I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.

I found a hole in my bucket list
Like an hourglass
My dream are slipping,
Dripping on my bare floor.

I should be really ******
Because I'll miss
Entering through unknown doors.

I haven't time to fix the hole,
The grains are moving,
And Mammy's calling her babes home.

My favourite just hit the ground,
Like a blood stain,
Or a sewer vein,
It  makes not a sound.

Two floats in the air,
Three's on the lip,
Four swirls near a hole,
The remaining dreams
Are caught in the eddy;
The final drop's precariously ready.

Eliza's fix would surely falter,
My bucket list can't hold water.

Are you ever so full of it
That you need to flush
Halfway through a dump?
That's where we are with Trump.

There's a darkness tempting you,
I stood still, thinking why
You'd be gone so soon.
I collected my things, my cap and mac,
And you said, Don't go just yet.

Go where?

You slapped your ruby gloves
Against your outstretched palm;
You turned that look of regret;
Then was heard what we knew was absurd:
Please, don't go just yet.

We have seen the magic bullet
Cure all disease.
Cows won't go extinct.
Lush, green pastures run to the waters' edges.
Twisted ankles in gopher holes are passe.
Trees are well-placed for shade beneath a relentless sky.
The lands are full, plush and crowded
With work-a-day leather. Wool is everywhere.
The barren creeks are clear of poison.
The grunts and runts of the stead
Blissfully graze, munching towards our tables.
Brown eggs thrive in computerized out buildings.
We are idle. No wars, disease or poverty.
It is either life or death by choice.
We implant, are implanted, removeable,
And sustainable as any Victorian.
In place of the Immaculate Heart,
I hang a picture of my old pet, Sophie,
Walking on a balance beam,
With a strange black V high in the sky.
And with all this, we grow fat.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

Why did the vet
Disregard the elephant
In the House?
REWSNA: EREHT SAW ON NIARB YTIVITCA.

I don't recall year one of life,
But I'm here now,
So they got it right.
Yet I remember being one,
On a mattress, in the sun,
The smell of bacon and farm odors,
Were part of me as I grew older.

But I never asked to grow up.

I walked first steps
In my father's shoes,
Blathered blissfully when I was two.

By the time I turned three,
I was sure youth suited me.

I could reach the outside door,
When I grew to the age of four.
Now the world's mine to explore.

But I never asked to grow older.

Then by five I tried to hide
From the travails of an older child;
The digging, weeding, painting, work:
My escape to school was my re-birth.

But I never asked to grow older.

I didn't ask to turn six,
Seven, eight, nine or ten;
I shuddered at our  portends,
I didn't like how my world ends,
I finished fishing with Amens.

But I never asked to grow older.

I made twenty years ago,
When decades moved ever so slow;
Thirty came, forty gone,
And fifty didn't last that long.

But I never asked to grow older.

Since I must,
Please remember,
Dip my soother in Irish whiskey,
Include me if you solve the mystery,
And reference me and my life's history.

There, I wrote it. Above.
I simply believe it needs to be in print... out there, so to speak,
And perhaps a few hundred may read, *******,
And, hysterically, or in solace,
Make use of it;
Openly, lingusly or fingeratively,
As we do *****, ******, and ******* (tsk-tsk).
Whether you agree or not, please yourself.

He promised happiness, but we got strife.
Eternal paradise, but we got life.
He promised the chosen, but they got fire.
He promised redemption, but he's a liar.

Roses are red,
My carnations are too...

You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.

…out of the mouths of Babes...

Everything comes to those who wait.
Even a worm will turn.
If wealth is lost, nothing is lost. If health is lost, something is lost.
     If character is lost, all is lost.
If knowledge is power, how did he become POTUS?
Love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.
Tell me who your friends are, and I'll tell you who you are.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
There is no shame in not knowing; the shame is in not finding out.
A penny for his thoughts is price fixing.
As you make your bed, so must you lie in it. Don't wash your *****
     sheets in public.
Empty vessels make the most noise.
Every man has his price.
People who live in glass houses should keep their pants up.
Shrouds have no pockets.
The Devil looks after his own.
To err is human, to forgive... Meh!
What goes up must come down.
You are what you eat (hambuglers?)
Let the punishment fit the crime.
It is better to smarter than you appear, than to appear smarter
     than you are.
If you lie down with the dogs, you get up with the fleas.
Money earned by deceit, goes by deceit.
Open confession is good for the soul.
Patience is a virtue.
Behind every great man, there is a woman being paid off.
Ask my companions if I be a thief.
All roads lead to imprisonment.
If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well.
The big apple is rotten to the Corps (a soldier's lament)
A journey of a lifetime begins with a subpoena.
The chain of command is only as strong as its weakest ****.
He who pays the ******, rents the room.
It takes a hundred lies to cover one lie.
It's hard to juggle sand.
**** the chicken to scare the monkey.
Like father, like son.
No man can serve two masters.
One may as well be hanged for sheep as well as lamb.
Nothing is certain but death and Tax Returns.
No rest for the wicked.
Russians make strange bedfellows.
Give a man enough tie and he'll hang himself.
Fences make bad politics.
Little things please little minds.
Fish always stink from the head downwards.
From the sublime to the ridiculous is only two questions:
     What did you know? When did you know it?
The truth will out.
The longest day must have an end.
Pride comes before the fall (so do a lot of other deadly sins)
Put your money where my mouth is (S.D.)

     Red tie at night. Donny's delight.
     Red tie at morning. Stormy gives warning.

Seek and ye shall find.
Speak as you find.
Out of sight. Out of mind.

S/He/It
SHeIt
Sheit
****
It happens.

Everybody loves the twins, you will too.
Everybody loves the things they’ll say and do;
Their eyes smile when they see you coming,
You smile back because they’re so loving.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Brigid likes to crawl along the wall now that she can stand,
Ophelia does the same but the girls have to use their hands;
It won’t be long now until they’re walking,
Wait another month and they won’t stop talking.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too
The girls surely love you two.

They don’t know how to say they're in love with you,
But that's okay you can see that its plainly true;
They light up when they see you coming,
The arms start flailing and their legs start pumping.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Dreaming of your loves in the comfort they’re in love with you,
Dreaming of your loves in the comfort that you love them too.
Dreaming of my loves in the comfort I'm in love with you.

How will we progress today?

Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?

Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?

Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?

Will we defy authority with a righteous tone,
Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone?

Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu,
Or show a distention as millions today do?

Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash?

Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage?

Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching the hourglass?

Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore?

Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool?

Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?

Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station in life gives you right?

Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?

Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,
Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?

Our words can't bind all our wounds,
Few are born with silver spoons,
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing group flight,
And it can't come too soon.

That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.

Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)

There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.

Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.

Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.

We stand *****, shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.

We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.

If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.

I was born.
I was born male.
I was born white male.
I was born white, male Caucasian.
I was born white, male Caucasian in a Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large, loving family.

I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large loving family, and I'll never work as a talking head.
Why, tell me, do all the others have all the luck.

Celebrities make poor politicians.
Poor politicians become celebrities.
Click. Clique.

Fewer adults are laughing,
It's not funny any more;
We leaned on poles to direct our titter,
Quite harmless in its day.
And Engine 9's been derailed,
We're catching tigers,
But It's still okay.

We rolled our eyes at Jewish jibes,
And salesmen in the barn;
Or the Newfie warning,
Don't slip on the ice,
Don't ya know, bay, it's hard frozen.

We've pulled our collective heads out,
We're sniffing old world air.
I liked the self-effacing glibs,
Affected with a brogue.
Now there's a hard line on a country bridge,
Across a brook, or penal school ditch.
It's just not funny any more.

We used to hear it all the time:
Can you come outside and play?

We heard that chant throughout the hood,
From screened back doors where our friends stood.
Calling just when time was right,
For Hide and Seek at the dawning night,
Or Hopscotch, Double Dutch
Kick the Can,
On neighbour's lawns and sidewalks,
On streets, driveways or city parks.

My daughter got a text today:
Can you come to my house and play?

I took the pen with me,
After signing the parlor guest book,
At the Home.

You might think of forgiving me,
Thinking as good people do,
I took it as a memorial sticking point;
But I didn't know the deceased.

I was acting as a devout escort,
To be seen as doing the right thing.
Perception, you've been told,
Is everything.

So, I made sure no one saw me
Take the pen.

For extra insurance,
To project my semblance,
Following the eulogies,
I attended the luncheon,
And ate salmon sandwiches,
And carrot sticks.
On leaving, I grasped the hands:
Sorry for your troubles;
Came home and used that pen,
To create this.
The End.

I gave, you took,
My heart,
My soul and time.
You left, I stayed,
Withdrawn and supine.
I was a still life,
In the shades and lights of day.
I wrinkled and went dry,
Through skin down to my core;
Was fading and wasting away,
Like a Banksy on a rainy day.

Earth:   Three trillion trees.
Moon:   No cotton seeds.
Mars:    No face to feed.
Yet billions here seek shade.

Growing to manhood is a slippery *****
Of razor blades and bones that grow.
****** screen shots of angel wings,
Red carpet slits, eye popping lips,
Miss Pageants and tutus on skates.
Britney shaking, Jennifer quaking,
No Old Spice to take young spice's place.
The X comes before the Y,
Yet Toxicity is the hue and cry.
I'm a man in a mixed-up world,
But girls still like boys,
And boys adore girls

If I want you to continue reading,
Then I must be truthful and forthright.
That's my decision.
And I'm good at deciding stuff.

One time I decided to change
My mailing address, have my mail
Redirected for a personal reason.
Another time, I decided to impersonate
My brother in court.
I didn't say all decisions were good ones.
So, allow your imagination to comply as I tell this story...

Did I mention I've a very active imagination.
More profound than my decision making skills.
    
     There's a young boy, on the verge of adulthood,
     aged twelve, and he often stays out all night...

Okay, I'll tell the truth. The boy is me.
But you probably already knew that,
Didn't you?

     On arriving home one morning,
     He comes upon an unusually locked
     back door, but he can hear the TV and
     the dog whinning. The Mercury is idling
     in the driveway. The trunk ajar...

My imagination is messing with the truth.
There is no open trunk, but the curtain blowing
Out my parents' main floor bedroom window is true.

     The idea of my having a key to the house is silly.
     That would mean eight keys with kids that know
     nothing about locks and keys. We were free to run,
     uninhibited, all adventure, no phones, little radio,
     and a TV that hardly ever worked. So, no key. To my
     right, I notice the frill laced curtain flapping out my
     parents' bedroom window.
     Open? Do I dare?

I've always been known for my recklessness and lack of foresight.
So I turned towards their window...

I undressed for my shower,
And noticed something queer;
Something I've used all my days,
Suddenly disappeared.

I had it with me yesterday,
And used it several times;
I always put it in its place,
And took care of what was mine.

I really can't explain it;
Now what's a fella do;
I'm not to blame,
I refuse the shame
Of the hashtag framed MeToo.

It's as easy as, 1, 2, 3.
Understandable as A, B, C.
Undesirable as, Don't Take Me.

A simple ditty,
So listen, Kiddie,
There's no singing in the grave.

No foot tapping, finger snapping,
Lip smacking music where you're going;
But don't be in a hurry to get going
To a place where you're a gonner.

You won't be chatting with a Brahma,
Discussing laws with ancient Moses,
There's no sitting Buddha posing,
You ain't in blissful Nirvana.

You'd be  in heaven in Havana.

There aren't virgins waiting;
No loaves and fishes baking;
No bells ringing,
No Mecca wailing,
No roads paved with gold.

I miss those stories I was sold.

Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...

Was it us who failed you?

Stay a while, don't leave yet,
You'll find nothing you expect,
But you won't remember,
And you won't forget.

I've heard and read lovers recite
On love about their love;
… a full petalled blossom
in a silver vase...

Trite, I thought,
and so blase.
If what I recall is true.

I see my lover more like clover,
Spreading along a tree laden brook,
On a pathway through sun-streamed woods;
Spreading, thriving, covering green,
A more vibrant, living floral scene.

Trite, I think.

Judy took the silverware,
More than thirty pieces;
Entered by the front alone,
She made it look so easy.

She carried off twelve settings,
And tongs and butter knives;
She covered then with velvet plush
To hide from curious eyes.

It turned out to be an inside job,
A sneak thief in daylight,
With more than thirty pieces,
Long tarnished in my sight.

There's movement afoot.
Occupants and sycophants
Are scattering
From the Rainbow Rooms
To the more concrete setting
Of the Oral Office,
Where the North and South Porticos
Admit the transients
Behind the secure cement walls
Of the Skinners.

My use of personal pronouns
Puts me in my poem;
I can roll a rock with Sisyphus,
Be in a ceiling flame in Rome.

I can bring you back to life,
Sharing tales and tea;
Sitting there before my fire,
For all eternity.

I go marauding with Attila,
Walk with Neil Armstrong,
Fly high with Amelia,
Be a Beatle with my song.

My pronouns give me presence
In my lover's residence;
I'm just a specter she can't see;
A spirit roaming outside of me.

I can jot an I with you,
I could pen an our;
But that's just ink on my notebook,
Not as sweet as sour.

I can use my pronouns
To put you in my verse;
And then I lay my pen down,
I'm cursed, but none the worse.
You're just poetry to me.

I know whose toes
Peek out below:
Beneath their nose,
Under lips,
Lower than their waist and hips;
Past their knees and their shins-
Toes they’ll use to count to ten.
Better yet,
With our twins,
They’ll count to twenty to begin,
Then move to forty without linger,
Counting on each other’s fingers.
Toes and fingers, fingers and toes,
Twenty wigglers they’ve come to know,
With twenty fingers to catch and throw.
For now we’ll rhyme toes off to market,
And play Pat-a-Cake
With Ophelia and Brigid.

When your time closes in
Faster than laughter and red lights,
I wish you to be worn and threadbare
As the Velveteen Rabbit,tattered,
With a walker and stair chair;
My cane and umbrella waiting
By your leave.

I hope you're wearing the cardigan
I got you this Christmas,
Mended and draped over your frail shoulders,
Mingling with your hair.

I pray you have children bringing children
To feast on shortbread and tea.
I see you alone, at times, in tranquility,
Recalling me,
Who missed it all.

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 that night
Didn't freeze,
And indeed it was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck pine branches
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christmas tree then.
Here's my memory that Eve
From a lad who's 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 operated cranes and loaders,
Dirt packers, graders, and cable drovers.
He was working Far North,
Manning a DC10 dozer,
Distant from family
Near the French border.
That's where he was
When the diesel caught fire,
When his pant legs lit up,
But the flame grew no higher.

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 I,
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 giving
Isn't under the Tree.

Tolstoy was a boy,
Ibsen was Henrik's son
Hardy had a father,
And see how well they've done.

Byron was a grandson,
And Wordsworth had a wet nurse,
Thoreau had a 2 to go,
Shakespeare a bad marriage,
Austen was a loner,
Poor Sylvia was a goner,
And see how well they've done.

Joyce had a ***** mind,
Fitzgerald liked to drink,
Richler liked to smoke,
And Wolfe enjoyed a ****,
And see how well they've done.

Fielding was a misogynist,
Wilde was a jailbird;
Virginia a misandrist,
And Kerouac a simple ****.
Yet see how well they've done.

Still with all their drawbacks,
Look how well they've done;
Like our old friend John,
We surely come un-done.

The most rhymed word
In the poetry world is
Me.
That reveals volumes about
Us.

You know Cohen and Ellis,
Powel and McEnany,
Hutchison, Meadows,
And soon, Giuliana;
But try not to recall
The most infamous POTUS of all:

Donald the orange-skinned POTUS
Has a Pinocchio nose,
And everytime he speaks out,
You literally see it grow.
All of his well-placed minions,
And millions that can't be named,
Try to protect the Donald,
But only expose their shame.

Then one sunny DC Day
SC Jack Smith  says:
Donald with your team in flight,
Your term in office is finite.

Then how his minions left him,
And they shouted silently;
Donald, you long-nosed politico,
You're a blip in history.

We're nearing as we ready
The home with green and red;
A deflated Santa on my neighbour's lawn,
Canned snow sprayed in window corners,
Polyethylene on a white Christmas tree,
Gingerbread people drinking hot ***,
Mistletoe hanging from sticks and jambs,
And an apron round the stem.
I decorate, make my fruit cake,
Set out the children's books,
The ones I've read so often:
Rudolph and Old St. Nick,
They look foolish on my table.
Displayed in  their fixed place.
They're not like my Christmas bling,
The blinking lights, false stars at night,
Twas the Night Before Christmas
Is the real thing.
At midnight we'll hear choirs sing,
Joy to the World, Peace on Earth,
For one night I'll believe again.

Stay good night.
I see my words rise on my breath,
Being swept up to your stars.

Stay good people.
Who missed this year.
Who came last,
Who comes next.
I surely miss you all.

Such heavy memories
Of snow-laden branches,
Castles in globes,
Ballerinas in boxes.

My new memories
Will never last as long
As the ones I've carried all along.

Anyone ever hear that Cortez might have said,
lo siento;
Or Hudson's Bay recall one blanket?
What regret or remorse would be achieved.
Why? Because of more or less.

Sorry. I'll try harder.
     That sounds like your heart was never in it.

Sorry. I ****** up.
     That's sincere.

I recanted on a really big SORRY,
And sorry I am
That ever I did mouth it.

Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.

     outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.

     from top to bottom, bottom to top

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.

     right is left, left is wrong

That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.

Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.

     north to south, east to west

The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.

I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has *******, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling hell, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.

He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.

     today is the day, yesterday's late,
     tomorrow's a place that just won't wait

I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.

I take umbrage
At comparing
The POTUS
To a lying piece of crap.
I've experienced crap, lots of it!
Usually brown, with no comb-over.
So POTUS **** is an unfair analogy.
Now, a moniker like
Faeces Face fits,
And stinks to the high heavens.

They never understand;
Or ever comprehend
The severity of my decision.
I'm convinced I have control,
Yet those I dearly hold,
Keep hold on their derision.

I know I'll find remission
For commissions and omissions;
My love was never so cold.

She'll say I never loved her;
There always was the other
Stopping us from growing old.

As a young man in love,
I was selfish.
I walked with you,
I shared food,
I slept with you,
It was my insatiable thirst;
Desire, and
I needed to gulp it,
At any cost,
For survival.
Perhaps you felt likewise.
I didn't know.

Now, being older,
That
Which I do
Out of love,
I do for you.

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.
Their 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
Canadian pulses played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.

I went to Winchester again,
It's been forty years since then,
When we were awed in the nave,
Stood over Jane Austin's grave,
And loved the irony of golden St. Joan.
The chest coffins hold bleached bones,
The stained glass mosaic filters the sun,
And everything appears the same.
I had perfect recall,
I remembered it all,
Before returning my self-guided tour.
I lowered my head
Through the Refugee door;
To return no more.
Your memorial  has faded;
My memories got jaded.