Distant trains still sound alarms,
Blinds are drawn, people yawn,
It's time to call the day.

The sun's turned off,
The moon's turned on,
The stars like pinholes
Blink till dawn.
The animals are bedded
On the farm;
Beneath the counterpane
I'll find no harm.

Today's work is done,
Tomorrow's not begun,
But tonight I'll sleep
Like the seventh son.

The eye of the hurricaine is still and lonely.
The sands on the beach are left untouched.
The church pews sit empty.
The store shelves are scant.
The pitches are quiet,
The playgrounds are empty.
The fields are burnt.
The waters are grey.
The air about is thick and acrid.
The windows are shuttered, doors are barred.
There are no moving bodies on the streets.
Cars sit idly parked.
Schools are childless.
Does this sound like the dawn of the apocolypse,
Or another four years.

I know you've heard of RINOs,
Perhaps you've heard of DINOs,
Some Christians are called CINOs,
Are those men mere MINOs.
Women become WINOs
(the irony doesn't escape me thouogh)
Humans evolved to HINOs;
Friends are friends
I'll never call them  FINOs.
Avoid lovers who are LINOs,
And teachers who are TINOs.
Could a Jew be a JINO?

But make no mistake:
Terrorists are Terrorists,
Jihadists are Jihadists,
Haters are Haters,
War mongers are war mongers,
Liars lie.

It's We thePeople, PINOs.

I need permission
To break through this invisible forcefield,
To give you a hug,
And make it not ******.
Yet...
We both know
It not to be true.

Yes, I'm the husband.
You need to treat me as such.
Like Ward Cleaver.
Don't condescend, ridicule, or find fault
In little things.
Am I to ingest this drivel
Till I technocolor burp?
I wait for a thaw or a thigh;
A small smile would register on the Richter.
In my house there are many rooms
For a Piata, a David,
But Moses has reign,
Coming down Sinai.
Thou shalt have no false gods before me.
I was a believer,
Before I did,
Before I do.
Today I am an agnostic and an atheist.
I do not believe in sanctity
Or forgiveness.
I sow what I have reaped.

Got some hope today.
It felt like a tingle.
In my insides somewhere.
This was familiar.
I was reminded that the world
In which I was born,
Was just as ****** as now.

Somehow, we're muscling on.

Nucleur threats,
Idealogical jets,
With invasions, wars and debts.
I kept abreast of the U.S.S.R.
Covered heads beneath school desks,
Bent over likeVesuvians.
Korea, Viet Nam,
And on and on;
Granada, not Canada,
Look what happened in Iran.
Did you see them hang Sadam?
I can still hear the alarms.

We still keep muscling on.

This world is moving fast.
One thousand miles per hour.
Quicker around the sun.
Faster around the galaxy,
And fastest into the universe.
No contraction. Just expansion.
We agree, it's infinite in time and space.
Is there a nucleus for BOOM?
Does time go in only one lateral direction?
Was there more than one BANG for the buck?
More than one universe?
Creation isn't an asterick,
Exploding in all directions,
Like the rays of a sun.
Time may have no beginning, no end.
But stories need a beginning, middle and end.
My story does.
The universe doesn't. No story.
Not without a start and an end.
Just a middle, with crises, conflicts and looming decisions.
This is the illusion.

I'm disappearing.
Bit by tiny bit.
I'm becoming a mosaic
Of technological parts.
I'm not bionic,
I've a real heart;
But aids help me hear;
Implants help me chew;
Stainless steel lets me kneel,
I wear specs to see you.

Nothing man-made can last;
Not like mountains and forests
That don't need my resources.
You may say these things aren't living, as such...
But you'd be wrong.
You may argue I am not living as such...
You'd be wrong again.
I need batteries and oil,
Scripts or x-rays to prove it,
But the proof is there.
I'm shedding skin, losing hair,
Have diminished hearing and sight;
My legs are sore and tired and my back...
Oh my back...
Yes, I am disappearing
And will be remembered for a generation;
As my grandfather was with me.
When my brain disappears,
So will he.

Lou left!

It was an unexpected cataclysm;
A rogue wave in my face;
A flapping jib in the lightning;
A broken string
As I began Yesterday.

Today, I read his life's history,
His likes and loves.
I will replace that string,
And finish the song.
Before I forget,
Before too long;
For I was his mate
In many a storm.

My words are hard to handle;
They shift and shape in time.
It's  cool to be rad,
To chill and veg sublime.

Some just reach and grab the crotch,
And twerk while in their ******;
Majorettes smile in knee high boots,
Flirting with the lenses.

Some other words come easily;
The ones used every day.
Texting's being phased out
With a smiling yellow face.

I have fewer words today;
This makes life hard for me;
The many times I write Love
Is nearing Eternity.

Yet isn't this all I need-
That one Eternal chord;
Love is love forever,
Never ending as the Word.

I awaken mornings feeling upbeat,
Praying my prayers set like concrete.
But No!
This repetitive routine has no soul.

Perhaps I'm praying wrong.
Perhaps He prefers a song,
A Hallelujah chorus
To **** of the Anti-Christ.
(but the Creature lives... it ***** up all our hopes).

I'll pray again tonight:

Now I lay me down to sleep.
And pray that God won't willfully keep
That blakened spot he calls his soul,
Dispatched to Hell for our repose.

There was once a time of quietude.
If I said something;
Showed you something,
Or did something; and,
If it was warm and loving,
Interesting or whimsial,
Controversial or agreeable,
You might nod, shake your head,
Sigh,
Maybe gesture with a hand-
Yes or No or Maybe.

I'm reading.
There's too  much noise.
Some friends, many strangers,
Laughing... loudly...
Out loud;
Smiling, hugging, liking, Wowing, loving, tsking. crying...
So much emotion.
I can hear them.

Not long ago,
But mostly gone,
Like silent films
It was quiet.
LOL WOW *** :)

If not this week,
Then this year.
If not this year,
Then next year.
              
This year.
                  Next year.
Some year.
                  Not never.

What is time? Space?
Will it matter?

I add one word: Let the [orange] blowt king tempt you again...

A long unopened folder
Fell from a shelf,
Spewing unfinished poems
Across the room
Like shards of colored glass,
Edged as sharp as razor wire.
We know those fragments;
And how deep they can cut.
They speak of life and death,
Love and leaving,
Good, evil, and Roads.
I may arrange them
In a stained glass mosaic;
Not much symmetry,
But piecemealed,
Telling of my Inquisition.

It's a cheap food source,
For the young,
Running like icicles
To their tongues.
It's wiped on sleeves
Up to the elbow.
Or rolled for ammo
Between finger and thumb;
It's a missle
When aimed and flung.

And during the night,
We don't know how,
It's smeared on walls,
Pillows and covers,
And hardens on headboards,
Where it stays and hoovers.

If you're at home,
In need of glue,
Your nose provides
A stick or two.

Granda uses hankies a lot
To dig and pick at his Grandkids' snot.
Blow one nostril at a time
To thoroughly purge the wet green slime.

It harbinges our imminent distress,
When we spot piles of wet kleenex.

And lastly,
At the dinner table,
When no one's looking,
Then you're able,
To stick your ******
Beside last week's gum.
If Dad or Mom
Should happen to see,
Just reply,
’Snot me!

Have you such-a-one?
A rely-on.
Are you such-a-one
For someone?
There is such-a-one.
Ones who don't lie,
Even if it hurts;
Ones that share laughs,
And laughs til it pains.
Such-a-one speaks words
Only one can understand;
Such-a-one has gestures,
That are lost on others,
Quite simply gone over their heads.
Such-a-one isn't abused.
When asked to do, they do,
Cause such-a-one already knew.

We've lived with the good and the bad,
Such are the lives we've had.
With such-a-ones we grow stronger,
We thrive and live joyous lives longer.
And me,
Lucky me;
I've several such ones
I deeply respect and honour.

I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron, or that poser, Yeats.
Each and every one you see,
Lifted their best themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's made me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're  now just dust and bones,
They still don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown, like,
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I thought that up before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poetically clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

I made my Dr.'s appt on time... early... as normal.
And waited one hour. But that's okay.
He takes his time, and will also do so with me.
I'm called in.
I sit, and wait another fifteen minutes. But that's okay.
He arrives. He's older. In fact why hasn't he retired.
But, I'm pleased he hasn't.
So, he begins, as he brings my chart onto his medical screen,
What brings you here today?
I'm concerned about my health. I have a family history that worries me.
Oh!, he sounds. What is it in particular that worries you?
Death, I answered. My family... (and the litany ensued)
Death! I heard. Your chart doesn't have any serious health issues to red flag you, he consoled.
True, I said. But look at my family history. It goes back generations, in Ireland and now in Canada. Both through my maternal and paternal sides. Uncles, Aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters...  died.  All of them. Is it any wonder. I have a family history of near and distant relatives dying. It's chronic, it's acute. Wars, disease, accidents, suicide. You name it. They've died from it, and I probably will too.
A textbook case, he said. Nurse, next.

It's finally come to this...
"I just don't get it!"

They come on like small shocks,
Like faulty neon lights,
Gauche in purple, and bright.
Memory. Blinking OFFf and ON.
I follow them like the swimmer,
Thinking to rest on the lake buoy,
But finding it too slippery;
Not panicking, but worried,
Then turning.

Stuff and things get sold or razed,
Re-zoned or re-engineered.

I can't walk those streets and places,
Not in life or memory.
I'm better off
Staying out of the lake.
And under the neon light'

Turn up my colar to the cold and damp.

I assume the alleyway is there,
Where we left it;
And the five towering pines,
Like young brothers,
Slap branches at one another,
And grow in the winds.

God knows where the miscreants come from.
I don't get it.
Anyway, take it,
Place it in the town square,
And select your stone,
Or use a poker stake,
But near a drain.

                          or

In a cell... alone.... or going for a walk-about
in the common area,
or just under the upper window with the blue square.

                         or

while travelling across the great expanse in a private jet,
even a simple maintainence slip up in the hangar.

Where have all the ****** assassins gone?
I don't mean your run-of-the-mill crazy radicalized terrorist, like Sirhan (though that would suffice);
NO! Enlist an old fashioned one,
With names like,
Mark or James or John.

We should know better
With or without schooling.
If we willfully refuse,
If we disregard the facts;
We are ignorant.
That's below below average.
We made a choice.
A choice is not a chronic disease.
Not like mine.
It was never my choice.
I don't know if it happened
Before or After,
But the manifestation was slow, profound,
And addictive.

It's awe inspiring.
It's wonderous.
I truly believe.
I'm IN.
                                        but

I do wonder.
Doubt creeps in.
Then thought.
Now insight.
Now I don't.
I'm OUT!

The good ole days were enjoyed with ease,
There was more to enjoy because of disease;
There were fewer people to dress and feed
Thanks to child mortality.


The middle-class were few and greedy,
Thanks to rampant poverty;
We could find work and be employed,
But tenure turned to workplace injury;
Illiteracy was common,
Innumeracy, our fate,
Due to the high-school drop out rate;
Polio and smallpox kept in check
The burgeoning growth of the unelect;
Minorities knew their social place,
Jim Crow was voting in black face;
Heteros ruled the ****** race,
Alphabet people were an outlier trace;
In summer and winter we were outplayed and beat,
With no Air Conditioning nor Central Heat.

Let's leave the past in the past,
There where history belongs;
Where hunger and sickness,
Lasted life-long,
With the poverty and ignorance
The minority prolonged.

We can agree times were simpler then,
But time came rushing to our quick end.

When writers stop telling us
What we don't know;
When the musicians pack up
And leave the Big Show;
When the actors stop showing us
How to feel;
And all the mixed Players
Leave all playing Fields;
When the clerics and laity
Stop living in Awe;
And the Body Politic
Stops abusing our Laws;
When teachers stop returning
To teach in Homerooms;
And we finally accept
There are no empty tombs;
When the philosophers stop telling us
How we should think;
And our Leaders abdicate
Because of the stink;
When all the Professionals
Stop professing their Trade;
And we ruminate peacefully
Over an Open Grave;
We will ask,
Was anyone saved.

Set a timer.
Watch the millisecs tick away;
Not so much telling me
How much time is left,
But how much is irretrievable.
Not like waves,
Washing upon themselves and returning.
Not like the hour glass
With sand that once was a boulder
That once was part of a mountain
That rose up from the burgeoning strife of life.
The hourglass, that looks right-side-up
Or up-side-down,
Depending on your perspective.
Not like sundials, pointing in the wrong direction,
And always running clockwise.
No,
Setting a timer
Alarms me
For all the same reasons
As wearing a watch.

I want to write a Christmas poem,
But the muse ain't in the mood;
I look outside, it seems like Spring.
I really think I'm *******.

There's not a flake of snow out there,
The sun shines in the blue;
I believe the squirrels are copulating.
I really think I'm *******.

Our geese stayed North again this year,
Our fauna's still in view;
It's hard to spot the cardinals;
I really think I'm *******.

There's lights strung round houses,
With inflatables on the lawns;
They're out of place,
Look crude and rude;
I really think I'm *******.

I'm not hearing silver bells
From sleighs running over snow;
It's a wonder we call this winter,
In Ontariario.

But... the tree is up,
The gifts well-wrapped
With Love and Best Wishes too;
So, in lieu of surely being *******,
This verse will have to do.

Clothes are for wearing.
Music is for listening.
Chairs are for sitting.
Children are for loving.
Food is for eating.
Parents are for security.
Laws are for obeying.
Schools are for education.
Religion is for wonderment.
Incarceration is for miscreants.
Water is for drinking.
Trains, planes and automobiles are for travel.
*** is for many reasons.
Love and Truth are for everyone.
Life is for living.
Death is for dying.
Death is for living?

Between autumn's offerings
And spring's wings,
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams,
And crystal air heils winter's dreams.

Poplar trees that snowed in summer
Are treasures held in winter's slumber;
Their branches hold in silhouette
Crowning stars that brightly sit.

Here dreams of flight and fancy thrill
Shimmering eyes on a gift-wrapped hill.
Shorelines once rubbed with reeds,
Are splashed by our moonlight beads.
Knolls wrapped in wreaths of herring bone,
Like sirens call us out from home.

Stars held in place with poplar fingers
Ring our ponds like carolling singers.
There nestled by framed winter scenes,
Our winter lights glint red and green.

These lights, that through our windows stream,
Bring to mind warm Christmas dreams.

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 tendered 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.