It's a cheap food source,
For the young,
Running like icicles
To their tongues.
It's wiped on sleeves
Up to the elbow.
Or rolled for ammo
Between finger and thumb;
It's a missle
When aimed and flung.

And during the night,
We don't know how,
It's smeared on walls,
Pillows and covers,
And hardens on headboards,
Where it stays and hoovers.

If you're at home,
In need of glue,
Your nose provides
A stick or two.

Granda uses hankies a lot
To dig and pick at his Grandkids' snot.
Blow one nostril at a time
To thoroughly purge the wet green slime.

It harbinges our imminent distress,
When we spot piles of wet kleenex.

And lastly,
At the dinner table,
When no one's looking,
Then you're able,
To stick your ******
Beside last week's gum.
If Dad or Mom
Should happen to see,
Just reply,
’Snot me!

Have you such-a-one?
A rely-on.
Are you such-a-one
For someone?
There is such-a-one.
Ones who don't lie,
Even if it hurts;
Ones that share laughs,
And laughs til it pains.
Such-a-one speaks words
Only one can understand;
Such-a-one has gestures,
That are lost on others,
Quite simply gone over their heads.
Such-a-one isn't abused.
When asked to do, they do,
Cause such-a-one already knew.

We've lived with the good and the bad,
Such are the lives we've had.
With such-a-ones we grow stronger,
We thrive and live joyous lives longer.
And me,
Lucky me;
I've several such ones
I deeply respect and honour.

I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron, or that poser, Yeats.
Each and every one you see,
Lifted their best themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's made me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're  now just dust and bones,
They still don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown, like,
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I thought that up before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poetically clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

I made my Dr.'s appt on time... early... as normal.
And waited one hour. But that's okay.
He takes his time, and will also do so with me.
I'm called in.
I sit, and wait another fifteen minutes. But that's okay.
He arrives. He's older. In fact why hasn't he retired.
But, I'm pleased he hasn't.
So, he begins, as he brings my chart onto his medical screen,
What brings you here today?
I'm concerned about my health. I have a family history that worries me.
Oh!, he sounds. What is it in particular that worries you?
Death, I answered. My family... (and the litany ensued)
Death! I heard. Your chart doesn't have any serious health issues to red flag you, he consoled.
True, I said. But look at my family history. It goes back generations, in Ireland and now in Canada. Both through my maternal and paternal sides. Uncles, Aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters...  died.  All of them. Is it any wonder. I have a family history of near and distant relatives dying. It's chronic, it's acute. Wars, disease, accidents, suicide. You name it. They've died from it, and I probably will too.
A textbook case, he said. Nurse, next.

It's finally come to this...
"I just don't get it!"

They come on like small shocks,
Like faulty neon lights,
Gauche in purple, and bright.
Memory. Blinking OFFf and ON.
I follow them like the swimmer,
Thinking to rest on the lake buoy,
But finding it too slippery;
Not panicking, but worried,
Then turning.

Stuff and things get sold or razed,
Re-zoned or re-engineered.

I can't walk those streets and places,
Not in life or memory.
I'm better off
Staying out of the lake.
And under the neon light'

Turn up my colar to the cold and damp.

I assume the alleyway is there,
Where we left it;
And the five towering pines,
Like young brothers,
Slap branches at one another,
And grow in the winds.

God knows where the miscreants come from.
I don't get it.
Anyway, take it,
Place it in the town square,
And select your stone,
Or use a poker stake,
But near a drain.

                          or

In a cell... alone.... or going for a walk-about
in the common area,
or just under the upper window with the blue square.

                         or

while travelling across the great expanse in a private jet,
even a simple maintainence slip up in the hangar.

Where have all the ****** assassins gone?
I don't mean your run-of-the-mill crazy radicalized terrorist, like Sirhan (though that would suffice);
NO! Enlist an old fashioned one,
With names like,
Mark or James or John.