How do I loathe thee? There aren't enough ways.
I loathe your birth, your girth; the lack of mirth
My tired spirit can reach under your curse;
For loss of truth on your tenuous stay.
I loathe you for the depth of my lost days'
Most silent tears, for all of what they're worth.
I loathe thee as I love our damaged Earth.
I loathe you for your blathering self-praise.
I loathe deeply with the disdain I held
For my old habits, and my wayward sins.
I loathe you with the intense, hurtful pains
Of lost loves left on our bleak battlefields.
I loathe with a passion I freely choose,
As free choice allows. I loathe with my heart,
My thoughts, my whole being; and when you lose,
I'll loathe thee lovingly as you depart.

Our poems are like tickles,
They give both joy and pain;
With blissful tears and tearful giggles,
We'll read those poems again.

Poems are like damaged hearts
In need of surgery;
There's a cut that heals
With lines that seal
The scars along our hearts.

This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.

One's unschooled tool
Should not rule
The behavior of its owner.
Keep your head in check,
Don't regret,
Lack of control of your *****.
So, here's the long and short of this,
Nothing's owed
To the *****.

… and the Sanhedrin cried out loudest,
Free Barabbas.
Ergo,
The Republic got nailed.

The news was expected,
Still, she died today;
She's the last of our parents,
Our children will cry,
So will you,
So might I.
Her great grands didn't know her one bit.
The oldest being just six,
While Gram was sick, long out of touch,
For most of the years of those kids.
The fact is she's passed,
And so it is.
But give it some time,
And we'll witness the line,
In those kids.

"I know an agent, who knows your man, who has a machine to do the job in no time."

… I'll book a flight then

This time,
I’ll sail on a freighter cabin,
Back,
Have a B&B waiting
In a familiar town,
In County Cavan.

I’ll visit with my Uncle,
Drink ***-boiled water
From tea-ringed mugs.
I’ll pour out questions,
Wear an extra layer
To stay the chill,
With my muddy wellies
On his cement floor,
In his soot-walled room,
Behind the  sky-blue, wood rot door;
With the road encroaching,
As never before.
A light dangles from the end of a cord,
The tap is just outside the door,
A four burner propane stove
Provides heat to boil and cook.
The Immaculate Heart
Is missing from where it once was,
In the nook, on the wall.

The thistle encrusted lane
Leads up a hill, from behind,
To a natural well,
Where animals watered and grazed.
Beyond, hedgerows of bramble,
With walls of stone,
Delineate the fields;
Seven in all, they called their own.
But seven can’t stay home.
The youngest,
The unchosen one,
Lives there now on his own.

There' s no cold ash
In the open hearth,
Where generations
Died and birthed.
Despite the depth of the walls,
The rusted roof and lifeless stalls,
The whitewash too
Will bleed to earth,
Onto the tumulus of dirt.

... then, I will book a flight