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 once believed spelling was important.
But that's just stupit.

A few years ago
Writers were chained
To typewriters.
Imprisoned by words.
Filling rolled white pages,
Onion-skinned and erasable.
They knew where
Their chains ended.
Today, I'm tethered
To a satelite,
Linked,
With no end
In sight.

Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.

Consider, If you will,
I pray,
The certainty
On Christmas Day,
If Infinite Wisdom
Should decree,
Christmas Day
To be snow free.

Pray to avoid
Inside woes,
Happy homes
Need Christmas snow.

Get kids on skates, sleighs and skis,
Bundled well so they don't freeze.
History dictates outside toys
Combine real fine with outside clothes.

Skates match well
With socks and toques,
Sleighs are steered
When warm in boots.

Snow awakens sleepy heads,
Riding sleds instead of beds.
Toboggans hurling down the slopes,
Big brothers begged to man sled ropes.

For smiling cherubs
On Christmas morn,
Hope and pray
For snowy lawns.

There in safety
Kids can mold,
A fortress
Or a snowman bold.

HA! Now listen to my homily,
Snow's not for kids only.
What would we do
On Christmas Day,
Ready kids,
No snow for play.

Imagine kids,
Your very own,
Being inside
All day long.
Your son,
So eager with his horn,
Playing Gabriel
In early morn.
Then recall
Your rush for games,
The lines, the crowds,
It's so insane.
And they won't play
Outside at all,
They're pushing us
Against the wall.
Yes,
Screams of laughter, resounding;
Peels of joy, echoing;
Happy shrieking, pounding,
On
Silent Christmas morn.

The children would be packed and ready days in advance.
At first, we packed for them, but as the years passed,
They were experts at rolling clothes for twice the space,
Using laundry baskets rather than luggage tripled our carriage.
We'd leave early Saturday morning, almost night,
Departing from the Ontario weather like a bad odour.
Kathleen was away at school.
Mags and Andrea were in their teens now.
Ten years of March madness was terminating.

Herself would sit shotgun with Triptik and thermos.
The kids would awaken south of the Ohio,
Hungry, grumpy, and eager.
She had it all planned out.
Crosswords, colouring, wordfinds, books, Gameboys, lace,
Sandwiches, juice boxes, treats of all sorts,
For another twenty hours on the road.

I invariably imagined our Mini in the return lane
As we crossed the Bluewater Bridge into Michigan;
Trip over, kids exhausted, us, quiet, subdued,
Just wanting our own bed.
But twenty hours on the I-75 lay ahead,
Turn left at Knoxville
For Myrtle Beach, sun, tennis, seafood,
Separation.

I found no peace in our final escape.
Conversation with her had halted.
A round-trip of dialogue in my head.
She'd said, I bought a house.
Words wrapped like an egg-salad sandwich.
It was our March break.

Death,
So cruel,
So kind,
Has taken my worries away;
The ones I wished would stay;
Worries, just memories.
I was left with my three,
So they obliged,
Now worries number five.
We know how worries grow,
They start so small, no worry at all,
Then they start to crawl.
We beget,
From their outset,
Worry.

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.

I thought something
Was wrong with me.
I'm writing so
Seriously.
Reading poetry
Religiously.
Lines invade
When I'm retiring,
Ascending I'm reciting,
Divining parallel parables.
I'm convinced  
He's left the stage,
Replaced by me
On the page,
In figures of speech.
The Chosen words,
Give meaning and comfort
Religion obscured.

We're blowing leaves,
Vacuuming leaves,
Mowing leaves.
Using technology,
Plugged in or internal,
To clean up the hood.
Then we bag 'em in plastic
For composting,
To be enviro-friendly.

I have always enjoyed the shows
Being in the second row.
Here, I avoid the spittle from the stages,
Felt safe behind third base,
When a line drive missed my face;
Playing sax behind clarinets in Band;
The first row gets chosen first;
I could rest my head on my desk,
Slouch behind raised hands.
An A-Team player always got hurt,
Or worse.
Behind me,
Are infinite rows and tiers,
And each gets a turn;
After second row.

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 may take too long a time to write,
For the anxious future's now the past,
But the words are flowing out at last.
Composing verse on love and hate,
Death and youth,
And all of nature,
First and all loves,
All relations,
The beauty in all of creation.

I'm pleased to share
My P.O.V.,
On myriad subjects
That interest me;
A perogative poets share
At all stages.
We take liberties,
Endure indignities,
Being the voices
Of all ages.

There's something surely burning
When I get the yearning
To be better than I am.

There's a flicker of contrition
That spreads from my ambition
To be better than I am.

My temperature increases,
My spirit gets heat blisters;
I will concoct a balm.

I'll fan the flames with sorrow,
Add the worries of tomorrow,
To burn away the waste.

When purged
I'll have the embers,
To ensure that I remember
What first ignited me
To be better than I am.

When will you be home:
When Spring's on,
When Summer's done,
When Fall is all in color,
Or Winter's white enshrouds us?

I'm waiting here alone
With longings to dress you,
Arms to caress you,
Before you leave again.
Yet, you will return.

Are you yourself there,
Somewhere, but not here,
Where family waits.
Let your fears
Drip off your brimming shoulders.
Here start your missions,
End remissions,
Renew your heavy heart.

Home is where you
Learned to walk,
Learned to talk
To eat and read;
All you'd need
When you leave.
Here you feel
Most secure;
Knowing friends are closer
Than they were before;
This side of the outside door.

Here is where the hearts are,
Without the worry
Of hurly-burly.
Who will bring you home?

You'll find shelter elsewhere -
     A Pagoda or a condo nest -
But home is where
Your soul finds rest.

Beads are moving
On the family abacus.
Five to the right.
One to the left.
Five welcome concerns.
Five welcome mourners.
No hand controls
Or limits which ones slide
Along thinning guide wires.
Enter. Hello. Right.
Exit. Good-bye. Left.

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.

No muses need apply.
There are no vacancies.
The muse pool is brimming
With metaphors:

     They are thieves
     In the night,
     Absconding stars
     Of time and direction.

No muses need apply
To classifieds calling
To The Lonely Hearts,
Whose term has expired.

     SWM desiring SWF
     for Pina Colada.
     Cave optional.

Lonliness has carried them
To the gates, where
Lonliness awaits.

No. No muses neep apply.
Notes no longer passed
Between rows
In copy-book pages,
Where a returned smile
Meant Sarturday night.

No muses need apply.
Eyes have dried.
No more similies
As you depart,
No figures of speech
From muted heart.
You have left,
And that's a start.

No muses need apply.

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.

When I've aged
With passion spent,
I'll save my breath,
There's less to vent,
Save my energy,
Say, Yes.

When the kettle isn't boiling,
Or the hinges need an oiling;
There's no alarm to turn me on,
I sleep soundly through the dawn,
That's when I
Say, Yes.

I've read love rhymes,
Lived a few,
Now culled my books
And love letters,
Sacrificed like a goat
That's tethered,
Parsed my heart
To flames and feathers,
Still,
I say, Yes.

I say it to whatever's offered,
Break the lids off creaky coffers,
Scatter rainy days with blue.
Ah. Getting older's what we do.
And through it all,
Say, *Yes.

I've walked
The flat lands
Of Alberta
And ascended the foothills.

Near the doors of France
I've approached the caves.

Crossed the Channel
And homaged
The chalk altar
Of Dover.

Looked skyward to
The Dome,
Thought of creation
Across the blue
Michael knew,
And raised
A finger.

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

Will and Kate,
Take my advice,
To give your new girl
A lovely life.
Choose a moniker
That'll be a thrilla,
Elizabeth, Victoria,
Diana as the middle,
Those are fine,
But not Camilla.

I would've given birth
To you,
Endured whatever
Mothers do.
Instead, I did
What Dads do.

I rocked you
Til my future shook;
Watched you til
I couldn't look.
As you changed,
I changed too,
To do the things
That Dads do.

You were bathed,
Dressed and fed;
I loved you so much
I was saved.

If there's credit,
Well, I get it,
For teaching you to read.
I took the blame
When you got bored
With school's ABC's.

I followed you
In all your roles,
Your teams,
Your solos,
Your trips,
Your shows.
First to clap,
Last to sit;
I taped it all,
From start -
To finish.

I taught you
How to tie a lace,
Ride a bike,
Golf and skate.
When time arrived
For you to drive,
You learned
On standard,
Never stranded,
You came home alive.

Your highs
I took in stride,
By example taught
Humility's pride.
Your lows,
I couldn't internalize,
I dropped my guard
With my eyes.

When Dad's do well
It's a double edge,
The future wedge.
The world
Revealed
Desired you too.
I don't dismiss
What mothers do,
But when Dads do well,
Both lose you.

You don't mention whom you met,
How you ripped your small black dress.
You don't share intimate stories;
What caused a smile,
What stokes your worries.
Arms dangle by your side,
You can't slip your hand in mine,
Hold me with your eyes,
Lay your head on my bed
With your good-night sigh.
We don't get our get-aways
As we did in by-gone days;
You left your keys to house and car,
Saying you would travel far;
So you hitched your hidden dreams
To a rising star,
Left my world, but not my life,
Polished your new cultured pearls.
Husbands now call you wives;
But you'll always be
My three wee girls.

A scurry of munks
Are eating my garden;
To you they're cute,
But my heart's hardened.
They chirp at the trough
Of my labored crop;
Like double-dippers
They pouch and they run,
They sound like they're laughing,
Like they're having some fun.
I curse and complain,
But the munks keep returning,
Like a recurring refrain
Of free loaders and hoarders.
Should I feel such disdain?
After some thought,
We're much the same.

Your text read:
My cat died.
Sorry for your troubles.
I was moved,
You couldn't notice.
Mind you,
I don't own a cat, but
I will e-card my condolences.
Had I seen you,
I would have cried too.

Our corner graveyard
Looks so inviting,
The lawns are cut,
There's solar lighting.
A wrought-iron gate
Is freshly painted,
Shade trees shelter
Graves of the innocent.
The Italians built a mausoleum,
Where pictures of their deceased greet them,
Looking full of vim and joy
At having pictures taken.
Beneath the temples, in the crypts,
Celtic crosses and brass plaques,
Olympians and outcasts,
All professions, our world's best,
Lie wasting just like us,
In their oak, brass-handled coffins.

A singular cloud
Floats in the blue,
Cotton candy
I'd like to chew.
Make a stick
With your finger,
Hurry, clouds
Don't usually linger.

Now it's a galleon
In full sail,
Leaving a wake
In a wispy tail.
It sails the sky
Without a crew,
The Flying Dutchman
Sails from view.

Now a cauliflower cloud,
Folding in upon itself,
With dark green leaves
At its base,
Add melted cheese
For added taste.

A lamb, a hand,
A face, a pillow,
This cloud morphs
As lovers do.
One minute
I can see a form,
Then becomes
Part of the storm.

There's no
Christmas present
Like
The present.
Unwrap it
Now.

Dry your eyes.
Fix your hair.
Wipe your runny nose.
Who knew.
Things may improve,
So, don't read the news.
Go about your daily business
As if the sky were blue,
As if you didn't know,
As if you don't care.

A flash. A crack.
Then the skies opened.
The ground swelled
With similies and metaphors;
Punctuation pooled into puddles
Of alliteration,
Forming rivulets of comparison,
Making streams of consciousness
For any to dip a toe, wade, swim, submerge.
Cascading rivers of figures
Of speech
Will evaporate
Wordy clouds
To wash over us again,
And soak us in blue verse.

Uncle Eoin walks his fields
At odd times day and night;
When I visit he's asleep,
But not his cows and sheep.
The cows low blithely,
The lambs bah lightly,
There's no cause for alarm.

He's adding on the years,
And since my Granny died,
Eoin lives on his own,
Childless and untied.

Eoin tries to maintain health
With little money
But awash in wealth.
He doesn't worry
As we do,
Being mortgage free,
Debt-free too.
He always knows
Where to eat,
His white-washed house
Still burns peat.
The stone wall fields
Mark creation's expansion,
From first to last dimension.

He rises when I call
From outside the house:
Time has little meaning,
No matter what the season.
He calls down,
Who's there?
Francie! I yell  back.

You'd think my accent,
My singular name
Would tell him it was me,
So I'm surprised
When Eoin replies,
Francie who?
To me.

He rumples down
To the blue front door
That doesn't quite
Reach the floor.
Rot has eaten much.
It swings quite well,
Considering,
It's balancing on one hinge.

Eoin wears similar clothes
I saw him wearing
Years ago.
He has a robust crop
Of hair,
As thick as smithy steel,
And snow-white
And grizzly fair.

He dips his ***
Into a pail of water,
Boils it with
The tea bag in,
And stirs it with
His finger.
The mug he offers
Needs a sledge and chisel
To chip at stains
Thick as Irish thistle.
I accept resigned,
Knowing Jameson
Comes with time.

Eoin is himself again,
After tea and toast
And insulin.

He carpets his rough floor
With red-dotted slips of paper,
Used checking his blood sugar.
They're the only color
In a room,
Black with soot,
Still dark at noon.

His sitting room is 12 X 10
With an antique cooker
Not lit since when;
A string of socks above the stove,
Hard from drying, yet never moved.
A propane burner against
An outside wall
Provides some warmth in winters;
But missing window panes
Defeat the warming currents.

My stay never last too long,
An hour, seldom two,
But Eoin never leaves my thoughts
Across the miles of blue.
Don't sympathize with Eoin,
He's turning ninety-two.

I heard there's a shot today.

If not in the picture,
Hope you're holding
The camera.

Now I know
Through litigation,
That my final
Destination,
Is a state of
Deprivation,
Thanks to your
Insatiation.

My Koodo
Made a booboo;
The Sony
Made you angry;
My I-Phone
Pulled a *****;
My LG
Didn't help me;
My Nokia
Sent diarrhea;
My Smart Phone
Made me a smart ***
When it pocket-dialed.
It didn't sent
Emoticon smiles.
And now,
You know
The rest of the story.

On the drive from St. Andrews to Aberdeen
I stopped at a roadside cafe,
For toast and jam and tea.
The young blonde server
Took my order,
And never spoke a word.
Then her mother bellowed
From the back of the room;
And her father barrelled through the door,
And a baby cried;
She's wanting more.
This is their country;
She was their girl.
I paid for the platter,
I tipped the teen,
And continued on
To Aberdeen.

The vaporous air clings
To my winter window.
I draw a childish happy face
With my *******,
And press my nose
Where Happy's should be;
Thinking to transfer a smile,
Subtlely,
As Veronica.

We're misrepresented
(We male Caucasians),
Who don't indulge
In bigotry.

Dear John:*
Do you?
     *I do.
     I did.
     I'm done.
     Overdone.
     Undone. Metaphysically strained.
     And I need a thermometer to check my rarity.
     I'm developing a crispness
     And drying out, in want of basting.
     I'm done, John.

Sincerely,
Mary Donne

Winter is not death.
There are footprints,
Cardinals and chicadees,
Neighbours cursing,
Tires spinning
Like Catherine wheels.
Whiteness is not a shroud
Waiting to be unwrapped
At Easter.
Winter is not death.

I've been in the room
Where no one thought
To close his mouth;
Tongue rolled back
Exposing a cavern
With white stones
At the mouth.
Still eyes, cracks of eternity;
Stiff body like Pompeii,
Frozen like winter,
But not winter.
No slippers on blue feet,
No swallows flying
Out of the mouth.
No,
Winter is not death.

I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.

Rhythm is found everwhere,
About us in nature,
And in life:
The beat of a heart,
The tick of the clock,
The rain pattering
On the roof,
The left-right
Of marching soldiers,
The one-two or
One-two-three of music
And dancing,
The ta-***, ta-***, ta-***-tum-tum
Of the drum,
The tolling of a church bell,
The clang of a fire bell,
The moaning of the wind
In the trees,
The rise and fall of waves,
The ebb and flow of tides,
The accented,
The unaccented.
All add a chorus
To the music
Of poetry.

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 caught myself talking to my orchid.
Surprise myself when I call her, Baby,
As in: Baby, you could use some water.
She gets watered once a week, fifteen minute bath.
Been doing this for several years,
And she blooms for a few weeks.
I call her Molly.
Should I get help.
The dychotomy is,
She never utters a word,
But man,
Does she bloom with purity.

They carried us
Through gestation,
Or adopted
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we were quiet
From travails,
She made time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

They nurtured us
Til eyes dried out;
Cried alone
When we left
The house;
Waiting by the door,
Like a living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection:
No need to forgive them,
We'll always grieve them;
They've loved us
Since conception.