We can't ever offfer
That inside sleep
Of solitude and peace.
Yet this promise
We will keep.
Wake or  asleep,
We are with you.
Always.

So, Sleep, Ciaran. Sleep.
Let no one claim your dreams;
Listen to your childhood rhymes;
Worry not of place or time,
For all is still
As it seems.

Oh! Sleep, Angel. Sleep.
Shield your heart
As a secret power
In your waking hours.
Spread your winged smile
With candescence,
To brighten, and alit,
Where Angels sleep.

To weaken him,
He sent the archangel Virus;
To muffle him,
He sent the St. Michael storms.

I lift pens.
(You can never have enough of them)
Funeral Homes leave them lying around. They're the only good thing about Visitations.
Banks tie them down, but there are others, here and there.
There are those who want to take your pens too.
People with petitions are always asking to borrow a pen.
They want my ink and blood.
Be sure you get yours back.
I have a legit fountain pen collection.
Proud of my Parker I got in Oxford years ago,
During a different life that lead to this one.
Biff Loman lifted Mr. Oliver's pen,
After his epiphany.
Just runs in and steals it.
Am I a tragic figure as well?
Are we all playing our parts in
The Death of a Nation.

It's well-known,
The younger you are,
The better your memory.
You refute.
I agree to your exceptions.
You agree they have less to remember.
We laugh, but know it to be true.
Our memory is full.
I unintentionally delete memories.
I don't get to decide how to make room.
The younger you are the more space you have.
The more empty cells, you quip.
Little vacuums, I add.
Wanting to be filled.

I make an exception.
Some cells are memory dedicated;
Protected from the sub-conscious decision-making process that is responsible for deletions...

I saw To Sir With Love
Over five decades ago (perhaps you know it).
I can't tell you which delinquent said,
Blimey, red blood!
When Thackery cut his hand.
I didn't care when I was thirteen
What the difference was between
Empowering teachers,
And overpowering teachers;
No!
But I recall the colour of racism
In the drama
On Thackery's face.

Our bees aren't social distancing,
As they buzz about the hive;
The ants aren't wearing masks
In their pismires, yet they thrive.

Racoons wash without soap,
Llamas spit  without remorse,
Monkeys' feces fill the air,
Dogs are crapping everywhere,
The watering holes of the Kalahari
Have larger crowds
Than political rallies.

Every insect, bird and beast,
With scale or feather, beak or teeth,
With legs or wings, bellies or fins,
Still swim or fly, walk or crawl;
We succumbed before them all.
It's back to Eden,
Back to the fall.

We love my mashed potatoes,
With butter on our plates;
But at the Trumpian table,
We'd eat from Donnie's pate.

I hold him responsible
For the loss of my humanity.
I used to be so understanding, forgiving, empathetic;
But now,
I'm more gladdened than saddened
To see Americans,
Unemployed, homeless, hungry, sick and dying
By the tens of thousands -
By the tens of thousands!
And the multitude of losses
Will be our final solution
For Herr Donald.