We have some neighbours
That require a fence;
They're a Circus Family,
Gripping tight
On the high trapeeze.
They fared quite well,
For a high flying group;
For as long as they held on.

They stay at home,
With their children,
Full-grown,
Whinning incessantly.

Uncivility spoiled them.

They have much to say,
But do little to help
The state of their family.
There's internal strife
Arguing one's right to life;
So a tall fence should be good for me.

They point fingers,
Lay blame,
Call us names,
Act inane,
And for what?
Their House is on fire,
They believe all the liars,
They'll watch it burn
With the clown.
Burn to the ground.

Must Be Donald
(sung to “Must Be Santa)

Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us witless on election night?
Donald scared us witless on 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.
Kelly, Ellis, Powell and McEnany,
Meadows, Hall and soon Giuliani.
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.

Our music doesn't age like us;
It ages with us.

What is my operative word?
Go?
Stop?
Never, is it Yes.
Always it is No!
Sometimes in a gesture,
Occasionally in a gait;
If I were blind
And read by braille,
My fingers might feel Wait.
And we've met some
Who don't have
An Operative at all.

To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
H­omosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transs­exuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)

Does Genesis have anything right?

Those red-hat doffers
Are the blood-thinning vermin.
Stop.

Shoes of all colours and sizes
Shuffle by my North American Middle Class House.
We are temperate, they walk in all seasons,
Down here, between the Great Lakes.
These S-Westerners look haggard;
Even the young...
All waiting... waiting for the veil to lift.
Smiles are cracking, making new lines
Like road maps to happiness.
And yet, it's worse
In Talibexas, Loseiana and Floridistan,
Where there are fewer paths.

My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under sun and scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.

I've been exposed.
Many have witnessed me,
And more have noticed it.
The ones I taught to use a spoon,
Tie a lace, ride a bike,
Arise from a fall.
Those whom I've instructed
On when to listen,
When to question.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

The colleagues I once cornered with
In serious situations;
When our decisions effected others' paths;
Those who recognized my signature.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

I meet less often with friends.
I ask for less favours, and return fewer.
I don't stand holding meaningful conversations,
Sipping strong drinks.
I wear a cap indoors sometimes  (I once condemned this).
But, here you have it.
They've acquiesed.

I'm on my own now,
Hoping my memories are real and are mine,
And my ideas are new and genuine
(I change my mind a lot).
I seldom check the weather;
I've cancelled my cable (and this is a milestone).

I've enroled in a new world order.
Ask anyone you can find around here.
I no longer run the world.

Donald has a comb-over,
******, a funny moustache;
Hair Donald?
Heil ******.

We heard, in general conversation,
It costs an arm and a leg, now,
Just to see a game.
To join in the comaraderie and cheer.
To eat a dog, to have a beer.
It's a rip off.
He closed.

I agreed.
Then something else occured to me
About money and time,
(and what grows on trees)
How they interact to corner us;
To keep us from shows,
And stage dramas
That help us forget
Our real life traumas
(the causes of our nightly insomnias).

There's plenty to spend our cash on
(when older. like me, not when you're young).
So I tell my friends to purchase tickets
For games and concerts,
Plays and trips,
Meals and tips,
And gifts for giving
While above ground with the living.
Cause when you’re gone
You'll wonder why
You didn't spend
Before you died.

Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.

They flip like flapjacks,
Sizzlin' on heat;
They flip like a light switch,
The rats,
The finks,
The stools,
The snitches.
How many will get told tonight:

     Y'll sleep wi da fisches.
      That'll school you alright..

I remember.
I forget.
I wonder why.
You're so easy to remember.
You're so hard to forget.
Time ticks out no respite.
Today I am wrong.
The other day,
I was right.

Easily done
If you’re a draught horse,
Or ******* pulling a cart,
Or pointing a gun,
Or under a yoke.

I’m fine staying here;
I’m not moving on.
I don't want to.
Such advice as, You need to move on,
Sounds cheap, pithy and unaware.

What do we know about moving on?
Or moving up, or out, or in.
It’s decisive and aggressive.
It’s a judgment call.
It’s supposed to be good.
A learning experience.
For whom?

This is what I don’t need.
I have enough friends.
I've met with enough romances.
I won't move on.

Move on.... Indeed.

We’ll age like a well-worn porch
In a thunder storm;
Telling tales, sipping drinks,
Beneath a canopy of stars-
In a house that we call home.

Our basement’s stoked with love,
That melts away the cold;
The rafters hang with laughter,
To warm us when we’re old.

Our shelves are stocked
With hugs and kisses;
And jars of smiles and hopes;
The food of family ties,
That nourish hearts and souls.

There strolls another father,
Scrolling while his daughter
Rides her stroller as they stroll.
He really oughtn't scroll,
She's awake as they stroll;
It's a stroller, not a scroller.

The purpose of a stroll,
Is to walk and talk the prattle,
The speach that infants rattle
While strolling in their stroller.

Sing to your child,
Stroll all the while,
Hum or whistle,
Mumble……..Grumble;
But don't silently scroll on,
While strolling with the stroller.

Recall childhood rhymes, if you can,
Say the ABCs or count to ten;
Talk of little piggies and brazen toads,
Meaningful memories,
And yellow brick roads.

Enjoy your strolling.


Enjoy your scrolling.

For decades now
We have serenely, blandly,
Had the Huron horizons
To the North.
All colours of clouds,
Bringing shade or rain,
Snow and flora;
And all the shapes of Noah's zoo,
Morph approaching our soft shores
Of sandcastles and tender fires,
Those milestone from our youth.
Our fresh waters have given much,
And taken more with wailing
For the never returners.
For mothers with terror splashing
Over  faces and maligned hearts and spirits.
The alone times of punishing memories.

If the past is only an idea,
And the future does not exist;
Then we have the present,
Though immearsureable,
It's what we have,
And it travels faster
Than the speed of light.
Grab it.
Now.

In my youth,
My sleek clean youth,
I was taught to pray.
Learn the right way,
Said men of the cloth,
And women of the rag-tag convent.
In rows, on knees, in suplication,
We prayed for days off Purgatory,
Babies, lost in Limbo;
Pray for starving
Blacks in Africa,
or
In Peru.

I prayed for you.

Beside my bed,
In my head,
For the Living,
For the Dead.
I prayed.
He delayed.
I prayed longer
For thirst and hunger.
I prayed harder,
Got no farther.
I saw little change.
Perhaps got worse,
Despite my prayers,
Or a longing curse.
                       Amen.

Three small words,
That we hear,
Make or break
So many fears.
Now let's read
These short phrases,
To realize how
They change us.

How are you?
I feel fine.
Where are you?
You look Divine.

I see you.
You're very welcome.
I miss you.
What a surprise!
I need you,
Open your eyes.

Believe in yourself.
Nobody is perfect.
Count your blessings.
Speak the truth.

Seize the Day.
Go for it.
I'll be there,
Working on it.

Be the exception,
Never give up
Against all odds,
I'll respect that.

Dreams come true.
Learn from mistakes.
Aspire to inspire
For heaven's sake.

Please forgive me.
Let it go.
Let's be friends,
I trust you.

I love you.
Come to bed.

Three small words
Mean so much;
Mouths and hands
Reach and touch.

I've poured cement
On a love
That will never surface
Again.

One hundred years ago
My Mammy was just three,
The exact same age as me,
When she sailed us across the sea,
All those years ago.

Just lately,  just now,
I said Mammy's Mammy's name out loud.
What was that, I asked.
For sure her name's not been said
For many, many years.
Margaret Duffy
A dog barked.
So I said my mother's:
Mammy
A breeze furled the window sheers.

The dog continued to yelp,
So I said her other names louder:
Brigid...........Nellie

I will keep the wind inside me,
And allow the dogs their day;
Your names will still be called upon,
In stress or tranquility.

He lived down the street from us,
And came to be known as,
The man whose wife left him.
We speculated and surmised.
None but two knew the reason why
He became
The man whose wife left him.

He stopped cutting the grass
And weeding the beds.
He won’t play his uke
On the porch like he did.
From all accounts,
He was a good Dad,
None ever heard him
Explete a foul word.
He worked till retired,
Never was fired.
I'm told he lived a gentle life;
Never started a fight,
Or ran from strife.
That's what I heard
About the man whose wife left him.
Left to his own devices,
The man whose wife left him,
Left.

Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.

Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.

So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.

Beulah gave out
Blossoms this spring
As big as sunflower heads.
They entwined the branches
Like the ribbon enclosing an expectant shower gift.
It's fragrance was the extract
Of an unbottled aroma
That is the Magnolia tree.
I rooted her in the yard
Four years ago.
She is iridescent for a brief time
Past mid Spring.
She has many Springs to go
Above the green growth below;
Many seasons beneth
The blue Summer skies above;
During the Autums ahead,
When I am dead,
And colder than Winter snows
Below her;
She will be there.
Rooted with care.

The Coronation is
A
Royal
Pain
In
The
Cosmopolitan
****;
The crowning achievement
of
Royal Navel Gazing.
Chuck it (them) all.

What we are aiming for
Is a good ways off; in the clouds;
Someplace yonder in the boonies;
Beyond our reach, or, in the middle of nowhere.

It is a pipe dream we’re lighting,
So remote we don’t see the smoke.

Our goals are far-flung;
Like another world’s offerings,
Where the deep blue skies are unattainable.

We are reaching for the higher fruit,
For a single bed in the Ivory Tower.

Visionaries are blinded beyond the pale;
Beyond the bounds, a good ways off;
Instead of grasping for the unearthly, the Utopian,
We must look next door;
Not at the moon or Mars or some galaxy
A million miles away,
To find what’s in our reach,
And grab it.

When I met you,
I knew,
You belonged with me.
Throughout these years,
Alone or apart,
No other woman
Lived in my heart.

When you met me,
I knew,
I belonged with you.
Apart or alone,
No other woman
Shared my home.

Whatever happened,
Whatever didn't;
We understood,
Together,
We're in it.

Not so sly as they are:
spent,
wasted,
burned out,
depleted,
beat,
petered,
done for,
empty,
sick of,
enervated,
******,
stale,
exasperated,
fatigued,
drained,
bored,
fed up,
worn,
haggard,
flagging,
narcoleptic,
weary,
feeble,
debilita­ted,
incapacitated,
indisposed,
torpefied,
paralysed,
atrophied,
stupefied,
soporate,
obtuse,
And
Finished.

I believe in her.
Not in supplication or prayer,
But because she cares
About every countless hair,
Every fallen sparrow
And unopened flower.
I believe
In her power,
Her daily miracles.
She cries wet tears,
Her heart beats blood,
Her hands open and close
Around **** or rose.
She's no ****** deity;
She's not ascended beyond reach.
Not an image of pity,
Craddling a bruised and ****** body
(Though she would).
She is flesh and thought.
I believe
Because she is.

Her shield, displayed,
Shunned errant knights.
The force field, impenetrable!
She was armadilo-like, but
No soft underbelly.
No teddy bear arms.
She endured a hard day.
Me, a soft night.
I strayed on my mini pad
Till her light turned out.
I lay on my side,
Beside her,
In another Romantic tale,
In a galaxy,
Far, far away.

I dreamt  I went to heaven;
(Or someplace, perhaps not there) ,
It surely was surreal.
I was somewhere in this vision,
For I certainly wasn't here.

In revelry I searched the crowd,
Saw countless faces shining.
Booth and Chapman smiled sublimely;
Oswald and Ruby discussed their crimes;
And Adolph and Idi were enjoying time..
Charlie and Earl began singing,
And Brutus danced out with  his brothers.
And the legions were carousing,
I wept while browsing,
I didn't see her here.

Did I take the wrong path,
As  dreamers often do;
And miss the gates of Paradise,
To go to Hell for you.

In the centre of this commotion,
Judas called me over
With his martyr's  smile.
We joined with the others,
(Ones he knows as brothers) ,
And lead me to the One I sought.
I'm in heaven when I'm with her.

I  roused myself,
Shook hard and long.
All the teachings we ingrained
On bent knees with hands inclined,
In prayer and subtle song,
Truly wronged us all along.
In death, I know, we leave behind
Our Hell-on-earth, and find,
Everlasting Peace-of-Mind.

.

I wish she were on my mind,
But she's not. She's in it,
And has full possession.

I've lost my mind;
I'm beside myself;
I'm next to an idiot!

She has my mind in her hands,
And I have time on mine.

She takes all mine. My time.
But I don't mind spending time,
And gladly giving all of mine,
If she would only mind me.
Mine me.

(There is treasure to be had)

Did you know Tony?
          Yep.
Did you know his name was John?
          Don't think so.
I get Anthony. But not John. I prefer Tony.
          "Preferred."
What?
          It's an excellent OB. Do ye think it does him Justice?
Justice! They never can. Not an entire life.
          True enough.
Great picture, though. That's how I'll remember him.
          True. And grinning wide. Nice, indeed.
Cheers.

The eyes were still open
On the still life.
There's the difference
Between crossing the road
And dying in your sleep.
So, look both ways
Before crossing me.

So many things happened
So many years ago.
You hitch-hiked to have tea with Mammy;
But not me.

You scaled the Mount to succeed;
Without me.

We slid the Fiat into a Rambler,
Before your big night.
The front got bent out of shape,
But we still went,
Drinking whiskey from the bottle.
Nothing stopped us. We couldn't bother.

We stayed at Sean's,
Or various friends,
At Inns, or canvas tents;
All were means to our ends.

It was fifty years ago...
Half a century of years;
Decades of joyous laughter,
With many unanswered tears.

We've been cautioned to surrender
Before jack-boots hit our streets;
It was an open warning
With podium bleats like sheep.

They side-stepped all discretion,
They pivoted 'round masked stealth;
They aired their anonymity
On the media's lips of wealth.

And there, behind the curtain skirts,
Lurking in the wings,
In shadows and back street doors,
They listened,
Pulling strings.

The third incarnation
Of the green blob
Tenaciously grips the drain lip,
Threatening
A fourth invasion.

I have a difficult time saying, Awkward.
And it's not easy to spell.
It isn't forward, or backward,
Just awkward.
Oh! That was awkward, the duped say.
He's awkward, but will grow into those feet, quipped the coach.

When I met you again,
Awkward hardly was enough to define the moment.
And, months later, it's still awkward being near you.
I need to touch your hand, purposefully,
To get over this awkwardness, because
I don't see it in your eyes,
Or hear it in your voice.

We don't have time for awkwardness;
A word so onomatopoeic,
It's awkward saying it.

The Big Bang is soundless.
The galaxies dim.
The universe contracts.
Compared to you.

Evolution has peaked.
Humanity is humane.
Nature can nurture.
Compared to you.

Family takes root.
Generations prove lineage.
I, Me, Mine are ours.
Compared to you.

Life has no end.
Death has no beginning.
Compared to you.

Don't believe, for one second,
They'll hear nice things from me.
Were you dying for some kind of originality?
Well, let me just say,
It's still death by stupidity.
I'm telling you now,
I have nothing to say.
No one will hear of your generosity
(though we all benefitted);
Or your loyalty (of which I know firsthand);
Your discretion (none ever accused you of less).
I can't find the words. I'm speechless.
I warned you.
Stop smoking (both)
Stop drinking (especially every morning, afternoon and evening)
Stop being idle (and your posture *****)
Stop being a lap dog (stop licking boots)
Stop this slippery ***** of a lifestyle (there's ground below)
Stop taking bad advice.

You didn't Stop.
Now you're stopped.

That's all I have to say. Not much. Is it?

She said I was her first true love,
And one day she'd marry me.
I told her another might object to that,
For I'm not what you seem to see.
You see, there were three others,
That said the same to me;
And I married the one,
The only one,
The Mother of those three.

Napoleon stayed in Elba,
Pulling his bone apart;
Lenin was in Siberia,
So deep, none heard him ****.
Adolph passed his time in Landsburg,
Hardening his heart;
And Don's in Mar-a-Lago
Perfecting his Con art.
He's no Monte Cristo,
Righting perceived wrongs;
He'll fleece all his believers,
In stealth, like Viet Cong.

Heap o' problems.
Elliot! Please fix!

The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

I'm hardly the one
You left behind,
Twenty odd years ago;
The suit fits much better,
Now I'm in the show.
I'm not using slight-of-hand,
No smoke or mirrors,
Just running sand;
The big tent long left town.

I know the four directions,
And how my wind will blow.
And even at a four way stop
I know who has the right-of-way.
And when it's my turn to turn,
I'll step on the pedal and spin my wheels
And drive myself insane.

I should've written Thanks across a blue sky,
Where the winds would carry my message
Around the world.
But I didn't even try.

I should've banged my pots and pans,
Put a sign out on my lawn,
Or at least on a forward facing window.
But I didn't, and I'm wrong.

I could've, with minimal exertion,
Clicked Like or Love
On one of the millions of gratitude posts
Praising them... Them,
The essential and not so essential workers
On our northern, southern, eastern and western Fronts.
But I didn't, and it haunts.

So,
I will now say,
Thank You
To all those who expressed Thank You
To all those who have kept us healthy, safe and secure:

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."