We're so sure
Concerning births,
With one hundred billion
Born on Earth
Since chaos turned to form;
There's fourteen times more people dead
To the eight billion this time round.
And yet,
I can't conceive
The finality of death.
The equation's misconstrued:
Of all the numbers
Come and gone,
I count mine,
Not yours.

Today is the first day
Of Spring in Ontario
After an arduous winter.
We have waited with
Northern patience.
I cruised my Shadow
Along Lakeshore Rd,
The sun strobing through
Leafless, budding limbs.
The smell of Spring clean-up,
The burning of leaves and wood;
An invisible, invading aroma.
That one assault held the force
Of all my Springs,
Before I worried over CO2's.

Begin with my skin,
White, hairy and thin;
But for my brothers,
I'm much like all others.

Dig deeper to bone,
Europe's our home.
Trowel down to my marrow
You'll uncover our Congo.

We travailed
Down our paths,
We share the same cells,
Have the same origins,
Hear the same knells.
The one difference lies in
My white, hairy, thin skin.

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

What is time? Space?
Will it matter?

Where do I find a poem?
In the space of a blink,
Between heartbeats,
When idle or moving,
With family and friends,
In a cemetary,
At school,
On a beach,
On-line,
On a bench, sitting beside me.
In the four seasons,
Beneath the blue, black and starry canopy,
In the wild, sapian or worldly,
In the arts and prophets,
Crawling on the floor,
When I'm cooking;
And, when I'm not looking,
A poem will find me.

Accidents happen in the Spring.
Babies are born from left-over
Autumn bonfires,
Never properly extinguished.
The sun should shine for an extra hour
So I can finish “The Burial of the Dead.”
Small dogs can escape out doors
Opened for a breath of fresh Spring air.
If there had been a screen on the door...
If it had been a cat...
If it had been raining...
If the sun had set sooner...
If the stranger had been kinder...
Would April accidents happen?
Instead, a sad woman cries,
Ah, nao. Agrander a Deus.
Nao por favor. Mitzi.

We can't plan for mistakes.
We call them accidents.

The ****** queen
Ate seedless grapes,
Eyeless potatoes
And mandrake.
She washed it down
With honeyed wine,
Then went to bed
A ****** crying.

Trust a liar
To equivocate.

Trust a thief
Won't discriminate.

Trust your government
To disappoint.

Trust Justice
To miss the point.

Trust your parents
Til you find a voice.

Trust education,
If you want a choice.

Trust your friends
To have your back, front and sides.

Trust your children
With your life.

Trust your partner,
Like no other.

Trust one's self
More than anyone else.

I can be engaged
In anything,
When the sense of shovel comes.
Smothering cold ashes.
I'm looking at your eyes
Til the sockets stand out;
I'm planting gardens
For growth;
When I installed the French Doors,
I heard the lid clap.
Everything's archetypal:
Snakes, cruciforms, swastikas.
Looking up, they become more profound
In the contrails and puzzles beyond my skies.
When Neanderthal heeled the first blade
To plant something or someone,
He didn't know the theory of the chaos effect.
His effect.
This would suffice as my last poem.
My pen is my shovel,
And I'm heeling it now,
Into you.

I'll have a bite
To eat -
A cup of wine,
Some broken bread;
Set them all at ease.

I should sit and wash
My feet -
A water bowl,
A ragged towel;
Clean off the dust
From off the street.

I'll disclaim
I'm a traitor,
Run to temple,
Hang out later.

Autumn is icumen in,
With all its tricks,
Its treats and whims.

I can't mourn
Summer's passing;
Those days
Of idle slumber.
Summer suns
And midnight moons,
The silhouettes of June;
Holiday highs,
Mad July;
The robust garden
Lust of August.

I won't.

Autumn air
Affronts my senses,
The Arctic cool
Dips and rules.
The moss has left
The trees;
Arthritic twigs
Let lose
The leafs.

     *Autumn is icumen in

Autumn,
With its foils
And foibles,
Rakes us in
With harlequin sins,
And all its
Wherewithal.
Embrace your fall.

     *Winter is icumen in

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...

I'll tell you what I got from you;
They're not your gifts
That give me lift,
Like tea, flowers and concert tickets;
Nice, but for the moment.
Petals pale and music stops,
The things I got
Simply do not.
You smiled for me
A million times;
Sat by me
When I reclined;
Raised me up
Though I'd decline;
You gave me what
I call Divine:
Your time.

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.

When Jesus ate asparagus
Did his *** smell like mine;
When he ate a plate of cabbage,
As was often in his habit,
You didn't sense Divinity
In sublime proximity.
When he talked of sowing seeds,
Did the Magdalene accede ?
I know this sounds quite absurd
Talking about the living Word,
But when he ate a plate of beets
His ***** incarnadined.
(Perhaps that's how he made the wine).
And when he had a private dump
He wiped with The Roman Times.

Did Jesus use a hankie
When he blew his nose,
Or did he place ******* there,
They say God only knows.
Or if he thought he wasn't seen,
He might well use his gaberdine.

When he bathed in Jordan,
Did he clip his toes?
I haven't read this anywhere,
The Bible won't disclose.

Yes, he really was a man,
Doing the same, as I Am.
If he were here,
We could be friends,
We'd hear a joke,
Crack a cask,
Share a smoke.
I don't believe
We'd say Amen.

Free will
Comes with a heavy price.
Spend it wisely.

We're treating our world
Like a retreating army:
The invaders won't survive.

Choose a poet,
Write a limerick.
Something like this:

There's a poet that goes by Quinfinn,
Whose writing can cause quite a din;
His verse is so subtle,
To save you the trouble,
He gives you the theme at the end.

I golfed with Byron yesterday. And no, he didn't "kick my ***" as promised. It's always an edifying round with Byron. On the links he looks more like Dorf than Frodo. Sometimes I glimpse the top of his head when he's in the rough, or see a cloud of sand, like the Roadrunner hitting the ground after the inevitable fall. Our conversation (his conversation)  gamuts from his re-constructed porch to life on Mars. He'd like to build a porch on Mars. He is an Everyman almanac. His back swing is like a tilting windmill, and I, his Sancho, suggesting which club to use. In fairness, he makes some remarkable shots. Here are some I've heard:
"To pinch one off, inhale, then cough." This sums up Byron's intestinal fortitude. He takes heavy doses of codeine and morphine for his back.

"Don't swab your ears with asparagus spears." This is the extent of Byron's relationship with veggies. He's more a plant man.

"During ***, if she wiggles her toes, she's still wearing ***** hose." Byron gives a full belly laugh at the double entendre.

"If you pick your nose choose the best plastic surgeon." Yeah, I know. Cute. Byron himself sports a double car garage.

"Men who manscape must **** or go ape." Pure irony for Byron. Nothing sharper than the bearded axe approaches his iron.

"Ladies, when you quin manicure, design it with a touch of *****." That's Byron. Discrete, gentle and quizzical.

"If you *******, get to the point. Don't hesitate." Byron would never admit to such self-indulgence.

It was a gorgeous golf day. Byron seems to make the sun shine a little brighter. He promises, next time, he'll kick my ***.

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.

Words and sentences
I hear are mine;
I won't cite you,
It's not a crime;
Yet you may read
Your words in rhyme,
And see my name
Ascribed as author.
I don't profer
One excuse:
Switching phrases
In our pockets.

The tree was split
By the power of an unknown spear.
That night, the orange moon flared;
The blinking eyes of night
Shadowed the forest,
Following him.
What authority clapped the thunderous air
With flailing branches,
Demanding service, obedience, fear.
The simplicities of home and fire
Offered up assurance and warmth.
He returned to think on it;
To resolve questions with more questions
Before sanctifying the place of wrath.

When did we last touch?
Time is playing tricks.
I remember we were young,
I touched you on the knee.
And then,
I couldn't have been more moved
When first our lips met;
I touched you then,
So very long ago.
There was light in your hair,
Softness in your eyes,
The invite of your smile,
That said that touch was fine.
So very long ago.
Time plays tricks, you know.
You slipped
Your hand into mine
When a certain song came on;
And ever since, and without reserve,
I'm touched by that song.
But when did we last touch?

Looming on the hill,
A real monument,
Cut with granite chisels,
On the necropolis of Glasgow.
To remind us who wrote
Willie Winkie.
A remarkable effigy
Of Miller.
There were others,
Weathered and moss ridden
That caught my tired eye.

Oafie lingers before his mirror
Pointing at the slinger Dillinger,
In his black suit,
******* his loot,
He won't go in there.

Then Oafie puts an old coat on,
Posing before his cheval,
Sharing jokes with Robert Duvall,
Who lights a smoke for Lauren Bacall,
Who say his coat fits well.

I know this seems humorous,
But Oafie isn't left too much;
His acuity is out of touch.
But he played guitar like a harp,
Which sadly isn't that far off.

For now the famous visit often.
He shuffled stepts to classic Sinatra,
With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
I'll visit Oafie one last time,
And slip a mirror in his coffin.

When sick,
Life ***** stones.
But ******* stones
Beats daisies.

Parents are your first teachers;
But if they were permissive,
Teachers have rules they follow through on.
If parents were too strict,
Teachers cut you slack.
If you fall, they may or may not pick you up.
If you were abused, they will report it,
Despite all your objections.
If you've been excluded, you're now in a class.
If you're really smart, they'll show you how much there is to learn.
If you're struggling, they'll show you how to learn.
If you're afraid, stand beside a teacher.
If you're a bully, you will confront your victims.
If you're in doubt, they'll search you out.
If you're cocky, they'll trim your spurs.
If you're lonely, they have room.
If you need solitude, they have a room.
If you're in love, they know the season;
If you know hate, they know the feeling.
When you compete, they're in the seats.
When you're sad, or conflicted,
Teachers listen.
They taught Moses, Jesus and Mohamed,
Yes. Teachers beget teachers.
They instructed Socrates, Aristotle and Plato.
They put us in North America and on the moon.
They worked with Salk and Banting, Gates and Jobs.
Anyone can learn something.
They even taught our parents,
But not everyone learns.
Hey, Teachers, don't leave those kids alone!

When you write
About broken hearts,
Anguish, angst
And loss,
Think on Heathcliff
And pathos.

The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.

Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.

We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.

We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.

We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.

Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.

I remember by name
The Miss,  Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.

The corner house
Has three missing fence planks,
So the boys got their short-cut
Across the front lawn.
It was three a.m.,
I saw them, I yelled from the window,
Hey guys. Stop that!
They tossed their cans onto the asphalt.
Her bedroom light came on;
They were the night.
I heard their hurried pace,
Their laughter like warning fog horn blasts.

Butch's mother next door died.
It was a year before I knew.
I thought she went to Florida.
I pictured her sitting in the sun.
But she was gone.
Butch shovels snow,
Obsessively.
That's what I know.

The doobie brothers
Live next to the cop.
Their driveway's a busy spot with comings,
And goings.
But the cop's part of our hood,
Disrection's understood.
Besides,
Officer Bob has his troubles to tend to.

Then there's small Mary,
She lives two doors down.
She has to be over a hundred,
Once lived on a farm.
She rakes debris with her hands,
Bent over for hours,
Cleaning her lawn.
     (Butch shovels her walkway,
     but stays to himself)
I've waved to Mary
When she's out and about.
Good to see you, I shout.
Nice to be seen, she replies.
No doubt.

I've a job to do;
One element leads to the next,
As in a domino effect.
I'll research the outcomes,
Assess the inventory of supplies on hand.
I sit in the chair, with notepad and gavel
And scribble an entry plan.

     I've done this before
     With previous bankruptcies:
     When the intake exceeds any dividends,
     When demand superceded supply,
     When demand was pervasive.

Job prospects are looking up,
And my Resume reads well:
Especially the Work Related Experiences.

     Early retirement is inconceivable.
     I'd hire me on a probationary period.
     You see, there is my family to consider.
     I'll be the first domino.

Memories aren't made to be broken,
Yet lie in shards, each piece
Refracting unframed pictures.

Promises aren't made to be broken,
But words are malleable.

Hearts are too often broken, quartered
And flung to the elements.

Spirit cannot be broken
Under any crushing worry.

And love,
Away or dwelling,
Encompassing love;
Battered, betrayed,
Exalted, praised;
Spent like money,
Treasured, yet free as air.
Most invulnerable,
Most vulnerable;
Frail and omnipotent.
Unbreakable.

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


The middle-class were few and greedy,
Thanks to needs and 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,
Where history belongs;
Where hunger and sickness
Lasted all life-long,
And the poor and ignorant
Were subdued by the strong.

We can agree times were simpler then,
As time came rushing to an end.

I love the Seasons:
The luminescent sproutings,
The melt, the harlequin winds
And knee-deep sun.
I'm not in love with the Seasons.

I love the Beach:
The watusi to the shore
Where foreign waves
Lapdance my tired feet.
I'm not in love with the Beach.

I love a BBQ:
The fingered smells
In my nose,
The breaking of bread,
The leaning laughing heads,
The icy throats, and ants.
I'm not in love with BBQ's.

I love a Concert:
The M & M  crowd,
The swarm of fireflies waving,
The ka-boom,
The expectant memories.
I'm not in love with a Concert.

I love a good Ride
That parts my hair,
Pushes my cheeks, nut-like
As my Shadow drags the median.
I'm not in love with a good Ride.

I love the Holidays,
Wrapped and bound.
The gathering storm;
The smell of wax and cold mail
Of cards that say little,
But mean everything.
I'm not in love with the Holidays.

I love my House,
Every web and peel,
Dripping faucet and warm fire.
I love the honey-do list.
I'm not in love with my House.

You, I love for all the wrong reasons.

I'm on the runway,
Taxiing as they say;
But I can't remember
If I'm coming or going;
Deporting or boarding;
Lifting off or landing.
All runways look alike,
All security checks the same;
I'll know where I'm going
When I reach the baggage claim.

I once believed spelling was important.
But that's just stupit.

Summer sands swim with them;
Their patchwork towels
Crowd them in.
Lying, shining in the sun,
On their bellies
With wet sand bums.
Shades of innocence
On their faces;
On their backs
With fleshy dunes,
Tanning lines
That start at noon.
They test the shoreline
Every so often,
To cool their curves
In Great Lakes waters.
The palpable heat
Rises in waves
From the hot, hot bods
On these Great Lakes babes.

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.

You don't bring me
Chocolate,
Stuffed stockings,
Or change
Anymore.

When we got in the car
She turned on the GPS.
"We're only going to London," I smirked.
"It's sixty miles on a straight road."
"I know, but this makes it easy," she smiled,
"And tonight, I'll make you an Irish stew."
"Is that easy too?
"It's a straight road! she quipped.

So, you're a dreamer.
You dream of being a celeb
Who's chased and snapped,
Emulated, envied and rich.
That's a lovely, although
Common dream.

Why dream
Someone else's
Dream,
When you can choose
Your own unique
Future.

We don't have conscious,
Sub-conscious, or,
Unconscious control
Of our dreams.
This time,
You do.

Dream to be a
Bricklayer,
And build others'
Houses of dreams.

Dream to be a
Cop,
And help others escape
Nightmares.

Dream to be a
Farmer,
And feed billions
Of hungry spectators.

Dream to be
Good parents,
And raise dreamers
And realists.

Dream to be a
Fine friend,
And take Selfies
Til your arms
Drop.

Dream to be a
Teacher,
Who brings
Others' dreams
To fruition.

So many dreams
To be had,
So many people
To fill them.

Never stop dreaming
Awake in
The real world.

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 honoured among the 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
Fading pulses played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

If in love,
It's a crime scene.
Raise your hands.
Fall on your knees.
Wrap yourself in yellow tape.
Surrender.
Find a window to look out on the world.
Walk in the compound.
Contemplate a break out.
You're in love,
And it's captivating.

I just heard about the near miss.
My mind was elsewhere.
Pleased to hear about Syria,
But it was elsewhere.
I didn't know Pippa had a wardrobe malfunction,
The loss of the Toronto Blue Jays,
The deformed frogs and west coast fires,
And the downing of a 747 somewhere in the Asiatic Sea.
Big news. Bigger problems!
But, like I said, my mind was elsewhere.
Like the ten million payout to the terrorist from Canada
Whose human rights were violated.
I didn't hear that one til today.
I just heard there's been a few transformations
For Caitlyn and Donald. Hope they like their new lives.
My mind was elsewhere,
And I've left it there.
Whew!
Did you hear something about North Korea launching ICBM's?

For You: Walls will tumble,
Temples crumble,
Crowds grow humble,
Proud people stumble,
And the loud will grumble.

For You: Brooks will flow,
People will show,
Gardens will grow,
Clouds will snow,
And breezes blow.

For You: Birds will sing
With love on the wing;
Bells will ring,
Bees not sting,
And sonnets will spring.

For You: Tables were set,
Appetites whet,
Eyes were met,
We had no debt,
And I could forget.

For You: Candles were lit,
Children would sit,
Boulders would split,
Fingers would fit,
And time would shift.

For You: Masses were said,
Promises wed,
We shared bread,
Covered our head,
And remembered our dead.

For you were all of these,
For me.

I'm content with who I am,
And where I've come
Where I began.
I'm pleased with the boy
Who grew to be the man.
From youth's adversity
From toil and work,
To a grown up family,
I dedicated myself
To those I loved the most.
They claimed my fall
Was my choice.
But that's too simple,
It's more complex,
It wasn't extra-marital ***.
It wasn't male brutality,
It wasn't really up to me.
That kind of choice is insanity.
The option that might best explain,
Was my inebriated brain.

I mentioned Monty Hall
In what I thought was casual conversation.
Maybe I interjected,
...yeah, like Monty Hall.
But still,
A woman taking a drink of ***** gurgled,
A fella rolling a spliff snickered;
Even the dart thrower stopped;
They chorused in unison, Who?
****! Monty Fecking Hall.
Door #'s 1, 2, 3?
The few listening were confused.
Maybe it was the tone I used.
One face had a glimmer,
Almost a gesture of recognition
Tracing his  pierced eyebrow.
Really!
Monty Fecking Hall.
One day, in the not too distant future,
They'll hear,
What's a Fecking Jedi?