My life has always been about us.
Not a group us,
But the me in us.
The I, me, mine.
Wear my things, I strike out.
I buy duplicate gifts,
Compliment with vacuous airs of envy.
Invitations are scarce. A dollar a stamp.
Then you appeared
To show me the you
In us.

I rolled out and noticed
The bed across the room.
Empty.
The room was cool,
The unwashed everywhere,
And the door was open.
Usual.
My flights and landings were measured.
I bounded down.

Funny! His bedroll was not on the couch arm.
I searched.
Mammy's kettle whistled; her mug filled.
I heard the familiar tsk, the click of her teeth,
And the spoon circling and swirling
The teabag.

Through the window, over the picket fence
The maple tree was missing an opposing limb,
Resembling a cactus,
And I, soon to be four.
I once dangled from there,
Hearing Rossini pulsing through my neck
To my head,
Above the wheel ruts below.

Hmm. Not behind the couch.
The cupboard?
Under the hanging lace tablecloth?

The T.V. was dead.
The lasso missing.
His initialed boots gone.

I suppose I can loosen my knotted iodine neckerchief.

Hi-** Silver.
Away.

Breaking a mirror won't bring financial ruin,
Unless you keep breaking them.

Carrying a rabbit's foot is just weird.
Ask the rabbit.

If you walk under a ladder,
You're ringing the wrong rung.
Enrol in a Health and Safety seminar.

If a black cat crosses the path of your vehicle,
Swerve,
You might clip it.

Pulling wishbones.... see Rabbit's Foot.

Bad news comes in threes,
And fours, fives...

You can bang on my wood anytime.

Lucky pennies don't exist in Canada.

Spilling salt is safe, and cheap.
If the price increased 1000%,
We'd still buy and spill.

Wishing on stars, candles and such
Is like holding air in your hands.

If you find a four-leaf clover,
Use EPA approved **** killer.

Don't step on a crack,
Don't sell crack,
Don't smoke crack.

Good Luck!

I knew her in youth's folly;
The fumbling hands,
The tumbling wills,
The limbs entwined kind of peace;
The dinner glances,
The unbridled dances,
Commando skirts,
Deep knee squats,
What one thinks
But will not say.

I've screamed into an empty barrel,
Ran barefoot where I shouldn't,
Slid rusty things under my nails,
Touched my eyes with sharp sticks,
Ground my teeth with electric power,
Scorched my skin beneath the shower,
Turned informer on closest friends;
Drank turpentine and kerosene,
Mercury and gasoline,
Tore my skin, rend my entrails,
And other parts clearly unseen.
Include, if you wish,
An immortal soul.
My spirit, ****** as well.
Call the prayer, sound a bell.
That was heaven,
Now is hell.

We were marched into the room,
Told to disrobe, to leave our belongings behind.
The room was locked.
Hard to concentrate;
Harder to look straight
In our anxious states.
We lined up, entered en masse,
Into the showers.
We were Southsiders;
Italians, Poles, Irish and mixed,
Nervous whispers, shielding tensions,
Standing by the poolside.
The whistle blew,
And thirty boys dove
In the comfort of the pool.

We met on a sun-sand beach,
You asked for a pull
On my ciggarette,
So many decades have passed,
Yet,
I can't forget
You pulling on my ciggarette.

Like a meteor at night,
The stages of life,
Come from darkness
No one could know.
There's the flash,
          (and a fire)
The Oohs and desires,
Then
Pooof,
There goes the show.

Tempus fugit!
I say **** it.
Carpe momentum.
Carpe diem.
Carpe sabbati.
Carpe vita.

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.

Find yourself
A moment of leisure,
Read a little known
Poem;
Give it life
For one less known
In Buried Treasures.

Let me begin
With Lady Death;
She penned Words.
It's worth another post,
Well-worth another read!

Scotch and water
Never falter
Infusing me
With spirit.
It elevates my feet;
Invigorates my senses;
I even speak in accents
Of Highland double malt.
But then I have a descent
To lonliness, resentment,
Meant for one who falters.
I've got scotch and water
As libation on the altar
Of self-sacrifice
And capture.

You were the perfect offering:
You wrote,
You sang,
You played,
Did anything,
But now -
Are there any cracks or crevices,
Windows, holes or doors;
Has the pine split below?
With the leafs gone,
Under Supermoon or blazing sun,
Does the light get in,
Or was it just
Another song?

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.

There's good reason
Why they say I'm
Madly in love.
Look at my behavior.
Sweating, palpitating,
Shortness of breath,
Light-headedness,
Clean shaven,
Clean underwear.
This isn't normal
Male behavior.
And then I repeat it,
Thinking the outcome
Will be different.

There are two voices
Behind my shoulders
Giving conflicting advice.
One says, Reach;
The other, Draw back.
It's a crisis of decision
For the left or right.
These voices meet
Between my ears,
For a synthesis.
So I listen to the third I hear,
One that avers,
*Live life right.

Oh, it's possible,
Life on Mars;
But sure enough,
The immigrants
Will bring
Their old world ways
With borders and fences,
Politics and crime,
Poverty and religion.
Then,
Life on Mars
Won't seem so alien.

When I waxed poetic,
And compared your eyes
To emerald stars that breached
Their spheres, you said,
     Can't you just say
     You just like my eyes?

I don't listen, so
I compared your full red lips
To two blooming roses
On a singular stem.
     Man, you said,
     You mean you
     want a blow?

Not paying attention,
I compared your *******
To ripened melons
Waiting to be peeled.
     You like my ****?

I realized you were no poet.
So, I remarked,
     I like your gorgeous ***!

     Must you be so crass!
I heard.

A broken heart,
A silent ****,
Both invade,
Both degrade
My senses.
One consumes,
One clears the room,
Both are too intense.

The drawbridge spanned
An arid moat where peasants
And soldiers perished.
The lane lead through the portcullises,
And I started my tour in the dungeon.
Here the iron age apexed
In shackles, chains, cages,
Burning coals and spikes.
Here they forced their truth.
I placed my feet on the first step
Of a coiling staircase
Ascending past rooms of crossed swords,
Picts, pikes, mounted heads,
Coats of arms.
In the centre of the dining hall,
Resplendent with gold plates
And silver candle sticks,
Was the refectory table.
I continued the tour past
Arrow slits overlooking
The  beseigers,
Who waited for victory
Or salvation.
The arduous spiral
Lead to a parapet, a high place:
Here, I imagined I saw the
Kingdoms of the World.
*No Thanks,

So many cars lined up
Along my avenue,
Like ants carrying on
For a feast.
The queen is in state,
Her penant prounouces presense;
The flag promoting reign.
We peons, serfs and minions
Stare vaguely at the floor,
Afraid to look for more.
She rises, head above her throne,
Face on the coinage,
Proclaiming lineage
With treason and conspiracy.
Please don't glance my way.
I've given sacrifices
Of doves and relatives,
All tethered to the rituals.
There is pack position.
Vats of red wine and room for dissent.
We've drowned our children.
You can see the palor in their eyes.

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.

Byron underwent
Stent implants
For a few
Ailing arteries.
He soon waxed on
About his people
On the other side.
Friends and fans
And family
To kiss and greet
When he arrives.
I know he'll die
Of a broken heart
When he doesn't
Wake up alive,
He won't consider,
Instead,
That he won't
Wake up dead.

The local storm warning finds me on the porch,
Out the back, observing the strength of wind,
The swag of trees.
The eye of the storm is passing overhead,
And the lightening blinks wistfully,
As a gesture to take cover
Before the rain and hail fire down,
All over town, windows open,
Curtains drawn, lights on early.
I persevere, but my dry season is coming to an end.
I remembered the storms in Kilarney,
Looking out from *Butler's Snug.

Can the stars
Be used again,
So constant,
Shimmering bright,
Or call upon
A shifting moon
Eclipsed by your daylight.
How many flowers open
In jubilant array,
How many winds
Will whisper
Your name to me today,
Or brush my lips
With breezes
For kisses gone astray.
I would give them
All away,
Whatever value,
For all of nature does pursue
Comparisons with you.

One night I went walking,
It was a late night in June;
I hung my coat
On the light of the moon;
I tossed my cap
On the point of a star;
Kicked off my shoes
Inhaled my cigar.
I draped my pants
On the tail of a comet,
Lay down in my ******
And proceded to *****.

Don't write about pets,
Well, I don't bother to.
Or scribble metaphors
About meteors, the moon, and stars
Caught in jars without holes.
I don't wax on about my lawn,
Or wax off on matters of law.
I don't know the difference
Between love and hate;
Feeling both so intensely breaches distinction.
I used to love, but now abhor
It's cause for loss of self.
So, I write on self-understanding.
I'm not a cat, a crescent or shooting star,
I breathe outside the jar,
Outside the envelope
Where I can't get licked.

Malcontents are contrary.
Praiseworthy comments
Find antithetic lamments
Filled with spite and bile.
If somethings are good,
It's understood,
They're twisting all the while.
They argue black and white,
Or night and day;
Wear blinders to other ways.
They just don't see the rainbow.
Every query has three sides;
Their's is there to despise;
Contrary to pluses
Of the other three sides.

I'd like to read a poem
Written by our world;
In any style, it won't matter:
A sonnet or an ode?
In rhyme or free verse?
Figurative or Found?
But, and this is critical,
The world must write it
To help heal our wounds,
Share our victories and good values,
And expose us in mixed metaphors
In all our human frailties.
It's a poem we'll all understand.
And each spot on Earth,
Every country that's birthed,
Adds a personal verse.
Allow me to read this poem
To all our nations,
With a theme to unite us
As the one and only human race.

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.

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.

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.

When he came after the Canal,
We did nothing.
When he came after the Island,
We did nothing.
When he came after the minerals,
We did nothing.
When he came after women,
We did nothing.
When he came after the Alliance,
We did nothing.
When he came after the Greenery,
We did nothing.
When he came after the children,
We did nothing.
When he came after the North,
We did nothing.
When he came after Liberty,
We did nothing.
When he came after Freedom,
We did nothing.
When he came after Justice,
We did nothing.
When he came after the Sheep,
We did nothing.
When he came after the Truth,
We did nothing.
When he came after Decency,
We did nothing.
When he comes after YOU,
What will they do?
NOTHING!
NOTHING AT ALL.

I was driven to the wilderness
When a flaming sword appeared;
Then tethered like a goat,
For the demon was revealed.

I've got a mark, like Cain,
To identify me;
So I stumbled through the gulches
For a place to be free.

You told me I was naked,
I never realized;
You should fit inside my head
And see me with my eyes.

I've slept with swine,
Caroused with jackals,
Spit in the face of Him;
It was then you found me out;
Cried and mourned,
For I was never good at hiding;
And thus you found me lacking.

One wants six of one, or half dozen of the other
Because he'll cook a fine kettle of fish.
Fully aware he can't please everyone
For some see the grass is always greener on the other side.
So, he's busy, meets oneself coming and going,
And knows, come hell or high water,
That there's no time like the present.
Busy as a bee, one prepares the meal.
He's a book you can judge by the cover.
One quips, The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
I knew he'd say that.
One's words speak louder than actions.
One's enough to ******* the Pope.
Believe me, I have an axe to grind,
And I'm at my wit's end.
Better safe than sorry,
*Avoid one like the plague.

My heart's distressed,
Emotions vexed,
Images can't escape.
I'm perplexed,
My text is hexed,
I can't explain
What I feel.

My hands are dyslexic,
I'm swirled in the vortex
Of unwritten lines to read.
The words are trapped,
My message is clapped
In perceptions
That can't be freed.

I try to release them,
Catch and cage them,
And arrange with diversity;
Then in a while,
And using guile,
I'll fashion
Some fine poetry.
(Such is the state
Of me).

I've heard the quip,
I've been advised:
Just write how you feel.
For me,
That's blathering,
Bothersome nattering,
Void of poetic appeal.

I need a someone,
Like an Anne Sullivan,
To teach me how
To feel;
Not with sentience,
But rather with senses,
Alive,
And writhing in me.

I've a question
Needing resolve;
It's not as big
As the start of the universe;
Or the existence of the netherlands.
It's not a To be or not to be,
Or anything about the Papacy,
Or the question of the Trinity;
Or any other religious decree.
It's not a question of good or bad,
Or why I'm here,
Or why we're sad.
I'm not asking about nucleur waste,
Or our desire to travel outer space.
Those are big ones
I couldn't ask,
I can't answer ones so vast.
No, this itch I have
That needs a scratch,
This ***** of an itch
That archs my back:
What should it be.
What will I make,
A caf or decaf?
My great debate.

I was a teacher.
I loved the job.
I didn't need to be intelligent.
Many of my students
Were much smarter than me.
Some were genius.
I never,
Not once,
Ever,
Felt threatened
By their wizardry.
I knew
I was
More knowledgeable.
And by the time
They caught up,
They didn't need
To feel so smart.

I no longer watch
The Tonight Show,
Can't stand his auto *******:
He Loves them all,
They're Fantasatic and Great,
They're all The Best;
And on his A List!
But let's be serious,
They're just entertainers.

His Pros and Cons
Are so predictable,
The Superlatives
Are quite despicable.

I miss Mike and Merv and Phil
(Not Dr. Phil... he's a pill),
And Geraldo and Jerry,
Like Heckle and Jeckle,
Gave us our daytime fill.
Sally and Montel did well,
Like Ricki, **** and Arsenio,
Carson, Dave and Jay Leno.
They surpassed the late night swill
Of Jimmy's mono-drivel.

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 spirit hasn't moved us
Despite we believe,
No one seems to witness
The senseless tongues of fire,
The holy rollers aren't in the churches,
The hari krishna are dancing
Beneath their gabardine.
There's fewer snakes to handle,
No laying on one's hands,
No one's speaking plainly,
Wisdom's on the run.
The golden bitcoin wants a sacrifice
Brought to the mountain top.
It's unholy ground.
The spirit can't be found.
Believe is shouted from the spires,
Towering over dying fires
With sparks rising like fading stars.
I'm looking for an excuse,
To lay the blame at someone's feet.
I don't care to be discreet,
I want answers. I'll point and shout.
The time is ripe to single out.

It's not natural.
If I can't smell it,
It ain't,
So don't tell me
It's as natural as birth.
You've seen the roadkill,
Deer missing the most natural of parts,
Lying in the strangest contortions;
Heard the bird
Breaking its neck on a window;
Then there's the gaping mouth,
Eyes staring most unnaturally.
To be burned and urned
And feel nothing.
Having a steak and beer
Is natural;
Sitting in sound at a McCartney concert
Is supernatural.
Expensive, but sensient.
But it,
It's most unnatural.

Pick up a picture
Of someone dead,
Look deeply
At the eyes.
Dark and distant.
A loneliness of not belonging;

The snatched shot
Seemingly drawing
What you and I
On this side
Can't surmise.
They look knowingly,
They look longingly,
They look right at me.

I seem to think
Those eyes foretell
The coming tragedy.
So I can't stand
To pose for posterity.

I awaken to the lonliest sound
Heard on the Seaway:
The plaintiff fog horn,
One continuous, wayward hooooom.
Again, it sounds travelling
Across water dunes to another
Holy town, lights blinking.

J.W. left a brochure;
They knocked on a locked door.
The rain erupts on my deck boards;
There's dog droppings on my lawn;
Birds are singing in the morn,
And I open my door.

Imagine, a new by-law prohibiting
Backyard rinks;
There are no icicles,
No tongues extended palate-like;
No salt lines on my boots;
And I haven't seen a one horse sleigh
Or heard harness bells.
The North Pole and Santa have been exposed.
I have a Christmas wish,
And I'm ready to use it.

We tagged him Candle Sticks,
Called him that
When he was six.
Snot oozed down
Around his lips.
It was one of those taunts
That seamlessly sticks.

When he ran in the race,
He finished dead last;
His pants fell down,
Exposing the ***,
Of a hometown clown.

Many times I'd see him
Standing in the movie line,
Taking his aisle seat.
Or stocking butter and cheese
In the dairy case at Foodland;
Or under the bridges,
On a bench, watching the freighters
Power on to foreign cities;
Smiling at the fishermen casting their lines.

I think I saw him cry,
In the library, reading the local paper
In a secluded carrel.

I heard he walked to the Bridge,
And jumped.
Candle Sticks.
It stuck.

I have two T times.
One nourishes solitude
When I sip on the lip
Of my favourite cup.

One feeds the need
Of companionship
As we drive towards
My favoured cup.

If Sallinger hadn't written Catcher in the Rye,
Or Lennon hadn't sung, Helter Skelter;
If we'd not met in August
Would I write this? This!
This counter-productive
Counterfactual.

What universe would unfold
If I had no match,
I wasn't a match.

If I stayed home;
You'd stayed.
History's a roll of dice.

Is this a good day to ask the question?
O, the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

I'll not wear a watch...
And you,
Had you gone to the bathroom
Before driving off,
Would you have returned?
Or if Disney hadn't turned my head,
I wouldn't wish so much.

I believe love has an evil twin,
But I could be losing my mind.
There are petals on thistles,
And thorns on roses;
I can turn 360 or 180
And ride off in any direction.
Tales run like a loop in my brain,
Not recalling who's heard what,
I preface:
I've probably told you this before, but...
Is how any old story begins.
Deja Vu is my new life.
Every thought was once a poem
To be polished and revealed.
Today, they are intermittent.

I've been trolling old television series;
The Monkees were terrible then,
Terrible still;
The Three Stooges were best left in the memory vault;
Bonanza still has Ben wearing his beige vest;
Elizabeth Montgomery is still bewitching;
Jeannie is irritatingly attractive.
I must be leaking grey cells;
Rationality is creaking in my bone-head.

We should be hardened cynics,
Putting plywood on our windows,
Yellow tape around our homes,
Cautioned shouting,
Never doubting
Who is number One,
In a race that's nearly done.
The finish line's stopped moving,
We hope to be disproving
The infallibility of man.
And thus we sit waiting,
Anticipating chaos,
Spinning the wheels of commerce,
Leaving treadmarks on the innocents
Who needn't to be literate
To mark their X to obliterate.
Like a ****** on a mission,
With cross-hairs on the decision.

The young who wizen
Leave me grieving until my breathing stops.
For  many years I wallowed
With old photos.
One of Jim sporting a cast,
Holding court with a circle of friends
In the  damp cement cellar.
No more lines to flip,
No visages to make us laugh.

I used to hear his favourite tunes
Coming from his room.
Your's is a great loss,
A terrible trouble.
At sixteen we knew he was
A young Methuselah:
Green on the vine,
Unaged wine, a bitter pill.


Dying, dying, dying.

To love him was to leave him
In his last dark hours.
No brother could do more.
I feel the soft parting touch of his warm hand
After so many years.
And you, bold , and shy of seventeen,
You wrote, and I saved it, unexpectedly:
     “Peacocks dabbling through the wind
      Were the spectrum of her eyes.”
I knew I'd use it someday.
Today.

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.