I must apologize. I'm sorry, man.
Let me go out on a limb here, Jack.
On behalf of all Senators,
Republican and Democrat;
On behalf of every congressional rep,
Every government worker,
Whatever the jurisdiction,
For every student council,
For the clerk stamping the seal,
For every department...
I apologize on your behalf
For the slanders hurled
And flung like dung
At the men and women who weeped
At the bedsides of the lonely and dying.
Oh the shame.
I apologize for him,
Who will never apologize.
I apologize to the medical profession,
And to all First Responders and Essentials.
Oh the horror... the horror...
Believe me,
We don't believe him.

Joe: Peace on Earth,
         Good will towards men.

Don: **** on Earth,
           My will towards women.

Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

The human race is running,
The flag has yet to drop;
The victory should be stunning,
Trump has finally flopped.

"Write, edit, re-write.
Post, edit, repost."
My finger prints are fading fast;
I thought they were here to last.
They used to linger where I'd please;
I've lost them now on laptop keys.

"I'm the least racist person in the room,"
Presupposes
There are worse racists in the room.
Or,
I'm the only racist in the room.

Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.

I came to see an alligator, lizard or a toad,
Drove along the waters to the Tamiami Road.
We took our time to see the myths all about the park,
But still I wanted desperately,
To hear the gators bark.

Watched the dawning day arrive
Above the mossy trees,
Watched the night herald morn,
Tasted the salty breeze.
We lived a captive life
Along the shell shod shores;
Traded time for trinkets,
Shopped the main street stores.

We oiled our bodies near
The alligator swamp;
Waited bated near
The large tortoise hole;
We didn't see the turtle,
Didn't see the shell;
So looking for the gators,
Remained our only goal.

We heard one lived in the lake,
Invisible in his lair;
Eating shanked golf *****,
Go on look, if you so dare.
We watched from a distant bank,
With each kerplunk,
Our odyssey sunk.

We searched further down
The TamiamiTrail;
Studied bees in their hives,
Awed by the order we saw there,
Made us more alive.

We wandered lost in orange groves
Perfuming winding trails;
But we never saw a gator,
We never saw a tail.

So, if you want to see some gators,
Skip the Tamiami Trail.

... a whimpering simp?
NO.
A simpering whimp then?
Nnno! Close though.
A stable...
     Absolutely not.
                                          ... genius
It'll come,
and when it does
it'll be like a blue bolt
from above;
the dark will give way,
the house on the hill will light up
like a prison escape.

Trump exposes himself
When he minds his
Pees and Q'Anons.

Potus fallin'
Flotus stallin'
Scotus appalin'

Kim's cryin'
Vlad's lyin'
Donnie's dyin'

Joe's soarin'
Dems scorin'

God's in heaven,
All's right with the world
(Almost)

... still laughing,
I was told Goody's gonna die Sunday.
It's Nascar Weedkend,
Thanksgiving?

We weren't sure of him last week;
So we hoped, some prayed;
Me too.
It wouldn't have happened at all
If Mark didn't laugh so much,
eat so much,
talk so much,
chew so little,
swallow so little,
laugh much more,
drink and such,
choke so fast.
Leave so quickly.

That's Goody.
Still laughing.

Can you feel the seismic rift.
Shift your weight. Keep your balance.
Hold steady.
The ground is moving beneath.
We've been waiting, expecting this to happen.
It's Mesopotamian.
Hordes will be swallowed up.
Legions will burn,
We will be punished,
But there will come calm.
Our will be done.
Until the debris stops falling,
Look down, cover up.
Look up.

Pink eyes, and
     Teary cries.
He tries against
     Liting flies.  
Sticking lies.
     Goodbyes!

Here lies a liar
Because the liar lied here.
Now the liar's stable,
For the liar's inable
To equivocate and lie.

520 000 is Unjust
520 000 + 1 is unjustly better.

I am Canadian. We are considered polite.
I will remain so here.
We are a socialist democracy.
You, a capitalist democracy.
Our Prime Minister makes mistakes.
He's comparatively young. He takes good council.
He speaks of what he knows,
And knows when not to speak.
He can be mean (depending), but never cruel.
He has great wealth, but neither flaunts nor hides it.
When he equivocates or lies, he knows it.

We have all the amenities of a capitalistic society,
With the security and comfort of our social pluralism.
Our youth enrol in a free and fine education.
We have no rich or poor school districts.
We have no security guards or metal detectors.

We are not an economic super power.
We do not influence worldly affairs with an itch or a sniffle.

Our Senate is powerless (enough said).
Authority and power lie in the multi-party system;
Each chooses its leader.
We don't vote for the Prime Minister,
But every four years (and many times less) we can vote one out.
And get this: sometimes the party changes horses midstream to rein in getaways.
A coup d'état is almost impossible,
Unless we get invaded for our fresh water.
We're not nuclear armed,  but when called, the Forces are tenacious.
We're not war mongers. We really do prefer peace.
Our former P.M. won a Nobel for coming up with the idea of a U.N. Peacekeeping Force. That's a real one.

We have serious problems like you. At times, the innocent and the guilty get hurt; that's never good.  And believe me, we support most of your political initiatives, domestic and foreign, and your peaceful demonstrations. We know pain too.

I know you love your country. And you have **** good reasons.
Most Canadians love you too, and we are very worried about our southern neighbours who treat us so well when we visit west of the St. Clair River.
We've helped you when you were in need; when your country was under attack. We are your good neighbours with good fences. We will always be there for you and whatever Democracy you choose.
Please, choose wisely.

Bless America

Take away my feelings,
You take the
press, **** and poke,
the nudge, palm and *****;
my caress, hug and tap,
my hold, tag and grip.
where's embrace, wrap and push,
entwine, rub and clutch;
                 and more.
take a glance, paw and grasp,
a nuzzle, scratch or clasp;
an itch, clench and handle,
my entangle and ******
all gone... all lost.

They have taken away my touch,
Making it hard to say Good-bye.

I was tricked into believing
This is my world.
There are too many signs
That can't be ignored.
It's certainly not my old world.
No, not my world at all.
Not the one I inherited,
And not the world I'll leave you.
And I'm so sorry for the mess we're in.
I'm sorry I'm made of carbon,
I'm changing,
I could be a diamond still.

POTUS
FLOTUS
VPOTUS
SCOTUS

The adulterer has the ****** Virus,
And 45 needs to distance
Six thousand miles;
Cover his face;
Buy XS gloves;
Add a cup of bleach,
Light up his interior,
And wipe away the time
Spent behind SDNY bars.

Will the Jenga House collapse
If we remove the Judicial block?
Will the foundation hold the roof
If we remove the Legislative block?
Remove the Executive block(head),
Place it in the bunker, for reference,
And let the House rise up.
Rise up!

I'm a sinner,
Our boy's a swimmer;
Pray for us.

I crave to man handle
Lads in our *** scandal;
Pray for us.

My hub's a ******,
Pleads, L'amour toujours;
Pray for us.

We seek your affection,
Count our Sunday collection;
Pray for us.

We drink golden showers,
Are massaged for hours;
Pray for us.

On our private jet,
We ***, drink and fete;
Pray for us.

You don't know squat
Till you Manage a trois;
Pray for us.

We are rich,
And white as hell;
And richer now
That we fell.

Pray for us all.

They live a life of dissipation,
Take up space in every nation;
Denounce Science deliberations,
Hide the truth through litigation;
They emit no illumination,
Preach an altered fact narration.
They support, by oration,
The Elephant's abdication,
And neglect of obligation.

     They won't wear masks.
     Or wash their hands;
     Won't give six feet
     In their wasteland.

     They cry foul,
     They cry hoax,
     But they won't cry
     When you die, Folks.

We can't ever offfer
That inside sleep
Of solitude and peace.
Yet this promise
We will keep.
Wake or  asleep,
We are with you.
Always.

So, Sleep, Ciaran. Sleep.
Let no one claim your dreams;
Listen to your childhood rhymes;
Worry not of place or time,
For all is still
As it seems.

Oh! Sleep, Angel. Sleep.
Shield your heart
As a secret power
In your waking hours.
Spread your winged smile
With candescence,
To brighten, and alit,
Where Angels sleep.

To weaken him,
He sent the archangel Virus;
To muffle him,
He sent the St. Michael storms.

I lift pens.
(You can never have enough of them)
Funeral Homes leave them lying around. They're the only good thing about Visitations.
Banks tie them down, but there are others, here and there.
There are those who want to take your pens too.
People with petitions are always asking to borrow a pen.
They want my ink and blood.
Be sure you get yours back.
I have a legit fountain pen collection.
Proud of my Parker I got in Oxford years ago,
During a different life that lead to this one.
Biff Loman lifted Mr. Oliver's pen,
After his epiphany.
Just runs in and steals it.
Am I a tragic figure as well?
Are we all playing our parts in
The Death of a Nation.

It's well-known,
The younger you are,
The better your memory.
You refute.
I agree to your exceptions.
You agree they have less to remember.
We laugh, but know it to be true.
Our memory is full.
I unintentionally delete memories.
I don't get to decide how to make room.
The younger you are the more space you have.
The more empty cells, you quip.
Little vacuums, I add.
Wanting to be filled.

I make an exception.
Some cells are memory dedicated;
Protected from the sub-conscious decision-making process that is responsible for deletions...

I saw To Sir With Love
Over five decades ago (perhaps you know it).
I can't tell you which delinquent said,
Blimey, red blood!
When Thackery cut his hand.
I didn't care when I was thirteen
What the difference was between
Empowering teachers,
And overpowering teachers;
No!
But I recall the colour of racism
In the drama
On Thackery's face.

Our bees aren't social distancing,
As they buzz about the hive;
The ants aren't wearing masks
In their pismires, yet they thrive.

Racoons wash without soap,
Llamas spit  without remorse,
Monkeys' feces fill the air,
Dogs are crapping everywhere,
The watering holes of the Kalahari
Have larger crowds
Than political rallies.

Every insect, bird and beast,
With scale or feather, beak or teeth,
With legs or wings, bellies or fins,
Still swim or fly, walk or crawl;
We succumbed before them all.
It's back to Eden,
Back to the fall.

We love my mashed potatoes,
With butter on our plates;
But at the Trumpian table,
We'd eat from Donnie's pate.

I hold him responsible
For the loss of my humanity.
I used to be so understanding, forgiving, empathetic;
But now,
I'm more gladdened than saddened
To see Americans,
Unemployed, homeless, hungry, sick and dying
By the tens of thousands -
By the tens of thousands!
And the multitude of losses
Will be our final solution
For Herr Donald.

I cashed in my hard-earned youth
On you.
I'm emotionally bankrupt,
Overdrawn on account of you.
There are insufficient funds in the vault
For future investments.
Besides, you have the combination;
So, I wait for a safe *******
With the velvet touch.

My grandchildren will read
The year had already passed,
By the time they were born,
To stop climate change.
I don't know how they will get the information.
I don't know when they will get the information.
I don't know from what or whom it will be delivered,
Or how it will be communicated.
I'm sure the news won't and shouldn't come from me;
Although it came duplicitously from me, and others;
Driving them everywhere, flying around, BBQing animals.
And all the entrapments of a twentieth century middle class life.
The grandkids will have serious questions,
Like Why?
I have loved you to death.
Will there be any to answer
When the signal arrives in 2070?

Do we really believe
That it's as simple
As a coincidence,
The words,
Spoke, wrote and vote
Rhyme?
There are bigger pictures out there
Than my phone screen.
Phone, home, alone...
Tell me that's serendipitous.
What about
Frump, Lump, Dump, Trump.
That's not chance.
That's Divine.

During dinner talk
I hear her say,
His poems are very clever.
She said it loud, and all could hear;
(she said it out of spite)
And some who heard her say it, thought,
Isn't she so nice.

Clever. Clever. Clever.
Clapped inside my head,
For earlier she reproached me
For not reaching out instead.
I should ladle bowls of soup,
Drive the elderly wherever,
Volunteer to save the planet,
Comfort those in need of such,
Or visit with the sick.

Clever.  Cleverer.  Cleverest.
So clever when she spoke;
I find it now so obvious,
She'd not read a word I wrote.

If I was a bigot,
Or xenophobic,
Or prejudiced,
Or sexist,
Or racist,
Or even Evangelical,
I would argue
The Wrath of God
Has enveloped America,
Like a plague.
But I'm not, I'm a non-believer.

It's not a macho thing.
It's not a Republican choice.
He's not worried
We won't hear his voice.
He just can't wear a mask,
It's not because of manly fears;
It's just Putin
Likes to hold
**** lickers by their ears.

I'd like to read a poem
Written by our world;
In any style, it won't matter:
A sonnet or an ode?
In rhyme or free verse?
Figurative or Found?
But, and this is critical,
The world must write it
To help heal our wounds,
Share our victories and good values,
And expose us in mixed metaphors
In all our human frailties.
It's a poem we'll all understand.
And each spot on Earth,
Every country that's birthed,
Adds a personal verse.
Allow me to read this poem
To all our nations,
With a theme to unite us
As the one and only human race.

"If everyone around you is forced into the Bubble,
Then you don't need to wear a mask."
                                                           D. Trump

I wear an old 45 for skin.
Side A is the surface you see;
White and pale under our winter's skies,
But much darker by September.
Side A does a fine job
Keeping my entrails in.
I like the harmony, beat and rhythm of it.

Side B of my skin is harlequin,
A melting *** of mosaic colours
You can't see,
But if you listen,
My lyric is a palette of hues.

I was born
With white privilege;
Irish ethnicity at that.
Remember their holocausts!
Occupied, evicted, brutalized, lynched, starved, hedge-scbooled, and,
Refugeed on their own land,
And on and on, and so on
For seven hundred years.
These things were before my time,
But not my Granda's.
It's so very true,  I was born with white privilege,
But not with white entitlement.

For the sake of argument
Let's presuppose POTUS
Actually read the Bible.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the O.T.
POTUS:    That David guy; when he grabs Bathsheba's *****.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the N.T.
POTUS:    Pilate, when he washes his hands.

It's been two thousand years,
But here we are again.
An innocent dark-skinned man
Was lynched,
And it engages and enlightens our world.

Let's not make this a habit.

And Pilate's here too,
Cowering in ******'s bunker,
Washing his tiny hands,
Blathering: I'm not Responsible.
That's what truth is.

I watched the bus drive down its route
With all kinds of fares on board;
Heading to some stop;
Each on a personal journey,
As important as any you've got.
The cord will pull,
The door will open
To let some traveller off,
As another steps into the bus.
On and on,
On and off,
They travel on their routes.

I used to ride a bus,
And I knew this way back then;
Then I forgot for far too long, that
I'm still journeying friends.

Here is my home town.
I'm lucky to live here,
To have grown here
With all our familiar streets and sights;
The houses where we lived together,
The homes of my childhood friends;
Our schools, churches and local attractions
Are mostly here.
The comings and goings of the locals
Are documented in The Observer.
Familiar and strange.

Today I see a city of cards and cardboard cut-outs.
Sarnia is a museum display of life
In the 21st century I study from this side
Of the display case.
In time, the partition separating us will dissolve
Into a pile of shifting sand about our feet.

Don't you admire his ringwork;
His footwork and speed?
Dance. Jab. Dance.
Did you see Rambonehead snap?
Glossy-eyed. Swollen and staggering
Like the bloated incumbent.
Jab. Dance. Jab.
The Dope's been roped.
The final count's on.

You say you won't cry
(and you know I know why),
But you will.
When memory reminds you
Of our life and thrills,
Our talks of love
In the park on the hill.
Our fear for our children,
Our love for each one,
Our love for each other
Before our love was gone.
You say you won't cry,
But you know you will.

The Queen is in the Tower,
She decrees to step out;
But the bouffant needs some tending,
And Royal chin y chin hairs sprout.

The Queen is in the Tower,
She dines well when she eats;
But Lizzie's in a tizzy now,
No walk-abouts on her street.

The Queen is in the Tower,
Standard at full mast;
When the Union Flag is lowered,
Royal Heirs will know she passed.