I cashed in my hard-earned youth
On you.
I'm emotionally bankrupt,
Overdrawn on account of you.
There are insufficient funds in the vault
For future investments.
Besides, you have the combination;
So, I wait for a safe *******
With the velvet touch.

They come on like small shocks,
Like faulty neon lights,
Gauche in purple, and bright.
Memory. Blinking OFFf and ON.
I follow them like the swimmer,
Thinking to rest on the lake buoy,
But finding it too slippery;
Not panicking, but worried,
Then turning.

Stuff and things get sold or razed,
Re-zoned or re-engineered.

I can't walk those streets and places,
Not in life or memory.
I'm better off
Staying out of the lake.
And under the neon light'

Turn up my colar to the cold and damp.

I assume the alleyway is there,
Where we left it;
And the five towering pines,
Like young brothers,
Slap branches at one another,
And grow in the winds.

I don't have
A portrait
Draped in my empty attic;
But I have
A rear-view mirror
To reflect back all my antics.
I see them strewn
Across the road,
Drivers swerve
To avoid these loads.
I've littered streets
With vices,
Discarded sharpened axes,
Hewed at those
Who've loved me
With remorse;
Regrets, I carry
In my trunk,
Like junk
They take up space.
I haven't room
For my spare,
Emergency flares
Or personal cares.
So, I stare straight
Out my windshield,
Convince myself
I'm healed,
I buttress nerves of steel,
And continue down my road.
Like all good drivers
I check my mirrors,
And there I see
Red lights draw nearer.
I should take up
Portrait painting
To cover up
My shame.
I am guilty;
I've not
Been framed.

Did you have a place
As a child,
A spot to hide
For a little while,
Until your fears could subside?
A shack, a tree, a copse or cubby,
A niche away
From your toils and trouble.
Reach back through the mists of time,
Re-visit that place and there you'll find
The peace you found
When you were a child.

Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.

Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber;
Their branches hold in silhouette
Crowning stars that brightly sit.

Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us out from home.

Stars held in place with poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glint red and green.

These lights, that through our windows stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams.

My words are hard to handle;
They shift and shape in time.
It's  cool to be rad,
To chill and veg sublime.

Some just reach and grab the crotch,
And twerk while in their ******;
Majorettes smile in knee high boots,
Flirting with the lenses.

Some other words come easily;
The ones used every day.
Texting's being phased out
With a smiling yellow face.

I have fewer words today;
This makes life hard for me;
The many times I write Love
Is nearing Eternity.

Yet isn't this all I need-
That one Eternal chord;
Love is love forever,
Never ending as the Word.

If I heard you say
Let's steal away
Tomorrow;
Let's drop the pretence
Of lies;
Let the missing years
Fade to memory's mist,
And put to rest
The best years
Of our lives.

I wouldn't ask,
But let tomorrow's
Light come soon.
It's a day
Ahead of me;
I'd look forward
To midnight
And to noon,
Savouring every hour
In between.

I will wish
Today away;
Say good-bye
To yesteryears.
To all their fears,
And late night sweats
And tears, and
Embrace tomorrow's
Promising surprise.

Let's steal away
Like looters,
Thieving all
That's left.

I came to see an alligator, lizard or a toad,
Drove along the waters to the Tamiami Road.
We took our time to see the myths all about the park,
But still I wanted desperately,
To hear the gators bark.

Watched the dawning day arrive
Above the mossy trees,
Watched the night herald morn,
Tasted the salty breeze.
We lived a captive life
Along the shell shod shores;
Traded time for trinkets,
Shopped the main street stores.

We oiled our bodies near
The alligator swamp;
Waited bated near
The large tortoise hole;
We didn't see the turtle,
Didn't see the shell;
So looking for the gators,
Remained our only goal.

We heard one lived in the lake,
Invisible in his lair;
Eating shanked golf *****,
Go on look, if you so dare.
We watched from a distant bank,
With each kerplunk,
Our odyssey sunk.

We searched further down
The TamiamiTrail;
Studied bees in their hives,
Awed by the order we saw there,
Made us more alive.

We wandered lost in orange groves
Perfuming winding trails;
But we never saw a gator,
We never saw a tail.

So, if you want to see some gators,
Skip the Tamiami Trail.

I keep well abreast of the news.
It's hard not to. Can't quite turn it off.
I'm not sure I would.
It's everywhere.
So many sources bring it to me.
I bear up.
I write about it... constantly.
It's painfully intriguing.
I rubber neck like a bobble head
At all our goings on.
And I'm selfish.
I want things to work out
Without my money.
I'll give away all my prayers.
I've been offered money for my vote.
Keep your cash.
I don't trust the YMCA. or the Credit Union.
Too many pick-pockets.
They'd sell children at half price for a gallon.
The homeless already have the prime real estate
When the money runs out.
But it's not about money.
And by then, it won't matter.

The disembodied radio host asked:
If you could live a past experience,
What would you choose?
I searched my far and recent memories.
What would it be?
Some thought ensued...
Then some more.
A week's gone by. Here's why.
Seven days ago...
I'd like, I thought, to bumper-jump
In four inch snow.
Then six days ago...
The tender, innocent, inviting experience
Of my most amazing, surprising and tantalizing
First Kiss.
Then five days ago...
My university years. They happened once.
Then four days ago...
Achieving a pleasing place with my avocation.
Then three days ago...
The first born, second born, third born. Daddyhood.
Then two days ago...
My happy and contented first day of retirement.
One day ago...
A Guiness and a shot of Jameson. Grandahood.
And today?
What would I like to re-experience...
Many more days
Like today.

When I uncapped my pen,
My favourite verse flew out.

I want to write a Christmas poem,
But the muse ain't in the mood;
I look outside, it seems like Spring.
I really think I'm *******.

There's not a flake of snow out there,
The sun shines in the blue;
I believe the squirrels are copulating.
I really think I'm *******.

Our geese stayed North again this year,
Our fauna's still in view;
It's hard to spot the cardinals;
I really think I'm *******.

There's lights strung round houses,
With inflatables on the lawns;
They're out of place,
Look crude and rude;
I really think I'm *******.

I'm not hearing silver bells
From sleighs running over snow;
It's a wonder we call this winter,
In Ontariario.

But... the tree is up,
The gifts well-wrapped
With Love and Best Wishes too;
So, in lieu of surely being *******,
This verse will have to do.

Weren't you told,
Some time ago,
A picture's worth a thousand words.
Well I can show with a click or two,
A thousand pics for each word you choose.

That's what they call themselves,
They make tea and meals,
Clean up after too;
Use the washer,
And everything else,
Things that guests don't do.
I wouldn't call them house guests,
They're way more than that
To me;
Guests will knock on my front door,
These ones walk right through.
I know each one intimately,
They're family to me.

I'm a sinner,
Our boy's a swimmer;
Pray for us.

I crave to man handle
Lads in our *** scandal;
Pray for us.

My hub's a ******,
Pleads, L'amour toujours;
Pray for us.

We seek your affection,
Count our Sunday collection;
Pray for us.

We drink golden showers,
Are massaged for hours;
Pray for us.

On our private jet,
We ***, drink and fete;
Pray for us.

You don't know squat
Till you Manage a trois;
Pray for us.

We are rich,
And white as hell;
And richer now
That we fell.

Pray for us all.

In the middle
Of a farmer's field,
Newly plowed
And sprouting yield,
Three turkey vultures
Shared a meal
Of something black
With great appeal.
They cleared away
Winter's offal,
Doing what
For them was natural.
I eyed with awe
How they conspired,
Before feathers splashed
In smoke and fire.

I oftimes write
To ensure I still can.
Ergo. This.

This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.

I ripped the curtains
Off the window,
Tore the carpet
Off the floor,
I kow what I am looking for.

I emptied cupboards
And sideboards,
Cleaned out the basement,
Checked my stores,
I know what I am looking for.

I searched the attic
And the shed,
Was it all
Just in my head?
I hear you,
Feel you,
Know you're here;
I know what I am looking for.
Yet Poe's one word keeps haunting me:
*Nevermore.

Dear Dear:

I heard you're not well, and I'm sorry as hell. Nobody, not me, not anyone we know, could see it coming. Was it metastasized kindness with a primary worry; some say eroded patience and promises, a tightening of throat, are systemic symptoms of a body of hope.  I can send you the quote:

                               Drs. say excessive and extensive heart
                               failure is brought on by an over-exposure
                               to caring, and hence, is co-existent with
                               the rapacious spread of the disease.
                               Fortunately we've isolated the hosts.

I was sorry as hell to hear you're not well, and I asked,
Why you, not another?
But your immune to such an infectious question.
And Dear, I'm sad to say,  there's no remedy. You're  stricken with being a mother.

Excuse me,
Could you please
Watch me
Take my picture.

I enjoy the snow,
Looking from the window.

I applaud the speakers,
Listening to my radio.

I get excited watching sports,
Calling plays from my armchair.

I feel the strain of athletes
At the Olympic trials,
Cheering from the side.

I don't cast my vote by proxy.
I am present, and I am toxic.

The collective elective
Threw a bag of human waste
On the White House steps,
Torched it,
And stuck around to watch it burn
Live,
On TV.

No bells are ringing.
Rumors are swirling.
Was he drunk or drugged;
Talked with girls about boys;
Thought a failure at home;
Seen sitting alone?
Was he ill-at-ease;
Had a terminal disease;
Was he love-sick, forlorn,
Or just out of season?

          He paid the toll.
          Switched on the flashers.
          Made a splash.
          No tell. No knell.

          I'm told he surfaced,
          Yelled something
          Like, *Don't ask.

I must walk away
Til I reach a place
Where the world ends;
Where the sky meets.
Especially at night,
I'd see shooting stars-
Brief as they are.
I'll start out barefooted,
Bring coffee and some cigs.
So, I begin.

Distance dwindles,
I focus on a silhouetted outline,
Always, as a dream...
Just ahead of me.

I recognize a gait from behind.
Siren-like, then me.
And I walk to catch-up,
Walking from everything,
With the end of my world.

I dreamt love sent three kisses
Across the world to me.
She blew them from my homeland,
Across the expanse of sea.

Her first caressed
A southern breeze,
And wet an unknown shore.
There strangers slept,
Awoke, I wept,
That kiss was meant for me.

Her second swirled
On a wandering wave,
Was carried far from me,
Where it landed
On another man,
Far from the Irish Sea.

In morning rains
I stare at stones
Outside my cottage door;
The magpies flock,
They seem to mock:
"There's only one kiss more."

I'll get some rest
On that last kiss
With eyes part open,
Lips cracked,
Not broken,
When that kiss
Finds me.

The world across the street
Is a world apart
When you're four.
Cross, and walk
To four corners.

Four years of high school,
Perhaps followed by college,
We yearn to commence.
But for the rest of our lives
We relive those vaulted years,
Pining for them
To re-commence.

Then came the real world,
Of life and family.
I became a man.
Achieved all I dreamt.
Now I'm in danger
Of re-hashing
Lived events.
New reaches are needed
To excede new grasps;
The future's ahead,
Behind is the past.

The perfect verse,
The one that would resonate,
Cannot be written.
Not by Chaucer, or you,
Not by the rood or sickle,
Not by notes or dances,
Or brush and ink,
Clay or marble,
Any substance, any tool.
But it's there, inside,
Giving us a splitting headache,
Trying to get through the crack.

When you’re alone,
Or with others,
Enjoy the poems
Between these covers.

Poems of love and hope,
Praise and pride,
The times we laughed,
The times we cried.

Through the years,
From birth till now,
We grew in number,
And thrived somehow.

Your natural talents
And acquired skills,
Fill my pages
With timely thrills.

You weren’t entitled,
You didn’t squander,
You earned the prizes
For your endeavours.

Read now how it came together.

Should poets be like good Romans,
And fall on their pens
When they loose the fight;
Or should we take flight,
To write another day?

Our yesterdays are foreign shores,
With unusual customs.
Among us are worm-holers,
Using foreign words
Like Whitey, ******, *****, Indian.
Archaic phrases,
A woman's place...
A child should...
Are you a man...
Our boundaries have shifted.
Isolationism, provincialism, racism,
All derogatory isms
Are placed in a time capsule,
Not to be opened by this civilization,
This new country for ex-pats.

You left off
Your ambiguous secrets,
Your coyness,
Your arbitrariness
When you cut
With sharpened pencils,
And dripped heavy
Leaden words
Down.

There's a darkness tempting you,
I stood still, thinking why
You'd be gone so soon.
I collected my things, my cap and mac,
And you said, Don't go just yet.

Go where?

You slapped your ruby gloves
Against your outstretched palm;
You turned that look of regret;
Then was heard what we knew was absurd:
Please, don't go just yet.

It's drop dead sad
When someone dies,
And you can't pretend
Through dry eyes,
Or even breathe
A grieving sigh
You give a ****!
But you do.
Deep down you wish
He'd do it again.

She rides the bus
Near a window,
To watch her world
Blur by;
She sits alone
At the back,
Distracted when she cries.
She grabs her bags of bags
When de-boarding at her stop,
Then sits on her cold wet bench
For her return ride.

She has tomato red lips,
And kale green eyes,
Strawberry cheeks,
And warm earthy thighs.
I tend to her daily,
My garden of delight,
And I'll harvest
My labor of love
Tonight.

I want to remark
On my disease;
It's not as obvious
As a sneeze,
Or an allergy to cheese.
It's not profound
As cancer,
But will lay me in the ground.
It's worse than an itch,
Though that's part of it,
I can't stop scratching.
I look the picture of health,
You'd never know I'm sick,
Until you get a whiff.
But I am,
Bottle or can.
****... there's no pill to take,
And the cocktail doesn't work.
The worse part of all,
Those who say they love me,
Think that I'm a ****.
I'm not.
I'm sick.

I've been struggling
To create a poem
With the fewest words.
Once I got down to one word:
"Yes."
That's it, "Yes."
Now, I have accomplished the unthinkable,
For me,
A minimalist's Eden.
A no word poem.
Here it is
(except for the title)


                          History of Our Planet
...ooooooooooooooooooOOooooooooooooooooo...

Those of you
In warmer climes
Haven't a clue
What frozen pipes do.
No shower, no tea.
And the log jams
Have my face flushing.

We deserve sounding boards of truth,
Not sponges of deception.

My head is full of lies, equivocations and beguiling stories.
Who can I trust?
The poor?
The limb-lost warrior?
Residents in Cell Block A through Z?
Patients found out but can't breathe.

We must be sound,
And let the voices of truth echo.

Hmn………………………..  I see what you mean. I'm thinking on it.
Mn. .................................……I'm not sure I agree.
Mn hmm....………………… Totally agree. Yes, let's go forward.
Huh....……………………... Whaaaaaaaaaaaat
Uh huh...........................……...Ok. I'm listening, but let me talk.
Tsk Tsk....……………………I don't approve of anything you say.
Um.....………………………..Let me think about it. I'll get back to you.

Watch
While you have eyes.
Breathe
While you taste the air.
Walk
With your head inclinced.
Touch
With care.
Things
Make sense this way.
Age
Like sleep is stealthful,
Putting the unfeeling
To rest.
Like a woman
Walking away with sway;
You say:
I used to remember such things.

Street plows
Push snow waves
To douse
My shovelled drive.

This flower
In the dark
Of night,
With petals
Of carnal delight,
Like Venus, snaps
To hold one tight;
Repeats
The feast
In morning light.

A trout, going about its fish business
In the stream, breathing and searching,
Is distracted, then attracted
By the flash of the lure;
A fly, an easy meal, languishing on the surface.
But the real story is on shore,
Reeling.

Our heros keep exiting the stage,
Leaving us their music, art, film, and literature.
Their athletic accomplishments,
Their political discretions,
And hidden battlescars,
Their scientific and medical wonders.
Our ancestors left us the wheel and fire,
The family unit and our extended compatriots.
A good lineage always starts in the cave,
And helps us make it through the night.

Guy was a real roust-a-bout:
Drinking, drugging, *******;
Not coming home;
Not leaving home.
Yes, he was troubled,
He was a handful.
But he looks so good,
And the arrangements
Are splendid.
We take turns
Congealing over him
To conceal scars.
Sorry for your troubles,
Then and now.

You're too long
Calling;
Too long texting;
Be long by the fire,
Belong to burning desire.
Don't be long away,
For you belong to me.

There's a sleeping giant
On the floor,
Snoring, blocking
All the doors.
I tip-toe 'round the
Massy bulk,
Lest he wake up hungry,
And I'm the morsel
He first sees.
There's a pillow 'neath
His massive head,
The mirror fogs,
So he's not dead.
He sleeps, yawns,
Grinds yellow teeth,
Flutters eyelids,
Causing grief.
Smoke exhales
As he breathes
Through his nose,
Which makes him sneeze
And stretch his limbs,
Then he rolls over
On his chin
To expose his naked neck.
I should grab
A shiny axe
And give that giant
One clean whack,
Put his head in a gunney sack
And bury it in the garden,
Between the rows of corn,
To fester for the worms.
I'd take the body
To the lake,
Weigh it down
And let it sink.
Then we children
Would sleep well,
The sleeping giant
Sleeps in hell.