary and bleak;
Our tongues are loose,
Still nobody speaks.

Excuse me,
Could you please
Watch me
Take my picture.

We've succumbed
To the pandemic
Of awkward confusion;
Where the rabbit,
Not magician,
Is half the illusion.
We're topsy-turvy,
I'm getting sick:
We're highly toxic,
It's acute, not chronic,
We've set the cameras
On ego-centric.

Gaia, The World (nee Earth)
Suddenly, at home, aged 4.5 billion years, The World Gaia (nee Earth),
surrounded by her loving nucleur family, Gaia passed away after a long
battle with humanity. She is survived by her partner of 3 billion years, Luna,  eight siblings, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, and countless cosmic cousins. Predeceased by a younger brother, Pluto.
Gaia was the mother of all, and a selfless provider. She brought rain or let the sun into everyone's life.
Cremation has taken place.
In lieu of flowers there is nothing else.
Condolences at this time are fruitless.
There will be no service.

When I've written something deep;
When I really want your attention;
And I need you to read it with emotion,
With my feelings and my voice;
And I'm hoping you get my meaning,
Because I think you need help,
I use asterisks.
Asterisks.
Ever look closely at an asterisk?
Draw one.
Enlarge it on your screen.
Notice any resemblance to anything you own,
Anyone you know?
It looks like the
*Selfie of an *******.

Mammy's accidents usually happened
Within a hundred foot radius of her stove.
Except the one time she had to work
Outside the home,
At the Aylmer Tomato Cannery.
     (Daddy was in his wet season,
      Being laid off was his reason)
The tip of her thumb was snipped,
And gone.
The joke never got old.
Someone looked inside
Every can we opened -
From that day on -
Truth is,
We always knew
A good bit of Mammy
Was in her stew.

Well outside my circle,
Beyond my paltry reach
Of influence,
Nasty, spinsterly, unforgiveables
Happen.
Across from The Farmer's Market,
Just two days ago,
Two young males were...
You've no doubt read it.
Before that, a young teacher
Was kidnapped, stabbed and lit,
(can't believe I just wrote that)
Well, she was ******* lit... burned...

Who can live like this?

Then, I remember Tom's mother
Who invited me on family picnics;
And Crazy Jack,
Who put the chain on my rear sprocket;
The Squires who actually cleaned-up the yard
For the Downie sisters.

The befriendings in neighborhoods.

Mrs. Tethercott, probably the oldest woman
To ever live on a street, once handed me
A hard red candy through the green pickets.
Just me. The sibs never saw it going or coming.
An especially special treat that has stuck with me
For decades after her death.

But the Mayor arriving in full Santa regalia
On the trunk of a sleigh-red car,
With burlap bag slung heavily.
What a first memory of Christmas.
Daddy burned his leg
With diesel oil
On the job site,
Far away, in Kapuskasing,
During our first winter
In Canada.
Did the Downie Spinsters make the call?
What unknown friends reached out
Beyond their circles.
Who aspires to such a height?
I can't let it stop me.
For now,
I carry a hard candy
For just such occasions.

With the children gone,
She languished in
Her shameless morning.

Mr. Fawcett
Was a friend
Who ran hot and cold.
When he was hot
He drank a lot,
And smoked and toked,
And ****** and slurred.
We thought him quite absurd.
He wheezed and coughed
And finally croaked,
Turning himself off.

Bruce,
The first American
To commit euthanasia
In the media,
And later,
Be interviewed.

I've racked my brain,
Buckled with strain
Got sweat beading 'bout my eyes.
I'm working to write
The One Word Poem,
Master it
Before I die.

I'v got two words
That work quite well,
Two words that have
A story to tell.

You see,
The problem with
A one word line,
I'll never get
The poem to rhyme.

Follow your North Star
'Til you drop in your tracks;
Your story's ahead,
Don't turn and look back.

Your dreams, when awake,
Are dreams that you follow;
The ones in your sleep
Are misleading and hollow.

Aspire for greatness,
You'll make some mistakes;
But the distance you travel
Will make your ground quake.

If you reach for the stars,
And pull back too soon,
You won't have regrets
When you land on your moon.

Were you born into wealth
As a lonely heir;
Are you rutted in poverty
And don't want to be there?

Did you emigrate,
And take your world with you;
Are you an immigrant,
And find one that fits you?

Were you born a she
That should be a he;
Do you feel the red shame?
Are you gifted,
Do you think you're insane?

Was your upbringing
In a scholar's home;
Did dear old Dad leave
You alone to go roam?
Should you blame Mommy's drinking
For your lack of get-go?

Did a brother abuse you
When you were young;
Did no one amuse you
At night with a song,
Or read bed-time stories,
Or say Good-night
With a hug?

Whether well-fed
Or well-read,
You've a future
Not used,
A conscious decision
To do what you choose.

Whatever the condition
Of your initial on-set,
Whatever's your story,
*It's not over yet.

I always wanted
To be a sage,
Have ears attentive
When I speak,
Have listeners sit-up
In their seats.
Sadly, this only
Comes with age.

I always wanted
To be a looker,
Have heads turn
When I walk by,
Hear my name
In whispered sighs.
Sadly, this only
Comes from hookers.

I always wanted
To be a lover,
Have women oogle
Like no others;
Call out my name
When they scream.
Sadly, it happens
In my dreams.

I always wanted
To be rich,
Have everything at
My fingertips.
This is one
I got done,
My wealth I found
In my children.

Every night is Saturday,
Every Monday's Sunday.
If Tuesday is my lieu day,
Then Wednesday is my luncheon meeting.
Thursdays are long coffee breaks,
And Fridays are my Personal Days.
Saturdays are Saturdays,
And ****,
It might begin again.

Will you falter and fade
In a Palliative room,
With beeps and tubes
Confirming your doom?
Or a fiery crash
And screech of rubber
As onlookers see
Your hair aflame;
Will you fall from the sky
In a laser marked plane;
Get shot while buying
A lottery ticket,
Die doing something
Horribly wicked?
Perhaps the sound
Near your ears at night
Will forewarn your demise
By a mosquito bite.

... as I was saying...
I'm sure you're just not listening.

My OFF switch is off,
Which means it's on:
I may have brushed it,
Flicked it in full sight;
I didn't throw a shoe at it,
Or ***** during the night.
But that's how my switch works
When I'm not attentive.
The OFF goes ON,
And then I'm done,
I head towards the cave,
Alone and dark,
With my finger on the switch
To flick, when feeling fit,
When I've had enough of it.

Did you read about the father
Who met the girl
With his daughter's eyes.
The gift of sight.
Post-mortem.

Then I read about the mother
Who gave her son a kidney.
The gift of ***.
Pre-mortem.

Finally, I met a girl
Forty years ago
Still using my heart.
The gift of love.
Eternal.

When you hear of a new diagnosis
For someone known,
It begins again.
Every cloud seems special,
Every disappointment relative
To the breaking news.
My eighty on the links
Isn't so remarkable now -
Or is it?
Relative or not,
I'll carry my clubs tomorrow too.

It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.

I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.

The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.

We're treating our world
Like a retreating army:
The invaders won't survive.

Inhale nature's incense,
Fill with life
As since first breath,
And exhale.
Nothing disappears.
     Where does love go?

A broken robin's blue
Beneath a fallen leaf;
The curling smoke,
A lap of shoreline suds,
The dust from fallen stones.
     Where does love go?

The pounds we shed,
The worry we dread,
And all about me's thin,
Heaviness dissipates.
     Where does love go?

Beads gather on my brow
Then rivulet down my nose,
Drops like autumn roses.
     Where does love go?

I hurt a friend,
His pain was real,
My remorse reached his ears,
I saw his pain disappear.
     But where does love go?

It's not recyclable, reuseable,
But environmentally friendly:
It's measured like a tailored suit
No one else can wear.
An exclusive gift,
Free as loaves and fishes.
     Where does it go?

It sates, some stays,
Some grows, then fades;
It's quantity unmeasured.
     But where does love,
     That all time love,
     That one time love,
     Where,
     Where did it go?

I bought a ticket
For a friend;
Do I really
Want him to win.
     Is this what one
     Calls a sin?
     Venial, mortal,

Let's crank it up a notch.
Let's involve the cops,
Or the color of your skin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?
     Cardinal, deadly.

Let's raise the ante.
Say you're near the body
Lying on the floor,
The evidence is clear,
You're the next of kin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?

Wherein is the sin?

My friend kept all the winnings.
Cops are on the take.
Our brother's in the gutter,
Our confession came too late.
Our sins are mere mistakes:
At worst call me ingrate.

Comparatively speaking,
It's grand to live
In Canada.
It's as free as one can get,
Comparatively.
We have one hundred percent
Control over our destiny
And our bodies:
That is,
Until we near the end.
Then,
Our government decides
How we die.
I suspect they want to know
That I'm one hundred percent
Disposed and dispossessed.

A wolf stands firmly
Howling singular notes,
Reaching over the night.
The woodland animals
Hear the plaintif cry
As a lonely echo
Through the air.
We don't care,
But others cower nearby.
The abandoned wail ****** ears,
Confirming all their fears:
Something must die.
Scratching, arching
With fierce yellow eyes,
Snout pointing to the darkling sky,
He howls his hollow cry,
Sounding like his cousin's bark,
He lopes to his den,
Veiled in the dark,
Hoping his warnings
Were not in vain,
The wolf next night
Will wail again.

Better to have
Your face flush
Than
Your blood settle.

Squeeze, squirt and smear
A pimple,
Keep it disgusting,
But keep it simple.
Like lance a boil
To release its ****,
Describe it well,
Make a fuss
Over the putrid sore,
Use poetic words
To enhance the gore.
Drive your finger
Up your nose,
Spit green lugers
Like gargoyles.
Present yourself
Like a loser.
Pick morning goo
From you eyes,
And wipe it on
Your naked thighs.
Don't clean the dirt
Beneath your nails,
Au natural seldom fails.
Don't brush your teeth
Til afternoon,
This should make
Your lover swoon.
When you pass
The silent bomb,
Take the blame
With aplomb,
Smile as though
You've done no wrong.
Clean the wax
From both your ears,
Use something white
Your love holds dear,
Be ruthless,
Don't show a care.

Use some or all
Of the above,
I guarantee,
A cure for love.

You have said
As a Phenomenal Woman
That
Still I Rise,
and so you must to travel
The Road Not Taken.
But
If You Forget Me
In your
Dreams,
Dearest Annabel Lee,
I will sing like the
Caged Bird.

If,
When Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,
You should find yourself in
A Dream Within a Dream,
Then deny, for
I Don't Love You Because I Love You;
I love you more
As I Grow Older.

I will pass through this life,
Do Not Stand by My Grave and Weep,
You are not
Alone.
You too
Will Not Go Gently Into That Good Night;
For I
Don't Go Far Off.
This is the promise:
Hope is the Thing With Feathers,
or it can be
A Poison Tree,
Casting venom on
Daffodils,
Making
All the World a Stage,
And I,
An understudy in the wings.

Dig deep.
Trolls are nice people,
But nobody
Likes them.

I present as a strong figure,
A father who is decisive,
Fair and consensual
To the point of sacrifice.
I overheard:
     Don't worry. It's only Dad.
Well, that's not quite true.
I'm not belly-aching,

How many picture frames,
Or video clips
Will you find me in?
Who held the camera
For twenty years?
King Hamlet knew:
Remember me.

You should know
I have the feelings
Of the aggregate.
We share fear.
I know you're afraid. Me too, but
You learn to live with it,
And sensitivity is a strong potion.
I see reflections of my eyes in yours.
You're easily hurt.
I hide this one.
You're learning to do the same.
Can't blame you, but fair warning:
The benefits and disadvantages
Are equally weighed.

No doubt we've been involved
In abandonment and lonliness.

Being sensitive,
You overthink everything.
Don't.
It causes worry;
Worry begets worry.
Too much time worrying.
It's an emotional overkill.

***** me, I bleed.

Dads are sentient
Under shining armor.
You can tell by the chinks.

I believe
In the shameless love of this life;
Not in a previous or afterlife.
I don't believe
In reincarnation, transmigration
Ascension or decesnsion.
And all the sepulchres concur.

I believe in Christ,
Not Christianity or Protestantism.

I believe in Muhammad,
Not Islam
(And this list goes on).

I don't believe in banshees,
Astral projection or any OBE.
I don't believe in gnomes or trolls,
Elves, sprites and witches,
Nirvana, Valhalla, Heaven or Hell.
And I believe
I won't be disappointed.

I believe in politics,
Not politicians.

I believe in the Arts
(All of them),
And humanity,
And You,
The healers and teachers.

Oh Spirit,
Where is it?
I don't believe hovering souls
Listen to eulogies.
I don't believe in death-bed conversions
Just because...

I believe in a living consciousness,
For
I Am That I Am,
And that's what I am.

I will not go gently,
For I know,
There's nothing
To worry about.

I've been on a dig
Of personal depths,
Picking as far
As I can get,
I surprisingly stopped
My troweling action,
To ask if I'm digging
In the right direction.
The deeper I go,
The less I know,
The opposite
Of my quest.

I ascend for a look and see,
And the world's
Glittering differently.
Did the air down there
Have an effect on me.
I saw an enemy,
But I didn't see her,
At least
Not until much later.
I must've tapped the vein below,
While mining the hardness
Of my soul,
Retrieving stones
From my emotional hole.

I cut my gems
Beneath a glass,
Carved my present
From my past.

I back-filled my dig,
Got what I needed,
A cache of hindsight
I can live with.

The man on the cross
Wears a ****** mask
Of eternal pains.
The god behind the pantomime
Smiles with eternal gains;
He has inside knowledge
Of our temporal life.

Why worry
About the afterlife.
There's nothing
To worry about.

I don't write
Just so you'll
Remember
*Kilroy was here?

You
   can             shine
a     light
          on        me;
          yes      please
            brighten                    up
    my                   day
           just send
   five
   bucks
    my
    way.

You've seen a mother
Nursing a child,
Giving freely
Of herself.
So altruistic,
She finds maternal pleasure
Through nurturing.

My close friend
Gave his son a kidney.
His very own *****,
Putting himself in jeopardy
For his son's prosperity.
The pleasure of altruism
Wasn't lost on me.

Have you seen the picture
Of the man on the cross.
He wears a smile
Behind his blood mask.
He found pleasure
In offering salvation.
No greater gift,
Can be bestowed
From man, woman or god,
Than the innate pleasures
Of self-sacrifice.

I saw a girl
Who belongs to me.
It was in her gait,
The way she turned her face,
And cocked her head
For clarity.
That girl belongs to me.
She's a reflective skeptic,
Knows a half empty glass,
But she doesn't cover
Her eyes with wool,
She knows when it's half full.
She enjoys serenity.
Yes, that girl belongs to me.
She only lives a life of fun,
Her demenor's one of curiosity;
Just the other day
She turned one.
Yes, that girl's one of mine;
I'd pick her in a crowd,
Spot her out,
Without a doubt,
That girl is so sublime,
She's definitely
One of mine.

My search
For a higher power
Eluded me;
Thank God
I found our
Poetry.

If you'll allow me,
I'll be the booming voice,
Or the low murmur,
You stiffled,
Long ago,
In your head.
But I won't allow you
To muzzle me.

I yet adhere to the one.
Can't find the replacement.
I've loved in many darkened rooms,
Yet still believe in one.
Is there any other?
Now gone. Not dead.
Therein lies my difficulty,
Knowledge that lives on,
Beyond reach,
Beyond hope,
But lined up next to fear,
Still after all these years.
She presented well,
I accepted graciously.
She slipped into retreat,
I tripped hard,
And slid off into the wild.

I'll depart this world,
Leaving it three times better
Than this entrance.
Ha! You've already formulated
Your argument, beginning with
*******,
And concluding with
Deluded.
My counter proposal has
Three hypotheses:
Kathleen, Maggie and Andrea.

The sun shoots
Ray drops
Like bullets through
The clouds;
Coming at the speed
Of light,
Bathing our exposed world.

I can't slather lotion
On mountains, lakes and trees,
There's little to prevent the scorch
That's reddening our streets.

We're under hats,
We've covered skin,
The shade from leafs
Is growing thin.
The executioner's leaking in.

We live a greenhouse life
Beneath umbrellas,
On towels on sand;
We're being fried
On the land;
Stirring the ***
With  sun-cracked hands.

My brain is in the landfill,
My ego's in the dump;
My id's been spread as fertilizer,
My heart's a paltry pump.
So, how do I say
Love's grown in me,
Like invasive weeds;
I need to ***
Between the rows,
For you,
My mustard seed.

Hobos don't ride box-cars,
Cowboys don't wear white;
The cavalry's dismounted,
Is there anything left to write.
I could subjucate my life,
Get involved in a barroom fight;
Have my memory confiscated,
In an internal war of strife.
If my father'd been a minister,
Or I laid my head in the oven,
Would they record I was sinister,
And died so lacking loving?
Could it end by a mad mosquito
Who ****** the blood of life.
Would they read my paltry droppings,
And understand the offerings
Found scattered on the floor
Next to the body
Of work.

With the box lid closed
It's dark inside,
There are no colours
We can't abide.
But a golden sliver of light seeps in,
To expose the colours there within.
We see red when enraged,
And scarlet dancers crowd our stage;
A red-blooded male brags virility
Through rose-coloured glasses of masculinity.
Some grow green with envy,
Reveal they're yellow in enmity,
Are blue when feeling empathy,
Turn blue holding out for sympathy,
Are tickled pink with comedy,
And white as a sheet with tragedy,
Or brown-nosed with syncophany.
If your yellow-bellied you may run,
And green-gilled after Jamaican ***,
Write purple prose when versifying,
Ashen coloured when you're dying.
True colours show outside the box,
Use grey cells to colour unorthodox.
Our true colours are harlequin,
That fade to black at our end.

I don't know a comfortable chair
Til I've sat in it;
Nor a fine car til I've driven it;
Same with a strong coffee,
Or a poem til I've written it.