There will be  pictures I want to see.
Pictures of your life-line growing,
In a background with Christmas Trees,
School days, soccer matches,
Recitals and dinner blessings,
Parties, proms and outright laughing,
When all who matter are present.
I'm not taking the picture.
I'm not in the picture.
So, Remember Me.
Don't release me.
Sit with your children's children,
Open and tell a story
About a picture in the book;
They may laugh with bewildered looks
At the old Irishman,
The Da da, Daddy, Dad, and Faja,
The one who's loved you
From conception on,
Your old man.

Worried? Are you happy?
Anticipation for my number to be called.
Waiting for the I, 65, that stays in the basket.
For the hearse to pass in a weirdly somber parade;
For my children to be home;
Waiting for the lake to freeze;
For the lake to thaw;
Waiting for release;
For the question and the answer.
A thought just popped into my head.
From where?
What's my brain telling me.
I've never told it anything.
It has a mind of its own.
These quotidian thoughts, like memories, ideas, pictures and songs.
Rare thoughts and self chastisement.
Common anxiety with no controlling redundant backup.
Where does the ocean begin? At the lapping of the water,
Or an inch beneath the surface sand?
Does the forest start with the leaf twirling in the wind,
Or with the roots under the asphalt?
Be happy... don't worry.
Glib!

How close did you come
To having it all:
A middle-class life
Hung framed on the wall.
Two cars, a house,
Three kids and a spouse;
A fulfilling vocation,
On hold for vacations.
You cheered from the side-lines,
Offered counsel during half-times;
Standing, whistling, clapping, gasping,
Not knowing those moments
Would forever be passing.
You'd bundle the kids home from the field
To the loving aroma of a home-cooked meal.
The house soon secure for a well-earned sleep,
Living the dream between clean flannel sheets.
With grand kids in store,
And retirement soon;
All this and more,
But stories are looming.

You'd a plan going forward,
Somethings were said,
Things never heard,
But whispered in dread.
The worm set in years before,
An infectious destroyer
As it continued to bore.
A simple beginning, but not much said;
But cancerous rumors take root and spread.
They've lead many living to join with the dead.
You took the high road, decided to ignore it,
Believing the rational mind would abhor it.
But like a lead apron it draped common sense,
All things unraveled, a sad denouement,
You've been tried by opinion,
Found far from innocent..

They're laying their hands on
Two of everything;
A and B have my mother's chin,
I've seen the pictures,
Though they're still in.
Two bassinets and blankies,
Strollers and onesies,.
Cots, cradles and potties.
And let's not forget *******.
Surely both will be put to the test.
Perhaps alternating could garner some rest.
Those peanuts at present share one shell,
And the bump... well, you should see the swell.
Soon they'll gather and cut the ribbon,
There'll be crying and laughing
At The Grand Opening.

If I showed you a picture of her,
All else becomes background.
Before the Eiffel, she towers high;
She is the Alberta Foothills to the Rockies;
As curvaceous and meandering as the Amazon;
More story than Bunratty Castle;
The most intriguing smile at The Louvre;
More endurance than The Spirit of St. Louis;
As mystical as The Shroud;
More amusing than the Park;
More striking than lightning.
The sun diminishes behind her;
In any room, she is Feng Shui.
It's futile to compare.
She is the globe, all else is alien.
The last breath of winter's glory,
The first open flower of spring,
The coolness of a summer rain,
The palette of autumn's color,
These and all others wither
And fade behind the foreground.

I couldn't help but wonder how the day began.
Did he spend precious moments on his knees,
Searching for the toothpaste cap.
Perhaps behind the toilet.
Meanwhile, the wife was going on about her job interview
While changing the baby, when, from down the hall, she hears,
Aha!
I'm sure he looked out the bathroom window and cursed
The snow-packed driveway needing shoveling
Before leaving for the forty minute commute.
His older girl was talking about her weird gymnastics coach,
And he rubbed his cheeks after shaving.
He hardly noticed the clink of coffee brought to rest on the baby-blue  sink.
He was glad he clipped his nose hairs, but paid no heed to the softness of his facecloth.
He poured a re-fill after shoveling, kissed his wife perfunctorily,
And poked the kids.
When I saw the crushed metal at the crossroads,
I wondered if his day began like mine.

I stripped the branches,
Debarked the limbs
Like peeling sunburnt skin
On the chest high grassy plains.
There's a nest in the crotch of our tree
With umbilical vines detached and green;
I check to see if my bellybutton
Is missing, just like Eve's.
I see that mine's an Outie,
Still connected to the trees.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon,
Whom they call Asset,
Meets Beauty,
Whom they call Eliza, who does little,
Except frees Asset's willie.
Del Toro has certainly pulled the bull over our eyes.
Two hours of my life I'll never get back.

Whatever I think on a theme
Is somewhere in a song;
I want to muse on something,
That hasn't yet been done.

Political verses aren't much read,
Nor social satire on the quick and dead;
Relationships are switching lanes,
Sparking up or down in flames.
Family, friends, coming, going,
Everybody's naming names.
Any doggerel I might choose,
Is just a story in the news.

Arise and spin where you stand,
You'll get dizzy, you'll be queasy,
I knew this wasn't to be easy.
It's somewhat like a paper cut,
It's quite like that when it starts up,
Hardly noticeable, but for the sting,
But it gets in under the skin.

It's sweetness strong to draw a bee,
Flowery scents on a breeze;
An attraction meant to pull you in,
A stinger poised to pierce your skin.

I have my joys at end of day,
A little sleeper, a swift silent dreamer
That grows like our emotions,
Just needing our endorsements.

It's not been parsed as it could,
Discard the evil, keep the good;
It's in our veins, as sure as blood,
I'll focus all my wit on love.

I'll spin your yarn
With no embellishments
On the twilled roles you've spun;
I won't tink your knitted history.
I'll needle for pearls of wisdom,
And wear you as the fabric of my life.
You fit like a woolen hoodie.

The Sixties were hip.
Perhaps too hip with the ****** revolution.
It seems today's allegations of ****** misconduct
May spring from that mind-expanding era.
The fingers are pointing back to then,
And who knows what who was doing with whom,
Listening to Purple Haze
Through clouds of smoke, shared needles, and blotter;
Bra burning, card burning, flag burning.
The things one remembers after
So many years of clearing the cobwebs.
Did I get a ***** back then and kiss a girl?
Did I invite a girl up to my room?
Did I touch a girl while dancing?
(OK. I probably snuck a *****, but hey, so did she)
I'm lucky I didn't get into politics or acting.
It turns out free love was like lunch.

I equivocate way too much.
This time, I want to be absolutely blunt.
Hoping whomever reads this has a moment
Of recognition, insight and acknowledgement.
I would use the word epiphany,
But I want to be as blunt as
A dropped egg, a ***** diaper,
A rock, bird **** or lights and sirens;
Not like cryptocurrencies and 17th century tulips.
I hope to say something full of oomph.

*Don't **** it up again.
It's sliding in that direction.
What business is it of ours
If Canada wants nuclear weapons,
Or Ireland, or North Korea.
Accept all issues of sovereignty,
Except genocide. Then get involved.
We could straighten Pisa if so desired.
The space program by itself should've given us
A hundred years of peace and behaving *****.
We're not going to get another chance at this
For ten million years. That's a guess. A conservative guess.
I love how the past is history,
How the present makes history.
Tomorrows deserve history.

We should run from the wolf,
But Red Riding Hood didn't;
She cut through its forest,
Like bait in its trap,
Presumed it to be
The wolf that it's not.
We fight them, tame them,
Blame and shame them;
We'll throw others in front of them
To save our own skins.
Its golden yellow eyes
Invite you to binge.
You know it's a wolf,
Yet knowingly walk in.
Whitt-whoo, the wolf whistled,
And the lamb stroked its chin.
A fox sent her candy,
But when it was handy
She cried, Wolf!
For that's what it is:
A wolf in sheep's clothing,
Or a ram that's been dissed?

I left Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled.

He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He circles the Zamboni,
On memory's icy mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.

He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

We're misrepresented
(We male Caucasians),
Who don't indulge
In bigotry.

A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.

I have two brains inside my head,
Sharing thoughts in synoptic threads;
Sifting what's been heard or read;
Random, weird, or rational doubts,
They get crowded, some fall out.

Like mustard seeds some fall near stones,
And wither away before full grown;
Un-liked, un-loved, barely a hit,
Not to pass our reader's lips.

       Have I sown more *******?

Some scatter near the thorny bush,
The root is strong, but growth gets crushed;
It seems I can't discriminate
What readers like and what they hate.

       I need re-evaluate: Am I writing for writing's sake?

Some thoughts find richness firmly grounded,
The how and why leaves me confounded;
But the ideas blossom, some are priceless,
A palate treat with figurative spices.

       Now, this is more to my reader's liking.

I was an assassin,
With magnifying glass and firecrackers,
Bringing *****'s destruction down on pismires.
BB's left feathers fluttering on powerlines;
Slingshots made Swiss cheese of tree nests.
It's the Wild West outside the urban boundary
Where the .22 slew coyotes and red-tailed foxes.
Old dogs and tired cats were destroyed.
And just now, when the January thaw is here,
I trapped a housefly between my windows,
Opened to draw air.
It will die of starvation in a merciless frenzy.
"******," cried the old king.
"Most foul."

In the womb he was connected
With a thousand years of family
Coursing through the tether
Of an unfortunate mother.
Then culled from the herd
In a distant cow town
For permanent loan.
With the pretext, the equivocation:

                 He'll have a better life.

When someone other deems to tell him,
He'll cry, he'll hide,
Reject, accept,
It's his need for human affection.

He can't forget what didn't happen,
A past that wasn't shared;
Of stories reaching back through years.
The anecdotes on celebrations,
The exaltations, deprivations,
Tales shared like bread
By lost generations.

All his life he's felt the itch
To scratch his DNA.

One day, the knock is heard,
Bells may ring,
There, standing straight on the stoop,
A refracted image of oneself,
Trans-parent cord through missing years.

Aye, there will be tears.

          (You'll explain your teenage fears,
           Your family's lack of understanding;
           The time when wanton women
           Had babies out of wedlock)

He listens to the reasons,
Stirred in the heaping crock.

He learned of love,
Was schooled with affection,
He knows he wasn't known to you,
That he was left
For personal sake.

He crosses fingers,
Like plated scissors,
To snip the cord he's hung on;
To sever the love,
You never delivered,
To a son
You never knew.

Put down your pens and pencils,

You've been on that swing long enough.

Congratulations. You did the crime, now...

Your five minute egg is ready.

The ebb and flow of tides is discriminate.

Your light turned green.

... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...Blast Off.

... to conclude our meeting...

Just one more contraction...

My worthy opponent considers...

Find the escape door in this room before
Time's Up.

Be reassured. Be content. Good things take time, and don't wait
for them to happen.

But if Time isn't Matter,
Should it.

I went out for some air
As Ophelia's winds ripped Cavan
With whips and cracks,
Swaying wires til they met like Gothic lips
Whistling a lilting melody
In a wave winding along the Carrick Road.
They wailed as banshees,
Warning men with crosses,
Women in seclusion,
Screeching in their ears,
The fairies left their hillocks,
The cairns are empty vaults;
Ophelia drowned out prayers that night,
And slipped for Scotland's shore.

Make Hollywood Great Again.
It's the next new slogan, sans the men.
It'll be like Jolly Olde England,
The Elizabethan style, if you get what I mean!
Inverse women bejewelled in cod pieces
Preying on the men.
Not in an English accent, but more American:
******** won't mean the same;
Cuckold won't make sense,
But all the phenomenal men we know
Will need to share the pants.

Bitter, bicker, bluster, boast,
Finger pointing past the host;
Sideways glances, rolling eyes,
Spiteful comments meant to ire,
The sticking point, the under belly.
Poke it, stoke it, it will flame,
In the chest and rising red.
Use shame, disdain and the old refrain:
*You're not listening,
You keep blaming,
If you'd stop talking,
You'd start hearing.

Our yesterdays are foreign shores,
With unusual customs.
Among us are worm-holers,
Using foreign words
Like Whitey, ******, *****, Indian.
Archaic phrases,
A woman's place...
A child should...
Are you a man...
Our boundaries have shifted.
Isolationism, provincialism, racism,
All derogatory isms
Are placed in a time capsule,
Not to be opened by this civilization,
This new country for ex-pats.

A sudden splash of misty whiteness
Where sterile outlines fill
With skin pink water colors,
Then the rainbows separate into distinct arcs,
Blending again at my supplication.

Shushed whispers turn my head.
I listened for whistles, songs, familiar voices;
Pleased to praise when requested, when warranted,
Advise when asked, offer silence when needed.

I felt skin on my skin,
Sunblock and creams,
Long before your hand in mine.
I have offered my hands too,
Palm to Palm.

Your scent is forever,
And can't be covered with perfumes or incense.
At the most unusual times, it hits me.
I'll turn in a line, or somewhere,
Expecting you right there.
I enter a room knowing you're near,
Here, within.
Part of my life I live in vain memory.

It's bitter sweet, this journey,
And we are the salt of the earth, our earth.
From deprivation to overload.
And I sense, with sound insight,
We can still get it right.

These verses filled the void;
Contributions from 'round the world;
From men and women, young and old;
Creating something out of nothing.
A prosaic mosaic, a collaboration,
From HP poets, a celebration.

A blank line
Awaits my thoughts
A blank line
It’s an invitation
A blank line
Patiently empty
A blank line
It calls on creativity
A blank line [sic writerunblocked]

To comment on this I cannot resist
The daily poem takes a new twist
At the top slot a poem that's not
A poem that doesn't exist [sic. Martin]

For the life of me -
I cannot think the words -
refilling blanks, and slots -
not coming across, absurd -
at least, not in, so many, words [sic Temporal Fugue]

Farts are nothing,
but previews for ****,
just like most
Movie
trailers
at
the
theatre. [sic Hasani]

Please fill in is the Story of My Life The Invisible lines the Unseen pain I walk among the crowds but I am not there all they see is a shell when the truth of myself is withdrawn deep inside lost between the invisible lines [sic James M. Vines]

When at 12 midnight
And my heart beats a certain pace
I finally turn off the lights
As tears stream down my face [sic jace]

the vacuum
Empty yourself of
From...
What u retain
What u contain
What u detain
What u abstain

Draw the lines of...
Your Boundary
Your territory
Your trajectory
Your sanctuary

You....
Draw your lines of action
Define your confinement
Create your vaccum

And now....
The love flows in
The bliss moves in
The happiness gushes in [Jugnu-the-firefly]

THESE underscores from a your keyboard--
Bored-as-hell I can see
The creative act has been forced-in
This outsourced work, taking our
Outsourced words, during work-hours [sic Sean Murray]

Lines
Lines Blank call
like void of creation to birth.
They grab my attention
luring poet mind
to commence firing away.
It fires in blasts of gratitude,
jarring empty spaces of thoughts
Phases that have no connections
until pen touches paper
or fingers touch keyboard.
Until I shout out to another writer
named Francie who inspired
to fill the void.[sic Star BG]

i would have described my frustrations
what i expect from u
but i decide to keep my lips shut
its not what it seems
sometimes my lips cant depict my problems........ [sic Gucco]

It's a new year, yet are we, new people
although many others have been extinguished,
my star still shines and twinkles (although not as valiantly)
and so does yours
and I pray that it may twinkle,
for the longest time indeed. [sic sincere humble cowardly Song]

Words can be over-rated,
its the blank page that often inspires,
images tumbling over themselves,
waiting to be scribed by word-squires. [sic Pagan Paul]

Like this goose of a poem I'm holdin'
The deliberate silence of this is golden

Now don't be cheap
and don't be crass

hold your words until the last
without donkey ears your still being an a... [sic Green Trees]

The symmetry of her eyes collapsed into the void............
....sixteen teardrops spilled on the morning sky............
............Colorless and absurd............................
............the sunrise misplaces past happiness............
Future was you [sic Kyte]

Your poem is good but mine is better
You should feel the poem, writing doesn't matter [sic Daman Singh]

I do nothing
Others do it for me [sic Dennis Faulk]

To all the confusing things that roam my head and heart that I cannot read what it’s actually telling me. [sic Sara]

The eyes sees genuineness that mind yearns
The heart feels what it needs to learn,
Yet all is but God's ultimate plan!
Life amidst it's hustsles goes on and on. [sic Saumya]

Broken Chains
Free me,break these chains of *******
Chains that bound and confine me to rules
Shackles that control me against my will
Fetters that make me submit to emotions
Irons that make me less humane,free me
Till all that's left are broken chains. [sic Abi]

Feelings so fierce as they swarm inside
No escape as theyey spin and spin
I try to open a door
To let them out
At last, the page is blank [sic Lin]

light for sure
shy of ardor
less is more
why try harder? [Ian Woods]

And thus the blankness left,
And the void was filled.

Take solace from sol;
The icicles are long,
And elongating.

I've written so many,
Some  grandiose, some terse,
And published them here,
To express and converse.
But the most pretentious of all
You've read or passed over,
Is  The Invisible Poem,
Subtitled, Blank Verse.
Some gave it their blessings,
Some cried foul, and some cursed.
Isn't brevity the soul of wit; (Shakespeare)
Writing is 1% inspiration, 99% elimination; (Louise Brooks)
To write good poems is the secret of brevity; (Dejan Stojanovic)
So,
Be sincere. Be brief. Be seated. (FDR)
Take it as is,
For better or worse.

I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.

          I should feel slighted.
          Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
          Bacon tastes good, is good.
          The surgery is booked.
          The schools are over-cooked.

The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.

"The Invisible Poem" was selected as the Daily.
I'm humbled... to say nothing.
But I believe a response is necessary.
To all those who liked, loved and commented, I say thank you. I've read all you've written, and most of it is very creative and complimentary.
There are others, detractors, who claim "*******," etc.
Well of course, this only begs the question, "What is poetry?"
I can't answer that. I've written on it. But what I do know is what poetry should do. Its purpose.
If a poem should arouse emotions, bad or good, make people think, have people want to write, to express themselves (and I believe I'm on the mark here), then, anything can be a poem. Even a page with lines on it.
Thanks again to all the readers.
And if you're still *******, don't attack me... go after Elliot. :)

____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­______________

The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.

Do you hear me today, how do I sound.
Is there softness in my voice,
A calmness to be found.
Did last night's snowfall drown my psalm,
In the chilling winds.
Should I feel wronged.
After all, I prayed so hard,
For some peace, and a little goodwill to men;
For our indulgences to come to an end.
Do I sound hoarse from being up all night?
I knelt humbly, I plead somberly,
Praised the Lord and all his sundry,
That in my lifetime or near future someday,
Peace would reign before Easter Sunday.
That's a story preached to the elders,
Unraveling back through five millennia;
Past the Cross, across Jordan,
Much deeper than the burning bush,
Back to the foot that was to crush
The head of evil.

A crack appeared in my resolve,
A fissure to release my god;
Rise from obsequiousness,
Dust off the knees and do my best
To do my part, to stop my prayer,
For I can start with peace from here.

The spirit hasn't moved us
Despite we believe,
No one seems to witness
The senseless tongues of fire,
The holy rollers aren't in the churches,
The hari krishna are dancing
Beneath their gabardine.
There's fewer snakes to handle,
No laying on one's hands,
No one's speaking plainly,
Wisdom's on the run.
The golden bitcoin wants a sacrifice
Brought to the mountain top.
It's unholy ground.
The spirit can't be found.
Believe is shouted from the spires,
Towering over dying fires
With sparks rising like fading stars.
I'm looking for an excuse,
To lay the blame at someone's feet.
I don't care to be discreet,
I want answers. I'll point and shout.
The time is ripe to single out.

The children are grown,
They have their own
Christmas.
It's the natural order
To leave the hearth,
And start.
No more journeys home,
They're there.
You see, I'm not alone,
I recall all we had
When we were home.
The exuberant joy and anticipation
On your faces on Christmas morn.
I had it all.
I have it all,
The past, our presence,
From first, to our last.

When you first left, it's true I missed you,
More concerned than surprised
Of a life not living with you,
And not on the lookout for.

We were deep into the day-to-day;
Rising, showering for my pay,
Coffee driving to be the workplace slave,
Going out to get a bite or two,
Watching favorite shows with you,
Before retiring for the night.
Getting rest, restarting bright.

It got steeper the further we climbed,
Something was missing, hard to define,
The kids came, there was less time,
Dashing here and there was all fine;
Will I miss that too?
I had plans. I stewed.

So, we cracked the atomic nucleus,
The fallout made us think;
We couldn't life in the shelter,
Outside would make us sick.
The emergency supply was dwindling,
You were itching to get moving,
But the all clear hadn't signaled yet.

The sirens wailed, get out and breathe
Fresh air and some needed reprieve.
One path diverged, and I'm good,
I don't miss you like I thought I would.

I don't laugh, gawk and point
At one who falls down;
Unless that one's a clown,
And we've plenty to go around.
Crusty's in the Kremlin,
He's got an act with dogs;
Freddie's in the U.N.,
Freeloading from his friends;
Bozo's in a big white house,
And I'm bent with tears laughin'.

At Christmas, when I was five,
I got a nickel to go and by
A candy bar for my mother;
A special present that pleased us both.

As a young man I gave a special woman
A cats-eye ring for Christmas.
For her it was all things.

Then I gave my life and love
To my endearing spouse;
I thought I gave her all I had,
And glad to give it too,
But she also got the house.

He needs to grow
A pair of hairless ones... soon.

Let's have a gathering.
I'm inviting all readers and contributors of HP
To my house for New Year's Eve.
Ring in the new and all that stuff.
We'll have a bonfire.
Bring your worst poems
(not the ones published here)
I'll keep the fire going for the first hour.
All our tinder will get free light.
Bring your inkless pens, blank paper,
Keypads, phones, laptops,
And we'll toss them all on the heap.
We'll drink, and smoke, and curse;
May even use some bad Trump words
As we quaff, inhale, and turn the air blue.
We'll feed the metaphoric coals with odes,
Watch them rise to heaven in simile sparks,
Smell the figurative smoke,
Hear the onomatopoeic couplets sizzle.
We could burn an effigy of Elliot,
That's with a Y not a T.S.
                 (Just for fun...)
Several pinatas, one Pence for sure,
You can bring your favorite to beat on.
Can you imagine the fun we'll have?
And when the evening comes to a close
In the early morning,
And the fire has died down,
We can read our best aloud
To put everyone to sleep,
To alleviate the hangover.

I mentioned Monty Hall
In what I thought was casual conversation.
Maybe I interjected,
...yeah, like Monty Hall.
But still,
A woman taking a drink of ***** gurgled,
A fella rolling a spliff snickered;
Even the dart thrower stopped;
They chorused in unison, Who?
****! Monty Fecking Hall.
Door #'s 1, 2, 3?
The few listening were confused.
Maybe it was the tone I used.
One face had a glimmer,
Almost a gesture of recognition
Tracing his  pierced eyebrow.
Really!
Monty Fecking Hall.
One day, in the not too distant future,
They'll hear,
What's a Fecking Jedi?

I'm a young man in the spring,
Looking forward to anything...everything;
Undaunted in the offerings.
Nothing's too demanding,
What's out of reach is possible:
If I lift my arms I can fly,
Open my mouth I sing,
Close my eyes, I paint;
Reach out and envelope
What others too soon reject.
It's the spring of my year,
And summer's coming on.

I'm a thirty-something in summer.
Disappointments and expectations abound
Under a cloud-split sunny sky.
I can flap my arms, looking chicken-like,
I'm asked not to sing so loud,
I close my eyes, one at a time,
To read the chart.
My arms are getting full,
But I have room for more.

Autumn comes on my heels.
It's a time for preparation.
Savings, spendings, give-aways
Fill forty years of duty.
Taxes, mortgages, tuition,
Weddings, christenings,
Hellos and goodbyes to the loved.
Winter is coming in off the lake.

Today coincides with the solstice;
The least amount of light,
I can feel it now.
I close my eyes to nap,
I am grounded, well-grounded,
I accompany the singers with a uke,
And lip sync.
I hear every note.
I'm skating again at the arena,
Sugar Shack is playing.

You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree.

Red prints are scattered everywhere,
On the wheels of industry,
The ballots of democracy,
On the clothes we wear.
We left them on initials,
At ATM's and One-armed Bandits,
In stone, I'l leave mine chiseled.
I saw them on the beggers's cup,
He wasn't asking for so much,
When I looked back, I saw my tracks,
Outlined in red retreat.
The message is on the road maps,
The vericose veins of land,
The arthritic grip on sanity
Is dripping red demands.
Dark rooms of photography,
Invisible ink and trickery
To get you to sign,
On the dotted line,
In red.

Tears and Blisters,
Co-conspirators,
Connected in body and spirit;
As only twin sisters can know.
Their attachments grow;
From first beat and breath,
Then blanket-warm *******,
Searching with eyes,
Reaching with smiles.

A double stroller sets their stage:
Two of these and those for every age.
One sitting, one pushing
The swing on the tree;
One feeling, one sensing
What either one sees.
One pitching, one catching,
Which one doesn't matter;
No visible signals to out the batter.
Like sparring partners in the ring,
Tin cans or mittens joined by string,
Or watching backs like tandeming.

Enigmatic in fact or fiction,
Like the Rosetta for hieroglyphics;
Communicating cryptograms.
The embodiment of the Venn diagram.

The mirror image can be deceptive,
Right seems left when reflected;
Unique and semi-mystical,
As snowflakes or ice crystals;
Yet tight as rings round trees.
Our tears and blisters,
Though twin sisters,
Will divulge individuality.

          (And I'll be round to play some doubles,
           You on one side // and me with your mother.
           Euchre, crib, tennis, golf;
           Or whatever you choose.
           The gloves are off.)

Someone else always wins the lottery.
I've said,
It always happens to someone else.
That's what you'll hear about me,
When I win.
When I lose.

They said Frank was lying in his field,
While the milk cows lowed,
The hungry sows squealed.
The midday sun and absorbent dew
Aroused the bachelor close to noon.

They said Frank was lying in a ditch,
His bike was bent, he'd need a stitch,
But there he lay in the early morning,
The lorries roared by,
Frank moaned and snored..

They said Frank was lying in a bed,
When two p.m. was still too soon.
He has missing teeth and window panes,
Lay on a mattress of mortal stains.
His papered walls like sun-burnt skin,
Peeling away and blistering.
His blankets are like stable covers,
Shared his thunder mug with his mother.
Starlings nest inside his house,
Blow flies light where his mother lies.

Tip your glass,
Lick your lips,
Use your shirtail
If you get sick.
Use your hands
When you eat,
Pass the gas
When you sleep,
And Have
A Merry Christmas.

This winter's first snow came tonight,
And it falls like moon feathers,
No wind to sharpen the edges,
A snow-globe pillow-fight,
Streetlights smudged,
Rockwell houses, tundra streets.
Known as the ****** snow,
No squirrel or footprints
On my porch steps;
I need re-fill my gas can.
I'll give it twenty more minutes.