Tears and Blisters,
Co-conspirators,
Connected in body and spirit;
As only twin sisters can know.
Their attachments grow;
From first beat and breath,
Then blanket-warm *******,
Searching with eyes,
Reaching with smiles.

A double stroller sets their stage:
Two of these and those for every age.
One sitting, one pushing
The swing on the tree;
One feeling, one sensing
What either one sees.
One pitching, one catching,
Which one doesn't matter;
No visible signals to out the batter.
Like sparring partners in the ring,
Tin cans or mittens joined by string,
Or watching backs like tandeming.

Enigmatic in fact or fiction,
Like the Rosetta for hieroglyphics;
Communicating cryptograms.
The embodiment of the Venn diagram.

The mirror image can be deceptive,
Right seems left when reflected;
Unique and semi-mystical,
As snowflakes or ice crystals;
Yet tight as rings round trees.
Our tears and blisters,
Though twin sisters,
Will divulge individuality.

          (And I'll be round to play some doubles,
           You on one side // and me with your mother.
           Euchre, crib, tennis, golf;
           Or whatever you choose.
           The gloves are off.)

I remember when
Cutters
Only left tracks
In the snow.

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

One last snowflake
And the roof collapsed.

One last raindrop
And the levee cracked.

One last grain
Before life is breathless.

One last kiss
To seal my blessings.

The ravens survey
The gated community,
Scouring for a meal.
They swoop low,
Caw and crow,
Conversing in melody.
The repast dead
Are safely laid
Beneath their carrion beaks;
I, in grief
Shoo them off
Your bronzed memory:
Then I pause
To recall
The flight ahead of me.

Next Sunday
When he leaves
The tomb,
And it's sunny,
Before noon,
Should his shadow
Fall on a sinner,
We've six more weeks
Of a Canadian winter.

I'm green with those I leave behind,
This world I have, where all seems mine.

I vacillate as their world keeps thriving,
Leaving the living live with the alive.

But I'm gone, I'm dead,
The colorful globe will spin;
The living will die;
Not now... by and by,
With O whys and O mys.
It's a curse I've bequeathed
To the loves of my life,
When they leave their loved ones behind.

She frequently checks
Her trap lines;
Stealthily stalks.
She's an ***** grinder
Looking for a wild monkey.
She stuffs prey for mounting,
Prefers it that way -
Her animals on display.
She likes to bell collars,
Puts favourite food
Near worn, torn blankies
Where chair and whip
Tames the beast in me.

I met a girl
With the look of the day.
Unadorned, but not plain,
No ink or glitter
On skin,
Warm-water smooth;
Therapeutic as epsom.
She'd no
Liner to draw attention.
Her eyes caught you,
Even closed.
Lips, blistered
With satiation,
Are drop dead red.
Her nails are jewelry.
No piercing couture,
Her style is what makes her;
Her clothes always fit her.
She's quiet, not shy,
The slightest disturbance
Sets her about.
My girl's a captress,
Her appearance is flawless;
Reminding us daily
Birth beauty is ageless.

I'll not be wanton with fecundity,
Nor superfluous with beauty.
I'll provide between the images,
Not breathless by the finish.
It's a dustbowl without the wind,
And starry, not star-filled night sky.
I'll have allusions crowd my head,
To keep husbandry on the pages.

So pleasing,
Frangrant,
Approachable,
Even touchable,
But every cell,
Destructable.

When I hear:
I know what you're thinking.
I know you have no idea
What thought
You just brought up,
Or you'd leave.
And I'll take the penny for that one.

A life built
With the finest materials
Needs a well-formed foundation;
A deep footing.
Your piles are now beneficial.

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

I returned early,
You were still there.
You left a chair and table
For my meals.
My recliner and lamp were waiting,
Before the new flat screen.
You made-up my bed,
One pillow at the head.
Closet space had its place
With missing clothes and shoes.
Others fared less well
More were desolute;
But you walked out in style,
Took time for a Good-bye.
The house has less furnishings,
Plenty of meaningless stuff;
It's not the missing articles,
But your missing voice,
I guess.

Now is the sixty-third Springtime
Of my life,
And the Summer of my contentedness
Tees up.
A fore-gone conclusion.

Punch was born the ideal child,
Blonde, blue-eyed, average size,
An average brain,
And a touch of the wild.
He had sibs, young and old,
He grew bold,
He was told
But never quite fit in.

Sports talk from the bench,
Smoke, drink and wayward ***
Had Punch desirious
Of what came next.
His family asked:
Why does he carry on so?
Success came easy
As his bronze tan,
Driving red hot rods,
With a blonde or two,
They were all the same.
Punch was liked
When he was tame.
How does he carry on so?
How can he carry on?
His golden hair has set now,
His blue eyes yet hard cold.
Now they call him
Paunch not Punch,
(but never to his face,
we give our Punch a break)
As gravity took its hold.
And Punch still carries on.
How he carries on.

What load has us braying?
We toil. Work for meals,
Clothes and housing,
Cars and holidays.
The celebrations of our lives
In our American
Middle-class struggle.

Is it the price of gas,
Steak or beer.
My lawn could use
More watering.
The streets are clean,
And the plow just
Filled in my drive.
The copper-plated coffin
Had me cry;
The kids left for school
Without saying good-bye.
And it took way too long
For the shower to heat up.
No?
Perhaps we should clam-up.
Count our blessings,
Add them up.
Then subtract Iraq.

The King of kings
******* licks
With Lucille,
Has ascended.

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?

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.

I heard a voice
call out:

Are you home?

(perhaps it came
from within)

A stranger's voice
that's called
before.

I am
insular.

I am Home!

Inside

This temple of dissipation.

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.

The smoke ring reminded me
Of the circus, a blue ring of fire
To jump through
With my oversized shoes.

Watering the vegetable garden
Created a sun-split rainbow
Landing on the sprouting treasures.

Driving past the golf course,
The arc of the ball reminded me of the sun,
Transcepting the sky,
Not knowing where it lands.

The dawn brings forth a choir
Of tree singers,
Calling to one another,
Acknowledging the symphony
Of different needs.

It's blooming perfect
Outside my head,
Where shortcomings
Are draped in green and blue;
So, I will think outside
Brain and skull;
I will get outside,
Outside, and cuddle
The raw simplicity.

The brain.
An amazing *****
Of surety and doubt.
You believe
What isn't there,
Or,
Not believe
What is.

Look to the moon of August
From any place or time;
Write a little poesy,
Name it in a rhyme.
You can call it Sturgeon,
Red, Green Corn or Grain;
No matter what your outlook,
It still looks the same.
You can call it Dog Days,
Fruit, Dispute or Lightening,
And calling it a Woman's Moon
Gives rise to all that's ripening.

The evening spotlights
Shine on the walls
Of David's ancient abbey.

Raised by Border people
And peasant Picts.

Shadows and silhouettes
Fill thresholds that once
Let light and glory in.

Foundation walls protect
Winds still whispering
In Gothic naves.
A thousand years' stories
Are sounded in her bells.

Night surrounds Jedburgh Abbey.

I strained my sight for movement
Of Augustinians who thrived
In cloisters and walled streets
For a story to bring home
Of a phantom cloak or hood
Disappearing on ramparts
Or passing an empty window.
Just a sound, or simple wail
Would do.

Just then, dark legs
Swooshed past me,
Fitted in knee-high boots.
I lost my thoughts
Of ghosts and sprites
With an astral figure in tights.

How could I know
So long ago
That I was in love.
No rhyme or reason
In our universe
Can form a law
To name that
Timeless feeling.
Not outside luck or chance,
If such exist,
Or serendipity, or
Imagination and will
Can define that
Timeless feeling.
No image or form
Confines the unbreakable,
Inseparable journey.
I call it that.
Compare it to the unknown,
Unfathomable universe.
The Big Bang,
Expanding, speeding, slowing down
Entropic love.

Have you felt loathing
     in those green eyes;
Despised by idle talk
     of a loose,
     spiteful tongue;
Perhaps detested
     because of your flesh;
Or exercated, yes,
     be denounced,
     be named,
     face a near-****** future
     of lonliness?
And then,
You were hated,
But only because
Once,
You were loved.

I will pen a real long poem,
One that goes on and on.
It will  be Universal,
Get added to all categories:
There's two thousand plus
Themes we write on,
From first breath
To the dust we lie in.

My poem would weave
The Fabric of Love,
Dripping from
A Heart that Hurts,
To offer solace and love's comfort.

It couldn't be one of
Ten Words,
But myriads in
A Sea of Thoughts;
Added to
All Time Favourites,
And Words Worth a Thousand Pictures.

If you like Beautiful Tragedies,
I'll jot a verse on Life Stories.
I'd pen a stanza for Love for the Moon,
Lines to make An Exceptional Poem.

The keen reader adds it to Genius Speaks,
The younger hearts to Sweets for the Sweet.
The darker side clicks Macabre and Mayhem,
They too are Becoming Human.

I'd accept a like for Best Sweet and Sour,
I'd  be happy with Whatever, Whenever.
The weird add it to Psychopath,
The regular to Treasureworth.

It may contain the Inspired Word
To advise those trapped in Parenthood.
Oh My Goodness, it's A Poem to Keep,
One to read, then Read and Repeat.

But mine will lie in Buried Treasures,
Disappear in Endangered Species...
Hey, I got a Thank You For Sharing,
This Made Me Smile.

I think you get my drift, indeed,
I've written The Best of Hello Poetry.

So, Poets Speak Loud on **** Good Stuff,
Write The Story of Life, The Ultimate Poem,
On Love is the Purpose, or Who We Are,
I'll add your verse to Top Notch,
And yours is one of *My Favourites.

The eyes were still open
On the still life.
There's the difference
Between crossing the road
And dying in your sleep.
So, look both ways
Before crossing me.

In the North we had the cold war. Sirens screamed; we crouched under desks, thin arms covering thinner heads. We were post Pompeii petrifies waiting for a future dig. We never left an atomic shadow.
This  sums up all life-threatening fears of the Boomers, the Echoes, the A's through Z's. Of course, Boomers then were too young to worry.

We've never had planes or bombs fall from our skies (there was the Arrow disaster).
We've never had a crop blight, famine or drought.
Food has never been rationed.
Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons or tornados don't happen here;
We get snowfalls we plow through till they melt.
We're non-tsunami. Flooding is seasonal, geographically isolated, and dealt with.
We've had no great fires or earthquakes like San Fran or London.
We've never been drafted, and only go to wars of our own choosing.
We have not been invaded or occupied;
P.E.I. has no extermination crematoriums.
We avoided Inquisitions, Salem witch hunts and Small Pox blankets.
We've had no Race Riots, but a few barricades have gone up and down.

Death comes to us as to all. Car accidents, dumb-*** accidents, and even ******. Though never expected, always anticipated. We grieve, some longer than others. It's not easy, but we manage the shock.

When the glaciers glide past the coast of Nova Scotia, on the way to New York, my generation (and probably yours) will have been replaced.

But now! We're asked to Social Distance and wash with soap and water. In Canada we have plenty of both. I'll occupy my three square feet of space for several weeks (knowing there are only 52 in a year). No complaints. No asinine TP runs. Just behaving myself, HUMANELY.

Your ***** bank
Has recorded N.S.F.
Make deposits,
Don't withdraw.

A milestone of life
Was marked last week:
     I wasn't hit
     I aged one week
So, nothing really,
So to speak.
But
In my right ear
Came a humming,
Caused by nothing
     (and this sounds funny)
Yet, the sound is something
Ringing in my ear.
     (but really, more like a humming)
I find solace,
When alone and thinking,
The sound I hear,
Louder than blinking
     (which isn't funny)
Assures me that
My motor's running.

I escaped the lion's den.
So, I am done with hand wringing,
Dragging my palm down my nape.
Forefinger and thumb squeezing the bridge,
Encircling my chin, to the point.

The time has come to discard my hair-shirt,
To loosen the cilice;
Stop the self-flagellation,
And smear balm on my mortified back.

I shall repose, indulge in a repast.
And prepare for the proclivities of the flesh,
To revel in the concupiscence of humanity.
Cast off chastity, poverty and obedience.

We are not saints or martyrs.
The cause is not worth the pain.
I am forgiven.
I forgive.
You could too.

The full moon is always waning,
Giving cold comfort.
Stars twinkle more in black spaces.
The evening dew settles sooner,
Rises later.
The potatoes are in the house.
I've folded the lawn chairs.
Across the sky herds of clouds graze by.
The grass gets its autumn cut.
When I put the mower away,
I take down the rakes and shovels.
Dusk comes early.
House lights break through shut windows.
Street sounds diminish.
Will the trees splash us with radiance?
I languish between seasons,
Waiting for the bus to warm me as it passes
My lengthening shadow.
And when the sun filters through,
I stand in its path, face turned skyward.
I sing a eulogy for my summer,
While waiting for the cries of a newborn fall.

I have lost my youth's Saints.
They no longer march
For knees bent in supplication.
I prayed to St. Jude
To replace my loses,
Only to lose faith.

I miss ghost stories too.
Haven't heard a hair raiser
Since a generation of palliative patients
Made it to the canopy.

Ogres and Trolls are out
From the closet and
Beneath the bed.
Drains, culls and bridges
Are safe from snatches.

No. We are on our own
As we age in our tactile
Vicarious world.
We pick up the threads
Of old stories,
Collect the pages blowing
Down the road,
And believe the tales
In daily news of ****,
Carnage and be-headings.
Nothing too ethereal,
Spiritual or scary,
Just life
As we shouldn't know it.

C                         F                C
On this day we share the notion
           Am             F         C
That a Child born long ago,
                G7                        C    
Called us home to live as children;
C                    G7                  F       C
We hear our name, we're not alone.

C                            F          C
Gather round, sit at our table;
                     Am        F               Dm
Stretch your arms increase, expand.
                 G7                            C
Bless our children, bless our parents,
C               G7             F               C
Count our blessings while we can.

G7           C                           F   C
Oh for today we share believing
C            Am             F        Dm
That the Child from long ago,
                G7                          C
Called us home we are the children,
C                G7                   F     C
We heard our names, never alone.

C                       F              C
Gather round, sit at our table,
C                    Am        F               Dm
Stretch your arms, increase, expand;
                   G7                             C        
Bless your children, bless your parents,
C                 G7              F               C
Count your blessings while you can.

C                            F             C
Borne on the promise of a notion,
C         Am           F     Dm
On the promise of a seat;
            G7                       C
By our love and our devotion
C         G7                      F          C
To the Living Son, our Living Feast.

When all the world had lost its senses,
There was always you.
When wars are raging,
Children starving,
I lost myself in you.

When I envision your sweet face,
Loving eyes, saving grace,
I knew at once I found the best,
I knew at once I found some rest.

Our love will grow with double pains,
Double pleasures,
Loss and gains.
The hate in love is love's regret,
The love in hate we both beget.

     (the separation is setting in;
      you lie above, no need at all
      in narcisstic love.
      I cringe below; sullen and sour;
      I don't know)

Yes, passion's desires get caught between
Our reason and emotion.
What can I do? what can I say?
I'm dumb-struck with devotion?

I've
Disassociated
Myself
With
Losers:
Now,
I'm
Beside
My -
Self.

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.

When we were six weeks old
We smiled and connected
For a lifetime.

For a lifetime
Following,
We forget
How easy it is
To make connections
With just a smile.

I read about nooses
(Such silly gooses).
I read about pills
(Such terminal thrills).
I read about jumps
(Such silly dunces).
I read about ropes
(Such dangling dopes).
I read about guns
(Such a one is gone).
I read about blades
(Such ******* bray).

I don't dismiss you're under stress,
But tell me who cleans up the mess.

I stood on the spot
Where the fathers were shot,
And welled with my thoughts,
And the walls, pox-marked,
With the bodies pierced,
But wide of the soul.

I hear you lost control;
I'm ambivalent to your state:
If what they mean is self-control,
Hold on, don't abdicate.

Now you're in damage control;
A result of inner strife:
You also have motor control,
So move on with your life.

I hear you've issues with quality control;
And want exclusive rights:
Exclude me from your command control,
I'm not your copyright.

If you're caught-up in crowd control;
Can't find a safe way out:
Put yourself on flight control,
Then kick and scream and shout.

With Life there is no price control;
It's often on back order:
With Life you give and take control,
It's cheaper across the border.

So set yourself on cruise control;
Steer clear of power sinkholes,
Drive by the Freaks who need control,
Those ******* fill potholes.

I know zilch about car engines,
So I don't write about them.

I know squanto about medicine -
-more about drugs,
but for personal reasons
like kids and such I seldom
allude to them;
you understand -
And you'll not read much on that,
Except for an occasional image.

I know extraordinarily nothing
About cricket, or how rockets can propel
In a vacuum, or dimensions,
Six through ten.
Ordinary, usual stuff for many.
But not my comfort zone,
So I won't waste our time
Feigning string theory imagery.
So,
Here's the thing.
I write about death, often,
And I know just about nothing
That there is to know,
Except for what we know,
Hardly worth mentioning,
It's common knowledge,
Not necessary to even cite,
Like the capital of Canada,
Or The Lord's Prayer.
At least I could use an image
Of a scar or a cog wheel,
But I know nothing
About death,
But the certainty.
So, what's up with that?
Did I do it again?

I'm not out to deceive,
But will you believe,
Sight unseen,
I've a million
In my front pockets.
You don't have a reason?
I'm not gentry,
I'm not young,
I'm only one
Of several sons.
I've not got designers on.
Oh, you've heard of me,
But we've not crossed paths.
I'm a stranger.
Could you believe
In my innocence.
So many do,
And shouldn't I
Believe in you.

Stand up, stand guard,
Staunchly defend all that is ours.
What is ours to defend?
Begin with what was before us,
The good earth and all inhabitants.
Defend that which is ours.
Truth and love;
Leave a legacy of righteousness -
Defend these, and thus,
Defend those whom we leave,
And leave them to.