I would've given birth to you;
Endured whatever Mothers do.
Instead, I did what Dads do.

I rocked you till my future shook,
Watched you till I couldn't look.
As you changed, I grew too,
To do the things that Dads do.

You were dressed, fed and nightly bathed,
I loved you so much I was saved.

If there's credit, well, I get it,
For teaching you to read.
I took the blame
When you got bored
With school's ABC's.

I followed you in all your roles,
Your teams,
Your solos,
Your trips,
Your shows.
I'm first to clap,
And last to sit;
And taped it all,
From start to finish.

I taught you how to tie a lace,
Ride a bike, golf and skate.
When time arrived for you to drive,
You learned on standard -- never stranded,
You came home alive.

Your highs,
I took in stride,
And by example
Taught humility's pride.

Your lows,
I couldn't internalize;
I dropped my guard
With my eyes.

When Dad's do well,
It's a double edge,
The future wedge.
For the world revealed
Desired you too.

I'll never dismiss
What Mother's do,
But when Dads do well,
Both lose you.

Watch me disappear
Before your eyes
Been hanging ‘round here
Begging for replies
Too many times
Unanswered
Pushed aside
Stayed too long
****!
I’m gone

Beat it
Into resignation.
Flog it
Into degeneration.
Disparage it
Into decomposition.
or
Leave it
To wither all alone.
These are some choices.
There are others.
Embrace it
To become integral.
Surround it
To become enclosed.
Adopt it
To be your mantle.
and then
You wither alone.

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."

for every little thing i may unwind from my spores
there are other things floating in the yoke of my egging.
a sort of brusk helium chipping away at my lead weights
elevating the intrigue of my primal thoughts
from the bog of my susceptible
desires.

glistening like a trophy made of skeletal glitter
and flesh.

a sage where idiots dream of something other than the sun
staring at a hole with calloused eyes-

the hammer in your inkwell
pounding the sun into your thumbnail
like a rune you stitch
into your marrow.

now the word that gave you Life-
has an Echo.

tumbling over you and you and you

Orange man, you like to kneel down,
I said, Orange man, you shine like a clown,
I said, Orange man, you smile with a frown,
There's no need to be unhappy.

Orange man, there's a place you can go,
I said, Orange man, it's your rodeo,
You can stay there, with those of your ilk
Who tweets lies, cheats, bleats and bilks...

You can stay at the F.B.O.P
You're barred at the F.B.O.P.

They have everything for old men to enjoy
You can hang out with all the boys...

You'll have fun at the F.B.O.P.
You'll stay long at the F. B. O. P.

You can shower with men,
You can measure and pretend,
You can grove and bend..

You'll have fun at the F.B.O.P.
You'll stay long at the F.B.O.P.

You'll have everything for old men to enjoy,
You can shower and dance with boys...

I said, Orange man...

i had words with a silent thing.
i won the argument, needless to say.
but fewer trumpets were in my bag of air
too asleep to be awake
with the things of you
strewn about the palace
of my misery

I suppose a jewel is vacant
spoiled by the sun and no longer a friend.
the way the things of you
pinch the law of my skin
like a twist in a maze of love
grumpy with northern lights
percolating forever
because love
can.

. .

I'm disappearing.
Bit by tiny bit.
I'm becoming a mosaic
Of technological parts.
I'm not bionic,
I've a real heart;
But aids help me hear;
Implants help me chew;
Stainless steel lets me kneel,
I wear specs to see you.

Nothing man-made can last;
Not like mountains and forests
That don't need my resources.
You may say these things aren't living, as such...
But you'd be wrong.
You may argue I am not living as such...
You'd be wrong again.
I need batteries and oil,
Scripts or x-rays to prove it,
But the proof is there.
I'm shedding skin, losing hair,
Have diminished hearing and sight;
My legs are sore and tired and my back...
Oh my back...
Yes, I am disappearing
And will be remembered for a generation;
As my grandfather was with me.
When my brain disappears,
So will he.

I want to write a Christmas poem,
But the muse ain't in the mood;
I look outside, it seems like Spring.
I really think I'm *******.

There's not a flake of snow out there,
The sun shines in the blue;
I believe the squirrels are copulating.
I really think I'm *******.

Our geese stayed North again this year,
Our fauna's still in view;
It's hard to spot the cardinals;
I really think I'm *******.

There's lights strung round houses,
With inflatables on the lawns;
They're out of place,
Look crude and rude;
I really think I'm *******.

I'm not hearing silver bells
From sleighs running over snow;
It's a wonder we call this winter,
In Ontariario.

But... the tree is up,
The gifts well-wrapped
With Love and Best Wishes too;
So, in lieu of surely being *******,
This verse will have to do.

I've been exposed.
Many have witnessed me,
And more have noticed it.
The ones I taught to use a spoon,
Tie a lace, ride a bike,
Arise from a fall.
Those whom I've instructed
On when to listen,
When to question.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

The colleagues I once cornered with
In serious situations;
When our decisions effected others' paths;
Those who recognized my signature.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

I meet less often with friends.
I ask for less favours, and return fewer.
I don't stand holding meaningful conversations,
Sipping strong drinks.
I wear a cap indoors sometimes  (I once condemned this).
But, here you have it.
They've acquiesed.

I'm on my own now,
Hoping my memories are real and are mine,
And my ideas are new and genuine
(I change my mind a lot).
I seldom check the weather;
I've cancelled my cable (and this is a milestone).

I've enroled in a new world order.
Ask anyone you can find around here.
I no longer run the world.