A person's stature
Is never to be measured
By height.

In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
When she lifts the lid,
Set in the mirror,
Shines the most precious jewel,
And Granda's treasure.

She is the shadow of her shadow;
A hard green tomato on an October vine;
Like last year's silver tree tinsel;
The inescapable smell of a house housing cats;
A smoker's car;
An arthritic leaf, twisting in early December;
The runny nose of someone's toddler;
An empty gurney in a hospice hallway;
Or the last dark spike impaling dawn.
Hanging on and hanging in.
Not knowing. Not going.
Still here.

Da's  an ***** grinder,
Grinding heart and tongue;
Bull pizzles for his daughters,
Ewe livers for his sons.
Cranking in the summer kitchen,
Out of the morning sun.
He strings savory sausages
That please most everyone.

Mammy's in the smoke house
Anticipating some;
Mammy cooks when Daddy grinds,
She likes a little tongue.

The collective elective
Threw a bag of human waste
On the White House steps,
Torched it,
And stuck around to watch it burn
Live,
On TV.

We don't know our Best Before Date,
And that's a good thing.
But if you're in the Dairy Section,
Fire on all udders,
Don't kowtow to bullies.
Remember, the herd has your back.

If you find yourself in Produce,
Then produce;
Don't be content being
A pea in a pod.

There are the cereal killers,
Using wry wit,
And Rye Not.
Many are marbled and flat,
But not us,
We're Christmas Cake,
We Endure.

ME, I'm in the Meat section,
An offering of flesh and smoke
On the BBQ altar of rendering.

Yes, we have a definite shelf life,
Growing stale, curling at the sides,
Drying out,
Souring and curdling
Till our expiration date.

Ever find oneself in a situation
Where one's completely caught.
The evidence is overwhelming,
The witnesses so incredible;
One's on the gallows of one's own design.
One knows it,
No matter how sorry one feels for oneself.

Even the phrase, Never Give Up
Gives no meaning to hope.
One is spiritually destitute.
Morals, ethics et al all good.
Head mixed up, but operational.

… and... and...

One's alone with one's thoughts,
Perhaps for days, weeks.

… thinking... thinking...
... searching... searching...
... for
A solution requiring a solid, tight ally;
Brother, sister, close friend - closest -
And it worked, but for one thing:
The ally must die,
By one's own hand.

They appear,
They seem,
They presuppose
With their ink to emphasize
My dreams
With the task of following lines,
Connecting routes,
Filling in blanks.
I add sighs to words,
Words to screams
That come from someplace deep and quiet.
They seem,
They appear to assume
You will understand me.

Charles didn't heed the Puritans
He was God's appointed,
Anointed and empowered.
He tumbled from above,
Down through the law,
Lost his head.

Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt,
A cult-like condemnation;
So they stood him against the wall,
He listed to his Monk,
His reasoning debunked,
So they shot the anointed one
On his golden throne.

Benito was above the law,
High on meat hooks.
Could we dare to look?

If you were lucky,
If you were tied to a stake,
And the ******* ignited,
Someone dear would tie a bag
Of gunpowder around your neck.
Why let the crows pick out his eyes,
Make golden nests from his hair.
End the torture. Pull the life-line.
Sever the head from the body politic.
It is the righteous thing to do;
It is the civil thing to do
In pensive state.
Rise up from your ashes.
It is the kindest cut of all.

We tagged him Candle Sticks,
Called him that
When he was six.
Snot oozed down
Around his lips.
It was one of those taunts
That seamlessly sticks.

When he ran in the race,
He finished dead last;
His pants fell down,
Exposing the ***,
Of a hometown clown.

Many times I'd see him
Standing in the movie line,
Taking his aisle seat.
Or stocking butter and cheese
In the dairy case at Foodland;
Or under the bridges,
On a bench, watching the freighters
Power on to foreign cities;
Smiling at the fishermen casting their lines.

I think I saw him cry,
In the library, reading the local paper
In a secluded carrel.

I heard he walked to the Bridge,
And jumped.
Candle Sticks.
It stuck.

One last snowflake
And the roof collapsed.

One last raindrop
And the levee cracked.

One last grain
Before life is breathless.

One last kiss
To seal my blessings.

You’ve had fifty fantastic years,
Many were there but now not here.
And many are here
That were not there.
That’s how life unfurls over fifty years.

Let’s celebrate these decades
Of devotion to one another;
For around us we have familiar faces,
A family of sisters and brothers,
Aunts, Uncles, Fathers and Mothers;
Grandas, Nanas, Papas and Grams,
Daughters, sons, nieces and nephews,
Granddaughters and grandsons,
Cousins, in-laws, and step-laws too.

We are family.

A tribe that began with the original six,
Then Danny met Maura to add to the mix
With Colleen and Sean our clan's enhanced,
And since many more are heaven sent.

So let me end with a toast and a wish,
That we continue to multiply
Like the loaves and the fish.

We're in thrall.
Where's your wall?
You dump truck...
You fumb duck...
You other mother...
You worse than senseless thing.

Poor wee me
When I was wee,
I used to sit on my mother's knee;
Her apron tore,
I fell to the floor,
Poor wee me when I was wee.

Poor young me when I was young,
The song's of youth are those I'd sung;
Songs of love that since have gone,
Poor young me when I was young.

Poor middle me back some years,
I worked and worried, drank whiskey and beer;
Paid my way and prospered here,
Poor middle me back some years.

Poor me today, poor me will stay,
For many poor years to come;
For I've things to do, places to go,
With granddaughters and grandsons.

There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy's in retreat.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Join the fight
To rein in one percent
From their ***** heights.
Desks in towers,
Facades of power,
Will tumble to defeat.
The gravity of greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war,
For salvation,
Then, for some more.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.

Some nights I spiral up
to my wormhole dreams
and stay
till morning light
people that have left
are there
some still here there too
travelling at the speed of time
that holds you present
to surprise me
with a childish kiss
but the lack of light
the room inhabited
I was distracted
being close to you
in the stillness of your sight

I heard a voice
call out:

Are you home?

(perhaps it came
from within)

A stranger's voice
that's called
before.

I am
insular.

I am Home!

Inside

This temple of dissipation.

You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte

Whistle while at work,
Donald is a ****;
Giuliani strokes their egos
All the way to court.

I have nothing against the person,
But the profession can be irksome.
You may get argumentative,
But that’s part of the dance:
To step on some toes.
So, I leave you to choose,
And add some of your own.
o Dentist
o Teacher (for the disenchanted/entitled)
o Oncologists
o Auto Mechanic
o Clerics
o Lawyers
o Funeral Persona

Only Albinos
Can be  mimes,
(Or Johnny or Edgar Winter)
For Hallowe'en.
As for trick or treating,
There's enough Al Jolson masks
Out there to ***** us all.

We've numbers in distress;
We've villains and scoundrels
In need of redress;
Choose any one of one thousand quests -
We're in desperate need of a Hero.

No call for a cape or cowl,
Hidden rings or magic swords;
We need action,
Not placating words -
From a righteous Hero.

Greece or Rome won't be the origin,
There may well be one in Oregon;
At this juncture we'll take anyone -
A home grown or welcome Hero.

We'll have truth without hyperbole,
Not disdain, but hearing dignity;
One to rise up, reach out, lift us
From the swamp of vanity.

We don't need Deus ex machina,
Or anything supernatural;
A woman or man,
Natural or choice,
A sister or brother,
To call us home;
To hear a voice say,
You're not alone.

Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need a SWAT team to shoo
This house fly adieu.

Love is
As is is:
In the present tense.
Ergo,
Love is Love.

Over the decades,
We've worked it out.
No need for a Power of anyone.
If I go blind,
You'll be my sight.
And so on.
I will supply
What you lack;
And you promised,
Should I *****,
To leave me on my back.

I believe love has an evil twin,
But I could be losing my mind.
There are petals on thistles,
And thorns on roses;
I can turn 360 or 180
And ride off in any direction.
Tales run like a loop in my brain,
Not recalling who's heard what,
I preface:
I've probably told you this before, but...
Is how any old story begins.
Deja Vu is my new life.
Every thought was once a poem
To be polished and revealed.
Today, they are intermittent.

I've been trolling old television series;
The Monkees were terrible then,
Terrible still;
The Three Stooges were best left in the memory vault;
Bonanza still has Ben wearing his beige vest;
Elizabeth Montgomery is still bewitching;
Jeannie is irritatingly attractive.
I must be leaking grey cells;
Rationality is creaking in my bone-head.

The baboon savant
Will rear and taunt
From high on his hair-swept hill;
He snatches bananas from the unsuspecting,
His reach has no appeal.

He relishes the sound
Of his own voice,
Screeching into the wind;
He sticks his fingers in his ears,
And when he plops down
His ruby-red ****,
His thumb's nestled up his rear.

Iambi

I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.

My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...

He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.

The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock  there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.

They did all in their power.

He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...

It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.

He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.

I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.

The baby... is the image of him.

My heart is torn.
I  could be washed in tears.

When she said, Don't talk to me,
She lost some of her voice.
Then I heard, Don't look for me,
She gave no other choice.
Don't touch, I have no feelings,
You make my skin crawl,
Don't expect a pick up,
If you pick up to call.

But I still smell her everywhere:
The shampoo used on her hair;
The bedsheets where we lay bare;
The fragrance of her festive tree;
Her aromatic herbal teas;
The lilies she could grow in sand,
Are sensational in my memory glands.

What's ours yesterday,
Is gone today;
What's here today,
Will be gone tomorrow.
That how it goes
For joy and sorrow.
Balanced on a teeter-totter,
These highs and lows
Of our see-saw charter.

We first sexed in a tumbling, fumbling manner;
The time had come, it seemed to us,
To consummate our ****** lust.

The Valley was shakin' to The Rocks,
A popular Irish band;
We'd had our fill,
I sparked the engine,
And parked my bike on Techumseh Hill.

The summit was dew damp;
We spread wide our pants,
Not knowing who should go for whom,
So we relented to the crescent moon;
I acquiesced to the shooting stars
When my eyes

Diverse moons have filled my nights,
Long since the grassy knoll,

The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.

I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
Eat tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The  northern breeze there never dies.

I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.

We can either cross or stay inside
Our self-imposed borders.

Forever isn't really long,
We call it Love in a two minute song.
I've witnessed it in my cat's jaws,
Saw a dove impaled on eagle's claws.
It's a moment in grasslands and water,
A flash of colour, then the slaughter.
It's a nanosecond at conception,
It's a blitzgried in insurrection.
It has no width, length or depth,
It continues the second of our last breath.

You can be a boulder,
Unmoveable, hard, stoic;
But every stone is permeable,
And the water gets in
To make the rock sand...
Soft, malleable,
With indistinguishable grains.

I know others who swim
Against adversity to spawn in the current.
They believe destination is destiny;
Focussed, driven with tunnel vision.

Some face adversity like a roller-coaster.
When things are going north, all is good;
But they throw up their arms and scream
When going south.

I will catch the west wind,
Change course if necessary,
Tack across the white caps of roiling waters.
I will steer the rudder towards my East.

Two lads, I'd say, of thirteen, just passed;
One in barefoot with a backpack;
One in shorts, shoes and black socks,
Pulled up over bloated calves.
One athletic, lean and gearing;
One more leaning towards academia.
Both waiting to enter high school.

They met in JK.
They slept on their towels, in their tents,
At each other's house on weekends.
They served together, lived as one;
Their mothers loved them as sons.
That's how close they'd become.
Their worlds will change,
Once this season's done.

One will be the talk of his circle,
The other, the talk of his;
But there's a Venn where the rings entwined
Before they turned thirteen.
Their hybrid youth,
Their cloned friendship,
Memories already determined.

Around fires and bells,
Or a covered porch on a rain - washed day;
They'll dig up some old moments
Of the other when they were young.
Buried treasures for days of leisure,
Apart, yet part of their sum.

We are human beings.
(most of the time)
Being means to exist.
(all of the time)
So, how can a human being
Be dead?
Be that, as it may.

A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.

He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.

I'll not sit to read his letter.

I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.

He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.

I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our dumb-*** quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****,
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.

He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.

If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.

No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.

Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.

Today is the day
Before the school year ends;
No matter what the calendar says,
Whether you're off to work,
Or if you shave,
Tomorrow, recall, is Summer's first day.

I'm waiting to hear my brother's at peace,
I've waited this way before.
Eucheria was a sister of mine,
Marlene, Jimmy and now one more.
I walked out to ******* my deck.
To say **** this,
To scream once more.

He knows it is poison, yet indulges.
It's the one way he's learned to live through it.
And so stays dry. It's sobering.
For months and months and months,
It's a life he enjoys.
Then comes the itch, so the plan is engaged.
Leave and become a stranger,
A pub-fly in Ireland.
And when he returns, Day One is at hand.
The cleansing is on.
For three days he digs, buries himself
In the dark.
Wretching and heaving til bruised.
Step by step by step...
A red face lights the sink basin,
Water, not tears fill his eyes.
By eight tonight Day Two begins.
But that's still hours away.
Back to the sink.
When  Day Three dawns,
He rises and walks out.
Step by step by step...

Foresight gives us 20/20.
Hindsight prepared us.
Don't get blind-sided.

When someone dies,
(Someone you know)
Is that one less annoyance,
A necessary replacement for a foursome,
A body pillow,
A pillow confidant,
A whining Bestie,
A conversational equal.
Is it someone you'd like to meet again, wherever,
Or someone you fear to meet again
(Knowing all is now known).
Was it an old school chum you recognize in a faded picture,
A near/far relative,
A faint acquaintance (that's sad...).
I read the obituaries daily,
Recognize many, but feel little.
But someone's someone passed this way,
And sometimes someone was mine,
Today.

Mammy had a cauldron of stories,
And Mammy never lied;
Strange tales about the living,
Still touched by those who've died.

She spoke of a friend who read the leafs:
When babies died, she heard banshees;
She foresaw the cornice collapse,
Saved me when I was three.
She whispered these tales
Through pressed lips,
Would pause to sip her tea.

Seers told her of her one-legged mother
Standing guard at the foot of her bed,
Long after she was dead.

One prophet spoke of an open door,
A one-way trip to a foreign shore,
And agonies she'd bend to endure.

For me, these stories rang so true,
For mothers wouldn't lie to you;
Yet Father said she was a sinner,
Spinning yarns against God's will.
That's not the story in Bethany,
Or the fairy homes beneath the hills.

Are there ghosts under our beds,
In the closets in our heads;
Hovering over marked graveyards,
Abandoned houses and Tarot Cards?

When the unknown night tore at me,
I'd been told I could pray
To the Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Now they're the ones I fear the most,
They're the stories she often chose.

My brother did.
I haven't.
Others have, going back.
Forward, I will;
But today isn't the day
For theologizing on the mysterious,
Unknown will.
I won't squander away,
Vicariously,
Beneath  indiscriminate winds.
I don't get it.

Blue Conservatives...
          well, they've saddened us;
Red Liberals...
          have angered us;
Green Democrats...
          I'm inspired.

Humpty Trumpy promised the wall,
Humpty Trumpy's in a free fall:
His base reactions
To blackened redactions,
Gave Trumpy just cause
For more infractions.

I'm aware of two certainties;
Certainly taxes isn't either one.