Turn on.* He preached,
A psychodelic mantra.

Turn off, I rejoin.
Recharge your battery.
Hear the place.
Don't skip out.

Tune in,
That's what he proclaimed,
Like a hallelujah chorus.

Tune out, I respond.
Extract the buds, and smell the flowers.

Drop out, his litany ended.
Alone, or with drop outs?
Distances and depths vary.
But his voice carried.

Drop by, I invite. Stay awhile.
Have a cup of Yorkshire Gold,
And walk in the garden,
With me.

I can read her lips.
Each word formed
With the red and ivory embouchures
That play to my lust.
My mouth moves in sync:
I think, she says,
The blind old perv, she continues,
Has binoculars.

She said I was her first true love,
And one day she'd marry me.
I told her another might object to that,
For I'm not what you seem to see.
You see, there were three others,
That said the same to me;
And I married the one,
The only one,
The Mother of those three.

Spirits are demons,
It's alluringly clear;
Cordial at first,
With smiles
Cloaking sneers.
Devils in bottles
Of liquor and beer.

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

I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true),  not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your ***.” every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-***, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell  you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo  ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco.  Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *******,” he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***.

A roomful of virgins
Sat before me
Ready for an auction.
The bidding began.
Allies, and other less noticeables
Raised their paddles.
Tensions mounted
As the cannons were sold off,
The arsenals grew with each arm,
The bidders knew
The value of money
Decreases as anger rises.
Truckloads of boots
Emptied into
The streets and homes.
The auctioneer placed
His cap on his head
And left them counting
In the snow.

Your smile foretold
I'd *****-up this poem.
We had foresight then,
And anticipation
Invoking the future.
We leaned back,
Looking down the well,
Swept away clouds
In tea-cups,
And smoke in cauldrons
To seize the summer.
The suddeness of loss
Is not prophesied;
One does not pre-order
Ointments.
If I'd been spiritual
I would've seen a sign,
Like a bird,
Building a nest.
I don't hear voices.
When I slice through
A tomato, I don't find
An embossed relief
Of a martyr.
I only have this picture.

There's a ******* dog
Prowling our streets;
Not the kind that likes to eat,
But devours us,
Piece by piece;
Whether we're up,
Or trying to sleep.
Relentless in pursuit,
Dripping, pausing at each dark house,
Crouched and listening
For tears and shouts;
In the shadow, drooling,
And then there is a wooing,
For one to run out
To its insatiable hunger.

It tears my peace asunder.
Have you seen it loping by?
By God I know I'm in its eyes,
This mongrel escaped from Paradise
Before we knew its name.

This devil dog
Feasts on losses,
Gorges on gains.

A ******* dog
With its bone,
A rapacious beast
Best left alone.

I forgot the present.
I went back,
And watched a flower open yesterday.
Imagination turned real.
There was banter and banging;
Strumming and keying.
I witnessed a chick, hatching,
Breaking through.
After the picking and pecking,
Their scratching and scolding,
I paused in need of help:
Get Out.
No one is that good.

When you hear of a new diagnosis
For someone known,
It begins again.
Every cloud seems special,
Every disappointment relative
To the breaking news.
My eighty on the links
Isn't so remarkable now -
Or is it?
Relative or not,
I'll carry my clubs tomorrow too.

Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.

Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her ***-driven ******.
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.

I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.

I'm wondering
What went wrong;
HP's becoming
An animal farm.

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 won the race,
  tail me.
I lost my balance,
Don't right me.

I won second place,
  bewail me.
I lost the toss,
Don't kite me.

I won the ribbon,
  impale me.
I lost my cool,
Don't ice me.

I won the job,
  avail me.
I lost the argument,
Don't cite me.

I won the bid,
  assail me.
I lost the battle,
Don't fight me.

I won the vote,
  hail me.
I lost the my way,
Don't slight me.

I won the lottery,
  blackmail me.
I lost some will,
Tread lightly.

I won the case,
  bail me.
I lost the cross,
Don't indict me.

I won the girl,
  unvail me.
I lost some teeth,
"So bite me!"

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.

I have a secret stash,
A tool box and an escape plan.
I can blend into a crowd,
Keep extra light bulbs
And a can of gasoline, a roll of tape.
There are no dull knives in the cutlery,
All the coats are on hangers,
Just in case of the drill.

When the air temp drops
I feel a hand grap my ankle.
The chance of headless horses
Clopping on asphalt afire is unlikely,
There'll be no open graves or walking dead.
The sun could blacken;
But certainly, no voice will proclaim,
In whom I am well-pleased.

It took ten thousand years
To fashion a bone hammer,
And when I passed it
I kicked it aside.

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.

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 beat taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

Should my child
Steal an apple
From the orchard,
I wouldn't throw
Her out.
That would be a sin.
The consequences
Could be life altering,
World altering
In certain circumstances.
Here I have a teachable moment.
Rejection is the milk of pride.

I recycle,
I reduce,
And when it's healthy,
I reuse.
That's how we deal
With tin can blues.

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!

POTUS
SCOTUS
Halitosis
By the pricking of my thumb,
Something wicked this way's come.

I feel most alive
Walking and gawking
In a graveyard.

Napoleon stayed in Elba,
Pulling his bone apart;
Lenin was in Siberia,
So deep, none heard him ****.
Adolph passed his time in Landsburg,
Hardening his heart;
And Don's in Mar-a-Lago
Perfecting his Con art.
He's no Monte Cristo,
Righting perceived wrongs;
He'll fleece all his believers,
In stealth, like Viet Cong.

Have you wished someone dead?
Self doesn't count.
Terminally ill don't count,
In fact, that may be construed as kind.
No. Someone vibrant, strong,
Sure and vain, like:
The relentless bully,
The cop at your door,
The ridiculing teacher
Who made you the fool.
The betrayer and rumour monger,
Your prosecutors, some persecutors,
An ocassional critic.
The machine voice,
The government,
The ****** and child molester,
The boko haram (all terrorists)
Even some family members,
But never your children.
Some on your own list.
Close your eyes and pick one
With a pin.
You can't wait for the uncertainty
Of Karma or God,
Or them to go to the devil.
You can't depend on toilets falling from planes,
Tornados dropping houses.
It's not illegal: half of us do it.
Billions believe it possible.
I envision driving the final nail myself.
At certain times, it's true,
I regret the absence of hell
With its gnashing, its unquenchable fires,
That burn without consuming:
The smelly, curling, shrinking flesh,
The bubbling of fat through skin,
Because sudden death
Just doesn't cut it.

I've racked my brain,
Buckled with strain
Got sweat beading 'bout my eyes.
I'm working to write
The One Word Poem,
Master it
Before I die.

I'v got two words
That work quite well,
Two words that have
A story to tell.

You see,
The problem with
A one word line,
I'll never get
The poem to rhyme.

My eyes saw you hide behind a flower,
Reproved between the blades;
Wizened and withered by your touch,
Your dream has surely failed.

You strutted on a high wire,
Got lost in paradise;
Your pirouette on the stairs,
Was a step with every lie.

Self-fashioned on a bleeding picture,
You knew the world was stained;
Your sweat proclaimed with licks,
And a self-sustaining brain.

Who could answer all the calls
Those infernal internal rings;
The boy outside was looking,
Planning heinous sins.

You stropped a spoon with her eyes,
But who was really blind;
She treaded in a sea of blood,
You spooned her brain and mind.

Play your guitar in blissful darkness,
In a single-lighted room;
Your poems have finally flickered,
With that action all too soon.

I see petals hoover yet,
Indifferent, no appeal;
My fingers curl when I touch
A thing you'll never feel.

I took up biking down past your street everyday.
I hope to spot you walking towards or away;
What would I do if you spun and said, Hi.
I'd get unbalanced if you looked in my eyes.
I remember how they turned red when you cried,

     Just leave me alone. Please leave me alone.
      I once loved you when we lived in our home.
      I'd have done anything when you were mine;
      Just leave me now and I'm sure I'll be fine.

This ride can never end for me.
I'll  pedal past the street haunting me.
I'll keep my head down as my wheels flee;
But I'll gaze in my mirror in case you call out to me.

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

Poetry is an uncultivated field
With two gates,
And ten thousand farmers
Turning soil,
Planting seeds,
Using tons of fertilizer.
The weeding is endless,
The rows run in all directions,
Harvest is boutiful when tended.
It's environmentally friendly,
Ergo-perfect.
And there's a need
To keep the varmits out.
Let them prowl the perimeter,
Salivating.
Remember to shut the gate.

The message was as legible
As orbits in astrophysics.
The syntax was true as
A mathematical equation,
Not calculated by accident or coincidence.
And precise, announcing,

HAPPY VALLEY NUDIST CAMP

Boldly, on a southern hillside,
In white-painted stones,
On Hywy #22,
On the crossroads between youth and age,
Doubt and confusion.

The stones are gone.
Picked over, or, rolled down the hillside.
And the Hywy is hardly used.
How. By accident or happenstance?
Or a higher intelligence orchestrated
The arrangement of the stone message.


And this happened outside our town.
On the road to London.

Above zero
In the Siberian Express,
The Arctic Vortex
Is slipping up.
I see cement,
A welcome event.
Winter birds
Are chirping
In the early light
Of morn,
And crows
With knowing caws,
Converse from dusk
Til dawn.
The squirrels are leaner now,
Looking for old nuts,
Like me,
When I begin to think
These imitations of Spring
Might blunt winter's sting.

The smoke, not the fire,
Got in my eyes;
The idea, not my brain,
Lives on outside;
Our love, not the heart,
Allows us to thrive.
Long will we live
Long after we die.

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.

I'm raining,
Draining with flotsam,
Washing onward
To the gutter.

I'm decomposing,
Recomposting
On the truck
To the dump.

I'm recyclable,
Reuseable.
Re-fashion me
For a different life.

Life is terminal:
It's one Stop
On the eternal journey.

Whew!
Glad I live here,
And not there.

Make the L loser sign
With your right hand.
Good.
Now flip your left hand
So palm faces you.
Good.
Now make the L loser sign
With your left hand.
Good.
Put both hands up
Showing two L's.
Good.
Now slide the right hand over
So that your right thumb
Crosses your left index finger.
Good.
You've made the Double L Cross,
Protection against
Double Losers.
Works on vampires too.

We should get married,
Shouldn't we?
Is that a nod,
Do you agree?
Should we expect
Two to three?
Will this car be enough,
Should we plunge
For a bigger house
To store our unused stuff?
Can we make the payments,
Will I be promoted,
Or will I loose my job?
Parent/Teacher Night's tonight,
I'm late for the rehearsal,
I've got to go coach little league,
After Health 'n Safety Training.

Am I homophobic?
Am I alcoholic?

Did I see gray about my temples,
Crow's feet around my eyes?
Am I gaining extra weight,
My waist is twice my height.
I have lumps and grunts
I didn't have before,
I hear thumping in the night,
Did I lock the doors?
And this is just our personal life,
The world outside is crumbling:
Brexit, Walls, pipeline horrors,
The Amazon Rain Forests.
Acid Rain, O-Zone, Isis
(And throw in North Korea),
There are multitudinal crises,
All conspiring succinctly,
With too much sneaking thievery,
Adding grist to an angst-filled life.

Do I really need to ask,
What will our kids do,
When they leave their angst behind
To be worry free as you.

We're squeezed in a topsy-turvy
*****-ball world;
What's upside is down,
What's inside is out;
Your smile's a frown,
Your whisper's a shout,
And the flim-flam man
Just pitched a curve.
We're headed to second
After rounding third,
And first is stolen;
This game's absurd.
So, I gather up my bat and ball,
I've read the writing on the wall,
I've turned, running for home.
We've been tagged on bad calls.
We were safe, but now we're out,
Exiled, banished, conflicted, confused,
There's nothing good on the news.
The umps and refs have all been turned,
We've been benched,
We've been spurned.
Behind me,
Someone calls out,
     *Play Ball;

They were her hands,
Destined for pleasure.
Fingers tied knots
Ringed with gold,
And pointed the way
For growing old.

Palms held petals,
Bows, ribbons
And pages;
Wrists watched
The measured time
Of keys and games;
Wrapped packaged treasures,
Opened doors.

They were small
Determined hands,
Covered in flour
White skin
Powdering her face,
Inviting
Me in.

Hands held in supplication,
Joy and despair;
Hands in need
Of salvation.

Like leaves on
Autumn branches
That branches
Can't hold,
Her hands
Lost their grip,
Then closed
And fell cold.

I've succumbed
To The Golden Rule,
I'll do to me
What I do unto you.

If I'm the cause
Of sorrow and tears,
Know you I've lodged
The same for years.

Should I be
The source of mirth,
Make you laugh,
Relieve the dirth,
Know that I too
***** this earth.

When I'm criticial
Of your best efforts,
You fall short
Of what's expected,
I'll look inside,
To see what I could be.

Though I'm annoyed
With your flip-flopping,
I know I've been known
To be the one that waffles.

Now comes the part
That deals with heart.
God forbid
I break yours in two,
But know you that
Mine breaks too.

When your days take hold,
When you grey and grow old,
I'll tend your needs,
Do what I please.

And when our lives
Stop being our light,
And dark prevails,
And day is night,
And we've departed
This corporeal cesspool,
I'll know I succumbed
To *The Golden Rule.

She scratches in all the right places
When she thinks no one's looking;
Doe the weirdest you'd imagine
In the kitchen, when she's cooking.
When she cleans a spotless house
She seldom wears a stitch:
How do I know,
Get the peep-show?
She forgot the video switch.

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.

Every living body has a digestive system
That ends with an *******.
The body politic is no exception.

Beneath the calm
Of moonlit leaves,
Lying lovers
Shoot the breeze.

When in the moment
Of the mode,
Between the rhythm
Of stride and strode,
Shoot off your mouth
And not your load.

Corner thugs
Will deal you drugs
To smoke or snort
Or mainline shoot.
It's a slippery *****
Of lost freewill,
The up is high,
The trip's downhill.
You're in the cross hairs;
Drugs shoot to ****.

The shooter feigns
Heeding advice,
So craps himself
On loaded dice.

The lawyers grin
Without remorse;
They shoot your savings
Throughout divorce.

The pool hall hustler
Cues his cool,
Looking for
A snookered fool.

Naively, when the children play,
Yell, “Ah shoot!” instead of say,
“Ah ****.”
We say that's okay.
Like saying, “****!”
When they can.
It's in the Bible, see?

Sports Illustrated
Puts out a shoot
Of photoshops
In skimpy suits.

When we say
We shoot meat,
Do we stalk roasts
On city streets;
From our hide
On city blocks,
Do we crossbow
Down our chops;
Do we rope *******,
Then use buckshot?
It's euphemistic,
A rich spadeful:
"We shoot 'em all,"
And that's no bull.

We were lambs
When first we met,
Rubbing noses,
Getting wet.
We gambolled
In the meadow,
Lost our balance
On new legs,
Found our footing,
Earned our *****.
Our future loomed
Before us.
We grazed on
The greenest farms,
Wove our way
Like knitting yarn.
But you,
Dear ewe,
You grew your horns.

Grasp the past in memory;
The present by attention,
And our future with anticipation.



Last week. This week. Next week.
Sounds trite, but that's three weeks
In a flash.
No wonder I'm weak-kneed.
It's a life-time for some.
So sad!
It's an eternity for others.
Too bad!
Eliot measured our world
In coffee spoons.
Carpe Diem* works for today.
But Carpe Diebus Septem
Seizes the week.
There's so few of them.
Males get about 4200.
Females about   4400.
In this light, women don't
Really outlive men that much.
What's 200 weeks?

On average,
We're the run of the mill aggregate.
You can't take one back,
Or extend one.
There's the week-end we crave,
Not weeks' end.
(My knees are buckling)

If time isn't an event,
Or thing,
Why such a cruel sting.

Weeks aren't noticed slipping
Unless you've two weeks holidays,
Or two weeks til... Christmas, or
A fortnight til Martinmas.

Carpe diebus septem.*

The weeks of youth.
You fist the car keys
At 830 weeks,
Then you discover you need
Gas, money, a girl/boy, and
All that other necessary stuff
For the next 365 weeks.
So, get a part-time job.
Part time is small compared to the
1820 ahead of you in the full-time harness,
Followed by 900 weeks of sleeping in,
Babysitting, living and breathing.
It's a limited time
To dispose of your assets.
Give, share, spend, enjoy...
****!
I'll die broke.

After 1300 weeks of bachelor(ette)ness
We partner-up for 200 weeks
Of co-habital bliss and kiss
Before the blisters and sisters
Join the family.
The drama unfolds from our
Box seats for 1000 weeks,
And if we're fortunate,
We countdown: 5,4,3,2,1, liftoff:
We have launch.
The kids are orbiting.
And they will, eventually.
Your union producing the fledglings
May last 365 weeks of meals, deals,
Forgets and forgives...
I digress.

Many have.
Look to Club 27.
They had 1400 weeks before digressing.
****** and Bin Laden – 3000.
So young. So nasty.
Einstein was young – 1316
Newton  was old at – 1639
Relatively speaking.
Johnny went across the universe at week 2037;
Elvis left the building at 2164;
JFK left us weak at 2377.
(My knees, my knees)
Mozart and Beethoven were composing by 364.
(I was reading about ****, Jane and Spot at 364)

Ageing is returning to Standard Time.
The weeks get shorter.
The well-spring of the phrase (around 3000),
Youth is wasted on the young.*
All 156 weeks of it.

Me. I have 1040 til 80.
Then, 1800 DAYS til 85.
Then, get out the stop watch
And count the hours and minutes.
The timer's thumb is poised to press.
Thousandths of seconds by then,
Before the oneness,
Omni-chronologist.