Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card
Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check
May I take this Learner to Living afar
Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met
For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command
Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb
Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand
To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore
This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks
With Curried Words much tempting to forget
At expense of Duty is no longer meek
And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget.
Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn
The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.

There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry

He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense



--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--

The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers

With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace

Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground

Gertrude, Stradbrook, River and Roslyn,
off of McMillan, my thoughts froze on Osborne
A drive through the Village on slippery streets
Bought records, drained pints
                        swallowed down summer nights
Back home in Wyoming--think I'll be fine
                         'til some night, filled to gills
                          trip through streets with a stranger
                          and sing "One Great City"
                          through swollen closed throat

And I remember...

Confusion Corner, commuting through cold streets
Watched you drive as the daylight died
I narrow my Focus,
                                     you eased into traffic
The Assiniboine ran and was watched by Riel

January.
Johnson's Terminal.
London Fogs.
Took Yellow Dogs for long walks
and Exchanged now for then. Snapped pictures, again and again.

Snow up to my hips
Spent a night at St. Boniface
We cased a cathedral, your friends seemed to like me.

Lines ran from reserves, over oceans and borders.
Your hair ran down shoulders, brown waves for a blanket.

Winterpeg, Manitscoldout
Portage & Main
Shivering, smiling
at a Tavern Uniting with friends,
'til we took the King's Head...
We took the King's Head.
Long live the king.

January.
Magic Thailand.
Curry soup, curried thoughts thawing,
melting, falling from pickled brains,
                      through lips chapping

I donned my Tuxedo, chopped down Seven Oaks...
Your Catholic heart spoke
     reached out for St. James.
     St. Vital answered behind Fort Garry's walls...

Our hearts, they were neighbourhoods
And the streets were all salt.

Blistered paint on your blue '02 Focus

To the City Center of the continent's middle
Form a Perimeter
Frame a city
Bullseye, center, a Gold gilded Boy
he leans into sky, as they sing, as I hear.
The road North Ended--November, it was.
I think, one year prior, in Robin's Donuts
front doors swayed, on hinges that sighed metallic,
I caught your eyes--organic, unplanned--
               through fog frosting lenses
Caught them, held on
               Held your deep brown
               In my gunmetal blue

Seasons will chase--haste to follow more seasons
White streaks to green
and the Red River runs.
When they score at the ballpark,
"Go Goldeyes!" the cheer sounds
Cheer. Cheer!
The Guess Who still ****,
but the Jets completed their round trip
"Go, Jets, go!" so the cheer goes.
"Cheers!" Cheers like bells.
             Bells
           Pealing
Peeling like your sunburnt back
            Bells
          Ringing
           Striking
Bells singing long
Bells sounding loudly from Grace Bible Church
  baptizing Baltimore as it kisses Osborne

Bells ringing. Round sounds.
Round rings for fingertips touching
Bells
Round sounds that hang on my neck
and sing me to sleep every night--
remind me how badly you wanted those bells
                I denied you.

They sing "Left and Leaving"
             and show me old scars
          they ring and peal and strike
                         and sing
                         unending.

I remember March of 2008
Dropping my toque in the mud-and-slush street
            We took Pembina Highway
              Ate Vietnamese.

I remember...

Confusion Corner,
Commuting through cold streets,
Watching you drive as the daylight died
In your blue '02 Focus
Ease us back into traffic,
The Assiniboine River.
And Louis Riel.

So tell me...

Comment-allez vous, ce soir?
Je ne suis pas comme ci, comme ça.

When Mother Teresa
Saw the Leaning Tower Of Pisa
She Knew that Julius Caesar
Would renew her visa.

Eating curried pizza
At a bar called Mitzvah
With ex-scrooge Ebenezer
And the Mona Lisa
All three did concur
That nothing defeats
Or beats her.

Unmotivated
to go out
so...
It's curried fried eggs
tonight!

They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.

Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.

Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.

In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.

The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.

The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.

Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.

So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.

Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found

We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue

Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try

It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand

The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst

They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold

the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit

they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the  name of  ben doury's
where everything was curried and green

it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should

The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard

Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten

The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is  spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun

Tinkling rhythms engulfed us
As we sat in a cuban bistro,
Surrounded by the populace
And having nary a place to go.

We spoke of many things
That curried the other's favor,
Then I noticed her silver rings
And decided I'd wait no later.

This stranger that sat before me,
Blue curls atop her pretty head,
Observed my hand steadily
As it dropped off the table's end.

I reached into my bag and withdrew a rock,
It's complexion of gold and plaque shining silver.
Her reaction was that of pleasant shock
As I wished her congrats on turning a year older.

Now, a year and some days later,
We've both reached a special place.
Day to day I get to face her
And feel my lover's warm embrace.

As I cooked our lunch
before we were to part
you sat at the kitchen table
busy with cutting and sticking

just like a wet-afternoon child
waiting for her drink and biscuit.
Only it was Curried Cauliflower
and with those crispy rolls you like.

I stood in my apron behind
a pretence of minding the pan
rapt at the loveliness of your tilted head,
the intricate movements of your hands,

the concentrated purse of your lips
I so wanted to place against my own:
to draw you into the longest kiss,
the longest, deepest, barely imaginable kiss.

He is a boring man,
wears the same 3 shirts in a cycle,
Eats the same curried mackerel
from a can each day.

Was it a bad past experience,
Is this PTSD?
I’ve never known and I will never know.
That’s all it is to me.

But at 10 o clock sharp,
On the bitter 24th,
He puts on a red suit
And heads out the door.

Should I question what he does?
No, I fear for the answer,
the extent of his problems
Exceed comet and dancer.

He’s coming home,
And as I pray,
The smell of bleach and dead meat
Sleigh-ride my way.

He scares me; his eyes are dead,
Drinking whisky, and Looking straight ahead at a black and white
Picture of my niece,
Pounding into my flesh before drinking another.

Fate, fate, fate
well what an awful mess I've made
tried to solve this jigsaw puzzle
ended up hardening the shapes

Oh fate
falling like a thousand bricks in my way
foils my plans
of loving you properly
destiny, you tender tease

Why?
Why'd you shatter my bones?
Leave me lost, void of control
in a shallow grave I made
lay my former misguided passions
covering shackles on my legs

lose lose lose
all I ever seem to do
when all that I comprehend
I try to hang it on a noose
inside a

room room room
filled with opaque absolutes
and curried apprehension
broken bottles with no excuse

Remedy, oh remedy
my free will thinker
embodied by poisoned truths
I dream of only you
sweet, sour dues of resurrection
have yet to stumble in my life,
promising no goodbyes

But fate fate fate
Led my former love astray
It's better this way
It's better this way

Weekends


In the afternoon sun
the asphalt road shines like an ice rink;
flanked by green trees that
cast black shadows,
helped by the breeze
they flutter slightly,
soundless articulation a symphony for the deaf
My memory brings me
the aroma of curried
chicken and rice,
but since it is Friday, it will
be smoked haddock, boiled potatoes and
stewed carrots  

Still a twenty minutes drive,
before getting home,
shadows merge with the evening and
the ice rink is a memory

On the map there 's a tripod
And an eye blinking trying to focus
Far away on a land called Tierra de Fuego
And there  goes  my Muse's Range Rover
Greenlaning la luz del amanecer
Tracking butterflies orchids grasshoppers and dragons,
Sad salads and fired bananas and dew
And all sorts of bits and bobs
Keeping corrections to a minimum.
If it looks Topaz
She didn't do it !
She's more like aurora,
Traveling long distance with laughter
Or lenses cooking light with cuddles
Or stir frying a full curried moon over the volcanoes
Of seven types of fired bananas
Always worried about aperture and exposure
My muse wouldn't live without her lens bathing
Diving and swimming into the warm and shallow depth of field
Just as she wouldn't live without her daily dose
Of nine megapixels of bioluminescent plankton
Because my Muse is an addict
My muse is a Nikon D800 addict
and an aurora addict as well
Earthing and grounding relentlessly
The inner storms of morning light
Leading to her native archipelago
Of Tierra del Fuego !!

can't sleep,
tried to count sheep,
but the little buggers won't jump the fence.

can't sleep,
tried counting sheep,
but the pesky little critters, are to busy eating,
to jump the fence.

can't sleep,
busy trying to count sheep but the little f^ckers won't stay still.

can't sleep,
feel like i might have mentioned this before, counting sheep is a feckless chore,
but one i must try once more,
either that... or..
eat the leftover
curried lamb pie.

Is Platypus a ******? Or is it quacking duck  
Not proper as pet
What to feed this bizarre thing that is odd as
An Australian, strange people the down under
Half criminal half saints
They used to be impossible British Say, 1922.
Their diet was egg& chips, now they are sophisticated
Chips with curried sauce
Always willing to fight for the USA proud soldiers with
tropical hats that make an easy target.
More sheep than people so what do you expect they shear
sheep and like it, chips fried in ewe fat.
The platypus takes no interest in this can it be made into
a Vietnam duck, a country the Aussie were lured into invading.
Australia is in a way a Platypus can't make up its mind whether
it is a far eastern country or a European settlement.

In the legend of the lovers Tristan and Iseult, there is a small, magical, immortal dog named Petitcrieu who "ate half the sadness of everyone he met." He didn't gift any type of forgetfulness, but instead bestowed the ability to bear the sorrow easily.


Bells are ringing wet and pink
on a muscled shoreline of skin,

lining me with their tolling.
Their knell is so heavy in the ear,

it sinks into the sand chokes
trapped on my frozen tongue.

Someone great has vanished again.
The clang and clatter escapes

out of this red chest oven,
bangs around the wild world.

Grief is announced, by way
of cacophony. Where are the dogs?

The ones who eat our sadness
with their bellish barking?

Who look into our brief eyes
& remove the worst of the sting?

Who serve the moon, defy the sun?
They have gone missing.

Sorrow rushes through the waters
a blued frigate with a headwind,

overtaking the heart, the head,
the curried spine...

In this age, sadness is the magazine
that all of us are reading.

He is a boring man,
wears the same 3 shirts
In a cycle,
Eats the same curried
Mackerel,
From a can each day.

Was it a bad past experience,
Is this PTSD?
I’ve never known and I guess
I never will,
That’s all it is to me.

For our thirty three years
Of marriage,
I have never been able to
Get a peak,
Or even a glimpse into the
darkness,
His Christmas Eve outings

But at 10 o clock sharp,
On the bitter 24th,
Noel puts on a red suit
And heads out the door.

I should question what,
He’s been getting up to,
But I fear for the answer,

He’s coming home, and
As I pray, the smell of
Bleach and dead meat
Sleigh-ride my way.

He scares me; his eyes dead,
Drinking whisky, and Looking straight ahead at a black and
White picture of my niece,
Pounding into my flesh before
Taking another swig...

Nowhere is the new in place,
the last time I was nowhere
nobody wanted to go there
and now everybody is where
I used to be,

Where's nowhere, you ask

nowhere's anywhere is my reply.

It's a bit like lonely but more cheerful
because it's homely and that's where
the heart is.

Dinner's cooking,
but I'm only smelling
not looking
because
I want it to be a
surprise,

she eyes me suspiciously
I'm used to that too.