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.

Thin ice;
A roll of dice;
A crack,
Then over
My head.

A slippery *****;
A crag of hope;
A boom,
Then avalanche.

Egg shells strewn;
Troubles
Brewing;
Down,
But still not out.

Thinking for myself was one of the first things I did.
I had original thoughts.
It was like *******.
Done alone, in silence. Easy and reliable.
If help was necessary,
There was a pictorial in National Geographic;
Last years Christmas Catalogue,
Or Supergirl,
Flying skyward with one knee cocked.
To think was to develop, to grow into maturity.
Best results were achieved by turning off.
That's hard to do, but doable.
Unplug your podcast ears;
Turn down the Foxbits;
Start your own Blog.
We can think for ourselves
To avoid Jihads, insurrections and revolutions,
Unless,
We think them necessary to clear our heads.

April showers,
And freezing temps
Have festooned our trees
With crystal chimes.
Breezes move the limbs
In a clear symphony of spring.
I've never been endeared
To chimes.

I admit, in writing,
I like my work read
Aloud.
So why do I cower
In dread,
When I hear it read
Before family and friends
At celebrations
For the living and dead.

I crossed the line,
Learned to despise;
It wasn't the plan,
Just my disguise.
I saw the loss grow
Through your eyes.
You looked at me
With such regret;
You thought I'd finished,
But I wasn't yet.
Red flags flapped,
You raised the white;
No more cave-ins,
No more fights.
I found it hard to accept;
You thought I was done,
But I wasn't done yet.
Seasons passed,
Years followed through;
I can't see
What I saw in you.
We're not strangers,
We're not friends,
But should you need me
Near the end,
I'll be standing there.

Cold sores never leave the body.
They are grafted into the being,
And become a hybrid life,
A symbiotic thing, perhaps a protective shield
From the unwanted, unsolicited other.
A wart, on the other hand,
Can be frozen, or, with the likes of you,
Repeated Compound W.

The lone pebble
Thrown waywardly
Into the pond,
Cascaded,
Rippled in my mind,
Splashed over
Like lines in verse.

For all you've done and said,
The care and understanding,
All the unsaid and undone
Makes my response sound trite.
I could paste wings on your photos,
Create an award in your name,
Establish a child sweatshop,
Radicalize the altar boys,
Trade up to a ******'s rifle,
Join a Cartel,
Put granulated sugar in your tea,
Vote Conservative,
And even then,
After the fire,
I'd be at a loss for words.

May I take this opportunity to be plain and simple.
I've learned by speaking less, listening little,
Reading and watching more.
Let's begin with the beginning, something simple,
Birth.
It's universal, a de facto truism.
We've caused it, done it, feared, dreaded, cherished it.
Birth is like unto us a parable.

Which brings me to religion. From being ditch water
to the moon landing and beyond, we've pursued the ideal through
knowledge. One  of our earliest stories tells we paid dearly for it
too; otherwise we'd have grasped thunder and forgone tresspassing on foreign lands.
A favorite quotation convincingly talks about turning into dust. I've seen the hate and violence, and the bodies unearthed weren't even dust. The ragged clothing looked more like us. I think the most confusing quote is about being in an afterlife with your body.
Why? Who you gonna swim with?  

                  Vestal ****** ******. Maintains an Eternal *******.

The poet said, Why worry about death. There's nothing to
worry about.
Hmmm!

So, then, what's up with death?
Well, what I know for sure, is that it's a lot like birth,
With one fatal difference.

I add one word: Let the [orange] blowt king tempt you again...

I'm watching leaves blow
On my lawn;
Praying more blow off
Than on.

I appear unexpectedly,
For no apparent reason;
And I begin a conversation
You've waited for.
You're reticent when I speak,
When I sit in a familiar chair
In a room we both know;
Where I don't belong.

I've no control over my visits,
No more than yours.
Others are peripherally present,
With marbled voices.

Your focus is me,
Wondering why I'm there.
Do I move to your blind spot, occasionally?
I am invasive and untoward.
I am not plasma, a phantasm or apparition.
I emerge from the mist to your surprise.
     What are you doing here?
I ask the same when you visit,
Yet I love to see you, relaxed, intwined.
You treat me as an old friend
With inquiries and interest.

I have so much to confess to you,
But you're disinterested in past failures.
Someone interrupts us,
You leave,
Through the same ethereal.

If you called to say you were coming
For a visit,
I'd get no sleep.

It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?

I won't drink your bourbon.

         Well, I won't buy your beer.

I won't ride your Harleys.

         Oh Yeah. Well, our cars don't need your wheels.

Says who?

          Says you.

Did not!

          Did too!

No way, Jose.

          I'm telling.

You're a scaredy-cat.

          I know you are but what am I?

You're a *******.

          I'm rubber and you're glue.

If you love it so much, why don't you marry it.

          It takes one to know one.

Will not!

Will too!!

La la la la la la la. I'm not listening.

George moved
Me humming
His garage sale blues,
Selling stuff
He'll never use.
I'll miss George
Like an older brother;
I told him as much
And got a cheap snow-blower.

Wrap those arms around yourself,
It's a boost for mental health.
Embrace all feelings when alone,
Then hug until you reach your bones.
Squeeze until it's hard to breathe,
Slowly release and know relief.

Now wrap your brain around yourself;
Unbind the belt cinching sense,
The straight jacket 'round your head;
Buckled and strapped,
It fits like skin;
Too much penance for all our sins.
Unravel the sticking, needling voice,
Whispering...

I have no choice.

It's not because you're lacking wealth,
Family, friends or stable health,
But one's perception of oneself.

Don't wrap your neck inside a noose,
Or shoot yourself with an overdose;
Don't splay yourself on a subway track...

I wonder would I feel that.

Leave Daddy's gun locked in its holster;
Hold high your chin while treading water;
Stand still on bridge, cliff or ledge,
You won't hit bottom til you're dead.

Da's  an ***** grinder,
Grinding heart and tongue;
Bull pizzles for his daughters,
Ewe livers for his sons.
Cranking in the summer kitchen,
Out of the morning sun.
He strings savory sausages
That please most everyone.

Mammy's in the smoke house
Anticipating some;
Mammy cooks when Daddy grinds,
She likes a little tongue.

You
   can             shine
a     light
          on        me;
          yes      please
            brighten                    up
    my                   day
           just send
   five
   bucks
    my
    way.

Some nights I spiral up
to my wormhole dreams
and stay
till morning light
people that have left
are there
some still here there too
travelling at the speed of time
that holds you present
to surprise me
with a childish kiss
but the lack of light
the room inhabited
I was distracted
being close to you
in the stillness of your sight

Mammy's favorite colour was red.
Cycle red. New born red. Deep cuts red.
And roses.

Daddy preferred earth colour.
New potato patene, manure mix,
And bottle brown.

We all knew green-eyed envy,
White-flag truces and surrenders.
Black somber calls in the pitch of night.
The passion of purple,
Serenity of blue wounds.
The orange hues of morning and evening
Where anticipation and destination meet.

It's finally come to this...
"I just don't get it!"

This winter's first snow came tonight,
And it falls like moon feathers,
No wind to sharpen the edges,
A snow-globe pillow-fight,
Streetlights smudged,
Rockwell houses, tundra streets.
Known as the ****** snow,
No squirrel or footprints
On my porch steps;
I need re-fill my gas can.
I'll give it twenty more minutes.

I, in my vanity,
Felt sympathy
For my writer brother;
Chained like a pen
In a bank.
Now, I feel empathy
With non sufficient funds.

By being
Individual
Beats
Of a
Universal Heart,
Our actions
Prevent
Arrhythmia.

You're like a bird
The way you unload
Before flying off.

This time of year,
When trees go bare
And snow covers our ground,
I come down
With a seasonal disease...
Weeks prior to Christmas Eve.

The onset is a distant twinkle
Shimmering in the deep;
That gives me such a nuanced twitch...
I itch to hang a wreath.

And when I sneeze,
I'm joyfully pleased
To shop for such and stuff.
I horde it in a secret place,
Then worry I've not enough.

When my muscles get tired and weak,
My back gets bent and sore,
When my body starts to sweat...
I await the seasonal cure.

I'll run a fever, hullucinate,
Take to my bed and wait.
Don't present me meds,
Don't ring me up a nurse,
I'll protest and rave.
This winter ailment,
This gifting curse,
My present proclivity,
Will only break
Come Christmas morn.
Oh Come, Oh Come Nativity.

Don't greet me
When we meet.
Don't look into my eyes.
Don't say, Hi.
Don't tell me how you're doing.
I'll do my best
To do the same.
I'll just close my eyes
When I say your name.

Don't chase
After happiness;
Wait,
And it will
Catch up.

I have a true story. Unbelievable, but true.
You have one too.
This too is true.
It's so unbelievable I can't tell you,
As you cannot tell me.
I think mine more far-fetched,
And you think the same of yours.
You wouldn't believe me,
I won't believe yours,
Even though yours is probably more believable.

It's a secret, but not a secret,
Because I want to but won't tell it...
Because who'd believe it.
They'd sooner believe in voodoo... not true.
Why tell a truth none believe.
It has a dangerous intrinsic result.
What personal good is found
In crosses, nooses and needles.
There's truth there, but refutable truth.
Unbelievable truth.
There's the sticking point.

I'm scared.
I'm silent.

It helps me understand broken hearts and crushed spirits.
The lonely, hungry lost stories of the unfathomable.
Believe me. Don't believe me.
The result's the same.

Legends, myths, folklore tales grow
Because the whole truth went untold,
And mixed with a partial lie,
Becomes our reality.

So, I'm reticent to share mine.
I'm open to hearing yours,
If it's what you say it is.
But I doubt it.

I first saw John sitting in the third desk of the first row.
I sat in the second, my new jeans cracking,
No curling iron-on patches as of yet.
A pin from my baby blue shirt pricked my neck.
I stepped in red ball Jets, before the soles became flapping tongues,
And the insignia peeled from the ankles.
Our well-used, wooden desks had pull-out drawers for stuff,
And always in need of re-arranging.
We invited our Guardian Angels to sit there, on the wooden drawer.
John sat, with black-rimmed glasses, on his pull out,
Graciously giving up the well-worn seat for his angel.
I liked him already.
His specs fit my sight. I could see the alphabet above the blackboard.
My first friend. Not a brother or sister. Someone who heard me.
Someone I listened to.
He was the oldest of six.
Had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in Canada.
He had instinct. Knew my lacking, shared his relations.
We studied the Catechism, had Confessions, First Communion, altar duties, patrol boy corners, sports, jerks and girls.
We learned to smoke and drink, drive and thrive.
We were Best Men, fathers and grandfathers.
I am not eulogizing John,
But celebrating while alive.
If all goes well,
I'll die before losing him.
But then,
Why would I do that
To my life long friend.

I testify. Testified.
Everyone ,
Including me,
Believes truth will taste better salted.
Salted.
Yet apathy prevails.

She bounces on
My Granda knee,
As I bounced you,
As you bounced me.
Play infant games
Until she's two.
Same as you.

We'll dove-tail hands
On pre-book walks,
She'll feign to listen
While I talk.
Her harlequin senses
Embrace the beauty;
Same as you
When you were three.

We'll attend
Her fav movies;
Engage while
We're snacking fries:
I'll see the light
Light up her eyes.
Same as you
When you were five.

I'll be lucky,
And live long;
I'll be sure
To carry on
Helping her
All along.
The same as you,
And you grew strong.

Sure, it's easy to define life.
Explain everything using the variable,
X.

Whatever I think on a theme
Is somewhere in a song;
I want to muse on something,
That hasn't yet been done.

Political verses aren't much read,
Nor social satire on the quick and dead;
Relationships are switching lanes,
Sparking up or down in flames.
Family, friends, coming, going,
Everybody's naming names.
Any doggerel I might choose,
Is just a story in the news.

Arise and spin where you stand,
You'll get dizzy, you'll be queasy,
I knew this wasn't to be easy.
It's somewhat like a paper cut,
It's quite like that when it starts up,
Hardly noticeable, but for the sting,
But it gets in under the skin.

It's sweetness strong to draw a bee,
Flowery scents on a breeze;
An attraction meant to pull you in,
A stinger poised to pierce your skin.

I have my joys at end of day,
A little sleeper, a swift silent dreamer
That grows like our emotions,
Just needing our endorsements.

It's not been parsed as it could,
Discard the evil, keep the good;
It's in our veins, as sure as blood,
I'll focus all my wit on love.

Suddenly
Our struggle
Matches the effort
Dealing with troubles.
Youth will wane,
Years duly wax, and
Promises are forgotten songs
With hollow echos
Of Tomorrow;
Now that you're gone.

Today, I am reticent;
But when the inevitable call comes,
What will I say?
Will I profess my pent feelings;
Say what needs saying?
Will you embrace without pity?
The call will surely come,
So why hold back, waiting?
Why so taciturn now?
Now hesitating.

I couldn't help but wonder how the day began.
Did he spend precious moments on his knees,
Searching for the toothpaste cap.
Perhaps behind the toilet.
Meanwhile, the wife was going on about her job interview
While changing the baby, when, from down the hall, she hears,
Aha!
I'm sure he looked out the bathroom window and cursed
The snow-packed driveway needing shoveling
Before leaving for the forty minute commute.
His older girl was talking about her weird gymnastics coach,
And he rubbed his cheeks after shaving.
He hardly noticed the clink of coffee brought to rest on the baby-blue  sink.
He was glad he clipped his nose hairs, but paid no heed to the softness of his facecloth.
He poured a re-fill after shoveling, kissed his wife perfunctorily,
And poked the kids.
When I saw the crushed metal at the crossroads,
I wondered if his day began like mine.

They're laying their hands on
Two of everything;
A and B have my mother's chin,
I've seen the pictures,
Though they're still in.
Two bassinets and blankies,
Strollers and onesies,.
Cots, cradles and potties.
And let's not forget *******.
Surely both will be put to the test.
Perhaps alternating could garner some rest.
Those peanuts at present share one shell,
And the bump... well, you should see the swell.
Soon they'll gather and cut the ribbon,
There'll be crying and laughing
At The Grand Opening.

Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.

I won't hear you breathe
During the night.
My left arm is useless,
My hipbones need replacing.
I make three cups of morning tea
When six was once the norm.
When songs we knew so well are heard,
They don't sound the same:
This has gone on far too long,
I'm spinning on refrain.

I won't see your breath
When you're in the winter air;
I can't forget the way you looked
Retiring up the stairs,
You required lead time,
Before you'd be mine,
In the hollowness,
Somehow bottomless,
Heartfelt phantom pains.

I am the collateral damage
Of a riddled, war-torn heart.
Open your borders
That I may find refuge.

There's a patient
In my bed,
There's nothing wrong
Inside her head.
She sleeps restless,
She breathes deep,
There's reason for her
Antic raving,
I understand she's misbehaving.
There, she shakes,
And chills and beads,
Calling names
And personal needs.
I'm no doc, but I'll prescribe
A script to calm her passionate side.
Take two pills,
I'll take mine,
Call in the morn,
Call anytime.

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.
Their 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
Canadian pulses played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

I am deluged with words
With diluvial figurative curves.
I see how a king can pass through
The guts of a beggar:
I don't need to be a melancholy Prince
To understand the string theory
When a worm gets stretched
From ground to beak,
Or the night sky becomes a crossword
Puzzle.
Lakes are pools of tears;
Clouds are bandaids covering
Bleeding dimensions.
The earth is a five ball
Caromming through the green felt universe.
Does anything seem as it once seemed?
I have voices conversing
In figures of speech.
Should I be tied to a stake,
Or,
Heard as a soothsayer.
There,
See what I mean?

Easily done
If you’re a draught horse,
Or ******* pulling a cart,
Or pointing a gun,
Or under a yoke.

I’m fine staying here;
I’m not moving on.
I don't want to.
Such advice as, You need to move on,
Sounds cheap, pithy and unaware.

What do we know about moving on?
Or moving up, or out, or in.
It’s decisive and aggressive.
It’s a judgment call.
It’s supposed to be good.
A learning experience.
For whom?

This is what I don’t need.
I have enough friends.
I've met with enough romances.
I won't move on.

Move on.... Indeed.

Sitting in a waiting room,
I envied the young
With children,
Reading.
The door opened
To an octogen,
Who looked at me
And remembered when.

When you're gone,
Who'll I compare
To the setting sun,
To it's reluctant rays
When you're gone?
Don't think I don't compare,
But won't, now,
That you're gone.

Canada is renaming the Great Lakes.

Lake Superior..........Lake Canada

Lake Ontario............Lake Ontario (stays)

Lake Erie...................Lake John A. Macdonald

Lake Huron..............Lake Jacques Cartier

Lake Michigan........Lake Trudeau (that should **** him off... but we
                                   know we mean Pierre, not his bonehead son)

Lake Champlain....Lake Quebec (although not a Great Lake, the
                                 orange guy wanted to make it a Great Lake back
                                 in 2018).

We have our own cartographers.
Gimme the Sharpie.