When the festivities at home
Get too frightful,
And you're wishing for
A quiet night full,
And you're wanting fam and friends
To know,
Tell them to go where you know
There's no snow.

Everyone
Was once the baby of the family.
Cuddled and cursed,
Fondled and blessed.
No one on earth compared to you.
You weren't beautiful,
You were stunning.
All eyes were watching
Every move commented on
Your falls were praiseworthy
Love was freely lavished
People... Strangers...
Wanted to pick you up
Hold and hug
Make eye contact
Feed you
Whisper silly things
Stroke your head
And show you to the world.
We're more reserved now
We can't do the above
As much as we'd like to
We'd be the ones
Behind bars.

Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
                            "Mammy."

Better to have
Your face flush
Than
Your blood settle.

If to
Can have an extra O,
As in
You're too incredible;
Then so
Can have an extra O,
As in
You're soo beautiful.

Sticks and stones will break our bones,
But those words are surely killing us.

Words of repression, hate and scorn,
Roiling words that slash and burn.

Throw a stone, wield a stick,
Don't use those words that rile the sick;
The haughty right that smile then sneer,
That march with torches, emitting no light;
Saluting with an arm out tight.

Sticks and stones will break our bones,
But words are surely killing us.

The perfectionist
Sees an open circle,
And closes it.
The obsessionist
Sees an open circle,
And studies it.

Ones who look
But never see,
Are ones who won't
Agree to agree.

Ones who hear
But never listen,
Never get
One's position.

Ones who touch
But never feel,
Have heavy hearts
Forged in steel.

Ones with answers
Who never ask,
Are usually blowing it
Out one's ***.

Ones who smell,
Well...
Avoid those ones.

Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

Did We
Drivel or drabble,
Blither or blather,
Prattle or prittle,
Nitter or natter?
Which two don't
Match;
Which two don't
Belong?
Yes, we know
It's a choice,
Yes, we know
We'll be wrong.

Refrain from purchasing
Racoon at your local
Wet market.
In your belly,
It can spelly,
Corona.

There are ten see through bags
Of my fallen leafs by the curb,
Ready for pick-up.
They were so very fetching
Waiting for the wind to pluck them.
Water beads the interior
Like summer's tears.
I hear the stop and start
Of the collection truck coming.
For my ten bags of leafs.

Lee transmigrated as a dog
To **** on his statue.

The skins were sounding,
Plaintiff pounding,
Summoning all to fire.
Charcoal sticks,
Picture graphics,
Recorded our desires.
We flashed lights,
Waved our flags,
Telling all to come.
Lines were laid
Fathoms deep,
Connecting continents
In their sleep,
With window shoppers
On their streets.
Poles were raised
Along our roads,
Life-lines stretched
Like sweater yarn,
Remember we were warned.
We added stars
To our nights,
With lights of red and green;
Geo-centric, like God,
Heard, but never seen.
From drum to satellite,
We've tried but failed,
We can't get it right.

Still toe to toe,
Face to face,
That's how to
Communicate.
Not by a cloud,
Look to the face,
The culminating
Human race.
There's a passion
In one's eyes,
That one
Can't mistake.

I'm close to where
I ought to be,
And far from
Where I'm from.
You don't have
To take my word,
Just ask anyone.

I've sought the plea,
Been up the tree,
Considered the Dane's To be...,
I've fought the weary,
Been wrought with envy,
I've sipped on lemon iced-tea.
I've finished much along the way
To where I oughtn't be.

In conclusion, I've no delusion,
I'll sing Let It Be.
I'm not outdone,
By anyone,
But what will be,
Will be.

If I was a bigot,
Or xenophobic,
Or prejudiced,
Or sexist,
Or racist,
Or even Evangelical,
I would argue
The Wrath of God
Has enveloped America,
Like a plague.
But I'm not, I'm a non-believer.

Potus fallin'
Flotus stallin'
Scotus appalin'

Kim's cryin'
Vlad's lyin'
Donnie's dyin'

Joe's soarin'
Dems scorin'

God's in heaven,
All's right with the world
(Almost)

I wear an old 45 for skin.
Side A is the surface you see;
White and pale under our winter's skies,
But much darker by September.
Side A does a fine job
Keeping my entrails in.
I like the harmony, beat and rhythm of it.

Side B of my skin is harlequin,
A melting *** of mosaic colours
You can't see,
But if you listen,
My lyric is a palette of hues.

I heard a nasty rumor about Robbie dying.
But that's not quite true;
At least not until he doesn't meet up with you.

I didn't see him daily, so, for me, he really hasn't.
Not quite yet.
We had lunch just the other day:
"We'll be teeing up in April," he smiled.
Smiled. He's so good at that.
Robbie might be dead then,
But not today. Not for me.

But that's not what they'll say
When he doesn't show.
Then I'll know.
And I already feel the hurt.

I'm flippant with
My fictional facts;
Patching words
Like a coverlet,
Designed with loom and needle.
I've stitched the lines,
Woven the words
To make them more credible.
But it's only a poem
To strike at the bone,
A source of strength
Who's vigor's unknown.
A garment to wear
With invisible seams:
Wrap it 'round you
If you choose to dream.

When the son-in-law
(who should remain nameless)
Is a clone
Of the father-in-law,
(whom should also remain nameless),
The son-in-law
Lies in an incestuous bed,
And the father-in-law
Gets a vicarious jump
On the wing
(the west one)

I equivocate way too much.
This time, I want to be absolutely blunt.
Hoping whomever reads this has a moment
Of recognition, insight and acknowledgement.
I would use the word epiphany,
But I want to be as blunt as
A dropped egg, a ***** diaper,
A rock, bird **** or lights and sirens;
Not like cryptocurrencies and 17th century tulips.
I hope to say something full of oomph.

*Don't **** it up again.
It's sliding in that direction.
What business is it of ours
If Canada wants nuclear weapons,
Or Ireland, or North Korea.
Accept all issues of sovereignty,
Except genocide. Then get involved.
We could straighten Pisa if so desired.
The space program by itself should've given us
A hundred years of peace and behaving *****.
We're not going to get another chance at this
For ten million years. That's a guess. A conservative guess.
I love how the past is history,
How the present makes history.
Tomorrows deserve history.

The moon, the stars
The all of it.
For what?
     Naught.

The house, home
Fence and all.
For what?
     Squat.

The emotions spent,
The dreams dreamt.
For what?
     Rot.

The treasures mined
In days of leisure.
For what?
     Lots.

We don't know our Best Before Date,
And that's a good thing.
But if you're in the Dairy Section,
Fire on all udders,
Don't kowtow to bullies.
Remember, the herd has your back.

If you find yourself in Produce,
Then produce;
Don't be content being
A pea in a pod.

There are the cereal killers,
Using wry wit,
And Rye Not.
Many are marbled and flat,
But not us,
We're Christmas Cake,
We Endure.

ME, I'm in the Meat section,
An offering of flesh and smoke
On the BBQ altar of rendering.

Yes, we have a definite shelf life,
Growing stale, curling at the sides,
Drying out,
Souring and curdling
Till our expiration date.

Cult lickers are exclusive.
They're not black or brown,
But Greene with envy, marginalized at every turn.
They paid up for a briny Cruz, but came away infected.
They don't shut-up Gaetz, so the sheeple meekly escape.
They claim to be God-fearin', but they'll never cross the Jordan.
Like Graham crackers, they are dry, spineless wankers.
And if you've a limp Johnson, keep a stiff upper lip.

I taught children to write cursive.
And how to drive a stick.
In fact, they learned my boomer tricks,
Like reading, walking, talking.
They learned about winning, and all about losing, with dignity.
They learned about friendship, loyalty, honour, trust,
And perseverence.
They learned that truth, as hard as it might be, was ok.
These cannot be discarded.

And yet, today's child is not for these times.
They are time travellers.

You said, in exasperation:
     You know what I want!
Therein lies the problem
With our relationship.
I do.

I cupped my hands
Like a cave,
Whispered in
And smelled decay.

I took a peek
Through life's keyhole,
Saw our miserable
World unfold.

I placed an ear
To our globe's wall,
Heard the sobbing
Caterwauls.

I laid my hands
On friends and foes,
Forgot, forgave
The lies and blows.

With all my senses
I repent
The grief I caused,
I live content.

I know death.
Incensed with all of it.
The weighty strain of darkness,
Eyes closed, stopped ears, stuffed nose.
I was petrified while the world stumbled,
My wordless mouth gapes like a maw
Needing stitches.
I lounge in a toga,
Motionless as alabaster.
I was born to die,
But not like this.

Birds,
Upside down
On a wire,
Tell us landing
Keeps you
Higher,
But you're better off
As an airy flyer.

Spirit.
What is it?
It's too ethereal
For me.
If you see ghosts,
Or angelic hosts,
That's your reality.

Soul.
Where is it?
A shoulder to cry on!
A love to rely on!
Does it enliven
The breath in me.

Heart.
I've got it.
Too painfully.
It's ephemeral,
I can feel it,
Sometimes
I can heal it.
It's inside and outside
Of me.

Set a timer.
Watch the millisecs tick away;
Not so much telling me
How much time is left,
But how much is irretrievable.
Not like waves,
Washing upon themselves and returning.
Not like the hour glass
With sand that once was a boulder
That once was part of a mountain
That rose up from the burgeoning strife of life.
The hourglass, that looks right-side-up
Or up-side-down,
Depending on your perspective.
Not like sundials, pointing in the wrong direction,
And always running clockwise.
No,
Setting a timer
Alarms me
For all the same reasons
As wearing a watch.

You couldn't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.

Three eliptic lovers
In one sphere
Need simultaneous
Orbits
In one direction
Lest they collide
Creating a black hole
Devouring
Their hearts.

The names I carry
Are phantoms,
Whisps
Across the lips.
Stored in the shed,
Beneath our pillows,
Deep in the mattresses,
Or below our beds.
Launder them,
And try again.

How many eyes
Have read these
Granite names
On copper plates.

Whose ears have heard
These names
Mumbled in our sleep;
Or,
Are they set so deep
For private sorrow
And personal refrain.
These, our names.

Oh, I can fly,
And not just
In dreams;
And the landing's
Safer
When I spread
My wings;
And open my eyes
In my dive,
For the rush of
Trees.

If you're callous
Towards Humanity,
Expect heat blisters
In Immortality.

Leaning on a wall,
Standing on the fringe;
Wall people
Are people,
They're just not too sure
When it happened.
There's no tower or steeple
As HIGH as wall people.

Not so sly as they are:
spent,
wasted,
burned out,
depleted,
beat,
petered,
done for,
empty,
sick of,
enervated,
******,
stale,
exasperated,
fatigued,
drained,
bored,
fed up,
worn,
haggard,
flagging,
narcoleptic,
weary,
feeble,
debilita­ted,
incapacitated,
indisposed,
torpefied,
paralysed,
atrophied,
stupefied,
soporate,
obtuse,
And
Finished.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

I was going to read,
"Death Comes for the Archbishop,"
But the cover gave it away.

I can't stop you falling
When you're not in my arms;
I don't hear you crying
When you're in foreign lands.
I can't hear you calling
To me from afar,
And I can't spread a balm
To cure cuts and your scars.
Your plight's universal,
But personal to me,
Your growing pains hurt
When you learn to be free.
But,
If I could just hold you,
Behold and enfold you,
The first thing I'd do
Is probably scold you.

One of my most favourite days
Of the year
Isn't the first day
Back to school,
It's the second...

POTUS
FLOTUS
VPOTUS
SCOTUS

I look out and wonder,
Where is It?
Am I in the crosshairs.
(Breathe)
Where is my assassin?
Is it my beach dwelling, Corona guzzling, party-boy nephew,
Or,
A glad-handing, back-slapping, hissy-kissy friend,
To bring about the end.

There's two ways in
But one way out,
Be a visitor,
Not a fixture,
Put 'em up
And fight.

If you do date,
There's no debate,
Come the due date.

I saw once in your eyes the dream of love,
A knowledge in the heart that pricked our tears;
And shadows were unwelcome as we strove
Towards a single pulse in coming years.

And when we loved that love was not unkind
To me or you; we have our hearts in hand.
Words one year ago now lovingly bind
Us still, forever ringed by a quiet band.

In years to come we'll weave a wealthy store.
Tonight unfolds a vision without stain,
A love that's pure, strong, living and much more.
There is no glass that will reflect our pain.

Our two hearts pledged in the same direction.
Our two lives fast in moonlight and in sun.

I'm wading
Through it;
Up to
My eyeballs.
I can't run,
Barely crawl;
I'll submerge
If I fall
Into the alphabet.
I can't stand,
I won't sit;
There's nothing
Left,
But
To write
It.