From room to room,
Cellar to attic,
Patio to garage,
And all about my yard
I roam,
Thinking about my
Time alone.
I never counted brick or stone,
Not until the kids had grown,
And you outgrew me.

In childhood, space was a rarity,
Two to a bed,
Four to a room,
One toilet, bathtub,
Sink and baby.
“Life your **** so I can ***!”
Was a brother's common plea,
And often splashed on me.

First downstairs
Would get the toaster,
A two slice, two door
Open, closer.
On the counter rose
A column of bread,
Jam and peanut butter spread.
Last one down to the table
Got the heels,
And fed the baby.

Before we went upstairs to dress
We'd turn our **** to open flames,
Warm our cheeks, rub our frames,
And then clean up our mess.

We never walked to school in ones,
The Lynch mob travelled
As a throng;
Spilling from sidewalk to grass,
Singing silly songs.
On-comers found it difficult
To pass through such a gang,
We weren't rude,
No cuss, no fuss,
There was just
So many of us,
We had no room for more,
And Mammy started labor.

So, this empty house
I find I'm in
With every creak
With every wind,
Reminds me of
My crowded youth..
Yes, I'm not unhappy
To be alone,
And welcome visitors
To my home.

I'm not out to deceive,
But will you believe,
Sight unseen,
I've a million
In my front pockets.
You don't have a reason?
I'm not gentry,
I'm not young,
I'm only one
Of several sons.
I've not got designers on.
Oh, you've heard of me,
But we've not crossed paths.
I'm a stranger.
Could you believe
In my innocence.
So many do,
And shouldn't I
Believe in you.

Judy took the silverware,
More than thirty pieces;
Entered by the front alone,
She made it look so easy.

She carried off twelve settings,
And tongs and butter knives;
She covered then with velvet plush
To hide from curious eyes.

It turned out to be an inside job,
A sneak thief in daylight,
With more than thirty pieces,
Long tarnished in my sight.

I attended a house concert last night. I go to about three a year. The hardest working musicians in the business. The fella last night was from Newfoudland. Drove to Victoria, then to Sarnia, my hometown. Drove thirty-three hours from Regina... in one day. Old and new friends were present, all of us living the middle-class life.
He sang a song, Money Can't Make You Happy.
That's not a truism. It's an opinion. It sounds... eh...
Go for a walk, but you need to cover your feet.
Watch the tele, you need a room.
Have some We time; Your place or mine?
We relish our North American Middle-Class Life.
It's true... money can't make you happy,
But I'd be unhappy without it... some of it.
Later, as I was getting in my Kia,
The Newfoundlander was getting into his Volvo,
With happy tail-lights.

I don't have paint or brush,
Or mallet to shape a rock;
I don't weld or chisel,
Or mold clay into crocks.
I don't wear an apron
To create art-food forms.
I can't meander on a stage
To emote the audience.
I can't focus a camera lens,
I don't have what it demands.
I don't use any tools
To do what artists can;
Except for
Words, just words,
These flow without end
To color ice and snow,
To carve mountain tops
Down to pebbles in a stream,
Shading dales, glens, woods and mead.
Equipped, I am, with all I need
To create an art that you can feel
As well as any gallery piece,
To arouse emotions in the reader,
To bring to life as a carver
Wields his knives like an author.

Are you ever so full of it
That you need to flush
Halfway through a dump?
That's where we are with Trump.

Gaia, The World (nee Earth)
Suddenly, at home, aged 4.5 billion years, The World Gaia (nee Earth),
surrounded by her loving nucleur family, Gaia passed away after a long
battle with humanity. She is survived by her partner of 3 billion years, Luna,  eight siblings, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, and countless cosmic cousins. Predeceased by a younger brother, Pluto.
Gaia was the mother of all, and a selfless provider. She brought rain or let the sun into everyone's life.
Cremation has taken place.
In lieu of flowers there is nothing else.
Condolences at this time are fruitless.
There will be no service.

You were born with a ticket
For an ego-trip;
Languished on the axis
Of the Id Grid;
Dryed your hair with a comb
Before the vanity mirror.
That's how it was
When we were at home.
You fit many uniforms.
You never learned;
Never broke stride,
Now
You say good-bye.
Re-wind,
On slow-mo,
Review the moves
Then go.
Flip the rear view mirror;
It's bigger than you.

My secret
Is richer than a winning ticket;
Buried,
Like waiting treasure;
Fresher than rain;
Secure,
As my PIN;
Complex,
As a combination lock;
Password protected;
And deeper
Than thought.

My secret
Is Confessional sealed;
Private,
As a boil;
Personal,
As a shave;
Ignominious
As the front page.
The bartender doesn't know.
If you listen
You'd discover
It's for your eyes only.

Last years shoots
Withered on the limb,
They were my simple offering
At the Mt. of Sorrows.
The sky's gone dark,
No lark sings,
In the temple
They're gathering
To raise the final hymn
Of Exaltation.

I trimmed the branch
Back to the source,
I've lingered on
Paths of remorse,
But, Honey,
It's double jeopardy;
They can't
Re-hang me.
The ashes are blowing,
Roll back the stone,
I'm all tapped out,
Bury my bones.

The verdict of world opinion
Is in;
*Keep the Peace!

What's this at my feet.
A ribbon for a finish line
For the underdog;
An unpolished stone
To make a ring;
A piece of paper yet unfolded
Into a snowflake;
Is this a bit of wood
Waiting for release;
A puddle
Reflecting a blue sky
That could be fashioned
As a cloud,
Why not give it a try.
A stick, a stone, ribbon or puddle
Just waiting as a poem.

I'm not in love.
I once was,
The knock-down feeling,
Gasping.
Was it on a summer log,
Or was that jealousy
Of the lapping  water at your feet.
The snow angel made
When you lay down.
The burning leaves still tingle.
I picked the orchid corsage.
Love goes,
But never seems to leave.
I've compared.
You're more fragrant,
Warmer, cooler.
Still in the world
To remind
There's only so much time.
The date will follow
The chiseled hyphen,
No other name
To read.

There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy's in retreat.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Join the fight
To rein in one percent
From their ***** heights.
Desks in towers,
Facades of power,
Will tumble to defeat.
The gravity of greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war,
For salvation,
Then, for some more.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.

The black between our stars
Is not a void;
It's the same black matter
Between us,
Keeping bodies apart,
To the naked eye.
But I'll focus on the white space
We're immersed in.
It shares the waves and molecules
With blackness, but more visible
In the light you stand.
White space attracts
The materials of poetry and art,
Connecting like the dots
Of a new constellation,
Here, the thirteenth sign.
We call it
What we want.

"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.

I've been playing
With my epitaph
For years now.
So far, I got:
*I'm Sorry.

There oughta be another option,
A different route to take.
Alternate realities are limited,
The receptors are collapsing in.
Actors are computer generated,
Vocalists are lip synching,
Wood's not wood,
The bellfry is a facade,
And my chicken dinner didn't hatch.
My clothes are made of oil,
My veggies grow indoors,
I'm drinking chlorine and fluoride,
Bottled water isn't wet.
What I see's not what I get.
Yes or no simply won't do.
My tires aren't rubber, I'm laying slicks,
Shakespeare's off the curriculum.
That's not the face you had last week,
Nor the body you've long borne.
Gimme some old fashioned ice-cream.
They're laying oil lines,
Clear-cutting my life line,
Soon landing us on Mars.
Yes or no won't do.
***** a fence around our world,
We're living in a zoo.

The time is right,
To say good-night.
Good-night.
Good-night.

The place has changed
People the same.
Good-night.
Good-night.

The love was here
Before you came.
Good-night.
Good-night.

And now to sleep
To dream sweet dreams.
Good-night.
Good-night.
Have a good night,
Kathleen.

Decartes's too smart,
Much too profound
With his,
Cogito Ergo Sum:
I think therefore I am.
That's deeper than my toes.

So, I propound
Simplicity.
Read on,
Perhaps you'll agree:
Expirem Ergo Sum:
I die therefore I am.
That's as deep as I go.

In the North we had the cold war. Sirens screamed; we crouched under desks, thin arms covering thinner heads. We were post Pompeii petrifies waiting for a future dig. We never left an atomic shadow.
This  sums up all life-threatening fears of the Boomers, the Echoes, the A's through Z's. Of course, Boomers then were too young to worry.

We've never had planes or bombs fall from our skies (there was the Arrow disaster).
We've never had a crop blight, famine or drought.
Food has never been rationed.
Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons or tornados don't happen here;
We get snowfalls we plow through till they melt.
We're non-tsunami. Flooding is seasonal, geographically isolated, and dealt with.
We've had no great fires or earthquakes like San Fran or London.
We've never been drafted, and only go to wars of our own choosing.
We have not been invaded or occupied;
P.E.I. has no extermination crematoriums.
We avoided Inquisitions, Salem witch hunts and Small Pox blankets.
We've had no Race Riots, but a few barricades have gone up and down.

Death comes to us as to all. Car accidents, dumb-*** accidents, and even ******. Though never expected, always anticipated. We grieve, some longer than others. It's not easy, but we manage the shock.

When the glaciers glide past the coast of Nova Scotia, on the way to New York, my generation (and probably yours) will have been replaced.

But now! We're asked to Social Distance and wash with soap and water. In Canada we have plenty of both. I'll occupy my three square feet of space for several weeks (knowing there are only 52 in a year). No complaints. No asinine TP runs. Just behaving myself, HUMANELY.

The children are grown,
They have their own
Christmas.
It's the natural order
To leave the hearth,
And start.
No more journeys home,
They're there.
You see, I'm not alone,
I recall all we had
When we were home.
The exuberant joy and anticipation
On your faces on Christmas morn.
I had it all.
I have it all,
The past, our presence,
From first, to our last.

Da never bought a froggy pool;
We weren't friends like friends in school;
We never played til we showered naked.
We didn't hike and shoot the breeze,
Nor dump or **** behind the trees.
We never hit the links together,
And relieved ourselves in St. Andrew's heather.
We never streaked sorority dorms,
Or stood bare-assed in a storm.
We never stood shoulder to shoulder,
At urinals for a sneak peak over.
Swimming wasn't a thing for Da,
So we never swam in the raw.
And Da was never one to flash.

Near the end he couldn't wash,
I never gave a bed-sponge-bath;
But Clean my teeth, was what he asked.
Let me bring this to a close,
Da was always donned in clothes.
I never saw my old man's ****.
And that's the long and short of it.

I'm not so sure about you,
As I am of me;
But I'm a Wikipedia Poet:
You don't need to believe what I write,
I just fabricate,
All of it.
No annotated bibliography,
No reliable footnotes,
No discerning endnotes,
With few promising references.
I don't expect believers,
Just read,
For what it's worth.
Take what you want,
Leave the rest.
Just give me a nod.
It could be true;
It's on the Internet.

In Grasmere
I ate
A Wordsworth Hamburger;
Stayed in Wordsworth Hotel;
Strolled on
"Daffodil Walk"
Made from donor-inscribed cobblesstones.
Glad I saw his sunglasses
At Dove Cottage,
And relieved to realize
He didn't wear them
That day.

I've never cried at funerals
Beside the bowed heads
Looking past the markers
In this gated community.

I've never cried at weddings,
Those blissful, blessed tears of joy.
Seeing the children settled and content
For the years they've yet to live.

I've never cried at birthings,
Though tears are warranted
For years of trouble and ecstasy
They will surely cry.

I've never cried before the courts
Pleading for leniency,
Or alone in a cell.

I've never cried for lost innocence,
Those tears that only come with experience.
The loss of a love.

I've cried for myself,
And I carry a hankie
To marvel at the wet spots.

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.

I will remember her.
This I can guarantee.
She was the one
Who gave me love,
Took care of me,
So I can take care
Of her.

She will remember me.
This she can guarantee.
I was the one
Who planted the seed,
Took care of her
So she'll take care
Of me.

Who will remember you.
There are no guarantees.
Were you the one
To rely on,
Was weak when strong,
Shared your song to sing,
So we will remember you?

While outside waiting
For night to slide,
The ISS went sailing by.

I happened to be viewing Venus
Dip in the western sky.

The ancients would've
Watched in wonder
At this wonder passing high:
     *Those are demi-gods
     In Phaethon's chariot,
     Scorching the night sky.

I'm standing where a tree once stood,
It's branches, leaves, and roots weren't good.
Perhaps they used it for a rood,
Down in Alabama,
Where skies are lit with flames,
And chants are raised to holy names,
As though they understood.

In the park, an empty swing
Is twisted by a changing wind;
I cannot hear the children sing
Of lambs gone to market.

In the class an empty desk
Draws one's eyes to stare and rest
On a sharpened pencil
That scribbled with regret,
The names we'll soon forget,
For they have gone to market.

What was here,
Now is missing,
It's as if no one's listening;
And it began with our christening.
Like a ship I too am listing.

Here's what they'll say of me:
*He stood once like a tree.

Where have all the assassins gone,
I'm just asking,
Where have all the hit-men gone,
It wasn't long ago.
Where have all the psychos gone,
Ones like Sirhan Sirhan,
Or a crazy red Russian,
Lining crosshairs for Vlad Putin.

Where have all the agencies gone,
I'm just asking,
The MI5, the CIA,
KGB, Mossad;
Where have covert actions gone,
When there's guys like crazed Kim Jong;
Or a crazed Red Russian,
A narcissistic Vlad Putin.

Where have all our heroes gone,
I'm just asking;
Where have all our leaders gone,
Not so long ago.
Where have all fine Russians gone;
Boris was their last good one;
When will we ever learn,
Ego-maniacs can't govern.

Her party conflicted me.
I worry if her expectations were met
After the last gift's been unwrapped,
And she's wearing her Princess elbow-length gloves,
Her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and chic ball cap.
I took a picture of her sitting on her new bike,
And on the table you can see the remains of birthday cake,
Cards, some ribbon and paper, crumbled past the folding creases.
It's over now, and there she sits, feet on pedals,
A serious look on such an innocent face.
You might think I think she's greedy or demanding,
But I don't. She's not, she's a child,
Expecting great things on a special day,
Her day, which comes everyday,
Until she won't remember this day,
The way I will.

I like what I see
In my kids;
Others may say, They're like her's or his;
That's okay, but they don't see
The subtleties revealed to me.

They were listening when I spoke,
And now they hear other folks;
They were watching when I'd act
In sync with our social contracts.
Please and Thanks was our mantra,
Repeated now as personal dogma.

I didn't see they were watching,
Watch they did, and they were copying.
Believe me, I'm not being boastful,
If that's the case, I too am blameful
For anything that causes pain,
Though unintended, it's the same.

I'm so pleased with my kids,
And they aren't just like
Her's or his;
They're mine.
And I like what I see in their kids.

Do you like what you see
In mine?

I know you've heard of RINOs,
Perhaps you've heard of DINOs,
Some Christians are called CINOs,
Are those men mere MINOs.
Women become WINOs
(the irony doesn't escape me though)
Humans evolved to HINOs;
Friends are friends
I'll never call them  FINOs.
Avoid lovers who are LINOs,
And teachers who are TINOs.
Could a Jew be a JINO?

But make no mistake:
Terrorists are Terrorists,
Jihadists are Jihadists,
Haters are Haters,
War mongers are war mongers,
Liars lie.

It's We thePeople, PINOs.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

Where did my brother go?
He never shared his coat with me
When I was cold,
But so was he.
He didn't have much, you see,
He's spartan,
He's no TV,
He has no means to e-mail me.
He's chameleon,
Look will you please,
Call me if you spot him.
I'd like to get to know him.
But I should not enter there,
In his lair near the bones
And genie bottles he has thrown.
(To think that I shared my tea);
To appease me, he often ate my bread,
And stitched his days
With invisible thread.
Let me know
If you find him brother,
We'll claim our grief,
Then bury our dead.

I was It.
Singled out
By a mere
Eenie-meenie.
Now I touch you,
You freeze.
Now you're It,
I'm not.

He needs to grow
A pair of hairless ones... soon.

I'm a molten mess
Of emotion
Flowing in
My core.
I'm girthed
With waves
Of passion
That heat up
When you're near.
My skin quakes
With your breath,
I'll orbit til
We finally touch,
Erupting
In cold sweat.

Whistle while at work,
Donald is a ****;
Giuliani strokes their egos
All the way to court.

The red high chair,
Now empty there,
Has carbon foot-prints
On scuffed rails,
And impressions
On the tray.
Like digs from earlier days.

Her first steps were small,
Unsure, unstable,
Needing balance,
Yet proving able.
A two-step dance,
An infant's prance,
An infinite chance,
She tottered to the door,
Drawn and wanting more.

But I fell,
Forlorn,
With those wee steps,
She was gone.

A true Valentine's more
Than a rhyme
That ends
In chocolate couplets,
Or written in flowery prose.
A real Valentine
Smells sweeter
Than your dozen roses.
My Valentine
Gives me her time,
And that's
How she shows it.

It's usual when one moves a stone,
There's things there that one finds;
Someone tries selling a car,
To rear-end us and our hind.

Amazing all the deals one's offered-
Insurance to seal us in our coffins;
Stocks to secure our future,
Anything to get our lucre.

The stone can be a pebble,
Inocuous at first glance;
But move it and one finds oneself
Involved in false romance.

Roll a boulder,
Lift a rock, of any make or shine;
Well find someone's beneath our heels-
The blind leading the blind.

The creepy, crawly bottom-feeders,
Are waiting for our kind.

The best irony ever,
Is not that the Prizes
Grew out of dynamite
And cannon fodder,
No,
The greatest irony
Is that no religious founder:
Not Abraham, Jesus, Mohamed
Or any number of Swamis,
Received a posthumous
Peace Prize.
And with good reason.
Religion has never been
A peace broker.

Once there was a time...
     Now I'm a different man.
I wasn't one to imagine
     The challenge of the choices
Between lanes of long
     And short blade grass.
Not all is by decree,
     So spears of grass
Sprang vigorously back
     Beneath my chosen track.

Seasons change,
     No two the same;
We scattered suns,
     Secreted some...
The elements clear of blame.
     I'm still that former man.

My ground's been rocked,
     But I'm blessed
More than I've been ******.
     So says this travelling man.

The boy sitting by his locker
While the horde heads to Wendy's
Likes to read Emily and Sylvia.

The girl with the flowing floral muumuu
And tatoo reading Nature likes
Ralph, George and Robert.

The man standing in the apse
Of St. Patrick's reads
Milton and Blake.

The mother reads Dr. Seuss, often,
The same story, over and over again.

And who reads me?
All of the above?
None of the above?

Turn up the radio,
The sequels to
War of the Worlds
Are on.

The harlequin trees celebrate
With a red, yellow and orange
Ticker-tape parade
On all the streets of Ontario,
Announcing the onslaught
Of another miserable
Canadian winter.

Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.

A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.

Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.

Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.

The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”

There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.

There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****.

The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.

A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.

An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.

Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.

Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth  of Ontario.

Today is like any other day,
However,
Don't plan any trips to the Senate,
Stay off of stairs and away
From people named
Cassius or Brutus.
Wifes are dreamy, so listen and look.
Knives are for cutting, not stabbing.
Should a soothsayer
Warn,
Beware the Ides of March,
Don't leave without an explanation.