When down and lonely,
We have an upper.
When unhappy,
We leave a smiley.
When isolated and alienated,
We have fraternity.
If you fear, find peace in readership.
If poor, there's free verse.
If under-appreciated,
We click like.
If under-valued,
We've no price.
If destitute, there's richness in language.
If thirsty, drink.
If hungry, devour.
When you're at loose ends,
We have tight compositions.
When conflicted, find resolutions.
And if you're disenfranchised,
We have a home.

Those red-hat doffers
Are the blood-thinning vermin.
Stop.

A great greening is on
Along the St. Clair River.
Across it, like hands in tight grip,
The Bluewater Bridge transcepts
A submersed dotted line.
The Stars and Stripes look sharp
Fluttering and greeting us.
Beside it,
The red Maple Leaf in full regalia
Snaps and spins beneath our Spring sun,
Now casting evening shadows easterward.

In the dark hour
Of your soul,
When midnight's mad
Memories
Flare, and hold
The storm
Massed on your pillow,
And your eyes
Are deeply sallow,
Rest.
Breathe in.
Our wrongs and rights
Fill the nights
With silhouettes
Of what might be,
What had been.
We know
Life's rack is
Laced with phantoms.
Awakened,
We embrace
The light,
And share the struggles
Of the night.

Our world is screaming,
Cover our ears,
But eyes are open
To the turbulent reds
Swirling the sky.
We pose,
Some in rockers
With wry smiles,
Holding pitchforks,
Looking Gothic,
Harvesting potatoes,
Filling pockets.
We dance across
Impressionistic canvases
Framed by our art.
In the corner
Of my city
Waits an active asylum.
Put a jacket on,
Scream,
Things are
Coming undone.

He held some Romantic notion
His years of love and devotion,
The exposition of emotion
Could overcome the troubles.

He tried to be meta-physical,
Raised his crucible to the celestial,
Prayed to move the unchangeable
To overcome the troubles.

For years he toiled in his realism,
The jobs, debts and persistent requiems,
The slugging burdens of their tediums,
To overcome the troubles.

He was Dada, then Grand-dada.
She was Mama, then Grand-mama.
Once an in-law, now an outlaw,
Yet always there was trouble.

Now he's lost his generation,
Learned the cost of retribution;
Still sourcing out his frustration,
Considering the final solution
For dealing with his troubles.

Love is
As is is:
In the present tense.
Ergo,
Love is Love.

Playing the G-chord
Is playing the me chord;
So one tends to forget
It's not disrespect
It's about accord
Not discord.

It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks
Where evidence showed me hurrying
To my bed-sitting room
In prints of snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.

It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing vaporous air hanging
Veil-like on dark windows.

I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
My nose bled.
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.

Perhaps it was a combination .
You knew my eyes.

Weeks are still less tolerable.
Smoke, soot, salads,
Which really doesn't matter,
Strangely mix, tossing  off our years.
Cheap Polish coal. **** cheap Polish coal.

There's a drastic reduction
In the number of Know-it-alls
Since cellphones have decreased
The mounds of *******
We were subject to.

Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ******. The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my ***” in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.

Intimations of Fairway Play

I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.

I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.

I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.

I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.

I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.

I'd rather shank or stub my ****,
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.

Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.

Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all *******.

I enjoy the hot tub
After my treadmill.
Whilst sitting,
Throne-like,
One notices the thousands of bubbles,
Swirling, twirling, spinning, colliding,
Spreading out like spiralling gallaxies.
Naturally, I play with them,
Briefly, temporarily
Re-direct their path;
But it's pointless.
I recall my dark hour;
When God removed his hand.

I'm exiting an off ramp
On this cloverleaf;
On a divided highway,
Moving west to east.
Across the ditch
They steer towards
What I did from the east.
If I do a U-Turn now
The predicament's the same;
There's no luck on
This cloverleaf,
It's driving me insane.

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

Zoom
That was close.
Whoosh
Just past my ears.
I heard it whizz by.
Swoosh
Just about.
Nice try.
Zing*
Ha! You missed!
Just over my head.
Another word flew by.

Thanks
For the party
You threw
For me;
Another decade
Was easy.
I wear
An outfit
You like
To see;
One, I believe
That suits me,
And accept
The accolades
Graciously.

In the spotlight
It's easy to shine.
Don't cover
Your eyes,
Some's a disguise.
And I do admit
To some white lies;
So just don't
Cover your eyes.

All you've done
Means much
You see,
But pales
When you
Have tea
With me.

Take me to a theme,
Explicating love, when blue.
Hype the hyperbole,
Metaphors aren't boring,
And similes are true.
Take me to the meaning of love,
When love is new.

Letter your signposts,
Your verses aren't lacking,
Figures of speech are attractive.
Dole out the affection,
Infect with injection
Dilating, collapsing veined roads.

Take me to any theme,
With your GPS,
I'll obey all directives,
Noting imagery along your path.
If inferences go astray,
I'll backtrack your way,
To a predetermined destination.

So you like to drink in the bars,
Or swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a dork.

A dork's a mammalian who digs in his nose,
His *** passes gas as he goes;
He has greasy hair and picks at his wart,
He plays with his  *****, burbs and snorts.
So if you like to spit, pick and hork,
You're on your way to be a dork.

Or would you rather drink in the bars,
And swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a nerd.

Nerds are mammalians in Bermuda shorts,
Sandals with knee-high socks;
He's awkward and clumsy and out of step,
If we turn East, the nerd turns West.
If you don't want treatment like a ****,
Then stop acting like a nerd.

Or would you rather drink in the bars,
Swilling moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You don't wanna be a goof.

A goof's a mammalian kiddie diddler,
A rat, a punk, a toothless skinner;
He's in jail to keep us safe,
But in protective custody for his own sake.
So if you don't heed the law and you're a ****,
You'll do well when you're a goof.

Some solid guys aren't behind bars,
We play ukes, guitars and cards;
We're on stools in our local bars,
Seeing ourselves as Avatars,
While getting pickled in our jars.

I'm taunted by another,
Allured by the attention,
Polishing vanity to a reflective glaze,
Like a winner's cup, held up by the ears,
To display, kiss, and smudge,
Then returned to the rightful owner.
It's an enviable snare,
One may think is sincere,
From here, looking over there.

If you need
To take a dump,
Be sure
To bring a bag.
A queer phrase
To describe relief,
Unless, of course,
You're on a leash.
Me,
I like to leave
My dumps,
And walk away
With swag.

Make a difference?
Be the difference!
There's the difference
For me.

I am a victim
Of crimes against
Humanity.
Being members thereof,
We are perpetrators
Sharing the accused's glass box
Or standing as a witness.

With arms raised
We surrender with deference
To pulpits, daises, chambers, courts,
Banks and dealers.
In a slight of mind
We conferred,
Then anointed
The con-men
and
The can women.

It's spellbinding.
Almost pointless.
We won't insist one
Indict one's self.

The invasives tell us to
     go pound salt,
     fill a rat's hole with sand,
     play in traffic,
     fly a kite,
and, essentially,
     ****** off.
The Mau Mau didn't hear:
Their ears were stuffed,
Their tears were gritty;
Uniformed marauders
Commanded them:
     go **** yourselves.
It's hard to respond
With your head up-side-down
Near the ground
As rifle barrels pound
Sand up your ****,
With your mouth spitting
Hour glass grains.

Am I absurd
To think some words
Can change the outcome
Of a world
Gone beserk
With wars that can't be won.
When the absurd is heard,
What good can come?

I seldom write on love,
Youth's passions cooling:
I use my words
On worldly concerns,
Hoping to be heard.
Truly,
Am I absurd?

I don't laugh, gawk and point
At one who falls down;
Unless that one's a clown,
And we've plenty to go around.
Crusty's in the Kremlin,
He's got an act with dogs;
Freddie's in the U.N.,
Freeloading from his friends;
Bozo's in a big white house,
And I'm bent with tears laughin'.

What can happen
At home,
When cleaning up,
When the demons
Turn on the juice;
The OFF switch goes click,
The ON switch goes next,
Suddenly,
They're loose again.
Defend well
Against harpies,
Dark pales and
Light darkies,
Pray
One
Stays off the juice.

Hearts, not heralded in art,
Are broken, mended,
Beating, fragile and still.
We are surrounded;
The unknown to know
The aches and pleasures,
The confusion with love and despair,
Remorse and resentment;
The empty longings,
The burning fulfilment.
Cave walls, train trestles and sidewalks
Are sprayed in verses of universality.
The coupling, birthing and dying
Are the continuous unison that endures
Through the elasticity of love.
Ready to wrap the unravelling.
Our teeth may become straws,
Our ears pinholes,
Our eyes pinwheels,
Our skulls pinheads,
Our bodies pincushions;
But keep heart.

The dark spaces of the night sky
Leave gaps of light, yet I see
The darkness reach down
Between us, like a *****,
Leaving a hole
For entrance or escape.

There is this break in continuity,
Not a recess,
A lack of balance, a deficient area,
Like the hole in a hedge,
A military break,
A cavity in the denfense's alibi,
The distance between the lead runner
And the chasing pack.

I would like to believe
The opening is an intermission,
A respite from our intensity,
But the breach is a divide,
A rift of passage
Between two immoveable mountains
Where interludes move on
Between differences of attitude.

Ha!
Just hitched my pants
Above the waistline;
Added a tight notch.
What's to become of me.
Should I consider
Knee-high socks,
With Bermuda shorts
To match
My peppered stubble.
Perhaps man-scaping
And Botox,
A ****** moustache
And comb-over,
Or live life
Like Benjamin Button.

There are great periods
In our lives; passages.
Agreed. Truism.
I'm at that age, where,
In an average life-span
Of one, such as I,
Either one or both parents
Are gone. Are going soon.
I know, there are many
Exceptional, wonderful,
Depressing and ******
Stories,
But the aggregate is
Right on with this.
So, if you're young,
Twixt, middle or aging,
Go give Mom, Dad,
Granda and Granny
A hug, a kiss, a handshake,
A touch, and
Just tell 'em you love 'em.

We should contact
Hallmark
And put our rhymes
To work:
Best wishes for occasions
And any celebrations
Involving fireworks.
We  help you cry
At good-bye
As you leave the Church.

I've a lingering scratch
In the throat,
An irritation
As I spoke;
I coughed, I choked,
And spewed out the last
Off-coloured joke.

There was a ringing
In my ear,
A clappering sound
You rang for years.
I blocked and stopped
And turned away
To silence the slurs
I refuse to hear.

I've black floaters
In my eyes,
The only colour
I surmise;
Other shades now subside;
I'm looking forward
With clear brown eyes.

Our world is in bits;
Hawking has it flipped.
There isn't a theory
Of everything,
Everything has
Its theory.

I'm wearing the old man's housecoat.
His lawn's not blue ribbon now,
And two rails of his fence are down.
It's blue and black checkered
Down to my ankles,
A long tie cord and massive pockets.
You've seen them in nursing homes,
The men shuffling in the wrong direction,
Looking for the familiar,
Two nails.

I'm wearing an old man's slippers,
Black leather with red in-steps
And leather fraying at the heels.
I bought these.

I started with a tree,
Brought the chainsaw
And felled it.

I trimmed off the branches,
Stripped the bark
To the underskin
And let the sap drip.

I used the log-splitter
To make the trunk
Into workable pieces.

I chose a log,
Used my wood-splitting axe
To divide into four.

I whittled down,
Pared away
All the insignificants
Until I sat with a twig,
One word,
You.

In King James we're told history
Bound in ancient mystery.
The collected works of humanity
Printed for our legacy.
One needs read The Prodigal Son
To know the course literature's run.
Here read Romance, greed and crime,
Erotica, adventure, the Divine.
Its cup spills with poetry.
The best anyone could produce.
The exception being *Mother Goose.

It's cold, **** cold,
I blame the north wind.
It pushes the ice on Huron
Against the shore
Making great dunes of frozen water,
Cooling the wind passing over.
It penetrates my outer layer,
Warming itself between inner clothes.
Dampening my cheek;
Cold whispers in my ears;
A cruel embrace,
Girdling me,
Seductive as the dead.
It wraps my house
Like it knows my address;
An unannounced visitor,
Reluctant to leave.
It's mid-January;
Glad the sun's casting
Longer shadows,
Before the wind retires.

I'm an electron
In a nuclear family;
I'll take TNT.

Yoko wrote it, once.
Lennon was off the ground
Reading it.
It's the minimalist's grail.
My pen can dry out.
I've found a tranquility
Like the last seat on the bus home.
It can't be copyrighted.
One word, not one's word,
Isn't plagiarism.
Can it be mine, please,
Just this one time.
It has internal rhyme,
And the end rhyme draws out
To an external rhyme,
The universal poem.
Put it on the curriculum
And school kids will memorize it,
Gladly, gleefully.
My One Word Poem:
            *Yes

If your heart
Is racing,
Rest between
The steps,
Breathe between
The pulses,
Respire with desire,
But don't
Miss a beat.

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.

Lilian hit eighty-five,
Shot nine holes for forty-eight;
Drives her car not to be late.
Man alive, she's eighty-five.
That's not far off, Bro,
A few thousand weeks,
I ride my Shadow,
Shoot thirty-eight.
That's not far off, Sis,
A few thousand hits,
So I'm shooting for eighty-six,
Playing with my ***** and sticks.

For some,
Death's a doorway;
For others,
It's a lid.

John and Tuesday slipped away,
I remember well the day.
Working in the garden,
Just a few corners away,
That Tuesday.
I was planting, turning spades,
Adding compost to gaunt soil.
John wasn't in my thoughts Tuesday.
Not like today.

The garden thrives.
The splash of water
Transports memory's eye.
We sit outside The Trout,
He reads to Paul and I,
Below an Oxford sky,
Under cap and pint:
*Think where man's glory
Most begins and ends,
And say my glory was
I had such friends.

Maura gave me a watch
Many Christmasses ago;
Time and again its hands
Moved me.
It had a crystal face,
Nickel-plated case,
A golden crown,
Calendar window,
And a dial with Arabic numerals.
A ten dollar Timex
That made me feel like a million.
The brothers didn't have a watch,
But I had a second hand
For accurate readings
Of who could **** the longest,
Hold their breath for two minutes,
How long it took for the kettle to boil,
Or a snail to crawl.
Everything could be timed,
And timing, like my watch,
Was everything.
I was the timekeeper,
And took duties seriously.
I wore it on my left arm,
One day the sweep second froze,
The big and little hands stopped.
A spring or something broke;
The date was a constant
Grim reminder.

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

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

She fostered us
Til eyes dried out;
Cried alone
As we left her house;
Waiting by the door,
A balm and living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive them,
We'll always grieve them;
Mothers love us
From conception.

Some past details are sketchy now,
There's things I know I've done:
I did a spliff with Neil Young,
Had a pint with Pete's best singer,
Walked on Nelson's ship,
The ship that shook Napoleon.
Stole The Dubliners cigarettes,
And the matches too.
McCartney once played for me,
Cat Stevens served us tea.
Leonard was with Suzanne,
He'll always be your man.
I imagine Lennon at his white grand,
Making love to ivory keys;
Krishna George on a cushion,
With sitar on his knees.
Joni's paradise was paved,
But we saved many trees.
I once floated on a zeppelin,
Beneath the dark side of the moon.
I didn't need an aqualung
To help with songs I sung.
We were changing with the times,
And the times they were a changin.
ELP and Alice Cooper,
Zappa, Jackson Brown,
Brought us high,
But we came down.
There's so much more to be done,
But when this life has been run,
I'll cross my legs and play some chords
Of yesterday and days before.

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.

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.