If you're complicit
It's not illicit
To keep your mouth closed.
But, know you this,
When women are dissed
With words like ***** and **,
You're surely committing
Sins of omission,
From your head
Down to your toes.
You left no doubt,
When you didn't speak out,
You're spineless
And missing marrow.

I can't forget what never happened,
With false memories of you.
I wish to forget the events that did
The ones that haunt me still.
The ribbons and bows of preparations,
The unbridled joy of celebrations;
The returning  from varied vacations,
The last corner turn onto our street.
The Sunday meals with family,
Grandkids bouncing on our knees
While I sit content by you.
Afternoons with books and tea,
Steeped in a ****** mystery.
The silent walks beneath our galaxy;
Entwined and wrapped watching t.v.,
The quiet evenings burning fires,
The passion of our own desires.
Or just laying awake while you sleep.
I placed the whats in the who, where, when;
Recalling shadows of future events,
That won't be happening again.

Don't write about pets,
Well, I don't bother to.
Or scribble metaphors
About meteors, the moon, and stars
Caught in jars without holes.
I don't wax on about my lawn,
Or wax off on matters of law.
I don't know the difference
Between love and hate;
Feeling both so intensely breaches distinction.
I used to love, but now abhor
It's cause for loss of self.
So, I write on self-understanding.
I'm not a cat, a crescent or shooting star,
I breathe outside the jar,
Outside the envelope
Where I can't get licked.

The Supreme Commander
Doesn't drop his pants
To reveal his shortcomings.

We played with sand
Up to our nails,
You swung a swishing pony-tail.
We traversed unkempt trails,
Took chances out beyond the pale.
Travailed on routes with certainty;
Made more friends than enemies;
Increased and raised our family.

To what avail?

I had time to auto correct,
To re-direct my wayward steps.
To stop the fall from bad to worse,
To put shortcomings in reverse,
To curtail an innate curse.

To what avail?

I heard you promise too.
In sickness and in health.
I promised the same to you.

To what avail?

I tried.
Lied.
I'm tired.

To what avail?

To this avail.
I remember our first kiss,
The walks, the talks;
You called me funny,
The times together without money.
A tent, charcoal and book of matches,
A midnight campfire, a beat-up car;
When anywhere wasn't off that far.
We'd ****** two days alone
In each other's company.

To what avail?

I tried. Tried.
I lied. Lied.
I'm tired. Tired.

Memories aren't that selective.
There's scenes I can't dismiss.

They're part of me,
They're part of you,
I'd be remiss to discard these few.
They're in the memories I recall,
The good and bad before the fall.
I claimed, There's two sides to every wall.
But still there is the wall.

I tried... tried... tried.
I lied... lied... lied.
I cried...cried... cried...
I'm tired... tired... tired.

The glitter is blinding.
New stars start shining.
Then memories recalled
With
Allegation,
Interpretation,
Incrimination,
Disinformation,
Retaliation;
And,
Five million to start.
But
Not that alone.
You're getting your picture
On the cover of
*The Rolling Stone?

I once read a poem,
About a god, swan and woman,
And thought about
The Annunciation;
A dove descended,
From position of power.
With no proposition,
But an edict in it's beak;
Flapped naked,
Before the deed.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb...
She heard.
No... No... No...
Can we talk.

There are ten see through bags
Of my fallen leafs by the curb,
Ready for pick-up.
They were so very fetching
Waiting for the wind to pluck them.
Water beads the interior
Like summer's tears.
I hear the stop and start
Of the collection truck coming.
For my ten bags of leafs.

The disembodied radio host asked:
If you could live a past experience,
What would you choose?
I searched my far and recent memories.
What would it be?
Some thought ensued...
Then some more.
A week's gone by. Here's why.
Seven days ago...
I'd like, I thought, to bumper-jump
In four inch snow.
Then six days ago...
The tender, innocent, inviting experience
Of my most amazing, surprising and tantalizing
First Kiss.
Then five days ago...
My university years. They happened once.
Then four days ago...
Achieving a pleasing place with my avocation.
Then three days ago...
The first born, second born, third born. Daddyhood.
Then two days ago...
My happy and contented first day of retirement.
One day ago...
A Guiness and a shot of Jameson. Grandahood.
And today?
What would I like to re-experience...
Many more days
Like today.

How did love begin?
Was it here before original sin?
Did we pluck it from a tree?
Did you take a bite for me?
Did it start with our conception,
Perhaps it's merely physical attraction.

I have love of country, love of travel,
Love of life, money and art;
Love of nature and her siblings,
Love for food and all else,
That excludes my heart.

I have love of parents, and love of mate,
Love for my kids, family and self;
And if truth is told, my dog, Jake.
That includes my heart.

Love like spirit is omnipresent.
We love love for its own sake.

I have a slow leak of faith
In humanity.
I'm heartsick,
Funky, *****,
My soul is spewing chunks.
At first, it was only a slight rise in temperature,
Followed by a rash of diatribes,
Then hot and cold wars
That produced the shakes.
Our world could use cold compresses;
Polar ice-packs are symptomatic.
The ailment is hereditary.
Patient Zero is low on the tree,
With roots entangling us,
Like veins filled with bad blood,
Encircling the body politic.
We are the carriers,
The un-quarantined green monkeys
Swinging freely, infecting
With a disease that will not skip
A generation.

Drove to London in a downpour.
My daughter's family lives there.
I had a picnic in the bathroom,
With Aine pouring tea.
She held out a sponge plate,
Offering watermelon soap,
And facecloth chicken salad sandwiches.
Though long lost,
I dialed in her perspective;
Her bubbles never burst.
I'll recall that wet picnic,
On sunny summer days,
As a favored meal.

I store still-lifes in my head,
Still-life cells I need to shred,
Living scenes, though some be dead.
Friends in pain, distraught, alone,
The homeless searching for a home.
Family crying, children dying,
In black and white, and technicolor,
Parents, babies, sisters, brothers,
In re-runs, awake, or in my slumber.
Close-ups I was witness to,
Actions I directed,
Or supporting actor to.
One day I'll stand on the stage,
For a curtain call I can't assuage;
The spot will light me,
I'm stripped naked,
In a bio-pic that's been my making.
I'll be a still-life in their heads,
A Dad and Granda,
Though still long dead.

I escaped the lion's den.
So, I am done with hand wringing,
Dragging my palm down my nape.
Forefinger and thumb squeezing the bridge,
Encircling my chin, to the point.

The time has come to discard my hair-shirt,
To loosen the cilice;
Stop the self-flagellation,
And smear balm on my mortified back.

I shall repose, indulge in a repast.
And prepare for the proclivities of the flesh,
To revel in the concupiscence of humanity.
Cast off chastity, poverty and obedience.

We are not saints or martyrs.
The cause is not worth the pain.
I am forgiven.
I forgive.
You could too.

An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.

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.
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 honored among our 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
Fading pulses played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

Two brains, eyes, ears and lungs,
Two feet, legs, arms and hands;
Ten toes and fingers,
Two kidneys too,
And teeth to spare,
Still countless are my thinning hairs.
I'm ready for the deluge,
I'm a walking ark.

And why not two souls too.

If I had two souls,
I know what I would do;
Like Dorian, I'd degenerate.
Let one be ****** eternally,
The other gets Paradise.
The odds are in my favor,
I'm rolling dotless dice.

And two hearts would do.

If I could have two hearts,
How'd I be today?
One could be broken,
One stay whole,
Not to be given away.
Yet my outcome
Would be the same;
A thousand hearts won't do.

I stood on the spot
Where the fathers were shot,
And welled with my thoughts,
And the walls, pox-marked,
With the bodies pierced,
But wide of the soul.

There was sadness and despair
For one thousand years;
Today I bet on the horses
Racing in Kildare.

In my Honalee,
I abandoned the wish
For time to rocket by.
The burning suns didn't sink
Fast enough behind pirate's sails.
Where desire is the moon phasing
Like tidal currents to the watershed.
Youth and time inextricably race slowly
With each passing celebration,
Until the full-feathered fly like dragons,
And our present fills the sky, and me,
Keeping look out.

In my songs
I learned
Of love and peace and harmony.
Heard the injustices of humanity,
The harms incurred,
The hurts endured,
The tranquility of let it be.

Despite my flights,
I fed you,
Feathered the nest,
Did all the rest
To feed all your dreams.

Now weeks fly,
Your babies will cry.

Stay still thwarted worm.
This beak, though worn,
Is not yet ready for you.
The day will come,
The hour creep up,
The minute of expiration,
But it's that second one dreads,
That moment.

Planes and stuff leave all the time.
Don't like all the chemtrails left behind,
But we muster on.
Believing, and we must,
We'll get through.
Most of us do.
This will improve.

Clothes and such are left lying around,
All over house and town;
We can pick them up,
By bending or fetching.
Some never make it back.
Lost, stolen or found.
Replacements are numerous,
Fixable and discardable.
No big loss. Not life changing.

Then I found a hole.
What left was immeasurable.
Irreplaceable.
My heart and soul.

I called the girl
I broke up with,
So very long ago.
A number dialed
Into my brain:
862-6220.
Her father answered,
Took some time,
But put her on the phone.
I felt her breathe into the mouthpiece,
The last time she said, Hello.
I answered,
I love you all the more
Forgive me. Marry me.
I tried that number,
For old time's sake,
To see who'd take the call.
But the machine said
That line's dead,
So I can't make that call
No more.

Got back successfully,
From weeks of ecstasy;
Coming down from a high,
Still not measuring up.
My hill is daunting,
The valleys so low;
I watch my step
From backsliding below.
I know there's reason
Where the light's up this road.
I'm still plodding
Where I need to go.

(Think Where Have All the Flowers Gone)

Where have all the assassins gone,
I'm just asking,
Where have all the hit-men gone,
It wasn't long ago.
Where have all the psychos gone,
Ones like Sirhan Sirhan,
Or a crazy red Russian,
Better still, an American.

Where have all the agencies gone,
I'm just asking,
The MI5, the CIA,
KGB, Mossad;
Where have covert actions gone,
When there's guys like crazed Kim Jong;
Or a crazed American,
A narcissistic American.

Where have all our heroes gone,
I'm just asking;
Where have all our leaders gone,
Not so long ago.
Where have all fine Presidents gone,
Obama was our last good one;
When will we ever learn,
Ego-maniacs can't govern.

Scribbling, never stopping,
Spinning stories you criticized;
Tales you'd call lies.
My truths born from my fiction,
A character of my creation,
The protagonist of my plot;
Making you the antagonist,
With minor characters conspiring
Towards my denouement.
I am the author of rising action,
Embedded in the argument;
Conflicts arose, decisions made,
The crises ensues,
You got saved.
And I am but an afterword
In your novel life.

When she opened her  closet,
There was Jamie,
At the end of a rope.
All three twisted as the face,
With feet an inch from life.
A brown and yellow drip
Puddled the floor,
Touching the toe of a worn sock.
     If I can't live here, I'll die here.
Was pinned near the heart.
Stretching out her fingers,
Working fast for the unattainable,
Thinking speed and action
Could change the outcome
Of the hours old body,
Hanging,
Like a favorite suit
In need of dry-cleaning.

I'm content with who I am,
And where I've come
Where I began.
I'm pleased with the boy
Who grew to be the man.
From youth's adversity
From toil and work,
To a grown up family,
I dedicated myself
To those I loved the most.
They claimed my fall
Was my choice.
But that's too simple,
It's more complex,
It wasn't extra-marital ***.
It wasn't male brutality,
It wasn't really up to me.
That kind of choice is insanity.
The option that might best explain,
Was my inebriated brain.

I have a mouseolem,
Somewhere in my walls;
I set traps with favored cheese,
Peanut butter really teases,
These are my preferred baits.
Some days they just can't wait
To navigate my drawers.
Eat bristles from my BBQ brush,
Crumbs on counters and on floors.
They're good at reproducing,
It's what they're wired for.
They're good with their escape,
Both mouse and my bait;
And that concerns me.
Is their rate of copulation
Proportionate to a brighter breed?
Twice the traps have disappeared
With all the treats in tact;
I was sorely feeling stumped,
Yet sure I wouldn't be out-*******.

I'm on top of it.
They won't win.
It's a survival struggle we're caught in.
If we snap the minion mice,
We'll surely ****** the rat.
And every cat will arch it's back,
The traps are set,
No going back.

When I'm seeking shade from a relentless sun,
And brush a rejected leaf off my shoulder,
I feel poetry.

When I brought my girls home,
From hospital, school, a bad night out,
I've experienced poetry.

Walking Front St., or  Centennial Park,
While the buskers are busy,
The children are laughing,
The dogs are barking,
I've heard poetry.

If fortunate to espy a shooting star,
Enjoy the fullness of an autumn moon,
Witness the dawn light up my lawn,
Like a diamond mine,
I've seen poetry.

I've tasted poetry on my lips
With kisses and endearing words,
And lingering tastes from what you serve.
Yes, I've savored poetry's flavors.

Who reads poetry.

I want to dance with you again,
Before the light descends;
Dance, the troubadour sang:

     Dance me to the end of love.

Place yours in mine,
We'll wind with time;
Repose your head, close your eyes,
I'll hear you breathe another goodbye.
Can't you dance with me again.

I'm spinning off this elliptic world;
Holding the dark side of my moon,
Orbiting 'round this star lit room.
Waxing on the upbeat,
Waning on the down,
Dancing on a gyroscope,
Through phases round and round.

I awaken, tapping toes,
And humming in the after glow.

Yes, I danced with you!
Did I dance with you?
I didn't dance with you.
And never will again.

I don't like that picture framed,
Looking from my shelf;
You're no longer like that,
No longer you're yourself.
I don't like your smiling eyes,
I don't like your hair,
I don't like the way you look,
I don't like you there.
I had plenty,
I was twenty,
A life ahead of me;
I don't like your picture there,
Looking down on me.

I'll place a new shot on the shelf,
A recent picture of one's self,
Mirroring pangs of time,
The heartaches that are mine.
A picture of an aged-worn man,
A head that droops,
Shoulders stooped,
A face laced with worry lines,
A wry smile covering crimes;
A still life and a pantomime.
I don't like that picture there,
When I was in my prime.

A friend asked if my mother had a brogue.
She was forty when she landed here,
She probably did. She must have.
What does a child hear?
I was accustomed to it.
I only heard her voice.
Others no doubt did. Liked the lilt.
I  heard the voice,
Not the accent.

I first saw John sitting in the third desk of the first row.
I sat in the second, my new jeans cracking,
No curling iron-on patches as of yet.
A pin from my baby blue shirt pricked my neck.
I stepped in red ball Jets, before the soles became flapping tongues,
And the insignia peeled from the ankles.
Our well-used, wooden desks had pull-out drawers for stuff,
And always in need of re-arranging.
We invited our Guardian Angels to sit there, on the wooden drawer.
John sat, with black-rimmed glasses, on his pull out,
Graciously giving up the well-worn seat for his angel.
I liked him already.
His specs fit my sight. I could see the alphabet above the blackboard.
My first friend. Not a brother or sister. Someone who heard me.
Someone I listened to.
He was the oldest of six.
Had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in Canada.
He had instinct. Knew my lacking, shared his relations.
We studied the Catechism, had Confessions, First Communion, altar duties, patrol boy corners, sports, jerks and girls.
We learned to smoke and drink, drive and thrive.
We were Best Men, fathers and grandfathers.
I am not eulogizing John,
But celebrating while alive.
If all goes well,
I'll die before losing him.
But then,
Why would I do that
To my life long friend.

The full moon is always waning,
Giving cold comfort.
Stars twinkle more in black spaces.
The evening dew settles sooner,
Rises later.
The potatoes are in the house.
I've folded the lawn chairs.
Across the sky herds of clouds graze by.
The grass gets its autumn cut.
When I put the mower away,
I take down the rakes and shovels.
Dusk comes early.
House lights break through shut windows.
Street sounds diminish.
Will the trees splash us with radiance?
I languish between seasons,
Waiting for the bus to warm me as it passes
My lengthening shadow.
And when the sun filters through,
I stand in its path, face turned skyward.
I sing a eulogy for my summer,
While waiting for the cries of a newborn fall.

Death,
So cruel,
So kind,
Has taken my worries away;
The ones I wished would stay;
Worries, just memories.
I was left with my three,
So they obliged,
Now worries number five.
We know how worries grow,
They start so small, no worry at all,
Then they start to crawl.
We beget,
From their outset,
Worry.

Break. Heal. Scarring
Break. Mend. Scar.
Break. Pretend. Scarred.
Break.

I like being liked.
We do.
It matters who likes us too.
Do your parents like you?
They have that option,
It's obvious in adoption.

My friends like and are liked by me,
Or they aren't friends.

Teachers liked me.
Some students are hard to like,
But succeed.

Co-workers liked me.
Had their ups and downs with me.
Some didn't like me, but once did.
My status changed. Their's didn't.
I moved from their likeness image
When the bosses liked me so much,
They made me one.
Bosses have fun, but with more cash,
And less time to enjoy it.
But when the time arrived,
I liked the bosses too.

My spouse liked me.
Denise likes me.

Most importantly, my kids.
They like me,
So much so,
They gave me a sign:

          If Dad Can't Fix It,
          We're all *******.

Do I want to be liked?
Don't you?

Like I said,
I like being liked.

Outside is calm,
The shrieks have ceased;
The sounds of laughter
Left our streets.
The chalk lines faded
Like summer tans,
The derelict castles
Lie in the sand.
The swings sit still,
The splash downs vacant,
The parents have gladly abdicated,
Relinquished reins and riding crops,
The mowers, rakes and garden tools;
For the kids are finally back at school.

You claimed it was a missile,
Me, a shooting star;
I saw a pickle,
Not a bearded face
In the jar.
Some see wee men,
Approaching their islands.
Cubes floating
In the Austral Ocean,
Warning our hopes are broken.
Janus faced usury
Tear-up for the bear;
Politicos in the chase
Have two mouths on their faces.
We surely landed on the moon;
When we're gone,
We're gone for good.
Bigfoot's not in the woods,
ESP's in the guts,
All paranormal is psychosis.
Too skeptical's obsessive neurosis.
What's one to believe.
I see Jekyll, you Hyde Island;
These stories are so overwhelming,
Growing in numbers with retelling.

Memories aren't made to be broken,
Yet lie in shards, each piece
Refracting unframed pictures.

Promises aren't made to be broken,
But words are malleable.

Hearts are too often broken, quartered
And flung to the elements.

Spirit cannot be broken
Under any crushing worry.

And love,
Away or dwelling,
Encompassing love;
Battered, betrayed,
Exalted, praised;
Spent like money,
Treasured, yet free as air.
Most invulnerable,
Most vulnerable;
Frail and omnipotent.
Unbreakable.

Have you found a new mythology.
The ones we knew died off.
Hammers, thunder, nails,
Multi-limbed gods of gold,
And phoenixes have turned to ashes on my tongue.
My eyes don't dilate, my throat closes.
Once we were blessed, but now,
John A. is a white supremacist.
Not since Dunkirk and Troy have wars worked miracles.
A Hard Day's Night and Help are formulating a following
Surpassing Jesus (John, Ch. 1. Verse 1).
Look to the Walrus.

Mammy's favorite colour was red.
Cycle red. New born red. Deep cuts red.
And roses.

Daddy preferred earth colour.
New potato patene, manure mix,
And bottle brown.

We all knew green-eyed envy,
White-flag truces and surrenders.
Black somber calls in the pitch of night.
The passion of purple,
Serenity of blue wounds.
The orange hues of morning and evening
Where anticipation and destination meet.

We're hungering for a leader
Who's not a bottom feeder.

Take me to a theme,
Explicating love, when blue.
Hype the hyperbole,
Metaphors aren't boring,
And similes are true.
Take me to the meaning of love,
When love is new.

Letter your signposts,
Your verses aren't lacking,
Figures of speech are attractive.
Dole out the affection,
Infect with injection
Dilating, collapsing veined roads.

Take me to any theme,
With your GPS,
I'll obey all directives,
Noting imagery along your path.
If inferences go astray,
I'll backtrack your way,
To a predetermined destination.

I am not a King, like Henry,
But I've princes and princesses.

I am not a Neruda,
But I'm read.

I am not a Lewis,
Yet others laugh with me.

I am not a Palmer,
Though I've aced a few.

I am no Lennon,
However, I'm asked to sing.

I am far from being a Casanova,
And yet, I'm not alone.

I am no Graham,
Though the spirit moves me.

I am no Saarinen,
But my children sleep in beds I made.

Don't call me an Einstein
Because I've understood.

I am not a Child,
But you are welcome at my table.

I am none but myself.
If they spoke,
They'd envy me.

resign
Resign
REsign
RESign
RESIgn
RESIGn
RESIGN
PLEASE!

Lee transmigrated as a dog
To **** on his statue.

May I take this opportunity to be plain and simple.
I've learned by speaking less, listening little,
Reading and watching more.
Let's begin with the beginning, something simple,
Birth.
It's universal, a de facto truism.
We've caused it, done it, feared, dreaded, cherished it.
Birth is like unto us a parable.

Which brings me to religion. From being ditch water
to the moon landing and beyond, we've pursued the ideal through
knowledge. One  of our earliest stories tells we paid dearly for it
too; otherwise we'd have grasped thunder and forgone tresspassing on foreign lands.
A favorite quotation convincingly talks about turning into dust. I've seen the hate and violence, and the bodies unearthed weren't even dust. The ragged clothing looked more like us. I think the most confusing quote is about being in an afterlife with your body.
Why? Who you gonna swim with?  

                  Vestal ****** ******. Maintains an Eternal *******.

The poet said, Why worry about death. There's nothing to
worry about.
Hmmm!

So, then, what's up with death?
Well, what I know for sure, is that it's a lot like birth,
With one fatal difference.

Every misused glass of water,
Every slight at sons and daughters,
Every successful missile test,
Cars idling, cows lowing,
All the chemtrails we don't see blowing,
Every dent, every theft, every lie and mocking jest,
Can't be held tight to the chest.

Distended stomachs, cardboard boxes,
Soup kitchens and needy churches,
Gay slamming and alternate choices,
These and more need our voices.

Add the carbon in our air,
Two-headed frogs warning, Beware,
The paltry state of our bees,
The fires devouring our noble trees,
The motors on our inland lakes,
These and more will not wait.

All that crawls, swims or wings,
All of us and everything,
Is everything to all,
There's no time to hesitate,
For I am the aggregate.