I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."

I've an itch to scratch
Inside my nose;
An itch that runs
Down to my toes.
I'll yoga pose
With those, my toes,
To wiggle-tiggle
That scratchy itch
Tickling my nose.

Where have all the assassins gone,
I'm just asking,
Where have all the hit-men gone,
It wasn't long ago.
Where have all the psychos gone,
Ones like Sirhan Sirhan,
Or a crazy red Russian,
Lining crosshairs for Vlad Putin.

Where have all the agencies gone,
I'm just asking,
The MI5, the CIA,
KGB, Mossad;
Where have covert actions gone,
When there's guys like crazed Kim Jong;
Or a crazed Red Russian,
A narcissistic Vlad Putin.

Where have all our heroes gone,
I'm just asking;
Where have all our leaders gone,
Not so long ago.
Where have all fine Russians gone;
Boris was their last good one;
When will we ever learn,
Ego-maniacs can't govern.

I didn't do anything controversial today
Other than hear the news.
I must be an aberration; in the minority.
I didn't shoot my mouth off;
I didn't shoot anyone,
Or invade my neighbour's space.
If I did, I'd be the news.
All I did was write an inconsequential poem
With a pen moving across straight blue lines.
I'll bet Chris Wallace won't read it on the news.

My translucent skin is looser now,
I'm loosing my gray hairs;
Teeth are kept beside my bed,
My ears aren't on my head.

At times I wobble when I walk,
I creak across the floor;
At times I drool when I talk,
I'm venting so much more.

My fingers gnarled;
My belly barreled;
My back is bent from care;
My toes are crooked,
My nose has hooked
(Did I say I'm loosing hair?)

Friends are disappearing,
Like scenes in my rear view;
Once there were so many,
Now scattered,
And there's few.

I'm resident in my lazy boy,
Watching old re-runs;
But I have reels inside my head
Of desires once well-fed.

So I sit here,
And see you there,
With gray cardigan and gray hair.
But in my theatre we're in a field
Of long grasses and long hair.

For much of my life
I’ve been afraid;
It started with my shadows,
It’ll end with the grave.

I was afraid of falling
Off my bike,
Yet I kept on falling
Till I got it right.

I was afraid of what?
I didn’t know;
But knew that school
Was the place to go.

I was afraid of silence,
When the talking stopped;
I was afraid of the water
Till I belly-flopped;

I was afraid of strays,
Cats and dogs,
Till I met yours
And saw their love.

I was afraid of bullies,
Big and bad;
Till I stared them down,
They were small and sad.

I was afraid of my Dad,
Soon the boy grew up;
I was afraid of failure,
So I never stopped.

I was afraid of being caught,
So I learned to tell the truth;
I’m afraid of Climate Change,
I’m afraid we’ll loose our Earth.

I’m afraid for my children,
Now they’re afraid for theirs;
My thinning skin is looser now,
I’m loosing my grey hairs.

And I’m not liking Death, just now,
People disappear from view;
And yet I heard or read somewhere,
It’s the easiest thing we’ll do.

I heard a nasty rumor about Robbie dying.
But that's not quite true;
At least not until he doesn't meet up with you.

I didn't see him daily, so, for me, he really hasn't.
Not quite yet.
We had lunch just the other day:
"We'll be teeing up in April," he smiled.
Smiled. He's so good at that.
Robbie might be dead then,
But not today. Not for me.

But that's not what they'll say
When he doesn't show.
Then I'll know.
And I already feel the hurt.

Where will we be?
Will we be in '23?
When '21 ended,
Where were we?
Will we make it through '22.
Let's be Smart
With '22's start.
Re-think.  Re-model.
'21's gone; '22's here;
So let's get smart.
No gloom. No dark.
Think on another;
Bring truth to our hearts,
And to this world. Our World.
Stay alert. Stay sharp.
There's others
Playing other parts.
Let's Help,
Without sounding a word.

She keeps saddest memories
Closest to her heart;
A death-like permanence
Keeping us apart.
Like X-ed out family pictures
In an album loosing pages.
She believes there were no good times,
Her memory's gone hazy-lazy.

Desmond Tutu died.
Not left behind in Afghanistan.
He didn't drown in a comet induced Tsunami.
The lava flow from la Palma didn't fry him.
Aids, Corona, measles, small-pox or Enola didn't infect him.
World fires didn't **** the oxygen from his lungs.
He didn't dehydrate in the Sahara.
No plane fell on him, nor did he fall out of one.
His size indicates it wasn't a self-imposed hunger strike.

Desmond Tutu just died.

A two year old with his father's handgun didn't do him in.
He wasn't struck down by a falling tree, or speeding car.
I'm sure he fell lots of times, but he always got back up.
He doesn't hang from a cross; he wasn't tossed overboard.
And he wasn't lynched, electrocuted, injected or shot standing.

He died,
Naturally, on St. Stephen's Day, when stoning is popular.

It's a **** good thing he led such an exemplary, meritorious life, or we wouldn't know
Desmond Tutu died.

Our Holiday Season's fast upon us,
Ribbons and bows are holding sway,
But I recall all the fuss
With Christmas just two weeks away.

Yes, it's been a year already
Since being swept-up in the frenzy;
Singing Silent Night and Silver Bells,
And awake until the last Noel.

But Yules ago, when just a boy,
Not toying in childish play,
Yet wanting more than I could say.
With Christmas still two weeks away.

You'd think that on the twentieth,
I'd get a better sense of it,
Christmas felt two weeks away.

Come December twenty-first,
I felt I was Christmas cursed;
For it didn't matter what who'd say,
Christmas still felt weeks away.

At dawn on the twenty-second,
The smell of pine seduced and beckoned;
Beneath the needles I spied presents;
The outline of a gift-wrapped sleigh.
I cursed, “Is Christmas still two weeks away?”

The day before the twenty-fourth,
I couldn't see the wooden floor,
Gifts sprawled to the front door.
I crossed my fingers,
Wished and prayed,
But Christmas felt two weeks away.

The twenty-fourth languished long and slow...
The light would fade,
The night would glow,
Off to Midnight Mass we'd go.
We'd press palms and pray for snow,
Then genuflect and run for home.

Although it feels two weeks away,
I've much to do
That cannot wait.
Thank God tomorrow's not Christmas Day.
Or is IT just two hours  away?

I forgot the present.
I went back,
And watched a flower open yesterday.
Imagination turned real.
There was banter and banging;
Strumming and keying.
I witnessed a chick, hatching,
Breaking through.
After the picking and pecking,
Their scratching and scolding,
I paused in need of help:
Get Out.
No one is that good.

I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.

Today, I am reticent;
But when the inevitable call comes,
What will I say?
Will I profess my pent feelings;
Say what needs saying?
Will you embrace without pity?
The call will surely come,
So why hold back, waiting?
Why so taciturn now?
Now hesitating.

Good morning, Dear Wife,
The only love of my life.
The sun's not yet up,
I'll go brew us a cup;
So, stay snug in our bed,
And I'll bring it up
With a bite that's enough,
Till you're ready to rise
With those gorgeous green eyes,
And join me this day,
And all days I do pray,
Till we rise up no more.

We've been... a... part... so long;
We've not been... to...gether, a... lone.
Together alone.

I hear the lonely house sounds
Of dripping, creaking, and window wind whoshes;
The semi-muted fiber optic sounds;
The various vehicles dopplering past.
These I hear in my fractured second,
Before asking, "How ye doin?"
Which shatters into glass the silence
Held too long between us.
But now we are alone, together, alone.
A silent alone, together.

A once dear friend
And I met up;
Twenty years since we spoke,
And neither one could talk.
We left each other's company
On terms of disagreement.

The ice was thick;
The air was clouded;
We stood beneath the shade.

The mountain didn't fall;
The earth didn't swallow;
The roof stayed on.
Nothing cracked our uncertainty.

Then we misquoted some old
Misunderstood memories
Of why we went our ways.
And felt the same.

I don't have a problem
Sharing with my kids
All the privileges
I strove to achieve,
As long as they don't
Feel entitled to them.

He lifted his leg,
And ****** on
The Tree of Life,
The Tree of Knowledge,
And the entangled roots
Of all humanity.

A good liar
Is a bad liar,
And I was the worst.
I lost your trust;
Gave rise to sorrow
And a life of regrets.
I don't ask you forget,
But forgive, with peace,
Lay it to rest.

You could change the world.
You should.
Repeat this inauspicious comment to someone;
Age isn't part of the equation.
Even the youth may listen, may remember,
I should change the world.
You did. Some place, at a time unknown.
It's not so obvious as the Butterfly Effect;
Appearing subtly, less noticeable than
Pedaling into a velvet N-E Huron breeze
A walker feels on her wet lips
During a burnt Autumn stroll.
I changed,
And rocked the world
Of  my loved ones.

Who would call them losers
Because they couldn't stand;
We lifted when they moved about
On worn out knees and hands.

We didn't call them fools
Because they didn't talk;
We oohed and ahhed with all their sounds
When they stood free and walked.

We heard a blend of letters spew
Like spilled out alphaghetti;
Raving with their oral prowess,
Like roars on the Serengeti.

As years passed by, and they were graded
(And most certainly not by us);
They might return with D's and E's,
But we never judged or fussed.

This is how we treated them,
Our children that we raised;
I pray that our changing world
Will forgive, forget and praise.

Between the vaxxers
And the anti-vaxxers;
Between the dearly educated,
And the poorly educated;
The lines are blurred,
But clearly visible.

How will we progress today?

Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?

Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?

Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?

Will we defy with a righteous tone,
Or leave, tails tucked, like a dog with his bone?

Will we gauge goods for our Vegan menu,
Or show distentions as millions do?

Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose pickings from picked-over trash?

Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend visitations in a MADD rage?

Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching a sandless hourglass?

Did we place our script with the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across to Jordan's fair shore?

Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off bar stools?

Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?

Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station gives you right?

Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?

Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,

Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?
Our words can't bind all our wounds;
Few are born with silver spoons.
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing street flight,
That can't come too soon.

Shoes of all colours and sizes
Shuffle by my N-A Middle Class House.
We are temperate, they walk in all seasons,
Down here, between the Great Lakes.
These S-Westerners look haggard;
Even the young...
All waiting... waiting for the veil to lift.
Smiles are cracking, making new lines
Like road maps to happiness.
And yet, it's worse
In Talibexas, Loseiana and Floridistan,
Where there are fewer paths.

A new third world ******* emerged.
South of the U.S.
North of Mexico.
On the Gulf Coast.
Flag: Cantor, Black; Field, Black
Bird: Raptor
Flower: Fly Trap
Motto: Your Body Is the Body Politic.

The older man seemed confused.
I slowed, turned in my drive.
I was just returning from the airport.
He fell on the road too,
And got a nasty **** to his left knee.
Later, I learned he had onset of the dreaded D.
This morning, I flew a plane,
Then slipped right back into humanity
From the mirth of azure skies.

I took up biking down past your street everyday.
I hope to spot you walking towards or away;
What would I do if you spun and said, Hi.
I'd get unbalanced if you looked in my eyes.
I remember how they turned red when you cried,

     Just leave me alone. Please leave me alone.
      I once loved you when we lived in our home.
      I'd have done anything when you were mine;
      Just leave me now and I'm sure I'll be fine.

This ride can never end for me.
I'll  pedal past the street haunting me.
I'll keep my head down as my wheels flee;
But I'll gaze in my mirror in case you call out to me.

I can read her lips.
Each word formed
With the red and ivory embouchures
That play to my lust.
My mouth moves in sync:
I think, she says,
The blind old perv, she continues,
Has binoculars.

We're kinda small,
But we can be tall,
And play with the switches
On the walls.

We can run.
Ready. Set. Go.
You'll never catch us,
Don't you know.

We can reach anything
Out of reach.
We ride our bikes on our street.
We sometimes laugh until we ***.
We get our bruises riding scooters.
We're one on our teeter-totter.
We see-saw you.

I look forward to the re-enactments of historic moments in the pageant of The United States of America. [sic]

Gettysburg, Crossing the Delaware, The Moon Landing, Paul Revere's Ride, The March on Washington, The Storming of the Capital, The Clearing of Lafayette Plaza, The George Floyd ******, The Separation of Families, The Arizona Re-count, The Plot to Assassinate Democratic Governors, The Imprisonment of: Jared, Donny, Eric, Ivanka, Don, Carlson, Greene, Gaetz, Guilianni, Hannity, Conway, McVeigh, Barr [sic] (just to mention a few of the Founding ****-Ups.), the death of 650,000 people (the vast majority being innocent), The Pandemic of the Unvaxxed [sic]

After July 4, 2024, History may never be the same. See it now!

I have today grown old.
I was never told,
Make every day count.
I counted days,
Missed some years,
My advice may fall on deaf ears
To those who know how to live their lives.
Everyday. Everyway.
It's not easy.
I recognize the mantle
On my children's faces;
See them counting milestones,
Running theirs through the paces.
How do I tell them
Count every day,
and not count every day;
But make every day count?

Alone is my operative word.
It works well in a Republic,
With all those booths and secret ballots.
In Autocracies we are wise to keep to ourselves.
I'm relieved to be on my own
With what I think and what I do.
With others, I'm never alone.
I don't have far away looks;
I'm not fully engaged with me;
I can be spotted in a crowd.
I'm part of the gathering, and so,
I repress alone thoughts and actions.
If you're not looking my way,
I'm still not alone.
Some say they're alone in a crowd.
I don't get it.
I so get:
Shunned. Outcast. Alienated. Isolated. Fringed. Outed.
I knew when someone had the cooties.
But I'm not. I'm beside myself. Next to an idiot.
I'll never leave me alone.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

I'm not unhinged
To consider gates,
And which side I'm on;
Who's allowed in, or out.
If a gate's open,
Do we rush or seep in?
Uncle Frank's gate leads to his plush meadow.
That's how I envision the Pearly Gates
With a slight squeak as they slowly close
On all the lies outside;
Souls sticking a foot between the gate and the post
While banging on the bars.
But the toes don't lie.

I am woke,
Yet living in a nightmare
Of prejudice.

Giddy-up to Goofey-land,
Saddle up the pachyderms;
Ain't Florida grand.
They click and cluck
Don't give a ****;
They kiss... kiss...kissing
And yet they're missing
The white hat way of life.
They know squat,
And that ain't a lot,
As they ride off
In all directions.

Walking  haunts is enlightening.
Your Centennial Spruce over there,
Grew straight for over fifty years.
Your home is no longer the dark chocolate I layered.
The recent owners are unknown to me.

Neither change nor inactivity
Is necessarily progressive.
I mean, I like the new colour,
And Magnolia trees have vibrant blossoms.
Yes, modulations and mutations are as inevitable
As clock hands gliding silently through time.

Grandparents don't have interesting dens.
Art galleries befuddle me.
Roads get shaved and paved in one passing.
Houses come Pre-fab.
We are the Spruce trees,
And the exterior walls,
Waiting
For a box-lunch.

There's no water
In my well;
No pulley,
No bucket
On the end of a rope,
For you.

There's no water
In the cup
Of poison
I spew.

It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?

We first sexed in a tumbling, fumbling manner;
The time had come, it seemed to us,
To consummate our ****** lust.

The Valley was shakin' to The Rocks,
A popular Irish band;
We'd had our fill,
I sparked the engine,
And parked my bike on Techumseh Hill.

The summit was dew damp;
We spread wide our pants,
Not knowing who should go for whom,
So we relented to the crescent moon;
I acquiesced to the shooting stars,
Then my eyes found hers.

Diverse moons have filled my nights,
Long since the grassy knoll.

A father is a tree.
He is sappy at times,
And once distilled,
He's sweet.
He radiates limbs
To provide shade
And shelter from harm;
His roots are deep
And nourishing.
He is oak and willow,
Fruitful and sharing.
But most of all,
He hugs like bark.

X-ing
X-ref
Luxury
Generation X
X-ray
Xmas
exam
fax
xenophobia
Xerox
Faux
X Rated
X's and O's
Xian
X is the unknown
Xmit
X-files
Malcom X
3 x 2
X, IX, VIII

But if you've lost something you treasure,
Then X marks the spot.

I have tasted human flesh
From the oven of
Lips and tongue;
Dripping well-dressed
In savory sauce,
To stir me to feast on.

We fell all the time.
It was a matter of balance.
Our inner ears and eyes
Struggled with gravity; and
Being upright is our gravest concern.
So, we always stood again,
Revolving around equilibriums:
Bikes, ledges and feet;
Everything was a test. Everything needed balance:
Wheelbarrows, roof peaks and checking accounts.

I've learned balance for adults
Is even more precarious.
Our words are heavily weighted,
And some more disproportionately than others,
With see-saw issues and teeter-totter opinions.

Isn't it easier to get back on the bike
Than walk back unbalanced arguments.

She's posted a picture of her son,
Sitting on a swing I assume is moving.
I wonder how this Spring day moves him.
The sun stretching
From his head to his toes,
As he arcs to and fro.
I'll never know.
It's a picture of her son.
Does he read, write, paint, build?
I'd like to see his photography.
Perhaps a picture of his mother
Sitting on a swing;
But it's him, sitting there, still.

You don't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.