We're kinda small,
But we can be tall,
And play with the switches
On the walls.

We can run.
Ready. Set. Go.
You'll never catch us,
Don't you know.

We can reach anything
Out of reach.
We ride our bikes on our street.
We sometimes laugh until we ***.
We get our bruises riding scooters.
We're one on our teeter-totter.
We see-saw you.

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 you see 'em they're surely 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.

Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.

I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.

We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.

The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.

The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.

Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.

Be the chosen one,
You know how.

Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.

But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.

The words have stopped,
The music aint flowing,
There's been the death of a lady's man,
The death of one Leonard Cohen.

You won't like
Your colonoscopy,
I know,
I've not liked mine.
It's invasive,
You're contorted,
And the Prep
Is too unkind.
Yet,
One needs
A **** snoop
In the
Intestine.
It postpones
Eternity,
That makes it
Worth your time.

The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.

I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
Eat tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The  northern breeze there never dies.

I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.

Trolls exist
If believed in,
Or if
Invited to invade
The mind.
Like leprechauns,
Look sideways,
They're gone.

Honey I'm drunk,
Don't come by,
But if you do
Bring Canadian Rye;
I've two feet planted
Six feet high,
And I ain't right ready
To lay down to die.
But the sun is sinking,
And my body's stinking,
Honey will you come,
Please bring that Rye.

Honey, I drink,
We both know why,
Let's not pretend,
Let's not lie.

Honey I'm dry,
I'm gonna die,
I've six feet planted
Two feet high.
I ain't quite steady,
I could use a high.
The sun's in the east,
My demon's a beast,
So Honey drop by,
Please bring that Rye.

These years are speeding darkly
Since the epiphany. You don't get
A lot of those.
Last night
On the beach I laid back to watch
The shooting stars; some say
The heavenly stars. The Perseids
Burned indiscriminately,
I counted two.

I was starstruck watching
The four satelites,
In a pre-determined orbital,
That would burn as sure as
A ghetto.

Ogling the dark spaces;
Comforted, there's more stars
Out there for some other reason.
And wham. It happened , always unexpected.
It's not because something's not there;
It's because it never was, but for
Two meteors and four satelites.
I saw the light.

Everyone,
To begin.
We have no choices,
Depending on gurgled voices
Recognized in utero.
Trust radar's not activated,
Despite the life experiences
Of our carriers.

White collars
Dig for gold
Wearing masks and gloves;
So we rely on eyes
Despite the hunger
Behind the disguise.

We are tied to swivel chairs
In block buildings
And asked to trust
As they notice the dirt
Beneath our nails
Ripe-red for pulling.
They want the correct answer,
Not the right one.

Love partnerships
Are unstable vessels
At  best.
We secure trust
In disposable
Jilted pirate chests
Waiting for discovery
In teary depths.

We find refuge
In our children,
Though we notice
Eyes roll and shift
As we age and drift.

In whom do we trust?
In the unborn
Who will
Live by our words,
And define the world
We leave in trust.

I watched a rarity across the street,
Walking like an endangered species
On his way to school, alone.
Don't his parents realize,
As ours did,
That single men live on his way,
Looking out windows
With coffee and cigarette;
Married couples are household occupied,
Labourers, professionals and unemployed
Are behind closed, locked doors,
Busily preparing for another day.
Cars drive by, one slows behind him,
To ensure her carrier pigeon fledges along.
The lad in question pays no attention,
Playing catch-up with his shadow.

I hear you royally ******-up.
Don't worry 'bout it.
It's all one's perspective.
Let's just say
Experience is what you have left over
From your mistakes,
And we know
Everyone applauds experience
Like a slice of apple pie.

She used her sway
Like a dangling watch
Swinging on a chain:
She stopped my eyes,
I was mesmorized,
Entranced,
In a post hypnotic haze.
If she snapped her fingers
I'd cluck,
I'd bark,
Do whatever she'd ask,
But she kept on swinging
And left me panting
In post traumatic stress.

We've heard from
Abraham, Jesus,
Mohammad and Selassie;
God!
If we'd heard a humble apology
For the pre-emptive strike
In Eden, way back then,
It would have saved us all
A lot of grief.

It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.

I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.

The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.

John wrote,
I read the news today...
He recounted accidents, wars, ***-holes.
I did too... today.
I read about charity runs,
Music under the Bluewater Bridge,
Teachers receiving National Awards.
There are many sections to the paper
I read through my wire-rimmed glasses.
I'm getting older, all the time,
So I avoid the nastiness with my morning coffee.
Is killing terrorists good news?
Oh boy!
What would John read into that.
We need some help!
I may skip the news tomorrow,
And make some holes
To let the light in,
The darkness out.

Ole Hunchback
Got a right Royal burial;
That smiling villain's bones
Bleached black-blonde
In underground parking.
Exhumed and parlayed
For over two years;
Confirmed to be he
Who caused a Queen
To cry vats of tears
For the Tower boys.
Poor Anne dropped her hankie.
His horse-drawn caisson
Is a subterfuge,
A distraction to veil
Civil dissatisfaction.
He finally got his horse,
And we get the droppings.
And I see Cromwell
Standing beside Churhill
And Charles ouside
Westminster.
Perhaps Manson
Will be busted
In Poet's Corner.

Charity is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Your simple act of selflessness
Cannot be reduced.

Kindness is never wasted,
Even when refused;
To think we think of others first
Cannot be diffused.

Courtesy is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Shake a hand, open a door,
Say Please and Thank You.

Patience is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Bide your time contentedly
Dealing with the obtuse.

Faith is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Believe in what cannot be proved
Even if confused.

Hope is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It gives the taste of fine red wine
Brimming o'er the cruse.

Hate is never wasted,
I know you feel abused;
It's just a tact under attack
That haters like to use.

Love is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It's educed, then enfused,
And spreads as it accrues.

Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.

I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and,  smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.

When I hover
Over your heavenly body,
I'm ******* the constellations
In braille.

Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.

The sentient clod in Book One,
Sat up, cleaned up, removed his thumb.
With leafless Eve and fruitful tree
(made fertile with Theology)
Gave rise to Sociology.
Of all the ololgies to appear,
Without this one we're not here.
Buy in, ward of tribal wrath,
Empathy's good for a sociopath.

We were misplaced and confused,
So, I bought a coffee, sat with a magazine,
But felt so antsy, I went to the Kiosk,
Inquiring about your flight,
Then went looking in the other places.
So many people started looking like you:
Their hair, shape and walk.
So many doppelgangers.
It was getting way too late, hours, in fact.
Now concern settles in,
But seconds make the difference,
Not some butterfly in China.
If I'd lingered, sipping,
I wouldn't have walked right into your tears
Around the corner.
I happened to have a tissue in my pocket
To dry your found eyes;
Now let's get the **** outa here!

I undressed for my shower,
And noticed something queer;
Something I've used all my days,
Suddenly disappeared.

I had it with me yesterday,
And used it several times;
I always put it in its place,
And took care of what was mine.

I really can't explain it;
Now what's a fella do;
I'm not to blame,
I refuse the shame
Of the hashtag framed MeToo.

The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******* (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.

A poem is like a tickle,
It gives you joy and pain:
With blissful tears and
Tearful giggles,
You'll read that poem again.

A poem is like a damaged heart
In need of surgery:
The cut that heals,
A line that leaves
A scar along your heart.

Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.

In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.

I've weighed the pranks:
Pulling out a chair;
Flooded fairways;
Skunky beer;
Onion candy apples;
Mayo in cream-filled donuts;
Lubricating jelly in handwash;
Polyurethaning soap;
Baking soda in ketchup bottles;
Flushing while the shower's in use;
Sending a welcome card on behalf of your friend to Kingdom Hall;
Eliot was right,
Snow in April is the cruelest.

Visions of crystal cobwebs
swept up in awesome lies;
ambergris whisked scentless
to a sea-streaked sky.

Watching the melting snow,
feeling clouds of fire,
hearing the orchestrated chime,
touching every liar.

Morning passed, blue's forgone
for a quiet afternoon;
vapours pulled at all my senses
towards the rising moon.

Faint southern lights soon faded
against the silent sphere,
no starry sky was witness,
to your smile beguiling sneer.

The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was  Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.

They met
When but sixteen,
She called herself
His ****** Queen,
And he her ****** King.
Thus they remained
Til seventeen,
When his lowered drawbridge
Breached the moat,
And for forty years
He paddled her boat.
But coldness grew,
The ice-palace too,
She was an Ice Queen,
His armor tarnished,
His sword was sheathed,
The Lady and her King
Severed bonds,
Relinquished rings
And set new realms and dreams.
He's a western-style S.O.,
He didn't know
Cowgirls rode backwards.
He's now a sexagenarian,
And the Ice-Palace,
A planetarium.

The greys and blacks
Are fighting again,
Despite an abundance
Of food and shelter.
The greys are malcontent,
And bigger, with increasing numbers.
They've declared a Jihad,
They're relentless;
And won't stop 'til they've
Occupied all the trees out front.
The trees in question aren't the issue;
Others have similar branches and fruits;
It's their belief system
Territory is everything;
It's their manifest destiny.

During a lull in fighting
They graze side by side,
Always wary of proximity;
But the greys know
Their tails are larger and thicker,
And they recognize the enemy.

I know better
Than interfere
With their shenanigans.
Oh, I could quell the activity,
Scare them for a while
Pelting stones and gushing water;
But they'll re-group, stronger,
Like ants,
Like us.
It's a conflict I can't fix.
They need to figure it out
On their own.

For us,
The Super Bowl
Is poetry
In legal motion.

My dentist
Strongly recommended
A cardiologist
To fill
My cavity.

I enjoy driving slowly
Up Kathleen Avenue,
It brings out my
Split personality.

The sun strobes
Through pre-leaf spring;
I remember a boy
Twirling on the dance floor lawn,
Then called to the back,
To the used nail pile.

There's gratitude for the rain,
Splash in gutters;
The weeds will grow.
The spades, like naked stick-children,
Are heeled into mounds,
Beneath the dripping clothesline,
Far from his playful sounds.

I am me,
I was you:
My cryogenic memory
Thaws to resolve
We two.

Call us perverted,
But read on first,
Then, by the end,
After our verse,
Call us your worst:
***** old men, gutter snipes,
Lecherous gawkers,
Cause we gaze in wonder and awe
At girls from eighteen to ninety-five.
Don't step back and feign aghast,
Whisper covert tsks, and gasp,
What? Oh such ***** old men!
But we are most the same.

We don't ogle or use a scope
Waiting behind a bush at night,
Til the lights go on
Through windows known to be undrawn.

We don't visit public pools
With goggles and a snorkel,
That's just sick, that's not us,
Our admiration's not so twisted,
We grew up to respect the sisters.

We wonder at the parade of beauty,
So pleasing to our eyes,
They dress to allure
Younger looks,
They swagger, tilt and sashay past
With legs as long as trees,
No VPL to interrupt
The curving imagination.
Compare it to one window-shopping,
Admiring wares and worth;
But please, read every line I wrote
Before bellowing, Pervert.

If we were eighteen years again,
We're lads out plowing fields,
Sowing wild grains,
Reaping refrains of They're boys just being boys.

We had our ancient pleasures,
Still comparable to now;
The lushness of the ripened fruit
Hanging on the bough,
Is for younger hands, not ours.

The columned temples of runway models
With flying buttress thighs,
And the bull-frog fronts and volleyball stunts
Please, but we don't pry.

          (We're not a ***** grabbing lot,
          That's not how we usually talk,
          In fact I haven't shared these thoughts,
          I'm reluctant to do so now).

You know you can't blame us
For what a blind man sees;
The cleavage, high-slits and commando style,
The augmentations meant to beguile
Has caught us in crossfire.

The soft unbleached skin,
The ***** and the neck,
The falling, twirling tresses,
Grace the backs of backless dresses.
Wear grotesques to dissuade us,
To disapprove our ageless looks.

Our eyes don't linger on the bust,
We don't display old men's lust,
In fact we're rather obsequious,
To the point where we're air,
You'd not notice that we're there.
But we are, and we look;
And I remember what it took
To be young and on the hunt
For the Yeti, Loch Ness, or alien jump.

Don't tell your friends we're perverted,
Scurrilous id-focused men;
We're neither. We're average fellows
Watching from the stands.

Yes, our daughters are older than
The babes seen on the screens,
But that has naught to do with us,
We still think like eighteen.

We watch re-runs of Mary Tyler Moore,
Drink tepid tea with toast and jam
To the credits of The Golden Girls;
But when the grandkids come to visit,
We take them for ice-cream,
Or if I take poodle to walk,
They pool like thirsty fleas.
It isn't my intent to bait, but I have eyes to see,
Those girls somewhat eighteen,
Like to please by teasing:
     I really like your wire rims.
Their eyes grip, the wind flips,
Their hands soft and supple...
I'm at a loss-
What's a man to do-
Between forty and forever?

This reaper's aged,
The harvest's in.
The grain that bowed the straw
Has now been threshed,
And milled to flour.
Add heat to rise again.

It's as easy as, 1, 2, 3.
Understandable as A, B, C.
Undesirable as, Don't Take Me.

A simple ditty,
So listen, Kiddie,
There's no singing in the grave.

No foot tapping, finger snapping,
Lip smacking music where you're going;
But don't be in a hurry to get going
To a place where you're a gonner.

You won't be chatting with a Brahma,
Discussing laws with ancient Moses,
There's no sitting Buddha posing,
You ain't in blissful Nirvana.

You'd be  in heaven in Havana.

There aren't virgins waiting;
No loaves and fishes baking;
No bells ringing,
No Mecca wailing,
No roads paved with gold.

I miss those stories I was sold.

Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...

Was it us who failed you?

Stay a while, don't leave yet,
You'll find nothing you expect,
But you won't remember,
And you won't forget.

Our youth was seasoned
With greens and blues
When your skin scorched me.
Still burns.

Could we but flip
Pages like clock hands;
We need only agree,
And nocturnal waves
Would lap again,
And all the world
Would fall in time
Upon itself.

Elements, such as we,
Cannot.
Your present calendar
Has days X-ed off,
Days checked on.
Times have changed
Peoples and places.

I remain yours.

He keeps my stories to himself,
The ones I can't tell anyone else;
He laughs with me at myself,
And even more at one's self.

You can't go far
Down on all fours,
Drooling and babbling
And hugging the floor.

I see you're stumbling
On your Jango legs,
You'll fall if not careful
On your new paradigms.

Now you're leaving
With stature and grace;
You pirouette, glide,
You've found your own pace.

You will return,
Of that I am sure,
With one of your own
To crawl on my floor.

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 you see 'em they're surely 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.

Please,
Don't be in love
With me,
I know I can't
Love you.
Yet,
She's in love
With someone else,
We're conflicted,
Misconstrued.
Our quadrangle
Leaves us dangling
On parallel love lines.

In Shediac
The sidewalk threads up Main,
Past Church and hospital
To a yellow-frame;
Where wishes and the real world meet
Near Leger Street.

Here,
Quiet evening stairs leave cares,
And blueberries, dahlias and Parley's foam,
Like Sirens call our thoughts to home.
A quilt work of faces,
Some young, some grown,
Looked through windows to a time unknown,
Past the ledger of Grand-mere,
Past Hector's chair.

Though
Emilie was consumed with cooking,
Quilting, cleaning and sometimes singing,
She fed the dreams of her dear born,
And sheltered concerns of a heart well-worn,
Like a wrap-a-round porch in a Northumberland storm,
On Main Street.

These
Porch steps led to worldly affairs,
Finance, healthcare, CN, shopwares.
Each step, each child bore Emilie's breath,
Et dans l'eglise St. Joseph.

But
Bricks are brittle and paint will wane,
A picture or poem will fade and stain,
Yet Sirens still call out your name
In Shediac.

On this side of the bridge,
Between time and eternity,
A foothill to the Necropolis,
Rises the cathedral.
The remains of St. Kentigern
Maintain it, the founding Father.
The spire tops the cruciform
Pointing the way to Glorify.
Within, walls are embedded
With plagues, standards and swords,
Praising foreign campaigns
And distant expeditions
Of long lost brave hearts.
Pilgrims stand silently;
Tourists nod quietly,
Pointing at remarkable achievements
Of Empire, and the young,
Beatified on distant lands.
The fading banners protest:
For this I gave my all, my best.
The stones are cold,
The windows stained:
In the crypt, St. Mungo lies,
The foundation of all
That died.

It was suggested to me
I should read a great book:
Why Do Men Lie.
My response was,
*Why Do Men Do Anything.

We used to hear it all the time:
Can you come outside and play?

We heard that chant throughout the hood,
From screened back doors where our friends stood.
Calling just when time was right,
For Hide and Seek at the dawning night,
Or Hopscotch, Double Dutch
Kick the Can,
On neighbour's lawns and sidewalks,
On streets, driveways or city parks.

My daughter got a text today:
Can you come to my house and play?

You could change the world.
You should.
Repeat this inauspicious comment to someone;
Age isn't part of the equation.
Even the youth may listen, may remember,
I should change the world.
You did. Some place, at a time unknown.
It's not so obvious as the Butterfly Effect;
Appearing subtly, less noticeable than
Pedaling into a velvet N-E Huron breeze
A walker feels on her wet lips
During a burnt Autumn stroll.
I changed,
And rocked the world
Of  my loved ones.

There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.