You would say,
If It were so.
Remind me
To grab a coat,
For the chill and snow.
If cash was tight
We'd be home at night.
If she didn't make the cut,
Forgot her lines,
Or missed the shot,
There was no sugar-coat,
You said it straight
If it were so:
Girls, you're doing fine.
Today is was, not now.
Wait til next time.
If it were so,
You'd say.
So say you love me
One last time,
So I can let you go.

I brought a poem
Into a room
Of well-to-dos.
They went to
North American schools.
They looked at it
For
A middle-class clue.

It's a poem, I said.

... and I know it.
...and violets are blue.
Said someone who
Said she knew
A poem or two.

To my dismay
And loss of face,
They'd never heard
Of Keats or Yeats,
But everyone knew
Of  Dr. Seuss.

I will write a rhyming verse
About a dog or cat or simple mouse.

The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.

The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.

I saw a squirrel
Take a ****,
Something no one
Wants to miss.
He paused on
A knotty bole,
Let it run
With no control.
The difference between
The squirrel and me,
I shake myself,
He shook the tree.

In the pitch of sleep
On a hot, humid night,
From a depth so deep
I woke in fright.
The overhead fan
Swirled the air,
The bedroom window
Was drawn and bare.
Out from the dark
I heard the scream
Penetrate and join my dream.
It slammed and splattered
On my screen,
An anguished cry,
An animal dies
Caught by a red-eyed predator.
I couldn't help but think
Of death,
Coming this November.

The familiar small towns,
On the way
To Georgian Bay,
Have gone;
Box store intersections sprawl
Where General Stores once served.
It's hard to find pie and coffee,
To watch the cows come from the barn,
Or comment on the standing corn,
Of a late September morn.

I saw a satyr in the woods,
A centaur in the meadow;
Travelling on, I remarked on a fawn
Hallowing out reeds for a pipe.
The world around me was green,
The water ran clear, cold and fresh,
The air I breathed was historic.
Crosses were in the future.
No Mecca to visit,
No Temple to rebuild.

I am a beach ***, a sun-worshipper, a tree hugger.
I will worship the dove, not the sacrifice.
I will homage the god of the kingdom that is here,
Before she rejects her offspring.

Crosses white, poppies red,
Remember how, remember when
Pale petals fell from blooming roses,
And padded paths where freedom goes.

Fierce fires doused a would be hate,
To quench dry hearts, yours and mine.
Love and duty burned paper chains
That shackled in war time.

Wise eyes, bright minds, aged souls, young hearts,
Traded rockers for grassy beds;
Gave up gray for blue-black youth,
Now honored among our dead.

The rose that's guarded by the thorn,
Against the reach of many hands,
Does the same in all God's lands:
Yet still the life sap flows.

This time of year is here again,
But remember how, remember when
Fading pulses played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

Between the vaxxers
And the anti-vaxxers;
Between the dearly educated,
And the poorly educated;
The lines are blurred,
But clearly visible.

A poet,
One of our best,
Got far
Inside himself.
He LOL a lot,
Used emoticons
And dots,
To share
Personal thoughts;
Then he forgot
His name.

A pseudonym's
A precarious thing;
Its acronym
Might fool you.
But a nom de plume
Becomes you,
Like Twain, Orwell
Or Seuss.
So, when your writing
Takes you far,
It's important
To remember
Who you are.

One never expects one
Standing *****,
Straddled with club in hand;
There's a postage stamp
With pole and flag
Daring resolve and grit;
So one checks one's stance,
Sneaks a glance
And slightly adjusts one's grip;
Then a reaction occurs
Like controlled fussion,
And out of confusion comes sense.
The contact cements a crack and launch,
Startling one like a gun;
One scratches one's head,
Dumbfounded and red,
One's aced a hole-in-one.

Inhale nature's incense,
Fill with life
As since first breath,
And exhale.
Nothing disappears.
     Where does love go?

A broken robin's blue
Beneath a fallen leaf;
The curling smoke,
A lap of shoreline suds,
The dust from fallen stones.
     Where does love go?

The pounds we shed,
The worry we dread,
And all about me's thin,
Heaviness dissipates.
     Where does love go?

Beads gather on my brow
Then rivulet down my nose,
Drops like autumn roses.
     Where does love go?

I hurt a friend,
His pain was real,
My remorse reached his ears,
I saw his pain disappear.
     But where does love go?

It's not recyclable, reuseable,
But environmentally friendly:
It's measured like a tailored suit
No one else can wear.
An exclusive gift,
Free as loaves and fishes.
     Where does it go?

It sates, some stays,
Some grows, then fades;
It's quantity unmeasured.
     But where does love,
     That all time love,
     That one time love,
     Where,
     Where did it go?

The baboon savant
Will rear and taunt
From high on his hair-swept hill;
He snatches bananas from the unsuspecting,
His reach has no appeal.

He relishes the sound
Of his own voice,
Screeching into the wind;
He sticks his fingers in his ears,
And when he plops down
His ruby-red ****,
His thumb's nestled up his rear.

The world was a secretive place then;
There are fewer secrets now;
No point in trying,
But they're impossible to keep.
And the world hasn't destroyed.
The Colonel's spices revealed;
Micropes landed in Martian rock;
Yet your impression in a hayfield
Is one I've always kept.

These lines didn't exorcise you.
I'm followed.
I need protection.
Get a crucifix tattoo.
Draw curtains, let
The daylight through.
Whittle stakes.
Move your...  my ashes to my landfill.
Drink ***** and holy water.
Cross lit candles behind the cobwebs.
Fashion my ring into a silver bullet.
Pinch and pitch them down the toilet.

Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of  the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP.  DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.

Addiction issues are certainly predominate with the sensitive souls of writers.
Is the cause the world they perceive and abhor. The greed, despair, hunger, hate and such. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we celebrate the beauty we see in charity, love, generosity and such, too much. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we just prefer to mix our drinks?

I'm a born mourner;
Not a whimperer,
Or whiner;
Don't cry for me,
Don't worry for me.
Let me mourn.
Although an orphan,
A singleton,
I'm better off
Than all the dead poets,
Stacked one atop the other,
Babel high.
When that high,
It's a sudden drop.
If somethings human
Should locate
Forty percent of my bones
Sometime down their road,
Then you can worry about me.

I learned to ask for nothing
At an awful early age;
And nothing gets monotonous,
Cause nothing stays the same.

As I grew in beingness,
Nothing never changed.

I expect nothing less
When I'm aged and grey;
Cause nothing still awaits for me
When cold and in my grave.

Don't dwell on your afterlife,
Don't fret on what you got;
After all the prayers are done,
There's nothing in the box.

There will be two epiphanies
On January 6th.
Christians around the globe will celebrate
Little Christmas, The Epiphany,
The Word Made Flesh,
The arrival of the three wise men, The Magi,
And they reveal to the world
The Savior has come.
The same will happen on the Senate Floor (sans three wise men)
When the President-Savior
Is presented to the world,
And his detractors will bray, cackle and neigh
As he is adorned.
Saviors don't build walls,
They raze them.

The things some do
When they're alone,
Would melt the marrow
In your bones.

Some scratch their ***
With such vigor,
Sink to their knuckles
Up their nose,
**** themselves
In *****-hose,
Find their stash,
Find their liquor,
Get high alone,
And that's good for some.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They scrape the goo
From their eyes
In the afternoon;
Hork out phlegm
In the kitchen sink,
**** loudly,
And not think it stinks.
They pop a pimple on the mirror,
Do nasty things
(I won't say liver).

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They'll surf the net
For *******
In HD or photography.
They'll roll gobs of wax
From both their ears,
Run naked up and down the stairs.
Landscape private body hairs,
And like a monkey, smell their nails.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

Some deficate in the shower,
******* until they holler,
Then spark a doob,
Check out the mirror,
Then cogitate on tomorrow.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone,
It's good they're done
Alone at home.

This bark's outlasted
The wintery blast,
But at the cost
Of the main mast.
Raise the spiniker
And the jib,
Hoist a sail,
Man the pumps,
There's no good reason
To jump - just yet;
We're temporarily adrift
Searching for a friendly shore
To lay anchor deep,
Waiting for your
Lighthouse eyes
To show the way home.

Getting older
Means
Hear today,
Deaf tomorrow.

While cruising Corona on the net,
I saw pangolins not eaten yet.
Many, you see, believe its scales,
Are cure-alls to cure whatever ails.
And its meat festoons the rich Asian table.

Who ate the pangolin from head to toe.

China lauds its laws to say they save
The endangered pangolins,
At home, in Asia;
Yet in Wuhan, locked live in cages,
In wet markets like our Dark Ages,
The scaly pangolin is sold.

But Revenge,
We know,
Is a dish best served cold.

New stars are debuting
On the galactic red carpet.
The IMAX night screens
The hand and foot print constellations
Illumed by the stage lights
In a heavenly theatre.
Shooting stars burned out
After their final take.
It's a wrap.

Whatever hand swirled
In the cosmic bucket,
Continues to stir the stars.
Keep swirling them
Across my sky.
In daylight I know
There's work afoot
Maintaining the equilibrium
Of the gyroscope;
But remove it,
And we're feeding oats
To the horsemen's rides.
The stars will fall in upon themselves;
And me,
And you.
Digits of chance, luck, chaos and coincidence,
And the thumb of phenomena
Move through the infinite waters,
Clockwise,
One second at a time,
Swirling, swirling, swirling,
Like the snail on a rock.

Don't feel wrong
When things go right;
Like running out of gas
With a station in sight;
Or you're wearing
A few pounds,
But you're still feeling light.
Too many sins
Have filled our heads,
Those of omission
Or some thoughts instead.
Strip off the guilt,
Bury the shame,
It's good to feel right,
No one's to blame
For you feeling so good.
Unclog the drain,
Open your pores,
The weather will change
Whether you're in or outdoors.
Seize this feeling
Of feeling so good;
It's good to feel right,
When you feel it your sure.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.

Do atheists
Privately pray
For God to say:
******* Off!

They wouldn't be
If it were not for me;
I'm not talking about conception;
The work began at birth.
Decades of toiling,
And personal deprivation
To deliver the essentials,
The saving for school,
The resources used
For lessons and coaches,
Trips, gadgets and clothes,
The bed-time readings,
The front seat shows,
And all the ingredients for success.
They wouldn't be,
If it wasn't for me,
Yet they turn away
Because I strayed
From the image they fashioned for me.

A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.

When the plank is up,
Icicles form like the sword of Damocles
Above my door.
Breath is whisked away by prisms
Hanging between limbs, flailing.
My parka rests in the closet;
The shovel looks incongruous
Leaning against the shed.
High, I giggle in the peopled park,
Waiting for descent.

There is talk of another Arctic Vortex,
Combined with the Texas jet stream,
A canopy of cold is raised,
Crueler in the bright sunshine of March.
But we see shadows, elongating and shrinking,
And my toes reach tentatively
For the softening ground.
But soon,
I'm high again,
Heading towards the bright, yellow sun.

I didn't do anything controversial today
Other than hear the news.
I must be an aberration; in the minority.
I didn't shoot my mouth off;
I didn't shoot anyone,
Or invade my neighbour's space.
If I did, I'd be the news.
All I did was write an inconsequential poem
With a pen moving across straight blue lines.
I'll bet Chris Wallace won't read it on the news.

Which came first:
The egg,
The chicken,
Or
The pecker?

His drag-line pals
Called him Jemmy,
The little man
From Ireland.

Jemmy thought
Himself quite clever,
Cursed at us
With what you'd never
Call your own
Inside your home:
You're an ejit,
An egot, a clod,
A sod, a fool,
As useless as ****
On a bull.

When Jemmy got
Right roaring ******
(Something he would seldom miss),
He hissed:
Ya pissmire.
Eyes burning cold red fire.

Thus was Daddy
Endeared to us.

His wit was keen,
Quick as mean,
Evasive
As the charming fiend
Bellying out of Paradise.

His viscious,
Veracious
Flicking tongue,
Left not knowing
The damage done.

You keep me at eye level,
Examining for interpretations,
Think me either shady or too colorful;
That my perspective may be skewered.
You reach out to straighten me,
But recoil, gloveless.
Consider the Feng Shui
Of your living room.
Peer closer,
There's a face
Like a worrisome specter,
Like the picture.

There are mirrors
In all our rooms,
Passing them
Without a glance
Isn't vanity,
Isn't chance.
It's inherent in our genes,
The look is more
Than what it seems.
A survival tactic
Of our kind,
To lock our faces
In our minds.
Babies do it,
They're entranced,
The first step
Of the mirror dance.

So, I stopped,
I stared
At my glassy eye;
There I was,
Like an ambered fly
Trapped in the pupil
Of my eye.
Am I
Self-centred,
Narcissistic,
Self-absorbed,
Ego-centric:
Is it conceit,
Or human pride?
Self-doubt chides
My prying eye.

Past the disguise,
I realize,
My baby browns
Have waxed wise,
My outlook's changed
Behind those eyes.

The dog that covered
His ****
With an extra kick,
Is he an ancestor?

Must Be Donald
(sung to “Must Be Santa)

Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us witless on election night?
Donald scared us witless on election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to *** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to *** on beds.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Kelly, Ellis, Powell and McEnany,
Meadows, Hall and soon Giuliani.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Are the most ego-centric of bigots;
Believing in one's own godhead.

If I want you to continue reading,
Then I must be truthful and forthright.
That's my decision.
And I'm good at deciding stuff.

One time I decided to change
My mailing address, have my mail
Redirected for a personal reason.
Another time, I decided to impersonate
My brother in court.
I didn't say all decisions were good ones.
So, allow your imagination to comply as I tell this story...

Did I mention I've a very active imagination.
More profound than my decision making skills.
    
     There's a young boy, on the verge of adulthood,
     aged twelve, and he often stays out all night...

Okay, I'll tell the truth. The boy is me.
But you probably already knew that,
Didn't you?

     On arriving home one morning,
     He comes upon an unusually locked
     back door, but he can hear the TV and
     the dog whinning. The Mercury is idling
     in the driveway. The trunk ajar...

My imagination is messing with the truth.
There is no open trunk, but the curtain blowing
Out my parents' main floor bedroom window is true.

     The idea of my having a key to the house is silly.
     That would mean eight keys with kids that know
     nothing about locks and keys. We were free to run,
     uninhibited, all adventure, no phones, little radio,
     and a TV that hardly ever worked. So, no key. To my
     right, I notice the frill laced curtain flapping out my
     parents' bedroom window.
     Open? Do I dare?

I've always been known for my recklessness and lack of foresight.
So I turned towards their window...

Charles didn't heed the Puritans
He was God's appointed,
Anointed and empowered.
He tumbled from above,
Down through the law,
Lost his head.

Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt,
A cult-like condemnation;
So they stood him against the wall,
He listed to his Monk,
His reasoning debunked,
So they shot the anointed one
On his golden throne.

Benito was above the law,
High on meat hooks.
Could we dare to look?

If you were lucky,
If you were tied to a stake,
And the ******* ignited,
Someone dear would tie a bag
Of gunpowder around your neck.
Why let the crows pick out his eyes,
Make golden nests from his hair.
End the torture. Pull the life-line.
Sever the head from the body politic.
It is the righteous thing to do;
It is the civil thing to do
In pensive state.
Rise up from your ashes.
It is the kindest cut of all.

Have you such-a-one?
A rely-on.
Are you such-a-one
For someone?
There is such-a-one.
Ones who don't lie,
Even if it hurts;
Ones that share laughs,
And laughs til it pains.
Such-a-one speaks words
Only one can understand;
Such-a-one has gestures,
That are lost on others,
Quite simply gone over their heads.
Such-a-one isn't abused.
When asked to do, they do,
Cause such-a-one already knew.

We've lived with the good and the bad,
Such are the lives we've had.
With such-a-ones we grow stronger,
We thrive and live joyous lives longer.
And me,
Lucky me;
I've several such ones
I deeply respect and honour.

My brother did.
I haven't.
Others have, going back.
Forward, I will;
But today isn't the day
For theologizing on the mysterious,
Unknown will.
I won't squander away,
Vicariously,
Beneath  indiscriminate winds.
I don't get it.

In my youth,
My sleek clean youth,
I was taught to pray.
Learn the right way,
Said men of the cloth,
And women of the rag-tag convent.
In rows, on knees, in suplication,
We prayed for days off Purgatory,
Babies, lost in Limbo;
Pray for starving
Blacks in Africa,
or
In Peru.

I prayed for you.

Beside my bed,
In my head,
For the Living,
For the Dead.
I prayed.
He delayed.
I prayed longer
For thirst and hunger.
I prayed harder,
Got no farther.
I saw little change.
Perhaps got worse,
Despite my prayers,
Or a longing curse.
                       Amen.

I can rise to any daily challenge,
Except the diagnosis;
Then the days of respite
Are scripted,
The scales are tipped
To measure meaning.

     Yesterday I felt the pressure
     Of my father's hand
     While I wed the garden;
     Never thinking I'd long
     For those days.

Memories fade cool.
First, I wonder,
Then, I ponder,
Now I worry.

     I've read
     The Death of Ivan Ilych,
     I know It.

I'll give traitors
A sneering reprieve,
Dismiss,
Turn my back,
Breathe between the particles
Of a middle-class life,
Then languish
Between your clean eyes.
Will you miss Christmas
This year?
Am I asking too soon
About fewer rooms?

It's so very quiet tonight,
The mist makes no sound
The creatures are bedded,
Not a soul to be found.
There's a stillness around,
A spirit could get lost
Above the ground.
Only the glam of stars
Pierce the velvet backdrop.
Like a slender grackle,
I **** my head
To hear distant horns and whistles.

I wish you could feel the hurt,
Not pain;
The thud and drumming of absence,
The waiting, listening, and loss of hope,
Silent, dull and lasting.
It's noticeable in my eyes and voice;
I see it when I shave,
In the clothes I wear.
It lies on me like a rash I can't scratch.
I look average. I look normal.
That's the hurt I wish for.

Fledglings,
Now long
From the nest,
Alight with grace for
A brief repast,
And well-earned rest;
Then secret away
Before December's threats.

Fleecy sheep
From the promise
Of Spring,
Are fatted and shorn
And  blithely waiting,
Will feed on corn
And winter grain
In straw-warm barns.

So you, with
Youth's eyes
Intent with queries,
Focus on
The coming seasons;
When the nest's
No longer home,
When the wool
Has yet to grow,
And the barn
Has lost its glow,
And cannot
Keep you
Warm.

Meet opportunity.
It's a subtle wink,
And briefer than
You'd like to think.
Look to your stars;
Leave earthly woes
Behind.

Who read this book
Before me;
Read it so
Relentlessly:
Read it
Like you'll  read
To me?

Who carved letters
In this tree;
Neatly carved for
Me to read;
Will you carve mine
As deep as these?

Who walked these streets
Ahead of me;
Held a hand
As you hold me;
Saw deep puddles
And carried me?

Who loves me more
Than you love me;
Gives their love
So generously;
Hugs me like
Bark hugs a tree?

We read that book
To you nightly;
Walked these streets
For your safety;
Held you close,
Yet let you be.
We know you know
From your start,
Aine's carved
In our hearts,
Carried there
When we're apart,
So every pulse
Through every vein,
Gives us breath
To do again.