Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.

A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.

Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.

Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.

The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”

There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.

There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****.

The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.

A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.

An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.

Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.

Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth  of Ontario.

When you’re alone,
Or with others,
Enjoy the poems
Between these covers.

Poems of love and hope,
Praise and pride,
The times we laughed,
The times we cried.

Through the years,
From birth till now,
We grew in number,
And thrived somehow.

Your natural talents
And acquired skills,
Fill my pages
With timely thrills.

You weren’t entitled,
You didn’t squander,
The gifts you earned
For your endeavours.

Read now how it came together.

We'd never call them losers
Because they couldn't stand;
We'd lift them up from off the ground
On worn out knees and hands.

We'd never call them fools
Because they wouldn't talk;
We oohed and ahhed with all their sounds,
And they did it as they walked.

We heard a blend of sounds spew forth,
Like a can of spilled alphaghetti;
They roared with their oral prowess,
Like lions of the Serengeti.

As years passed, and they were graded
(And most certainly not by us);
They might return with D's and E's,
We'd never judge or fuss.

This is how we treated them,
Our children that we raised;
I hope that our puzzling world
Will forgive, forget and praise.

You couldn't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.

Why believe?
Too many, way way way too many
Have unwavering faith
In feckless politics and so forth.
A marginalized few benefit.

The median line.
Below this line lies 50% of us.
Not their fault. Genetics, etc.
Going down from the line,
Things only get worse.
And because of age and nurture,
Liars, thieves, conmen, predators, schemers, lowlifes, maggots, mysogynists, bigots, racists get elected.
Age and Ages undid
England, France, Italy, Germany, Spain, all of the Middle East, Africa, the U.S.A...... and now.... Canada.
Egoists, Idiots, Ejits, Fools, A-Holes, Harlequins, Clowns, Ventriloquists....
Are running... Ruining  my world,
Relegating us.

I saw Mammy yesterday,
Sitting, smiling and relaxed.
Idling wasn't her usual way.

Then your Dad walked into view,
Lighting up, talking loud.
He wasn't comfortable in a crowd.

Nana and Bub shine in glorious colours,
As do the constant sisters and brothers.

There's Marlene tucked-in on the couch,
With an infectious smile that leaves no doubt.

Jim's feeling his cups. He's crying out.
But can't explain what his pain's about.

Da's holding Eucheria in his arms,
Pretending to water our dead brown lawn.

Sweet Maura teases with a sharp handled comb,
Sneaks in the side door when returning home.

Sister Sheila in heels gives herself a lift,
For without them she's about four foot six.

And Kevin my older rebellious brother,
Tells biker stories that made us shudder.

Sean has all the talents and skills,
With looks and smiles that really ****.

Gerald too had similar traits,
But dwarfed us all when he'd read and write.

They laugh and cry,
Smile and tear;
It's as if
They're all still here.
I captured each
On video tape;
Healthy, alive,
This side of the Gate.

Yet someone's missing from these scenes,
Someone who's rarely seen.
A Son, Brother, Husband, Da,
Uncle, Nephew,
And Granda.
That someone's Me.
Quietly filming
With my camera.

Canada already has:
10 provinces
3 territories
3 coastlines
Baffin Island
Two Official Languages
The Niagra Horseshoe Falls (Way Better than the other one)
The CN Tower, Stanley Park, Old Quebec and not to mention The St. Lawrence Seaway, Whistler, Algonquin, Banff, Columbia Ice Fields, Montreal, Jasper... and on and on and....
More oil and gas than Saudia Arabia.
A belief in WHO and NATO and Green Energy.
A Great reputation,
and

Kindness and Dignity.

Why in the name of all that's decent would We want to make the United States our Fourth Territory.
To be a Province would take decades. Excess Baggage.

What we don't have is a narcissistic, mysogynistic, bigotted conman, who is a convicted womanizer, fraudster and felon, who has little regard for the betterment of our Earth and civilization, as our country's spokesperson.

We do have a soon peacefully and unwittingly departing P.M.
It will be a walk in the snow for him on rue Pere Pierre...Just in time.

Just Sayin"!

The paper, with ** **s,
Lies crumpled on the floor.
The Santa wreath with berries,
Clings  haphhazardly on the door.
The darkling tree with heirloom baubles,
Will be tomorrow's chore.
I'll rise and go to bed now;
That's it. There is no more.

It doesn't change from year to years;
Behind my eyes, my happy tears,
Behind my lips, I smirk and smile,
Behind me lies this Season's sighs.

The following day I'll stow away
All semblance of this Christmas Day;
Pack up all my anticipations,
And closet my poor celebrations.
There disappointments and delights,
Are kept under wraps
When kept out of sight.

Yet, being a man of age and sage,
I know I will turn the page;
And begin again to wish and hope,
Making me a Christmas Dope.

Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

I'm nostalgic for those old wars;
The coloured Roses kind,
With heroes and villains named Henry or Joe.
Wars that inspired poems about fields and bunkers.
And songs. So many catchy lilts with
Tipperary, white cliffs and battleships.
And slogans that made children want to fight
Against Loose Lips and encrypted blips on collateral damages.
I could be persuaaded to enlist,
To serve along side guys like the Duke,
And ****... and **** Tojos and Huns,
While singing and dancing.
And the community. How all chipped in with the Effort.
Congealing around ***** of yarn or tinfoil...  and victory gardens!
We'd be three deep on the boulevard, handing flowers to marching children on Main St.,
And the pulpits and towers exalt our efforts:
God is with us.
Shangdi yu women tong zai.
Dieu est avec nous.
Gott ist mit uns.
Bag s nami.
Dio e con noi.

Nobody has penned a memorable song
About Nagasaki;
We've seen some brain numbing,
Award winning pics
About Hiroshima.

We won't meet again.
I don't know when,
But how is definite.
A few big boys,
And...
Phsssszzzzzt!
How does that song go?

This stage, my heart,
Greets entering friends
As shades,
Not shadows,
Of their younger selves.
Despite disappointments
And promises,
Firsts and lasts,
Skins and sins,
Joys and sorrows
And bags and sags...
I still see YOU,
My first, longest and oldest.
The ever ones,
Bob and John.

What flies higher and faster than an eagle;
Moves in underwater distances greater than a whale,
And quicker than a shark;
On land, makes the chetah look immobile;
Can burrow deeper, and more effectively than a mole;
Is more powerful than elephant, rhino;
Has a higher perspective than a giraffe;
Presents with more audacity than a monkey;
Yet has the discerning powers of a gnat,
And the future longevity of a fruit fly?

This time of year,
When trees go bare
And snow covers our ground,
I come down
With a seasonal disease...
Weeks prior to Christmas Eve.

The onset is a distant twinkle
Shimmering in the deep;
That gives me such a nuanced twitch...
I itch to hang a wreath.

And when I sneeze,
I'm joyfully pleased
To shop for such and stuff.
I horde it in a secret place,
Then worry I've not enough.

When my muscles get tired and weak,
My back gets bent and sore,
When my body starts to sweat...
I await the seasonal cure.

I'll run a fever, hullucinate,
Take to my bed and wait.
Don't present me meds,
Don't ring me up a nurse,
I'll protest and rave.
This winter ailment,
This gifting curse,
My present proclivity,
Will only break
Come Christmas morn.
Oh Come, Oh Come Nativity.

Don't look in the rear view.
It's there, in front of the windshield,
That looks to the immediate future.
I sit between the two,
With the past in the mirror,
And the simultaneous future
Over my hood,
And my wheels spin,
I'm moving.
Trees and people jostle
From front to back, continuously.
Road signs are a blur
As the air pushes the world aside
Like lace curtains,
Like love,
Enduring through unintended consequences.
A simple gesture,
A mustard seed,
Growing.
Like crystals, connecting,
Dissipating into one.

I have stashed my Glenfiddich
And Marlboros
In the basement cupboard,
While settling in,
At Ground Zero.

You know what I don't hear
That I heard when I was young;
It'll all be over soon.
Sooner than you think.
I heard the doctor say that,
And the pacings of
The Presiding Proctor
Raise tensions in the room.
Then someone says, It's good for you.
But I'm not holding the spoon.

This too shall pass,
The same sun will rise,
The rain falls evenly
On both our sides.

I don't believe in six of one
Or half dozen of the other;
Or the other side of the same coin.
Seldom do we get what we deserve.
I have yet to witness the last
Going first or vice versa.
Maybe there are lasers in space
And brain worms,
Black is not white,
White is not black.
Words are friends.
Fear not,
For they are with us always.

I'm not a somebody
You would know.
I'm a nobody, really.
And, as a nobody,
I don't win or lose,
Cause nobody does a **** thing.
I didn't arrive or leave,
Thus nobody is here.
Nobody says anything.
Nobody was accused, so,
Nobody admits to the act.
Nobody was saved.
Nobody deserved it more,
Or less.
Nobody spoke up,
Yet nobody would shut up,
So, nobody was chosen.
Nobody wants to go,
Yet nobody desires to stay.
Nobody was blamed,
And nobody got the credit.
And,
While it's common knowledge
That everybody is born,
We would be wise to remember,
Nobody gets out alive.

The omnipotent
Doesn’t lead seminars.
The Universe is real.
Believe.

We can't know them
By their religion.
Too much hypocrisy.

We can't know them
By politics.  
It's ever-changing... or not.

We can't know them
By country.
Zillions emigrate and immigrate.

We can't know them
By their clothes.
Emperor or not.

We can't know them
By their words.
Too many equivicators.

We can't know them
By their jobs.
At home or away.

We can't know them
By their family.
Nuclear or extended.

We can't know them
By their deeds.
They say one thing, and do another.

But look to  the roadside.
In the ditches.
By the curb.
In the bins.

Ye shall know them by their garbage.

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.
With reticence now,
I'm 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.

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...

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 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.

Roll over a rock,
And what will you find;
Someone not
In a rational mind.

Where do we find them,
These  sad sacks;
Standing with placards
In the pumpkin patch.

Holding up fists,
Ready to fight;
A left jab will settle
The flails from the right.

They hang around schools,
Ogling their chances;
Using bibles as tools
For sexing defences.

They call themselves patriots,
Heroes and martyrs;
They're blowing hot air;
They're political farters.

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.

Those two are so often seen,
That one might see them as one.
One wouldn't, one said,
And one would be wrong.
The other said, Yes, one would.
One won't.
We know.
It's all show. Civility. Cruelty.
One knows.

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.

We were here first.
     I seriously doubt that,
     but, for the sake of argument,
     let's say you were,
     here first.
     So?
     I was here second.
     This isn't a race.

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.