I knew her before
She coloured her hair.
She'd wash and brush,
With a simple part down the middle.
I remember it falling silently over
Her shoulder blades, down her back.
It always looked like that,
After a full day at the lake.

And I knew her before
She used cosmetics
The way they're used this day.
Her cheeks glowed with youth,
Her brows arched like shorelines;
Lashes balanced droplets
Over rushing ruby lips.

I knew her to play tennis,
To swim, run,
To laugh and be fun.

I knew her
With lights on,
At dusk and at dawn.
I knew her for long.
I knew her so long.

We know there is an island for lost toys;
A chest for lost treasure;
Pandora's box for one last hope;
The morning brings lost dreams;
And the heart fills with lost loves.
For socks, we have a dryer.

Not hate,
Loss is a more apt opposite.
I don't hate.
Euphoria is distilled to misery;
Happiness trickles into sadness;
Delight drips to deflation.
Nope, I don't hate.
I'm lost, Love.

Thinking for myself was one of the first things I did.
I had original thoughts.
It was like *******.
Done alone, in silence. Easy and reliable.
If help was necessary,
There was a pictorial in National Geographic;
Last years Christmas Catalogue,
Or Supergirl,
Flying skyward with one knee cocked.
To think was to develop, to grow into maturity.
Best results were achieved by turning off.
That's hard to do, but doable.
Unplug your podcast ears;
Turn down the Foxbits;
Start your own Blog.
We can think for ourselves
To avoid Jihads, insurrections and revolutions,
Unless,
We think them necessary to clear our heads.

What was that. A knock?
Sssh!
Listen.
I heard something.
Was it the wind, scratching across my pane?
The pine tree branch thumps its fingers.
Squirrels, racoons and mice scurry over my roof.
My porch light is a beacon of revelation.
The doors are locked against friend or others.
I will wait.
Fall asleep.
Dream.
A hut on an island in the blue,
No ghostly memories.

Nietzsche postulated His death.
tRump proved it.
But gods are known to resurrect.

When she first met him,
He was so slim;
A gentleman,
To begin.
When she first met him.

When he first met her,
She was so demure;
She'd defer,
Often concur.
When he first met her.

She'd smile on him.
He'd open doors.
She cooked and worked.
He worked and cooked.

Good morning, my Dear.
Good night, my Love.
I got groceries.
Did you get milk?
I called your Mother.
Is your Father okay?
Teacher interviews at five.
I'll drive.
Did you get to the bank?
I made an appointment.
What's the address?
Your sister's on her way.

This was their dialogue
On that day.

She's kind.
He's a find.
He's hers.
She's his.

Ever the twain shall meet.

I've been shot,
Yet dodged the bullet.

Thanx anti-vaxers
For reducing my
Time in line.

Lest We Forget!

The Little King,
Who ruled here for thirteen years,
Now reigns in the undiscovered country.
Restrictions keep him in the freezer,
Where he's
Lying in steak.

Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses
(perhaps you call them eye glasses).
Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables.
Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War).
I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further.
Had my eye on the prize.
They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight.
Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven.
Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses.
Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too.
Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles.
Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them).
All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish.
All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous.
I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period)
I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification).

I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent.
Their cost could pay the rent
For a third world family for years.
It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure.
I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.

I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.

Me and mine had our fill of HIS ****** royal Lip,
And racist, sexist philandering entitlement.

Take your Seven Deadly Sins,
And butcher them with punctuation.

Capitalize on floods, famines and fires.

Express sickness, war and homelessness.

Parse politics.

Syllabicate and spell out for all to read
The horror of homelessness and apathy.

There.
Nothing's too real we can't fictionalize... marginalize,
Again, and again, and again.

When setbacks happen,
I get on with life.
If I didn't make the cut,
I moved on;
Sometimes continuing along the same path,
With renewed determination;
Or, find a road less travelled.

                                       I crossed the parquet tiles,
                                       Before a thousand eyes;
                                       She gave a polite rejection,
                                       Her friend took great exception,
                                       Before taking my hand in her's.

There were numerous interviews,
When we two weren't the right fit.
I would move on,
Finally finding my hand and your glove were one.
There are no options, but to move on.

Then we got on.

Then she got on.

Then I got on...

Get on with your life

No problem.
Now, if I can only get along
With my life.

I was told if I ate worms,
I could fly.
Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms.
I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground.
That didn't end well.
Rockwell suggested frying them.
Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King.
Don't be called a worm.
Don't worm your way in,
You'll likely find a hook.
I'm forever grounded.
The worm hasn't turned.

Lovlee ladeebug, ye'll nae be flien hame,
Ye're a fine wee red beedel
Tha nipp'd me fleshee arm.
Ye've nae hame afire,
Ye've nae wee ones alane;
Ye bit me lovelee ladeebug,
'nd ye'll nae be flien hame.

If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.

The smoke, not the fire,
Got in my eyes;
The idea, not my brain,
Lives on outside;
Our love, not the heart,
Allows us to thrive.
Long will we live
Long after we die.

Aine, Xav and Ga, their dog,
Were hiking through the Sifton Bog
On Sunday morning, sunny and warming,
Hunting for their Easter eggs;                                                    
When Ga sniffed, then barked in a hollow log. 
What is it, Ga? Aine asked in wonder
Is it a frog? Xav asked Pumper.

But Ga smiled and left to lift a leg.

So Aine peeked in one end,
Xav peered in the other.
It was hollow, that's for sure,
They waved to one another.

Oh!... But Oh!... something moved inside.
Brown and hairy, with flaming red eyes.
It moved at Xav, who stepped back, then cried:

Aine, come here! Come here NOW!

Quick as a flash she stood by his side.

(Together they would live or die.)

With twelve powerful legs and six beady eyes,
It leapt at them, then hopped outside.
There cuddling ‘n twitching at Xavi's feet,
Were three wee bunnies, cute as can be.                              

Ooooo, Ooooo, they both sighed.
Can we take them home to feed and keep,
And play bunny games till we fall  asleep!
Xavi asked. No. Xavi begged!

Hmmm, thought Aine, quite perplexed;
But then remembered what her parents said:

Be cautious with our furry friends;
The birds, fish and earthy crawlers;
When you find them,
Be careful-kind,
And they'll be with us always.

Still,  Xavi worried, so he asked his Sis,

Are they okay if left like this?

Hmmm, thought Aine (who's getting real good at this).
Let's call Granda.
Tell him what we've seen.
Mom says he knows everything.

(They Zoom Time on Mom & Dad’s phones)

Hello, Granda, this is Aine.
Xav and I have a question for ya.
We came across some wee bunnies
Huddled in their home.
Are they okay if left alone?

Granda heard their concern,
So he told them all he had learned.

All the bunnies I have known,
Have done real well when they have grown.
I knew Buggs as a wee bunny,
And he grew up to marry Honey.

Rabbit's a friend to Kanga and Roo,
And Mr. Rabbit got carrots tricking Cap’n Kangaroo.

Miffy was Kathleen’s first rabbit friend;
Mark loved Velveteen’s happy end?

And Roger starred in his own movie,
Like me, your Granda, he's so cool and groovy.

Thumper keeps thumping his left hind foot,
And Br'er Rabbit’s still naughty in all his books.

The White Rabbit leads Alice down a hole,
Where March Hare’s late... as usual.
                      
If you like heroes found in comics,
Read Captain Carrot, he’s supersonic.
I can't forget Crusader Rabbit,
He rides a horse and feeds it carrots.    

I’m sure you've heard of Beatrix Potter’s
Tales of Peter, and his sisters and brothers.

All these rabbits were once wild bunnies,
Now in movies, books and funnies.

Why, even magicians pull rabbits out of hats.

Your three wee kittens were left alone
While Mummy Bunny left on her own
To gather food bits to feed her wee kits
Waiting for her safe return.
                    
I surely hope I’ve allayed all your fears,
Don't worry, your bunnies are here for years.

But there's one more bunny I should address,
And I'll tell you who so you needn't guess
This bunny's the one we might like best:

It's the Easter Bunny, au chocolat!!

Xav and Aine were much relieved
To let their bunnies
Live wild and free.

Thank you, Granda.
Hope to see you soon.
Happy Easter, and too-da-loo.

And off they hopped for some Easter treats,                    

Pumper got his treat back home.
Leftover from dinner-
A tofu hambone.

Aine, Xavi and Ga, their dog,
Were hiking through the Sifton Bog;        
                                                        
Ga sniffed, then barked in a hollow log.                                    

What is it, Ga? Aine asked out loud.

Is it a frog? Xavi asked his dog.

So Aine peeked in one end,
And Xavi in the other.
It was hollow, that's for sure,
They waved to one another.

Oh!... But Oh!... something moved inside.
Brown and hairy, with flaming red eyes.

It moved towards Xavie, who stepped back, then cried:

Aine, come here! Come here NOW!

In a flash she was by his side.

Together they would live or die.

With twelve powerful legs and six beady eyes,
It leapt at them, then hopped outside.
There huddled ‘n shaking at Xavi's feet,
Were three wee bunnies, cute as can be.                            

"Ooooo, Ooooo," they both sighed.
Can we take them home to feed and keep?
And in  beds we’ll let them sleep!
Xavi asked, No. Xavi begged.

Hmmm, thought Aine, quite perplexed;
But she remembered what her parents said:

Be cautious with our furry friends;
The birds, fish and earthy crawlers;
When you find them,
Be careful-kind,
And they'll be with us always.

But Xavi worried, so he asked his Sis,

Are bunnies okay if left like this?

Hmmm, thought Aine (who's getting good at this):

Let's call Granda.
Tell him what we've seen.
Mom says he knows everything!


Hello, Granda, this is Aine.
Xavi and I have a question for ya.
We came across some wee bunnies
Huddled in their home.
Are they okay if left alone?

Granda could hear their concern,
So he told them all he had learned.

All the bunnies I have known,
Have done real well when they have grown.
I knew Buggs as a wee bunny,
And he grew up to marry Honey.
                            
And Rabbit’s a good friend to Pooh,
And Mr. Rabbit loved Cap’n Kangaroo.

Wasn't Miffy your first rabbit friend?
Did Velveteen turn real in the end?
    
And Roger starred in his own movie,
Like me, your Granda, he's cool and groovy.

Thumper thumped his left hind foot,
Br'er Rabbit was naughty in several books.
                
The White Rabbit lead Alice down a hole,
Where March Hare was late... as usual.            
                  
If you like heroes found in comics,
Read Captain Carrot, he’s supersonic.
And don’t forget Crusader Rabbit,
Who rides a horse and feeds it carrots.

I’m sure you've heard of Beatrix Potter’s
Tales of Peter, and his sisters and brothers.

All these rabbits were once wild bunnies,
Now in movies, books and funnies.

Even magicians pull rabbits out of hats.
                                                  
I surely hope I’ve allayed your worries.
You’re bunnies will grow up cute and furry.
But of all the rabbits I know  best,

Is the Easter Bunny, au chocolat!!

Xavie and Aine were much relieved.

Thank you, Granda. Hope to see you soon.
Have a Happy Easter, and too-da-loo.

And off they hopped for some Easter treats.

When love has been tested
And found not wanting,
It's tempered
In flames of despair and loneliness;
Hammered on the anvil of desire;
Polished by the cloth of reciprocity.
Love shimmers under the golden shield,
Glitters beneath the night's scimitar.
Defending.
I know.
I am loved.
Tested and found worthy.

My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under the sun's shield and the scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.

Cult lickers are exclusive.
They're not black or brown,
But Greene with envy, marginalized at every turn.
They paid up for a briny Cruz, but came away infected.
They don't shut-up Gaetz, so the sheeple meekly escape.
They claim to be God-fearin', but they'll never cross the Jordan.
Like Graham crackers, they are dry, spineless wankers.
And if you've a limp Johnson, keep a stiff upper lip.

We deserve sounding boards of truth,
Not sponges of deception.

My head is full of lies, equivocations and beguiling stories.
Who can I trust?
The poor?
The limb-lost warrior?
Residents in Cell Block A through Z?
Patients found out but can't breathe.

We must be sound,
And let the voices of truth echo.

My new windows are transparent,
Free from smudge and tarnish.
I was clear-eyed gazing out,
Reflective peering in.
Two-sided.
Finger prints have been wiped free,
But around the edges there are still ridges,
Evidence of being opened and closed,
Unbroken in their sturdy frames.

But time is no friend to glass.
Winds assail it, birds bounce off at break-neck speed,
Dust accumulates, it becomes opaque.
Missiles assault its permanence,
Shattering the pane into foreboding shards, like a shell.

Some desperate glazes never get replaced,
They invite stone-throwers.
Then the building becomes derelict, untenable.

One stone can break a window,
Or fell a giant.

Strange guests appear on Christmas Eve,
Entities, more real than seems;
And POTUS soon will get three visits,
From three well-known, transparent spirits,
That call as an unholy host.
Stormy, his first ghastly ghost,
Then Moscow Mitch to **** his boast;
But the ghost of Christmases to come,
Is New York's Vance; there's scary fun.

There will be two epiphanies
On January 6th.
Christians around the globe will celebrate
Little Christmas, The Epiphany,
The Word Made Flesh,
The arrival of the three wise men, The Magi,
And they reveal to the world
The Savior has come.
The same will happen on the Senate Floor (sans three wise men)
When the President-Savior
Is presented to the world,
And his detractors will bray, cackle and neigh
As he is adorned.
Saviors don't build walls,
They raze them.

Look at the life line
Of an hundred year old;
And despair. Deeply.
Then look at your children.
Deeper than deeply.
It's not getting better.
I'm with my grand kids,
Deeper.

I know I'm not alone
Knowing readers like good-feely poems;
Not poems on politics,
But on love and gnomes,
That offer happiness to you at home.
I'll forgo writing verses on death,
My lovely images will ****** your breath.
I'll ink lines about an old flame's door,
The hesitation to knock once more,
To see if she, like me, is free,
And re-ignite the flickering light
That rained down from our starry night.

People want to feel good more,
So I won't write about Civil War;
Or Armageddon on the horizon;
Millions dead with a final solution;
A leader devoid of absolution
For lies without resolutions:
For a sin that should not be.

I'll write about aging well,
Finding water in a dried out well,
Overcoming not feeling well,
Lifting a grandson with Well, well, well!

These be poems that one reads well.

I heard there's a shot today.

There's good reason to forget infant memory.
Too many colours, sounds, and faces back then.
My upsets were soothed with a soft hand and a healing kiss.
It wouldn't be fair to compare,
I would feel weak to compete
With those faded images and feelings.
It's bad enough with my adult recall,
Stories and pictures that bring on palpitations, clamminess and racing.
My school is an empty lot, beside an empty rectory, and an empty church.
My childhood avenue is derelict, like Mockingbird Lane.
My Triumph Herald is still baby blue in some photo.
With each memory, I feel the nausea.
Look at this one. All ten of us.
Five still.
I'm already beginning to feel queasy.
If I were five still, I'd forget.

I was sound asleep. Work tomorrow

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 6:30 A.M.

Alarm on. Out and into shower.
Shave. Can't hear radio.
Getting dressed, and in the background's playing, Imagine.
Then Wheels, Beautiful Boy, Help, I Should Have Known Better.
Why?
And the news sinks in. And I have to go teach Grade 6 English
and read Curious ******* George to four classes of Kindergartens and Grade ones.
And, I'm alone in my new house, in a small town called Aylmer (population 5,000).
My wife is away during the week at University, and I hate my job,
and he's decaying on some slab as I read to twenty-five five year olds. Some of these kids will get to know and love his work. So will their kids and grandkids. I know. Like Mozart.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 10:00 P.M.

Me, Johnny Walker, and the turntable going round and round, like his wheels.

It was forty years ago today,
In New York where he longed to stay;
At the doors to his apartment rise,
With devil's envy rising in his eyes;
He imagined his confusion wasn't wrong;
Then the curtain in the tower tore,
The Cavern shook beneath its floor,
And the needle scratched across our songs.

I want to let him rest in peace,
Still waiting at the end of his road.

The assassin doesn't seek release,
And it doesn't really matter Bro.
For John is dead, and
And we're a bit lonelier now.

The overnight fall
Is framed through my bedroom window
This morning
I will wrap myself
In the blanket
Before tires, squirrels and bootprints
Mar my pristine scene.

These are images that once were
The tan lines stretching across your shoulders;
Like starlight from some supernova;
Your photos in my albums;
Our shadows beneath bright suns;
Those ghosts have come and gone.

Then love became a memory;
And memory is the ghost
That frightens me the most.

"Mr. Biden, tear down this wall," pled Juan.

We've never heeded warnings,
We surely won't start now;
Because we ate from a blissful tree,
We're mopping up our brows.
They witnessed a smoking Vesuvius,
Yet went about the day;
We mark washed up bodies
From distasteful lands,
With arms wrapped round each other;
Signed Versailles to end a war,
But postponed it instead;
Ignored the bottle's label,
Drank whitener before going to bed.

We're blinded in Casandra's world,
Ignoring words of peril,
Uttered for our good.

Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of  the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP.  DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.

He could be you;
Then again,
So might she,
Be you,
Should you be
A S/He.
Q.

I am part of your smile today.
I might be in the curl of your lip,
In the corner glint of your eyes;
Or the concave of a dimple.

I will trip across your tongue today
When you speak of plans;
I will be today's man,
Clear the wreckage from the storm,
The tempest that began your day,
Reminding you we too were young.

When on your morning walk,
You might feel my hand slip in
And be with you awhile,
In your thoughts and smiles.

When I get big, as big as Granda,
I can do whatever I wanta.
I won't have to go to bed,
Even though I'm nodding.
I'll stay up late, yawn and stretch,
Let my eyes dry, rub and scratch,
Staring at the late night screen,
And think of jobs in need doing,
Like raking, shoveling, weeding, mowing.
Thanksgiving isn't far away, then
Christmas comes and family stays.
Granda stays up late and thinks
Of doing something before he sinks.
He doesn't have to clean the harvest,
Stain a table for a daughter, or
Drive to London for a visit.
He doesn't have to go to school,
And follow everybody's rules.
For all he's worth, and we're not sure,
He's staying here for many more.

St. Joseph's Church rang out the  Angelus this morning.
You can't beat bells,
So I've been told.

I must apologize. I'm sorry, man.
Let me go out on a limb here, Jack.
On behalf of all Senators,
Republican and Democrat;
On behalf of every congressional rep,
Every government worker,
Whatever the jurisdiction,
For every student council,
For the clerk stamping the seal,
For every department...
I apologize on your behalf
For the slanders hurled
And flung like dung
At the men and women who weeped
At the bedsides of the lonely and dying.
Oh the shame.
I apologize for him,
Who will never apologize.
I apologize to the medical profession,
And to all First Responders and Essentials.
Oh the horror... the horror...
Believe me,
We don't believe him.

Joe: Peace on Earth,
         Good will towards men.

Don: **** on Earth,
           My will towards women.

Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

The human race is running,
The flag has yet to drop;
The victory should be stunning,
Trump has finally flopped.

"Write, edit, re-write.
Post, edit, repost."
My finger prints are fading fast;
I thought they were here to last.
They used to linger where I'd please;
I've lost them now on laptop keys.