Happiness
Is but a gust of wind

You cannot restrain it

Without hurting yourself
You cannot reach the hill

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.

You're always there
in my ear
giving me grief
telling me things
that I don't want to hear
blah is as far as it gets
before
I switch off and

what did you say?
yes dear
of course dear
I'll do it now dear

well
you can't not hear
a direct command.

Our sin is but a ghost
That haunts our each Breath
And accompanies us to hell

I have today grown old.
I was never told,
Make every day count.
I counted days,
Missed some years,
My advice may fall on deaf ears
To those who know how to live their lives.
Everyday. Everyway.
It's not easy.
I recognize the mantle
On my children's faces;
See them counting milestones,
Running theirs through the paces.
How do I tell them
Count every day,
and not count every day;
But make every day count?

When misery falls upon a nan
Imposters run off

Alone is my operative word.
It works well in a Republic,
With all those booths and secret ballots.
In Autocracies we are wise to keep to ourselves.
I'm relieved to be on my own
With what I think and what I do.
With others, I'm never alone.
I don't have far away looks;
I'm not fully engaged with me;
I can be spotted in a crowd.
I'm part of the gathering, and so,
I repress alone thoughts and actions.
If you're not looking my way,
I'm still not alone.
Some say they're alone in a crowd.
I don't get it.
I so get:
Shunned. Outcast. Alienated. Isolated. Fringed. Outed.
I knew when someone had the cooties.
But I'm not. I'm beside myself. Next to an idiot.
I'll never leave me alone.

I'm not unhinged
To consider gates,
And which side I'm on;
Who's allowed in, or out.
If a gate's open,
Do we rush or seep in?
Uncle Frank's gate leads to his plush meadow.
That's how I envision the Pearly Gates
With a slight squeak as they slowly close
On all the lies outside;
Souls sticking a foot between the gate and the post
While banging on the bars.
But the toes don't lie.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

There's no water
In my well;
No pulley,
No bucket
On the end of a rope,
For you.

There's no water
In the cup
Of poison
I spew.