In my youth,
They called it an Idiot Box,
But at six and eleven,
The real news arrived.
Africa, Vietnam,
Assassinations;
Mr. Ed and Mr. Sullivan shared our dessert.
The IB gave bedlam meaning.
Now,
We're patients in the asylum,
Spotting wardrobe malfunctions,
Commenting on roses,
Losing airwave evangelists
For commandments
Flung from the Tower of Babel.

But he could.
It's a free country,
Inside.
And he'd say she was an over-rated actor, anyway.
Rudolph could be on his nice list.
I won't mention by name
The ***** who assassinated Lennon,
And neither should anyone else,
Including Himself,
But it could be his first State Secret.
Of all the possible pardons possible,
Hanssen deserves an immediate E.O.
Whatever he espionaged to the Russians
Was only what they overlooked as spam;
A communist cookie.
I don't even think an E.O could posthumously pardon
Ford for pardoning Nixon.
There's no excuse for that.
He'll never pardon incarcerated terrorists,
They're safer behind bars.
Us too.
*Pardon me, please,
But you're stepping on my Peers.

In an aside at the pub the other day,
I commented that the hockey player
Looked like a French-Canadian.
I was called a racist for that.
(but he did)

While watching some Miss Pageant
With her the other night,
I commented that all the women
Are beautiful enough to be crowned.
Now I'm a sexist.
(they were gorgeous)

For the sake of argument, I am a religionist.

I'm against Jihads, but I'm not Jihadist.
I don't go goo goo over babies,
So I suspect someone will say I'm an infantist.

She texted, saying she wants to fix the fight.
Well, I am a pugilist,
And I know when the fight's been fixed.

When all alone,
Be oxymoronic;
Focus on all,
Not alone.

My girl has this boyfriend,
I simply just don't trust;
When she brings him by the house
He dotes and makes a fuss,
Schmoozing me relentlessly,
Something's in the works,
Just teetering on the cusp.
I've got my keen eyes sharpened,
He isn't fooling me,
I've known the likes of him before,
When I was young and free.
But that was someone else's daughter,
No relationship to me.
Yes, she was someone else's dauaghter,
And I was young and free.

You can't make me.
I don't take orders.
I will if I want;
I won't if I don't.
I'm not an apprentice.
You're not the boss of me.
You can't make me.
So there!

Had I known, for certain,
With a seen future,
Had no doubt,
Safely forewarned
Of my foreboding loss,
Of how we'd turn out,
Would I?
Knowing I'm here enduring
Hearing stories concerning
You.
Yes... I would.
Even though I sit here,
Writing silly poems,
I get it out,
I read it.
It helps.
Ah! But why Would?
Many say we failed,
But
You can't make
Teachers and scholars
From exceptional daughters
With failure.
We're merely a statistic
In family demographics
To them.
And yet,
Three girls don't add up to
Your subtraction.

After the break-up,
I was
Grossly deflated;
Without the air to sigh,
I flatulated.

I once sped through Sarnia's streets
Delivering prescriptions for Mel's Pharmacy
To stately and not so stately homes
In the North End, and the South ends of the city,
To the same houses, every month,
With The Pill.
Forty-five years later,
And a lot of conflicting thoughts,
I wonder what could have been
For those unborn children
Who never got the chance
To crawl out of squalor,
To help the unfortunate,
To lead our communities,
Teach our children,
Cure our ailments.
And the thirty-somethings,
Back then,
With minds now fading,
Bodies failing,
And good-byes in pill form,
What conflicts did they wrestle with,
Do they wrestle with.

When I say,
Eeny, Meanie, Miney, Moe,
You know what follows,
Today's children don't know.
Should we be shamed,
Though blameless,
Called racist and supremacist.
I learned those words long after the rhyme,
Losing innocence with time.
Can I still call you Whitey
If my skin is...
Well, different from Whitey's.
I'd be stupid
To catch a tiger
By the toe;
PETA would skin me.

If he says one day, he takes seven.
Does he know it shortens his life.
A two month job takes a year off him.
His runs to the lumber mill, and beer,
To the hardware store, and tokes;
Then to the beer store,
And smokes.
Sometimes, not often, but occasionally,
Whiskey and wine,
With beer.
And the morphine for his back... whew!
Seven to one ratio sounds true,
but poor odds.
In his favour, he's below average
in height,
like a small dog,
it helps longevity.
In most small dogs,
In what we call the Free World,
With government assisted suicide.
There's a call coming in.
George G is building a shed
Out back.
Gotta go.

A house perched
On solid foundation
Provides shelter for a generation.

Homes aren't made of brittle bricks,
Wanning woods or crumbling stones;
You can't raze a well-built home.

A divided house will not stand,
A listing castle on shifting sands.

The peaks, dales and family travails,
At home are not abnormal,
They're common and diurnal;
Yet the undaunted home prevails.

Your house comprises various rooms
For eating, sleeping, and mundane routines.

Homes furnish rooms with smiles and tears,
And gatherings throughout your years,
To be shared or on one's own,
The choice is offered,
You're not alone.

Houses grow proud, though gratifying,
With amenities truly satisfying.

Homes swell with smells of love,
The sounds of children snug above,
A sense that all is safe and sure;
This day has given more than enough.

Houses get tidied, cleaned and aired,
Decorated for special affairs;

Homes are fingers, toes and hair,
Hampers, dishes, and underwear.
Its doors lead to who knows where.
Doors to let you out;
Doors to let me hear
When you're back again;
Welcoming your return.

Homes fill us
With memories
Houses never will.

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 me,
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 your giving
Isn't under the Tree.

Our Holiday Season's fast upon us,
Ribbons and bows are holding sway,
But I recall all the fuss
When Christmas was two weeks away.

Yes, it's been a year already
Since being swept-up in the frenzy;
Singing Silent Night and Silver Bells,
And awake until the last Noel.

But Yules ago, when just a boy,
Not toying in childish play,
Yet wanting more than I could say;
But Christmas still two weeks away.

You'd think that on the twentieth
I'd get a better sense of it,
But Christmas still two weeks away.

Come December twenty-first,
I felt I was Christmas cursed;
For it didn't matter what who'd say,
Christmas still two weeks away.

At dawn on the twenty-second,
The smell of pine seduced and beckoned;
Beneath the needles I spied presents,
Recognizing a gift-wrapped sleigh,
I cursed, It's still two weeks away.

The day before the twenty-fourth,
I couldn't see the wooden floor,
Gifts were flowing to the door.
I crossed my fingers,
Wished and prayed,
But Christmas still two weeks away.

The twenty-fourth languished
Long and slow,
The light would fade,
The night would show,
Off to Midnight Mass we'd go,
We'd press palms and plead forgiveness,
Then touch wood and beg for snow

Although it's still two weeks away,
I've much to do,
I cannot say,
Thank God tomorrow's not Christmas Day.
*Christmas but two weeks away.