I have a nome de plume,
A pseudonym,
An AKA that let's me tell
My secret.
None but me,
And the new moon
Knew it til this day.
I'll start
And end these poems
The same:
Using my new name.
I'll start
Saying something simple
Yet so simply profound;
The surest poem
With truth to its words
In all of creation -
*I Love You

Am I a copy-cat Romantic
To say, I love you;
Your eyes shame starry spheres;
Your nose is a rose bud;
Your lips are a crevice to treasure;
Your neck a downy repose?
Haven't I read this before,
Between lines of death and rebirth?
You've struck that pose before,
The profile with backlight,
Your cameo hair bunned up
In shade,
Your shoulders sheared off
Just at the ***** of your *******,
Inviting fantasy.
You are the incessant beat of desire.
I will put your picture
In my wallet,
Where the creases become blood lines.
Your likeness will fade
Each time I take it out.

She was here
Again last night,
She shows up
In my dreams;
She slipped her arm
In mine, held tight,
And called me
By my name.
I can't say for sure,
You know what dreams are like,
But I felt her here,
As if awake,
How I love the night.

Humpty Trumpy promised the wall,
Humpty Trumpy's in a free fall:
His base reactions
To blackened redactions,
Gave Trumpy just cause
For more infractions.

Love is a dish best served cold.
Or should that  be revenge?
Often they're interchangeable,
As the outcome is similar.
It's wise to fear both,
Both unexpected
And most anticipated... and dreaded.
They come out of the blue.
I excel at neither,
Though I keep my platter
On a low shelf.

Once the fee fie fo fum *******
Stopped, he was small,
Lying still,
Eyes and lips glued,
Orifices finally stuffed.
What would a priest do?
So, I stretched my hand,
Ritualistic-like,
As a benediction of charity,
An attempt.
I should've worn a soutane,
Perhaps used a kneeler,
But suplication ended.

That night, I looked
Beyond the moon
To starry clusters of ka-boom,
But nothing.
That sealed it.
Death bed conversions
Don't move me;
Death bed confessions do.
Ah, still nothing.
Forgiveness has
A statute of limitations.

When I read
Someone's literature,
Prose, poetry,
No matter,
I enjoy the read
For the read,
Voice, style
Words, meter.
A combination
Of fact and fiction,
Shared understanding
Through emotion.
That's the art
Of literature:
When writer,
Not autobiographer,
Strikes the nail,
Strums the chord,
Touches
The subconscious
******.
One seldom
Reveals
Hard facts
Of one's life:
Writers give insight
Readers find right.

There are no free rides;
Not since the '30's.
There's no free lunch;
Do you think food
Grows on trees?
There's no free-for-alls;
Unless you hold
The winning ticket,
But don't bet on it.
There are no free trials;
We don't return it
Because we can't find it
After the thirty day
Money-back guarantee.
There's no free verse;
That's an oxymoron.
I spend inordinate amounts
Of time, alone, struggling,
To make it look free.

In the womb he was connected
With a thousand years of family
Coursing through the tether
Of an unfortunate mother.
Then culled from the herd
In a distant cow town
For permanent loan.
With the pretext, the equivocation:

                 He'll have a better life.

When someone other deems to tell him,
He'll cry, he'll hide,
Reject, accept,
It's his need for human affection.

He can't forget what didn't happen,
A past that wasn't shared;
Of stories reaching back through years.
The anecdotes on celebrations,
The exaltations, deprivations,
Tales shared like bread
By lost generations.

All his life he's felt the itch
To scratch his DNA.

One day, the knock is heard,
Bells may ring,
There, standing straight on the stoop,
A refracted image of oneself,
Trans-parent cord through missing years.

Aye, there will be tears.

          (You'll explain your teenage fears,
           Your family's lack of understanding;
           The time when wanton women
           Had babies out of wedlock)

He listens to the reasons,
Stirred in the heaping crock.

He learned of love,
Was schooled with affection,
He knows he wasn't known to you,
That he was left
For personal sake.

He crosses fingers,
Like plated scissors,
To snip the cord he's hung on;
To sever the love,
You never delivered,
To a son
You never knew.

What about those
Who have
A predilection
For Flora & Fauna?
Are we all-inclusive
Or not?
LGBTQIAFF

Fury found in eyes that glare,
Fuming sheets that smoulder;
Clenched, my fist once did hold
A love, but now a soldier.

     Meet me in the morning,
     Just as the sun will rise,
     And there we'll mark our paces,
     And pledge our love won't die.

Search in autumn shorelines,
I'm standing in the sand;
Found guarding my own pill-box,
With destruction in my hands.

     Meet me in the time of love,
     Will you be my second?
     Relieve my eyes that guard a fancy,
     Release a heart so fecund.

Leave me shrouded in the evening mist,
Help the shooting stop.

Now leaves are yellowed with vericose veins,
And loosen with arthritic hands;
Our one-time love lifts with the night,
I've lost you once again.

Hobos don't ride box-cars,
Cowboys don't wear white;
The cavalry's dismounted,
Is there anything left to write.
I could subjucate my life,
Get involved in a barroom fight;
Have my memory confiscated,
In an internal war of strife.
If my father'd been a minister,
Or I laid my head in the oven,
Would they record I was sinister,
And died so lacking loving?
Could it end by a mad mosquito
Who ****** the blood of life.
Would they read my paltry droppings,
And understand the offerings
Found scattered on the floor
Next to the body
Of work.

I have stashed my Glenfiddich
And Marlboros
In the basement cupboard,
While settling in,
At Ground Zero.

Francie* is
An odd boy's name;
Uncle Francie
Has the same;
Uncle Francie
Is to blame.

Francis
Is a real boy's name;
It's on documents.
Yet Francie
Is the one that stuck.

But when I turned twenty-two,
I introduced myself as
Fran,
Sounding more like a man.
I got tired of repeating,
Francie rhymes with Nancy.
I got tired of hearing,
How do you spell that, Dearie?

When I drove a limosine,
Clients called me Francine.
When I faltered, when I drank,
I told the cops
My name was Frank.

I believe I'm the same
No matter what I'm called by name.
And even though
My ego's fraying,
I'm pleased to turn
To someone shouting,
*Hey, Francie,
You're **** good looking.

… and the Sanhedrin cried out loudest,
Free Barabbas.
Ergo,
The Republic got nailed.

The weekly news
For the past 5200 weeks,
Fills like the undug dig.
Famine, disaster, disease,
War and ruination
Are piled and plied,
Recycled and reused,
Familiar and alien,
Storied and spun.
Beheadings aren't new or news:
Meathooks and blades
Are rusting beneath the surface,
Dug and brushed off
As relics of our century.
But digs never give the whole story:
The Acts of Kindness,
The ***** donors,
The designated drivers,
The visit of a friend,
The holding hand,
The unexpected gift,
The touch at the end,
The altruism.
We don't lose these;
We don't bury them.

I get weak
Thinking
About weeks.
For example:
1300 weeks = 1 generation;
2080 weeks = a work life;
4420 weeks = a lifetime.
Don't squander 1 week
Worrying about
Next week,
It makes one weak.

Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.

She clung to me like willow shade,
With one step I'm in the sun;
If my day got hot and hazy,
I knew where to run.

She dropped a force field round me,
From ground up to my crown;
I burrowed once beneath her,
But I was digging down.

I want to cross the street.
I want to ride a bike.
I want to stay til morning,
To keep with her all night.

I listen for the breathing;
A sign from her eyes;
I want her lips to move and lie,
Only babies cry.

She lay with no reply.
My willow waned and died;

I planted my garden
In straight spaced rows;
Under the scrutiny
Of  thieving grey squirrels,
But I fooled them, I think,
With my ribbons and bows:
Pink, red, green and yellow,
I hope no one tells 'em,
For I surely won't sell them,
These tatters, tomatos and carrots,
Beets, near lettuce and onions,
And kale, beans and turnip:
All because squirrels
Have been tricked,  
Yet they'll turn up.

Take me first.
I stood witness at the bed
As Mammy withered
To a stick, so small,
She couldn't cast a shadow.

Take me first.
I was one to agree
To stop the whirring machine,
And stood there
As Jimmy flat-lined.

Take me first.
Marlene asked me
If she was dying.
Thirty-nine is too young
To give an answer.

Take me first.
Daddy left in a hurry;
No good-byes in life
Or in death.

If I'm not taken first
Before my girls,
I will surely be second.

She's so beautiful,
I'm speechless,
So, I'll write
About her.

I was an assassin,
With magnifying glass and firecrackers,
Bringing *****'s destruction down on pismires.
BB's left feathers fluttering on powerlines;
Slingshots made Swiss cheese of tree nests.
It's the Wild West outside the urban boundary
Where the .22 slew coyotes and red-tailed foxes.
Old dogs and tired cats were destroyed.
And just now, when the January thaw is here,
I trapped a housefly between my windows,
Opened to draw air.
It will die of starvation in a merciless frenzy.
"******," cried the old king.
"Most foul."

I read it today.
It reads we both
Got buried.

What is my operative word?
Go?
Stop?
Never, is it Yes.
Always it is No!
Sometimes in a gesture,
Occasionally in a gait;
If I were blind
And read by braille,
My fingers might feel Wait.
And we've met some
Who don't have
An Operative at all.

One last snowflake
And the roof collapsed.

One last raindrop
And the levee cracked.

One last grain
Before life is breathless.

One last kiss
To seal my blessings.

Our hearts are mere muscle,
They'll weaken, atrophy;
They need exercise.
Do your reps,
Make it sweat,
Massage it to full size.
You may be surprsied
How it effects your thighs.

Mrs. Wolfe sat, confused and angry
That Charlie is being sent home.
Suspended for three days.
They refused the in-school community work
For reparation. She preferred the healing circle.
In frustration, she alluded to me being racist.
But I'm Native.
She was exposed. Bewildered and befuddled.
I was born naked, lived clothed, and will die broken.
I am a member of the Tribe.
Contribute to the Band.
I keep the beat, smudge, dance, good at archery,
Can't spear fish, but buy cheap smokes.
My group calls me Fran Dog,
But Proinsias is my native name.
Then came the critical error:
You don't look Native.
Ah, but I am. And you sound racist.
I am native Irish. From Cavan.
I asked for them to leave the door open.

I was standing at the corner
Of Yonge and Bedlam Ave.,
When I spied a chap across the way,
The image of my Dad.

He had one thumb in his pocket,
The fingers hung outside.
His other arm craddled a book,
As often in his life.

His weight was shifted to the right,
With head cocked to the side;
He wore his cap over one eye,
Tweed jacket open wide.

He raised his head,
As I did mine,
Looked to me and nodded;
He smiled and touched
The edge of his brim,
I did the same as him.

We crossed with the light.
He passed
And went
Where he belongs;
Me, to the library,
My book was overdue.

I'm aware of two certainties;
Certainly taxes isn't either one.

I remember when
Cutters
Only left tracks
In the snow.

When my day's drama
Is over,
I pull down blinds
As my closing curtain.
House lights flood
The frozen sky;
The moon spotlights
Nocturnals.
An analogue of sound begins
Its cacophonous chorus.
My ears *****
Cat-like
To the clicking metal stove;
Household motors
Hum in harmony.
My blankets shiver
Against the outside swirls.
The stairs, relieved of the day's weight,
Give rise,
And I imagine my ancient mother
Stepping lightly,
But not enough.
Hallway floorboards
Give her away;
Mouse-like hinges
Swing to a sliver of light
That lands on my lids,
The projection screen
Of memory
With the soundtrack,
*Lullaby of Night Sounds.

She frequently checks
Her trap lines;
Stealthily stalks.
She's an ***** grinder
Looking for a wild monkey.
She stuffs prey for mounting,
Prefers it that way -
Her animals on display.
She likes to bell collars,
Puts favourite food
Near worn, torn blankies
Where chair and whip
Tames the beast in me.

How do I loathe thee? There aren't enough ways.
I loathe your birth, your girth; the lack of mirth
My tired spirit can reach under your curse;
For loss of truth on your tenuous stay.
I loathe you for the depth of my lost days'
Most silent tears, for all of what they're worth.
I loathe thee as I love our damaged Earth.
I loathe you for your blathering self-praise.
I loathe deeply with the disdain I held
For my old habits, and my wayward sins.
I loathe you with the intense, hurtful pains
Of lost loves left on our bleak battlefields.
I loathe with a passion I freely choose,
As free choice allows. I loathe with my heart,
My thoughts, my whole being; and when you lose,
I'll loathe thee lovingly as you depart.

I have a difficult time saying, Awkward.
And it's not easy to spell.
It isn't forward, or backward,
Just awkward.
Oh! That was awkward, the duped say.
He's awkward, but will grow into those feet, quipped the coach.

When I met you again,
Awkward hardly was enough to define the moment.
And, months later, it's still awkward being near you.
I need to touch your hand, purposefully,
To get over this awkwardness, because
I don't see it in your eyes,
Or hear it in your voice.

We don't have time for awkwardness;
A word so onomatopoeic,
It's awkward saying it.

I never feel
More connected
With my world
As when I
Get sunburned,
Twist my footing outside,
Or pierced by an expectant
Mosquito.
Then I'm bitten
By the ashen irony
Of our soliloquy.

You have lingered long
At the community gate;
Rubbing yellow fingers
Stained by oxidized
Wrought iron.
Marble arms became
The new paradigm,
The temple curtains tore
And the tabernacle light
Flickered in the breeze.
I stood beside you
In the humidity
As memory divided,
And the dance of the veils
Covered you.
I offered my hair
As a replacement
For your old photos
Pressed between
The pages of
Genesis and Exodus.

When I hear:
I know what you're thinking.
I know you have no idea
What thought
You just brought up,
Or you'd leave.
And I'll take the penny for that one.

I'll not be wanton with fecundity,
Nor superfluous with beauty.
I'll provide between the images,
Not breathless by the finish.
It's a dustbowl without the wind,
And starry, not star-filled night sky.
I'll have allusions crowd my head,
To keep husbandry on the pages.

Tears and Blisters,
Co-conspirators,
Connected in body and spirit;
As only twin sisters can know.
Their attachments grow;
From first beat and breath,
Then blanket-warm *******,
Searching with eyes,
Reaching with smiles.

A double stroller sets their stage:
Two of these and those for every age.
One sitting, one pushing
The swing on the tree;
One feeling, one sensing
What either one sees.
One pitching, one catching,
Which one doesn't matter;
No visible signals to out the batter.
Like sparring partners in the ring,
Tin cans or mittens joined by string,
Or watching backs like tandeming.

Enigmatic in fact or fiction,
Like the Rosetta for hieroglyphics;
Communicating cryptograms.
The embodiment of the Venn diagram.

The mirror image can be deceptive,
Right seems left when reflected;
Unique and semi-mystical,
As snowflakes or ice crystals;
Yet tight as rings round trees.
Our tears and blisters,
Though twin sisters,
Will divulge individuality.

          (And I'll be round to play some doubles,
           You on one side // and me with your mother.
           Euchre, crib, tennis, golf;
           Or whatever you choose.
           The gloves are off.)

What load has us braying?
We toil. Work for meals,
Clothes and housing,
Cars and holidays.
The celebrations of our lives
In our American
Middle-class struggle.

Is it the price of gas,
Steak or beer.
My lawn could use
More watering.
The streets are clean,
And the plow just
Filled in my drive.
The copper-plated coffin
Had me cry;
The kids left for school
Without saying good-bye.
And it took way too long
For the shower to heat up.
No?
Perhaps we should clam-up.
Count our blessings,
Add them up.
Then subtract Iraq.

Next Sunday
When he leaves
The tomb,
And it's sunny,
Before noon,
Should his shadow
Fall on a sinner,
We've six more weeks
Of a Canadian winter.

Punch was born the ideal child,
Blonde, blue-eyed, average size,
An average brain,
And a touch of the wild.
He had sibs, young and old,
He grew bold,
He was told
But never quite fit in.

Sports talk from the bench,
Smoke, drink and wayward ***
Had Punch desirious
Of what came next.
His family asked:
Why does he carry on so?
Success came easy
As his bronze tan,
Driving red hot rods,
With a blonde or two,
They were all the same.
Punch was liked
When he was tame.
How does he carry on so?
How can he carry on?
His golden hair has set now,
His blue eyes yet hard cold.
Now they call him
Paunch not Punch,
(but never to his face,
we give our Punch a break)
As gravity took its hold.
And Punch still carries on.
How he carries on.

They never understand;
Or ever comprehend
The severity of my decision.
I'm convinced I have control,
Yet those I dearly hold,
Keep hold on their derision.

I know I'll find remission
For commissions and omissions;
My love was never so cold.

She'll say I never loved her;
There always was the other
Stopping us from growing old.

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

A life built
With the finest materials
Needs a well-formed foundation;
A deep footing.
Your piles are now beneficial.

I returned early,
You were still there.
You left a chair and table
For my meals.
My recliner and lamp were waiting,
Before the new flat screen.
You made-up my bed,
One pillow at the head.
Closet space had its place
With missing clothes and shoes.
Others fared less well
More were desolute;
But you walked out in style,
Took time for a Good-bye.
The house has less furnishings,
Plenty of meaningless stuff;
It's not the missing articles,
But your missing voice,
I guess.

The King of kings
******* licks
With Lucille,
Has ascended.