Each night
The sliver grows
Like young buck antlers,
Gambolling
Beneath the thunderous claps
Gathering
Over our part
Of the world,
In July.

Had I known it to be our last kiss,
I would've applied some mneumonics;
Attached your moistness to morning dampness
And footsteps imprinted on clover;
I'd stretch police tape around the crime scene upstairs;
Slipped a GPS chip beneath your in-sole;
Wove a comforter from your hairbrush.
As it is, I've collected your left-overs
For The Salvation Army,
And the allusions for me.

Today, International Women's Day.
I wish the whole world believed.

The glitter is blinding.
New stars start shining.
Then memories recalled
With
Allegation,
Interpretation,
Incrimination,
Disinformation,
Retaliation;
And,
Five million to start.
But
Not that alone.
You're getting your picture
On the cover of
*The Rolling Stone?

I've written so many,
Some  grandiose, some terse,
And published them here,
To express and converse.
But the most pretentious of all
You've read or passed over,
Is  The Invisible Poem,
Subtitled, Blank Verse.
Some gave it their blessings,
Some cried foul, and some cursed.
Isn't brevity the soul of wit; (Shakespeare)
Writing is 1% inspiration, 99% elimination; (Louise Brooks)
To write good poems is the secret of brevity; (Dejan Stojanovic)
So,
Be sincere. Be brief. Be seated. (FDR)
Take it as is,
For better or worse.

Your name, like acid rain,
Corrodes my brain;
Polluting each day
Of sun-filled joy.
If I cower in bus shelters,
Or under a tree,
Beneath an umbrella,
Or abandoned doorway;
You soak me, erode me,
Then wash me away.
It's a tempest inside
Swirling the dust I call skull;
I tremble and quake
For the sake of your name.
And I can't for the life of me
Shake off your refrain,
The cloudy repetition
Of your first and last names.

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

The Huron waters
Don't breach their shores,
The heavenly bodies
Don't leave their spheres;
Fireworks don't
Fill my eyes;
My love is not ethereal
Not everlasting
Or transcendental.
My love is comely.
Factual not fictional.
Less passion with caution.
I love you when
I bring your morning coffee
As your day opens.
I love you when
I bring a snack
And say, Corpus Mea,
And fall forever.
Hold my hand.
I love you in comely ways.

I was well-armed,
And I dug in.
Bolted the garrison gates,
Posted my defences on turrets
Of pity and self-loathing;
Attacked with self-righteousness
And posturing.
After the expected one hundred years,
You retreated and fled,
Yet I awaited another on-slaught,
Sharpened my sticks,
Mounded my stones,
Prepared for a signal.
The Keep has long fallen,
The moat is weedy and dry,
But I've left the drawbridge down,
Dismissed my guards,
Examined my scars.
I am a veteran of domestic wars,
With no benefits.

Winter amassed his victories
With cold clear spears,
Lined along eaves;
Cannon clouds hurling
Swirling whiteouts,
Blades of wind rifling
Body armor.
But battles aren't wars.

Spring's cavalry
Comes charging.
We're flipping suns,
Pouring golden sweet rays,
And fattening-up
For the final on-slaught
Of a battle weary warrior.

We can either cross or stay inside
Our self-imposed borders.

How can we help those
Caught in a room,
Alone,
All alone,
With a light and a spoon.

Their skins begin crawling,
No one is calling,
Alone,
All alone,
Wth abandoning gloom.

Find them, keep looking,
Despite what they think,
Our concerns can save them,
Can draw back the curtain,
If they hear,
Through their tears
And their lost disposition
That we people are caring,
Their lives are worth sharing.
Extinguish the light,
Sheathe the spoon,
We wouldn't be searching
If you weren't worth the fight.

Being a Dad's
No easy task;
Fighting our demons
Back to back.
You fell off your bike;
Me, the wagon;
You lose a friend,
I'd lose my life;
You get bullied,
I rode my bike.
You're runner-up,
I get second;
You got silver,
I got shunned.
Being your Dad's
No easy task,
But I'll back you
Til the last.
I'll be your Dad,
No easy chore,
And Back to back
We'll tie the score.

I was here first.
     *I seriously doubt that,
     but, for the sake of argument,
     let's say you were,
     here first.
     So?
     I was here second.
     This isn't a race.

I believe you misunderstood.
You can't leave again,
If I never invited you back.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

From room to room,
Cellar to attic,
Patio to garage,
And all about my yard
I roam,
Thinking about my
Time alone.
I never counted brick or stone,
Not until the kids had grown,
And you outgrew me.

In childhood, space was a rarity,
Two to a bed,
Four to a room,
One toilet, bathtub,
Sink and baby.
“Life your **** so I can ***!”
Was a brother's common plea,
And often splashed on me.

First downstairs
Would get the toaster,
A two slice, two door
Open, closer.
On the counter rose
A column of bread,
Jam and peanut butter spread.
Last one down to the table
Got the heels,
And fed the baby.

Before we went upstairs to dress
We'd turn our **** to open flames,
Warm our cheeks, rub our frames,
And then clean up our mess.

We never walked to school in ones,
The Lynch mob travelled
As a throng;
Spilling from sidewalk to grass,
Singing silly songs.
On-comers found it difficult
To pass through such a gang,
We weren't rude,
No cuss, no fuss,
There was just
So many of us,
We had no room for more,
And Mammy started labor.

So, this empty house
I find I'm in
With every creak
With every wind,
Reminds me of
My crowded youth..
Yes, I'm not unhappy
To be alone,
And welcome visitors
To my home.

I was raised on the shelf
Of a white bread world;
No marbled rye
Or whole wheat served.
Just plain white loaves,
All crusty and cold.
But my tastes matured
With tea and buttered toast.

I attended a house concert last night. I go to about three a year. The hardest working musicians in the business. The fella last night was from Newfoudland. Drove to Victoria, then to Sarnia, my hometown. Drove thirty-three hours from Regina... in one day. Old and new friends were present, all of us living the middle-class life.
He sang a song, Money Can't Make You Happy.
That's not a truism. It's an opinion. It sounds... eh...
Go for a walk, but you need to cover your feet.
Watch the tele, you need a room.
Have some We time; Your place or mine?
We relish our North American Middle-Class Life.
It's true... money can't make you happy,
But I'd be unhappy without it... some of it.
Later, as I was getting in my Kia,
The Newfoundlander was getting into his Volvo,
With happy tail-lights.

I don't have paint or brush,
Or mallet to shape a rock;
I don't weld or chisel,
Or mold clay into crocks.
I don't wear an apron
To create art-food forms.
I can't meander on a stage
To emote the audience.
I can't focus a camera lens,
I don't have what it demands.
I don't use any tools
To do what artists can;
Except for
Words, just words,
These flow without end
To color ice and snow,
To carve mountain tops
Down to pebbles in a stream,
Shading dales, glens, woods and mead.
Equipped, I am, with all I need
To create an art that you can feel
As well as any gallery piece,
To arouse emotions in the reader,
To bring to life as a carver
Wields his knives like an author.

There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy's in retreat.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Join the fight
To rein in one percent
From their ***** heights.
Desks in towers,
Facades of power,
Will tumble to defeat.
The gravity of greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war,
For salvation,
Then, for some more.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.

The verdict of world opinion
Is in;
*Keep the Peace!

Three small words,
That we hear,
Make or break
So many fears.
Now let's read
These short phrases,
To realize how
They change us.

How are you?
I feel fine.
Where are you?
You look Divine.

I see you.
You're very welcome.
I miss you.
What a surprise!
I need you,
Open your eyes.

Believe in yourself.
Nobody is perfect.
Count your blessings.
Speak the truth.

Seize the Day.
Go for it.
I'll be there,
Working on it.

Be the exception,
Never give up
Against all odds,
I'll respect that.

Dreams come true.
Learn from mistakes.
Aspire to inspire
For heaven's sake.

Please forgive me.
Let it go.
Let's be friends,
I trust you.

I love you.
Come to bed.

Three small words
Mean so much;
Mouths and hands
Reach and touch.

"Write, edit, re-write.
Post, edit, repost."
My finger prints are fading fast;
I thought they were here to last.
They used to linger where I'd please;
I've lost them now on laptop keys.

The black between our stars
Is not a void;
It's the same black matter
Between us,
Keeping bodies apart,
To the naked eye.
But I'll focus on the white space
We're immersed in.
It shares the waves and molecules
With blackness, but more visible
In the light you stand.
White space attracts
The materials of poetry and art,
Connecting like the dots
Of a new constellation,
Here, the thirteenth sign.
We call it
What we want.

What's this at my feet.
A ribbon for a finish line
For the underdog;
An unpolished stone
To make a ring;
A piece of paper yet unfolded
Into a snowflake;
Is this a bit of wood
Waiting for release;
A puddle
Reflecting a blue sky
That could be fashioned
As a cloud,
Why not give it a try.
A stick, a stone, ribbon or puddle
Just waiting as a poem.

I fact checked
Whether God's
Dead or Alive.
In fact...

You were born with a ticket
For an ego-trip;
Languished on the axis
Of the Id Grid;
Dryed your hair with a comb
Before the vanity mirror.
That's how it was
When we were at home.
You fit many uniforms.
You never learned;
Never broke stride,
Now
You say good-bye.
Re-wind,
On slow-mo,
Review the moves
Then go.
Flip the rear view mirror;
It's bigger than you.

My secret
Is richer than a winning ticket;
Buried,
Like waiting treasure;
Fresher than rain;
Secure,
As my PIN;
Complex,
As a combination lock;
Password protected;
And deeper
Than thought.

My secret
Is Confessional sealed;
Private,
As a boil;
Personal,
As a shave;
Ignominious
As the front page.
The bartender doesn't know.
If you listen
You'd discover
It's for your eyes only.

He needs to grow
A pair of hairless ones... soon.

The time is right,
To say good-night.
Good-night.
Good-night.

The place has changed
People the same.
Good-night.
Good-night.

The love was here
Before you came.
Good-night.
Good-night.

And now to sleep
To dream sweet dreams.
Good-night.
Good-night.
Have a good night,
Kathleen.

Last years shoots
Withered on the limb,
They were my simple offering
At the Mt. of Sorrows.
The sky's gone dark,
No lark sings,
In the temple
They're gathering
To raise the final hymn
Of Exaltation.

I trimmed the branch
Back to the source,
I've lingered on
Paths of remorse,
But, Honey,
It's double jeopardy;
They can't
Re-hang me.
The ashes are blowing,
Roll back the stone,
I'm all tapped out,
Bury my bones.

Gaia, The World (nee Earth)
Suddenly, at home, aged 4.5 billion years, The World Gaia (nee Earth),
surrounded by her loving nucleur family, Gaia passed away after a long
battle with humanity. She is survived by her partner of 3 billion years, Luna,  eight siblings, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, and countless cosmic cousins. Predeceased by a younger brother, Pluto.
Gaia was the mother of all, and a selfless provider. She brought rain or let the sun into everyone's life.
Cremation has taken place.
In lieu of flowers there is nothing else.
Condolences at this time are fruitless.
There will be no service.

In Grasmere
I ate
A Wordsworth Hamburger;
Stayed in Wordsworth Hotel;
Strolled on
"Daffodil Walk"
Made from donor-inscribed cobblesstones.
Glad I saw his sunglasses
At Dove Cottage,
And relieved to realize
He didn't wear them
That day.

Decartes's too smart,
Much too profound
With his,
Cogito Ergo Sum:
I think therefore I am.
That's deeper than my toes.

So, I propound
Simplicity.
Read on,
Perhaps you'll agree:
Expirem Ergo Sum:
I die therefore I am.
That's as deep as I go.

There oughta be another option,
A different route to take.
Alternate realities are limited,
The receptors are collapsing in.
Actors are computer generated,
Vocalists are lip synching,
Wood's not wood,
The bellfry is a facade,
And my chicken dinner didn't hatch.
My clothes are made of oil,
My veggies grow indoors,
I'm drinking chlorine and fluoride,
Bottled water isn't wet.
What I see's not what I get.
Yes or no simply won't do.
My tires aren't rubber, I'm laying slicks,
Shakespeare's off the curriculum.
That's not the face you had last week,
Nor the body you've long borne.
Gimme some old fashioned ice-cream.
They're laying oil lines,
Clear-cutting my life line,
Soon landing us on Mars.
Yes or no won't do.
***** a fence around our world,
We're living in a zoo.

Da never bought a froggy pool;
We weren't friends like friends in school;
We never played til we showered naked.
We didn't hike and shoot the breeze,
Nor dump or **** behind the trees.
We never hit the links together,
And relieved ourselves in St. Andrew's heather.
We never streaked sorority dorms,
Or stood bare-assed in a storm.
We never stood shoulder to shoulder,
At urinals for a sneak peak over.
Swimming wasn't a thing for Da,
So we never swam in the raw.
And Da was never one to flash.

Near the end he couldn't wash,
I never gave a bed-sponge-bath;
But Clean my teeth, was what he asked.
Let me bring this to a close,
Da was always donned in clothes.
I never saw my old man's ****.
And that's the long and short of it.

I saw a satyr in the woods,
A centaur in the meadow;
Travelling on, I remarked on a fawn
Hallowing out reeds for a pipe.
The world around me was green,
The water ran clear, cold and fresh,
The air I breathed was historic.
Crosses were in the future.
No Mecca to visit,
No Temple to rebuild.

I am a beach ***, a sun-worshipper, a tree hugger.
I will worship the dove, not the sacrifice.
I will homage the god of the kingdom that is here,
Before she rejects her offspring.

I'm not so sure about you,
As I am of me;
But I'm a Wikipedia Poet:
You don't need to believe what I write,
I just fabricate,
All of it.
No annotated bibliography,
No reliable footnotes,
No discerning endnotes,
With few promising references.
I don't expect believers,
Just read,
For what it's worth.
Take what you want,
Leave the rest.
Just give me a nod.
It could be true;
It's on the Internet.

I like what I see
In my kids;
Others may say, They're like her's or his;
That's okay, but they don't see
The subtleties revealed to me.

They were listening when I spoke,
And now they hear other folks;
They were watching when I'd act
In sync with our social contracts.
Please and Thanks was our mantra,
Repeated now as personal dogma.

I didn't see they were watching,
Watch they did, and they were copying.
Believe me, I'm not being boastful,
If that's the case, I too am blameful
For anything that causes pain,
Though unintended, it's the same.

I'm so pleased with my kids,
And they aren't just like
Her's or his;
They're mine.
And I like what I see in their kids.

Do you like what you see
In mine?

I'm not in love.
I once was,
The knock-down feeling,
Gasping.
Was it on a summer log,
Or was that jealousy
Of the lapping  water at your feet.
The snow angel made
When you lay down.
The burning leaves still tingle.
I picked the orchid corsage.
Love goes,
But never seems to leave.
I've compared.
You're more fragrant,
Warmer, cooler.
Still in the world
To remind
There's only so much time.
The date will follow
The chiseled hyphen,
No other name
To read.

I've been playing
With my epitaph
For years now.
So far, I got:
*I'm Sorry.

I've never cried at funerals
Beside the bowed heads
Looking past the markers
In this gated community.

I've never cried at weddings,
Those blissful, blessed tears of joy.
Seeing the children settled and content
For the years they've yet to live.

I've never cried at birthings,
Though tears are warranted
For years of trouble and ecstasy
They will surely cry.

I've never cried before the courts
Pleading for leniency,
Or alone in a cell.

I've never cried for lost innocence,
Those tears that only come with experience.
The loss of a love.

I've cried for myself,
And I carry a hankie
To marvel at the wet spots.

I'm hardly the one
You left behind,
Twenty odd years ago;
The suit fits much better,
Now I'm in the show.
I'm not using slight-of-hand,
No smoke or mirrors,
Just running sand;
The big tent long left town.

I know the four directions,
And how my wind will blow.
And even at a four way stop
I know who has the right-of-way.
And when it's my turn to turn,
I'll step on the pedal and spin my wheels
And drive myself insane.

What was that. A knock?
Sssh!
Listen.
I heard something.
Was it the wind, scratching across my pane?
The pine tree branch thumps its fingers.
Squirrels, racoons and mice scurry over my roof.
My porch light is a beacon of revelation.
The doors are locked against friend or others.
I will wait.
Fall asleep.
Dream.
A hut on an island in the blue,
No ghostly memories.

To me, this sounded so final and trite,
But his wife, she said, left him,
Cause she couldn't be a wife.

There's a fine epitaph to carve,
On the stone above his life:

My wife, they say, left me,
Cause she couldn't be a wife;
That's all she ever wanted,
To be this dead man's wife.

A couple passing by the script,
Might read an enigmatic drift.

What kind of wife, the woman asked,
I wonder what he meant by that.

One who'd drink and drink some more,
Smoke and eat and grow so fat
On Caesar's Salad and chocolate.

Could she nurse through any sickness;
See it for what it is;
For what it was;
Work with the outcome,
Not the cause.

And yet, it's true, all along,
He wasn't in control.
Not abuse, or waywardness,
But the drink that dries the soul.

What could that wife do
In the fight.

They each promised,
Each meant each life;
Does she get to choose the sickness?
What kind of wife gets to pick it?

I know he didn't give objection,
As many husbands do,
When she raised ablutions
To false gods she eschewed;
They promised on the temple pinnacle
That all is theirs, if she submits,
To the pyramids that promise riches.

Till death do us part.

Now that's a lark,
In a song of lament.
She could have been any wife
She'd deem to choose in her life;
She chose,
For a limited time,
On a definition
He declined.

The children are grown,
They have their own
Christmas.
It's the natural order
To leave the hearth,
And start.
No more journeys home,
They're there.
You see, I'm not alone,
I recall all we had
When we were home.
The exuberant joy and anticipation
On your faces on Christmas morn.
I had it all.
I have it all,
The past, our presence,
From first, to our last.

I will remember her.
This I can guarantee.
She was the one
Who gave me love,
Took care of me,
So I can take care
Of her.

She will remember me.
This she can guarantee.
I was the one
Who planted the seed,
Took care of her
So she'll take care
Of me.

Who will remember you.
There are no guarantees.
Were you the one
To rely on,
Was weak when strong,
Shared your song to sing,
So we will remember you?

The boy sitting by his locker
While the horde heads to Wendy's
Likes to read Emily and Sylvia.

The girl with the flowing floral muumuu
And tatoo reading Nature likes
Ralph, George and Robert.

The man standing in the apse
Of St. Patrick's reads
Milton and Blake.

The mother reads Dr. Seuss, often,
The same story, over and over again.

And who reads me?
All of the above?
None of the above?

Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.

I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.