The upper branches
Of the Family Tree
Are visible.
I'm not near the base
Where I used to be.

There are fewer branches above;
And as I move there's
More and less to love.

Some limbs above have broken,
Suffered drought and heat
Through the elements of life.
But the trunk is true, strong,
Stalwart and flexible
As the lineage of its rings,
These expanding circles of life.
And above,
The transplanted branches
Were rooted with love.
Sprouts apppear below,
As further up I go.
And my limbs
Are moving slow.

I'm not searching
For a rental,
Something less
Than tempermental.
She doesn't need
To be a model,
Yet should react
To the throttle
When I press
The pedal.

Shoes of all colours and sizes
Shuffle by my North American Middle Class House.
We are temperate, they walk in all seasons,
Down here, between the Great Lakes.
These S-Westerners look haggard;
Even the young...
All waiting... waiting for the veil to lift.
Smiles are cracking, making new lines
Like road maps to happiness.
And yet, it's worse
In Talibexas, Loseiana and Floridistan,
Where there are fewer paths.

This time, this place
I mime control;
When we meet
Face to face,
I avert my eyes,
To save some face,
To save a memory.

The hands will sweep
Past midnight again,
The dewy hours will
Lift by ten,
Then I'll remember
Your emerald eyes,
When they looked
At me
In midnight memories.

The dividing line
In our
You/Me partnership,
In our
Us/Them friendship,
In our
Love/Hate relationship,
Is a listing/sinking
Forward slash.

A person's stature
Is never to be measured
By height.

To think I could drink
Is pure vanity.
The thought that a draught
Wouldn't effect my progress.
The ON switch got clicked,
Might have been the OFF,
Either way, I found the cave.
The crawl from the crypt
Is difficult; I'm sick;
But the reward
For the struggle
Compares with nothing,
So humble,
As the love that waits for me.

My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under sun and scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.

I keep my monkey
In a vice;
The jaws are tight,
The pessure's right,
To keep my monkey
Close in sight.

If you have a monkey
That will not go away,
Put your monkey
In a vice,
Tight enough to stay.

Like me, become **** erectus,
Have ***** as big as T-Rex's,
Standing, drooling,
Above the vice.

Time to go wild;
Join the pack,
Don't look back.

Time to animalize,
Drop the disguise,
Extend your claws,
Swipe your paws,
Open your maws
And bare your teeth.
Run down the street
With blinders on.

Go primordial.
Try commando,
Eat blue meat,
Crouch and spring,
Do everything
You can
Tonight.
Avoid the trappings
Of civilized man.

Do you hear me today, how do I sound.
Is there softness in my voice,
A calmness to be found.
Did last night's snowfall drown my psalm,
In the chilling winds.
Should I feel wronged.
After all, I prayed so hard,
For some peace, and a little goodwill to men;
For our indulgences to come to an end.
Do I sound hoarse from being up all night?
I knelt humbly, I plead somberly,
Praised the Lord and all his sundry,
That in my lifetime or near future someday,
Peace would reign before Easter Sunday.
That's a story preached to the elders,
Unraveling back through five millennia;
Past the Cross, across Jordan,
Much deeper than the burning bush,
Back to the foot that was to crush
The head of evil.

A crack appeared in my resolve,
A fissure to release my god;
Rise from obsequiousness,
Dust off the knees and do my best
To do my part, to stop my prayer,
For I can start with peace from here.

I chanced on her
In line at Giant Tiger,
A familiar haunt.
Her pose reminded me
Of a girl with
The bearing of old money,
And steady Oxford brogues
That walked home from the Village
Speaking ****** thoughts
With little thnking.
She removed her wallet to pay
With hands that once
Tied ribbons and wrote love letters,
Cooked and loved her family,
Enjoyed stability.
The line moved
And she dropped her card.
Such strange, familiar manners
When she stooped.
The waterfall hair line
Showed sun-worship thinning.

The transaction completed,
She turned to exit,
Without glancing back,
This all too
Familiar stranger.

Let's get out the rawness of life.
Expose emotions long supressed.
Talk about lonliness like the shadow's
My only compay.
Living without the only one.
Pain's a good theme.
Not solitude pain, or desperation anxiety;
The pain that poisons all systems,
Biological and Metaphysical.
To think nothing else
Beyond this immediate moment
Has been proven:
Abysmal philosophy.
Corruptable theology.
Contemptable hypocrisy.
In light of all this,
Nothing matters more than
The truth, and the search.
Tedious, numbing,
Truth.
Now that's raw.
And real.

My journal
Has blank leaves.
I turn one daily
To press a memory,
Record,
Write a blank verse,
Or leave blank.
Each leaf
Is attached
To the same spine,
Between the same
Covers.
A copyright date
Has yet to be decided.

Where are our Percys, Johns and Gordons gone?
The rock and pop stars
Of words worth remembering.
We'll never shake them off
Like today's, washed up
On the shore of MTV,
Bleeding on the carpets,
Crying maybe baby.
I'm gagaing.

When I was a child, I was told to be good,
We were never the most amazing children forward from conception.
We tried to please. Compliments were scarce, but not unnoticed.

In my disengaging years, I was clever enough in school to pass (all but one or two usually did). I'm into life-long learning. I didn't get to grade two because I was seven.

It was never suggested that I might be the smartest, most prodigious brain in school, any school in any district in North America. No one framed my finger paintings and straw art.

I was okay in sports. Most sports. Never got a Participants' Ribbon. Make the team or get cut. Pass the ball or get benched. My parents never knew the coach's name, usually didn't know where the game was played. Do something else. Practice. Oh, and the medals, trophies and team pictures are lots of fun.
And, you will handle them every so often, and remember...

Later, I found out I wasn't ugly. I've my share of blemishes, but there are plenty of kisses and dates out there to go around. Trust me.
I wasn't described as David, recently stepped off his dais, or, the heartbreak of thousands, the man you want to be in the mirror. Actually, we all look much like yourself... the same.

No one told us to be clever with money. That, if it existed, belonged to my parents. I didn't get any. I did take out some garbage cans for two old girls on Tuesdays, for fifteen cents. Ask Boomers about their jobs. There's lots of stories about earning money.

We belonged to the Age of Entitlement. Grew and matured expecting a good education, a fair wage for a fair job, a planet to live on with some intermitent world peace.
You are entitled to the same, Dear Millenials.
The same way. It works wonders.
And don't tell anyone (especially your kids) they're ******* Royalty.
We know how Majesty ends.

If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.

I have two brains inside my head,
Sharing thoughts in synoptic threads;
Sifting what's been heard or read;
Random, weird, or rational doubts,
They get crowded, some fall out.

Like mustard seeds some fall near stones,
And wither away before full grown;
Un-liked, un-loved, barely a hit,
Not to pass our reader's lips.

       Have I sown more *******?

Some scatter near the thorny bush,
The root is strong, but growth gets crushed;
It seems I can't discriminate
What readers like and what they hate.

       I need re-evaluate: Am I writing for writing's sake?

Some thoughts find richness firmly grounded,
The how and why leaves me confounded;
But the ideas blossom, some are priceless,
A palate treat with figurative spices.

       Now, this is more to my reader's liking.

After many, many storms,
There's a singular leaf
Still hanging on.
Shaking and twisting
With an arthritic hold
On one bare branch.
It doesn't seem likely
This leaf will remain.
Today I'm gripping
The same.

A hit!
     That's it!

A like!
     Might spike.

A comment!
     An event.

A collection!
     Not done.

A repost!
     Thanks host.

A trend!
     Near the end.

The Daily.
     Mais, Oui!

I shooed a June bug
Off my front screen door;
The freighters' fog horns
Roll on The Huron and St. Clair.
The mist rises like incense
From the black tar on Spartan,
Still a warm May drizzle drifts tonight,
Anointing gardens and lawns.
And Beulah, my new magnolia,
Blossomed yellow for me this year.
But Brigid and Ophelia,
Heralded my Spring,
Brought warmth and light,
With a fresh green lease to everything.

Jack entered centre stage
With a flourish,
And a wooden spoon,
To a stainless steel home,
Gilded in precious metals.
His lineage was confirmed.
He would become
A stationary salesman,
Bent under the weight
Of headboards and showrooms.
Nesting tables would be
His succor.
But, there was a sideline
Of coffins in the adjoining parlor,
And Jack was schooled
In the features
For prospective clients..
Too young for overseas duty,
Jack was an apprentice wanderer for
Forty wilderness years,
Selling, dealing.
He raged,
But never struck out
In anger.
Jack is embedded
In the peripheral.
We don't know Jack.

When I'm not content
In my skin,
I identify with
My animal kin.
I think outside
The box,
Can be as sly
As the fox,
Sturdy as the ox.
I'll be resilient
As a rat,
Or purr and prowl
As a cat.
I'll be small
As flies on walls,
Avoiding webs,
Hearing all.
Be as stubborn
As a mule,
Laugh like hyenas,
Look like the fool;
When I lack
Self-confidence,
My wise old hoots
Can make more sense.
Once she goaded
Me to fight;
But I stood my groud,
Like a deer in lights.
At times I'm gentle
As a lamb,
Or slippery as an eel;
And if I find you need hope,
I'll be tethered like a goat.
If I don't get my fair share,
I'll not be your Pooh bear.
When I'm pleased to share my share,
I'll give my all, den and lair.
Should you find
Your world callous,
I'll share the milk
Of human kindness.
I'll spread my wings,
See me soar,
And claw my way
Back to humanity.

I will not write on lost love,
But do rim shots on a drum.
Blow a flourish at your exit,
Sounding the fury you left.
I hope you hear how well I'm doing.
I can roast baby back ribs,
Add softener,
Keep a clean kitchen sink.
I think I could birth now,
And do just about anything a woman can.
I am male. A man.
I need remind myself
After public emasculation
For the unbridled innateness
Which is sometimes us.
We are heading towards equality,
Finally, and,
When all is said and done,
Keep the ribs.

I am love's *****,
An untouchable, and
Alone.
I once anticipated the moisture
From your lips,
To find compassion
Looking back.
I shared the food you brought,
At arm's length.
I am dis-eased,
Laden with our sins,
Chased away to wonder.
I've left my fallen fingerprints
Where you
Once let me touch.

When I turned the key on the house
I anticipated my return.
A protracted absence ensues.
The air behind is trapped, absorbed my everything.
Heavy and lush as the garden.
Feet-weary carpets rebound.
Plants watered, counters subdued.
Traps baited in favorite niches.
Spiders already weaving like a sweatshop.
The kettle will sing again.
My legs will be elevated.
Home again from thousands of miles,
Planning my next getaway.

The man on the cross
Wears a ****** mask
Of eternal pains.
The god behind the pantomime
Smiles with eternal gains;
He has inside knowledge
Of our temporal life.

One little
Two little
Three little students
Running home from school.
Four little
Five little
Six little students
Not paying attention to rules.
Seven little
Eight little
Nine little students
They're playing on the street.
Let's make sure
Our little students
Have a safe summer break.
Oh, and by the way,
All ten little students
Made it home today.

I was born
With white privilege;
Irish ethnicity at that.
Remember their holocausts!
Occupied, evicted, brutalized, lynched, starved, hedge-scbooled, and,
Refugeed on their own land,
And on and on, and so on
For seven hundred years.
These things were before my time,
But not my Granda's.
It's so very true,  I was born with white privilege,
But not with white entitlement.

I hear a disembodied voice,
It doesn't sound like mine.
I hear it in home movies,
We hear it all the time.
A voice over voice,
Narrating your lifetime
From Summer to Spring
Dancing, playing,
Standing, speaking,
Praying.

I filmed you blowing candles,
Unwrapping Christmas joys,
On celluloid in Mother's arms,
With girlfriends and with boys.
You're sitting on your Granda's knee,
Granny's there too pouring tea.
There's cousins, sisters, aunts and uncles,
Everyone's filmed with your cuddles.
That's you on stage,
On the field,
In a rage,
Or a cartwheel.

Then you're singing,
Packing, leaving.

For thirty years
You've been my focus,
Never out of frame;
Never blurred,
Never obscured,
My eye was on the game.

Years ahead,
When I'm dead,
You will watch these too;
But you may wonder
As you view,
I hear his voice,
But where
Are you?

Take solace from sol;
The icicles are long,
And elongating.

Be sure you get a house
With an attic.
Basements can be dug up,
But attics burn down.

I hate love
When forced
To say
Good-bye.

On the coldest day
We'll try ice-fishing,
In warm huts
Without winter's sting.

On the snowiest day
We'll try ski-doing
Through bare woods
Leaf-thick in spring.

On clear winter days
Try ice-parachuting,
Skate on ponds,
Wiggle like angels
On our lawns.

Don't sit inside
And fret and mope,
Grab a sled,
Hit the slopes.
Winter activities
Help us cope
Til we break
Winter's back.
Yes,
Til we hear
The final crack.

The sheep are shorn.
The lambs have flown.
The rams are caged.
The ewes left alone.

The fleece now woven on foreign shores,
And the toilets are flushed,
Filling sewers strewn with rebel nails.

Near embers of tri-coloured blazes
We hear yarns of ancient wages,
Now spinning in their graves.

Our heirs have no airs of their own.
No promises kept for mothers weeping.
There is no wool on the wheel at home.

The keypad is the abattoir,
The counter a barred cage.
John Barry faces East,
The Rebel faces West:
One for reliance,
One for defiance.
All wait in requiem silence.

The Dailys wrap the Dail
Stained with lamb's blood.

You dream.
You dream like me.
I dream.
I dream of you.
Submit.
Admit to twilight swirls,
You dream,
You dream like me.

During the night,
Out of the blue,
Not always,
Yet always,
In the most unusual settings:
The dreamer and the dream concur
The reality is not so sure.

There's those you expect to see,
Leaning into conversations;
There's others there
We want to talk to,
The scene eludes you,
Trying to get through.

The conversatin goes nowhere:
A room full of comfort people
We're surprised to see.

We think it not quite possible,
But the talk makes us believe
These unreal cacophones,
You see,
You dream,
I dream too.

Poor wee me
When I was wee,
I used to sit on my mother's knee;
Her apron tore,
I fell to the floor,
Poor wee me when I was wee.

Poor young me when I was young,
The song's of youth are those I'd sung;
Songs of love that since have gone,
Poor young me when I was young.

Poor middle me back some years,
I worked and worried, drank whiskey and beer;
Paid my way and prospered here,
Poor middle me back some years.

Poor me today, poor me will stay,
For many poor years to come;
For I've things to do, places to go,
With granddaughters and grandsons.

Easter's over.
I rose to the occassn.
More than once.

It's a happy mouse
Trapped in your hold.
Snap!
I'm enwrapped
In rapture.

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 honoured 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
Canadian pulses beat taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

It's 2 a.m.
The phone rings.
It rings differently,
You lift it gingerly,
Afraid to say, Hello.
Hello, this is Sgt. B.D. Gnus.
May I speak with
Mr. or Ms. Mel/Ann Colley.
A minute later,
All you hear is the dial tone,
And a thud
In you head,
And a rattle
In your chest.

The White House is an inverse reflection
Of the matter/anti-matter chamber:
It's Not, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
No. It's, The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
What matters matters.

The hands have moved.
The sun is up and down.
Stars shift.
Tides advance and recede.
Trees add rings.
Winter over. Spring here.
The oven is pre-heated.
The oil change is due.
But time with you
Is immeasureable.

The Ash Tree is metaphor
For the disappeared;
Like Mayans,
Liberals and fair play.
Nasties bore through
Looking to survive.
Not for ivory or painted fur,
Not for all the cod.
Check out the bins behind restaurants,
The methane valves in neighbourhoods,
Geysers in Bear Creek,
Toddlers vanishing into preshcool,
The tainted years of our elders,
The ones who've failed to launch.
Fire, not water,
Urns, not coffins.
I think of these as I water my tomatoes,
Not for survival,
For sanity.

I stook in naked thought
Beneath the waterfall spout,
With the quiet roar
Cascading over my ears,
And the hot water
Massaging the tenseness
Away from my deep thoughts,
When one swam to the front
About Three Parent Babies.
The procedure is reproduceable,
And the bio-ethics is someone else's concern
Who knows more than me.

I am concerned about the
33% better chance we have
To ****-up the kid
Before age thirteen.

I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.

          I should feel slighted.
          Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
          Bacon tastes good, is good.
          The surgery is booked.
          The schools are over-cooked.

The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.

I yet adhere to the one.
Can't find the replacement.
I've loved in many darkened rooms,
Yet still believe in one.
Is there any other?
Now gone. Not dead.
Therein lies my difficulty,
Knowledge that lives on,
Beyond reach,
Beyond hope,
But lined up next to fear,
Still after all these years.
She presented well,
I accepted graciously.
She slipped into retreat,
I tripped hard,
And slid off into the wild.

Do you believe
In life after death?
Do you believe
In life after birth?
Do they share
The same consciousness,
Or do we
Consciously share
The same dream.

Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.

Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.

I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.

Mindless
Wandering
Drivel.
Watching a fly
Buzz against
The pane;
Dustwebs fluttering,
Outside sputtering,
Scribbling on a page.
I want to engage
The rage;
Drip red,
Smear words,
Write a dirge.

Mindless
Wandering
Drivel.

I hold the pen
In my hand
Like a knife,
Ready
For a good
Blood-letting.