Many times in my past,
My take on life
Was a puzzling grasp
Of truths and lies.

In my mind,
In my heart,
I thought I was middling smart.
That's what I've depended on,
Yet I was phished by the con.

It comes from the side
Of your weakest eye,
While you think you're helping
This other guy.

The hit is done with such aplomb.
That's the beauty of the con.

I'm still as smart as I thought I was,
But wiser now,
Just because,
I was the victim of a scam.
In reticence now,
I feel like the lesser man.

He was slick;
I was tricked
When I let my guard slip
By a con's phishing trip.
But never again.
I promise this.

We keep good records.
Starting dates, endings.
Wars, plagues, starvations.
Emigratiions. Genocides.
Religious and cultural shifts
Continue in sustainable growth.

Not unlike my Magnolia,
Some of whose roots got burned
From excessive fertilizer.
The foliage suffered, not the trunk.
This year there are fewer buds.

Not unlike my grandkids
Holding up our mythology to reason,
Our White Lies.
Our magical lights, speeds of travel
That take us from our immortal Earth,
I snap back,
And slip a dollar under a child's pillow.
This will sustain.

Crosses white, poppies red,
Remember how, remember when
Pale petals fell from blooming roses,
And padded paths where freedom goes.
Fierce fires doused a would be hate,
To quench dry hearts, yours and mine.
Their love and duty burned paper chains
That shackled in war time.
Wise eyes, bright minds, aged souls, young hearts,
Traded rockers for grassy beds;
Gave up gray for blue-black youth,
Now honoured among the dead.
The rose that's guarded by the thorn,
Against the reach of many hands,
Does the same in all God's lands:
Yet still the life sap flows.
This time of year is here again,
But remember how, remember when
Canadian pulses beat taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

We met three times
Over fifteen years.
The disagreement paled
In light of his diagnosis.

He unexpectedly appeared
At my door, then stood in my kitchen.
He had a few serious questions
About brotherly affections,
And after spitting into my sink
(the poor man)
He wondered if I thought less of him
For not sending cards at Christmas and birthdays.
Is that what he came to say?

Next was at our last family wedding.
He was still steady on his feet.
We were five Irish lads.
The sisters said he was the handsome one.
He was.
There are six of us posing in this final shot.
He's wearing a Lucille Ball tie,
Losened around his neck,
Yet covering the gill-like scar
Running from lobe to lobe.
His hands are buried deep
In his pants' pockets.
His smile says Good-bye.

I saw him for the last time
A few weeks later,
Standing, bent and coughing
At the intersedtion of the roadway and Nature Trail.
His rib cage raging from contortions.
He waved off an offered ride.
And then he was gone.
It took us years to get here.

I didn't die.
I felt the sun on my inner eyelids.
It appeared on time,
Traipsing from the east.
I last saw it dropping like a child's ball
Just west of the St. Clair, into Michigan.

All is all right.
But I know to expect
Changes in the weather,
And seasons... lots of seasons...
I will dress appropriately.

Whew!
Glad I live here,
And not there.

A milestone of life
Was marked last week:
     I wasn't hit
     I aged one week
So, nothing really,
So to speak.
But
In my right ear
Came a humming,
Caused by nothing
     (and this sounds funny)
Yet, the sound is something
Ringing in my ear.
     (but really, more like a humming)
I find solace,
When alone and thinking,
The sound I hear,
Louder than blinking
     (which isn't funny)
Assures me that
My motor's running.

I'm at times just like a crow,
And I see what you don't know.
There preening in the early dawn,
You hear my caw when your light turns on.
I watch you rake your yellow lawn,
I hear you cry when you hear your song,
As your long and lonely days drag on.
Like wings I'll wrap my arms about you,
I'll never fly again without you.

He's senile, incoherent,
Out of shape,
Out of date.
He tips forward
Cause he blows back wind,
And when he mugs
He waddles his chin.
He smiles and squints
Those beady swine eyes,
Above his lantern-like
Satanic grin.
And it's never about you,
When it's always about him.

Flies follow his brimstone smell,
Like sulphur leaked
From the gates of hell.
The vermin covet
His dependable fill
From a shart attack
While he's standing still.

He's a fake from the toe lifts,
That stop forward tipping;
As fake as orange highlights,
And his mental slippings,
He's glued a fake coif of  fluff,
And, if that's still not enough,
He spews lies,
Framed by his wee hands flailing,
His fetid breath exhaling,
Pouty lips wailing,
And his fat *** trailing
Far behind the Leader.

The upper branches
Of the Family Tree
Are visible.
I'm not near the base
Where I used to be.

There are fewer branches above;
And as I move there's
More and less to love.

Some limbs above have broken,
Suffered drought and heat
Through the elements of life.
But the trunk is true, strong,
Stalwart and flexible
As the lineage of its rings,
These expanding circles of life.
And above,
The transplanted branches
Were rooted with love.
Sprouts apppear below,
As further up I go.
And my limbs
Are moving slow.

Our heros keep exiting the stage,
Leaving us their music, art, film, and literature.
Their athletic accomplishments,
Their political discretions,
And hidden battlescars,
Their scientific and medical wonders.
Our ancestors left us the wheel and fire,
The family unit and our extended compatriots.
A good lineage always starts in the cave,
And helps us make it through the night.

The message was as legible
As orbits in astrophysics.
The syntax was true as
A mathematical equation,
Not calculated by accident or coincidence.
And precise, announcing,

HAPPY VALLEY NUDIST CAMP

Boldly, on a southern hillside,
In white-painted stones,
On Hywy #22,
On the crossroads between youth and age,
Doubt and confusion.

The stones are gone.
Picked over, or, rolled down the hillside.
And the Hywy is hardly used.
How. By accident or happenstance?
Or a higher intelligence orchestrated
The arrangement of the stone message.


And this happened outside our town.
On the road to London.

Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.

I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.

Speak truth to power,
And don't dismiss the facts.
Why insipidly focus on polls
Like the failing Times,
The Murdochian lies
And the Hedge Fund huskers
Do.
CNN is rudderless.
The media is fascist,
Bending facts to fit the frame.
There is no Venn Diagram
For comfirmative circles.
Don't treat the true and the false,
The outrageous and the normal
As glossed over good people on both sides.
The sides are not equally valid
Because the Post opines it so.

If she met him in a different life,
Not this one,
Where he lost his wife;
Would she give this guy a chance,
Despite his failed and trying romance
With her.
Could she understand the shortcomings and frays,
And take a chance he's changed his ways.
Could she touch his skin, smile with her eyes,
And realize he's not the same.
That man died
In remorse and regret,
He did what she can't forget.
Now years later,
Could she live -
Not with a man she can't forgive-
But with a man who doesn't show
The hidden scars the damaged know.

In my 20's
In the 70's
I was long in hair,
Donned vests and jeans,
From Goodwill Stores.
But I spent hard cash
On calf-high boots,
Raven black platforms.

Now in my 70's
In these 20's,
They threw me a party.

Hello 70's.
You Are Invited
To a 70's Party.
Groovy attire welcome.

Was I obliged.
Soon compelled.
Nearly obsessed.

Then the epiphany.
The Bard,
Reminds this walking shadow
In the long, gray-haired rented wig.

I am He.
You, She.
We are moored
Inexplicably.

I bide.

Whose face resembles a slapped cantaloupe?
Whose face could curdle cream?
Whose face is in a class of eejits all by itself?
Whose face spews out more **** than his ****?
Whose face resembles a boil in need of lancing?
Whose face would be left on shore cause the tide wouldn't take it out?
Whose face has a waddle waddling like Donald Duck?
Who?

Given the choice...
There is no choice.
No alternative
To poll your voice.
Be surgical.
Be precise.
This isn't the time
For being nice.
Fight against what you know's not right.
This is the quarrel for our childrens' lives.

So many roads lead back home,
But not the one where I was born.
That first wet road was slippery,
With curves and hills and holes,
But every mile I travelled on,
Without knowing, I headed home.

Those many highways,
Like a wheel,
Were radiating spokes,
But like the wheel,
They're circular,
So always lead back home.

Would I do it all again
For the price of joy,
The debts of pain;
For the strains of love?
What would I gain?
It could never be the same.
Not better than we had before,
With entwined lives,
With all we bore.
Yes, all that,
And one day more.

The enemy occupies a familiar battleround,
And the reduction begins,
First by attrition,
Then like waddling ducks on my lawn,
After the swirling storm.
A great desolation
Is ****** to the centre of the funnel;
And within earshot
Off the guilty,
They fall over the cliff,
In a flutter of molted feathers.

Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.

Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.

I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.

"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...

Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.

Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.

Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.

I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.

(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)

Some people can wait
     Before they die;
Hold on for a loved one
     To say Good-bye.
To have one more Spring,
     Or any Season,
For Love or Closure,
     This we reason.
Now many can leave
     This coil of doubt,
Guilty they heard,
     On all thrity-four counts.

I woke to the warning blasts
Of fog horns on the St. Clair.
They comfort like a weighted blanket.
And the rain falls evenly, now,
On my vegetables,
On everyone's lawn and garden.
All is as it should be this morning.
Quiet, ordered and secure.
I'm glad I'm not over there,
Or anywhere else,
But here.

Who waters dead plants?
Me.
Who pumps air into tires with holes?
Me.
Who spits into the wind?
Me.
Who swims against the current?
Me.
Who presses the walk button at intersections?
Me.
Who clicks BBQ tongs to make sure they work?
Me.
Who hits the save button more than once?
Me.
Who kills puppies?
Kristi Noem.

Do you see
How all things
Have conspired
For an average ******,
Like me.

I am grateful
To evade
The poxes
Others have endured.

The cold, the hunger, the homelessness;
The hate, the fear, the lonliness.
There's more.

I have never
Stretched out
A hand or fist
In want, fear, or hate.

I held chalk, and *****, and babies.
Such things sealed my fate.
Peace and Love
Filled our waves;
No poppies and crosses
On a friend's foreign grave.

Yes, all things conspired.
And this time got it right,
To live happily ever after
In my middle-class life.

Distant trains still sound alarms,
Blinds are drawn, people yawn,
It's time to call the day.

The sun's turned off,
The moon's turned on,
The stars like pinholes
Blink till dawn.
The animals are bedded
On the farm;
Beneath this counterpane we're warm.

Today our work is done;
Tomorrow worries not begun.
But tonight I'll sleep
Like the seventh son.

The eye of the hurricaine is still and lonely.
The sands on the beach are left untouched.
The church pews sit empty.
The store shelves are scant.
The pitches are quiet,
The playgrounds are empty.
The fields are burnt.
The waters are grey.
The air about is thick and acrid.
The windows are shuttered, doors are barred.
There are no moving bodies on the streets.
Cars sit idly parked.
Schools are childless.
Does this sound like the dawn of the apocolypse,
Or another four years.

I know you've heard of RINOs,
Perhaps you've heard of DINOs,
Some Christians are called CINOs,
Are those men mere MINOs.
Women become WINOs
(the irony doesn't escape me though)
Humans evolved to HINOs;
Friends are friends
I'll never call them  FINOs.
Avoid lovers who are LINOs,
And teachers who are TINOs.
Could a Jew be a JINO?

But make no mistake:
Terrorists are Terrorists,
Jihadists are Jihadists,
Haters are Haters,
War mongers are war mongers,
Liars lie.

It's We thePeople, PINOs.

I need permission
To break through this invisible forcefield,
To give you a hug,
And make it not ******.
Yet...
We both know
It not to be true.

Yes, I'm the husband.
You need to treat me as such.
Like Ward Cleaver.
Don't condescend, ridicule, or find fault
In little things.
Am I to ingest this drivel
Till I technocolor burp?
I wait for a thaw or a thigh;
A small smile would register on the Richter.
In my house there are many rooms
For a Piata, a David,
But Moses has reign,
Coming down Sinai.
Thou shalt have no false gods before me.
I was a believer,
Before I did,
Before I do.
Today I am an agnostic and an atheist.
I do not believe in sanctity
Or forgiveness.
I sow what I have reaped.

Got some hope today.
It felt like a tingle.
In my insides somewhere.
This was familiar.
I was reminded that the world
In which I was born,
Was just as ****** as now.

Somehow, we're muscling on.

Nucleur threats,
Idealogical jets,
With invasions, wars and debts.
I kept abreast of the U.S.S.R.
Covered heads beneath school desks,
Bent over likeVesuvians.
Korea, Viet Nam,
And on and on;
Granada, not Canada,
Look what happened in Iran.
Did you see them hang Sadam?
I can still hear the alarms.

We still keep muscling on.

This world is moving fast.
One thousand miles per hour.
Quicker around the sun.
Faster around the galaxy,
And fastest into the universe.
No contraction. Just expansion.
We agree, it's infinite in time and space.
Is there a nucleus for BOOM?
Does time go in only one lateral direction?
Was there more than one BANG for the buck?
More than one universe?
Creation isn't an asterick,
Exploding in all directions,
Like the rays of a sun.
Time may have no beginning, no end.
But stories need a beginning, middle and end.
My story does.
The universe doesn't. No story.
Not without a start and an end.
Just a middle, with crises, conflicts and looming decisions.
This is the illusion.

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.

Lou left!

It was an unexpected cataclysm;
A rogue wave in my face;
A flapping jib in the lightning;
A broken string
As I began Yesterday.

Today, I read his life's history,
His likes and loves.
I will replace that string,
And finish the song.
Before I forget,
Before too long;
For I was his mate
In many a storm.

My words are hard to handle;
They shift and shape in time.
It's  cool to be rad,
To chill and veg sublime.

Some just reach and grab the crotch,
And twerk while in their ******;
Majorettes smile in knee high boots,
Flirting with the lenses.

Some other words come easily;
The ones used every day.
Texting's being phased out
With a smiling yellow face.

I have fewer words today;
This makes life hard for me;
The many times I write Love
Is nearing Eternity.

Yet isn't this all I need-
That one Eternal chord;
Love is love forever,
Never ending as the Word.

I awaken mornings feeling upbeat,
Praying my prayers set like concrete.
But No!
This repetitive routine has no soul.

Perhaps I'm praying wrong.
Perhaps He prefers a song,
A Hallelujah chorus
To **** of the Anti-Christ.
(but the Creature lives... it ***** up all our hopes).

I'll pray again tonight:

Now I lay me down to sleep.
And pray that God won't willfully keep
That blakened spot he calls his soul,
Dispatched to Hell for our repose.

There was once a time of quietude.
If I said something;
Showed you something,
Or did something; and,
If it was warm and loving,
Interesting or whimsial,
Controversial or agreeable,
You might nod, shake your head,
Sigh,
Perhaps gesture -
Yes or No or Maybe.

I'm reading.
There's too  much noise.
Some friends, many strangers,
Laughing... loudly...
Out loud;
Smiling, hugging, liking, Wowing, loving, tsking. crying...
So much emotion.
I can hear them.

Not long ago,
But mostly gone,
Like silent films
It was quiet.
LOL WOW *** :)

If not this week,
Then next.
If not this year,
Then next.
              
This year.
                  Next year.
Some year.
                  Not never.

What is time? Space?
Will it matter?

I add one word: Let the [orange] blowt king tempt you again...

A long unopened folder
Fell from a shelf,
Spewing unfinished poems
Across the room
Like shards of colored glass,
Edged as sharp as razor wire.
We know those fragments;
And how deep they can cut.
They speak of life and death,
Love and leaving,
Good, evil, and Roads.
I may arrange them
In a stained glass mosaic;
Not much symmetry,
But piecemealed,
Telling of my Inquisition.

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!"