Give your ******* a name,
And then Goggle it.

We're hungering for a leader
Who's not a bottom feeder.

Inhale nature's incense,
Fill with life
As since first breath,
And exhale.
Nothing disappears.
     Where does love go?

A broken robin's blue
Beneath a fallen leaf;
The curling smoke,
A lap of shoreline suds,
The dust from fallen stones.
     Where does love go?

The pounds we shed,
The worry we dread,
And all about me's thin,
Heaviness dissipates.
     Where does love go?

Beads gather on my brow
Then rivulet down my nose,
Drops like autumn roses.
     Where does love go?

I hurt a friend,
His pain was real,
My remorse reached his ears,
I saw his pain disappear.
     But where does love go?

It's not recyclable, reuseable,
But environmentally friendly:
It's measured like a tailored suit
No one else can wear.
An exclusive gift,
Free as loaves and fishes.
     Where does it go?

It sates, some stays,
Some grows, then fades;
It's quantity unmeasured.
     But where does love,
     That all time love,
     That one time love,
     Where,
     Where did it go?

I must hurry to the meeting
In the committee room,
We'll vote on closure
Of the heart,
Get back to work by noon.
All the players are present,
We're sitting side-by-side,
I'm next to an idiot,
Beside myself
With opinions that collide
Within myself,
About myself,
Infused with self,
I'm the chair of the meeting,
The only one in the room.
My many colored selfish life
Has left my heart forlorn.
We take a vote
To remove the chair,
His outlook
Is too biased;
He had a heart per diem,
Mismanaged in a poem.

This happened
Faster than the speed of light,
Immediate like deja vu;
While coming across your picture,
Just then, I am with you.

As enlightening as an epiphany,
Shorter than a sub nano Zen;
I was one with my reality,
I am in the picture then.

I snap back,
I put it back
Beneath the orchid cloth,
Where time and space lie dormant
For these moments that I have.

You claimed it was a missile,
Me, a shooting star;
I saw a pickle,
Not a bearded face
In the jar.
Some see wee men,
Approaching their islands.
Cubes floating
In the Austral Ocean,
Warning our hopes are broken.
Janus faced usury
Tear-up for the bear;
Politicos in the chase
Have two mouths on their faces.
We surely landed on the moon;
When we're gone,
We're gone for good.
Bigfoot's not in the woods,
ESP's in the guts,
All paranormal is psychosis.
Too skeptical's obsessive neurosis.
What's one to believe.
I see Jekyll, you Hyde Island;
These stories are so overwhelming,
Growing in numbers with retelling.

A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.

Where has all our innocence gone;
When love was just a puppy's song.
We shared furtive looks
Behind school books;
Exchanged shy smiles
Across the aisles;
When eye contact
Had sudden impact.
I followed you from school
In plain view,
To ridicule.
I'd write names in red chalk
On every sidewalk;
Wait down on the corner,
Avoid your father.
Hold calming hands,
Listen to live  bands.
Calls were made
From corner pay-phones,
Some privacy from prying homes.
The first kiss was wet,
And missed,
And still one of the best.
A daring move
At the time,
Sending the anonymous Valentine.
We were waifs,
And Oh so young,
And love
Was prematurely born.

At Newgrange Tomb
The sun slides its golden fingers
Through portals to the cruciform
For the 5000th time.
I should like to be a crack
In that ancient rock.

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.

There were sharp, dark nights
When I was sent to the store;
The alleys and empty lots
Were void of comfort light.

There were night sweats
When figures approached;
I would pause on the sidewalk
To hear the retreating steps.

I'd turn to watch a dark outline
Cross under a canopy of branches;
His procession out of the light
And into the long sharp night.

Abandoned houses had draped windows
In the dark of morning deliveries;
Black, steel steps lead to balconies,
Beneath them darker yet.

My window displayed the silhouettes
Of cold thin twig fingers;
And the darkened stairs had a balanced creak,
Or a shoulder bumped into the landing.

I pulled the blanket over my head,
Darker still, I let the night roll on.
That was night.
Tomorrow has dawn.
What's night is night.
What's dark lives on.

If I want you to continue reading,
Then I must be truthful and forthright.
That's my decision.
And I'm good at deciding stuff.

One time I decided to change
My mailing address, have my mail
Redirected for a personal reason.
Another time, I decided to impersonate
My brother in court.
I didn't say all decisions were good ones.
So, allow your imagination to comply as I tell this story...

Did I mention I've a very active imagination.
More profound than my decision making skills.
    
     There's a young boy, on the verge of adulthood,
     aged twelve, and he often stays out all night...

Okay, I'll tell the truth. The boy is me.
But you probably already knew that,
Didn't you?

     On arriving home one morning,
     He comes upon an unusually locked
     back door, but he can hear the TV and
     the dog whinning. The Mercury is idling
     in the driveway. The trunk ajar...

My imagination is messing with the truth.
There is no open trunk, but the curtain blowing
Out my parents' main floor bedroom window is true.

     The idea of my having a key to the house is silly.
     That would mean eight keys with kids that know
     nothing about locks and keys. We were free to run,
     uninhibited, all adventure, no phones, little radio,
     and a TV that hardly ever worked. So, no key. To my
     right, I notice the frill laced curtain flapping out my
     parents' bedroom window.
     Open? Do I dare?

I've always been known for my recklessness and lack of foresight.
So I turned towards their window...

The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.

The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.

In Wexford
I saw Superstar;
An Irish Jesus
That well pleased us,
But you may think that dross.
In retrospect,
We might agree,
They hung long
On that cross.

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.

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.
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 honored among our 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.

The St. Clair flowed
Towards Erie,
As we walked to
The headwaters,
Where Huron emptied
So seemingly endless.

On Sunday drives
I never noticed signposts
Flying by.

On the court, Love,
I crouched, amazed,
At your service game,
Never ready for
The backhand.

Idle times lead
The girls to womanhood.
I'm left with celebrations
On celluloid,
And digital grasps
And loosening fingers.

Delivered to inviting hands
With one breath;
Then sculpted in a parent's arms
To feed on sweet caresses,
Inhaling life with one kiss,
As prologue to her song;
She'll carry on.
Mature. Secure.
Bound and forged
In infant iron.

She hears, listens, then deduces,
To apply their teachings
When cut loose;
Lessons she will reproduce
To set her free,
Unfettered by mediocrity.

Like the Sphinx,
She crawls,
Then stands to think.
At times, we know,
She'll forget
Steadier hands
Held her *****.
She will fall again,
Then stand and walk,
Perhaps with Pride;
And should she fail,
She knows she tried.

First steps lead
To stage or field,
And honours
On her battlefields;
Protected by
Parental shields.

She'll receive
These life-long gifts,
Then start anew
At age six.
If she walks alone
She'll find,
Friends can make
The walk divine.
She'll filter them,
Some in, some out;
And trust a few
With her life;
Avoiding others
She's learned aren't right
By socializing,
Not over-protected
Or compromising.

Her early years
Sow the seeds
Of second breaths
And good deeds;
To balance friends
With second looks:
The cover can't
Disclose the book.

Most of all,
She'll understand
She grew and grows
With helping hands.
And when she stands
With womankind,
She'll extend
Her hands
To all mankind.

They say the Bard's been dead four hundred years;
But each time I attend Stratford,
He struts upon the stage,
Fretting about our human condition,
Our foibles and grandness,
Like a parent,
In the wings.

Dead four hundred years?
Don't believe it for a second!

It growls again
Like a hungry pact,
A grumbling
Belly-empty grind.
Its hoary arms
Touch my back,
I feel its breath
On my neck;
I quicken my pace
Past the gated community
Where family and friends
Stay secure
From this snap of wind,
The reach of its sleek, lean paws.

Swirling, circling
'Round my head,
I pull down my balaclava
Like a soldier of fortune,
I constrict my scarf
Mouthing an Ave Maria,
And turn home.

I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.

My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...

He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.

The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock  there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.

They did all in their power.

He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...

It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.

He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.

I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.

The baby... is the image of him.

My heart is torn.
I  could be washed in tears.

I was tricked into believing
This is my world.
There are too many signs
That can't be ignored.
It's certainly not my old world.
No, not my world at all.
Not the one I inherited,
And not the world I'll leave you.
And I'm so sorry for the mess we're in.
I'm sorry I'm made of carbon,
I'm changing,
I could be a diamond still.

I brought a poem
Into a room
Of well-to-dos.
They went to
North American schools.
They looked at it
For
A middle-class clue.

It's a poem, I said.

... and I know it.
...and violets are blue.
Said someone who
Said she knew
A poem or two.

To my dismay
And loss of face,
They'd never heard
Of Keats or Yeats,
But everyone knew
Of  Dr. Seuss.

I will write a rhyming verse
About a dog or cat or simple mouse.

One never expects one
Standing *****,
Straddled with club in hand;
There's a postage stamp
With pole and flag
Daring resolve and grit;
So one checks one's stance,
Sneaks a glance
And slightly adjusts one's grip;
Then a reaction occurs
Like controlled fussion,
And out of confusion comes sense.
The contact cements a crack and launch,
Startling one like a gun;
One scratches one's head,
Dumbfounded and red,
One's aced a hole-in-one.

The familiar small towns,
On the way
To Georgian Bay,
Have gone;
Box store intersections sprawl
Where General Stores once served.
It's hard to find pie and coffee,
To watch the cows come from the barn,
Or comment on the standing corn,
Of a late September morn.

You keep me at eye level,
Examining for interpretations,
Think me either shady or too colorful;
That my perspective may be skewered.
You reach out to straighten me,
But recoil, gloveless.
Consider the Feng Shui
Of your living room.
Peer closer,
There's a face
Like a worrisome specter,
Like the picture.

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.

The Receptionist's counter is too close to the forever waiting room.
The Nexts are trying their patient penances;
Some seem to read;
Others appear to listen to the television;
There's no dialogue,
Except for the Dr.'s assistant,
And, the Receptionist.
Any conversation would be idle,  and not heard anyway.
They sit on pins, listening for their names.
Super Tuesday held no kryptonite for Super Joe, remarked the talking head.

The Dr. will see you in three years.
I fist pump and spin to leave,
Seeing a blur of corralled, bowed, preoccupied heads.
A frail face lifted up, and smiled for me.
Happy for me.
Truly the best medicine.

A poet,
One of our best,
Got far
Inside himself.
He LOL a lot,
Used emoticons
And dots,
To share
Personal thoughts;
Then he forgot
His name.

A pseudonym's
A precarious thing;
Its acronym
Might fool you.
But a nom de plume
Becomes you,
Like Twain, Orwell
Or Seuss.
So, when your writing
Takes you far,
It's important
To remember
Who you are.

The things some do
When they're alone,
Would melt the marrow
In your bones.

Some scratch their ***
With such vigor,
Sink to their knuckles
Up their nose,
**** themselves
In *****-hose,
Find their stash,
Find their liquor,
Get high alone,
And that's good for some.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They scrape the goo
From their eyes
In the afternoon;
Hork out phlegm
In the kitchen sink,
**** loudly,
And not think it stinks.
They pop a pimple on the mirror,
Do nasty things
(I won't say liver).

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They'll surf the net
For *******
In HD or photography.
They'll roll gobs of wax
From both their ears,
Run naked up and down the stairs.
Landscape private body hairs,
And like a monkey, smell their nails.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

Some deficate in the shower,
******* until they holler,
Then spark a doob,
Check out the mirror,
Then cogitate on tomorrow.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone,
It's good they're done
Alone at home.

I quiver til I shake,
I tremble,
But won't break,
When approaching you.

My heart, I won't foresake,
You'll not know my mistake,
Although my ground will quake,
When I'm nearing you.

You see, I will retake
The joys, not my heartache,
The day I drive the stake
Deep inside of you;
And finish building the fence
To separate we two.

There will be two epiphanies
On January 6th.
Christians around the globe will celebrate
Little Christmas, The Epiphany,
The Word Made Flesh,
The arrival of the three wise men, The Magi,
And they reveal to the world
The Savior has come.
The same will happen on the Senate Floor (sans three wise men)
When the President-Savior
Is presented to the world,
And his detractors will bray, cackle and neigh
As he is adorned.
Saviors don't build walls,
They raze them.

While cruising Corona on the net,
I saw pangolins not eaten yet.
Many, you see, believe its scales,
Are cure-alls to cure whatever ails.
And its meat festoons the rich Asian table.

Who ate the pangolin from head to toe.

China lauds its laws to say they save
The endangered pangolins,
At home, in Asia;
Yet in Wuhan, locked live in cages,
In wet markets like our Dark Ages,
The scaly pangolin is sold.

But Revenge,
We know,
Is a dish best served cold.

Charles didn't heed the Puritans
He was God's appointed,
Anointed and empowered.
He tumbled from above,
Down through the law,
Lost his head.

Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt,
A cult-like condemnation;
So they stood him against the wall,
He listed to his Monk,
His reasoning debunked,
So they shot the anointed one
On his golden throne.

Benito was above the law,
High on meat hooks.
Could we dare to look?

If you were lucky,
If you were tied to a stake,
And the ******* ignited,
Someone dear would tie a bag
Of gunpowder around your neck.
Why let the crows pick out his eyes,
Make golden nests from his hair.
End the torture. Pull the life-line.
Sever the head from the body politic.
It is the righteous thing to do;
It is the civil thing to do
In pensive state.
Rise up from your ashes.
It is the kindest cut of all.

I saw a squirrel
Take a ****,
Something no one
Wants to miss.
He paused on
A knotty bole,
Let it run
With no control.
The difference between
The squirrel and me,
I shake myself,
He shook the tree.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.

In the pitch of sleep
On a hot, humid night,
From a depth so deep
I woke in fright.
The overhead fan
Swirled the air,
The bedroom window
Was drawn and bare.
Out from the dark
I heard the scream
Penetrate and join my dream.
It slammed and splattered
On my screen,
An anguished cry,
An animal dies
Caught by a red-eyed predator.
I couldn't help but think
Of death,
Coming this November.

The world was a secretive place then;
There are fewer secrets now;
No point in trying,
But they're impossible to keep.
And the world hasn't destroyed.
The Colonel's spices revealed;
Micropes landed in Martian rock;
Yet your impression in a hayfield
Is one I've always kept.

Addiction issues are certainly predominate with the sensitive souls of writers.
Is the cause the world they perceive and abhor. The greed, despair, hunger, hate and such. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we celebrate the beauty we see in charity, love, generosity and such, too much. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we just prefer to mix our drinks?

These lines didn't exorcise you.
I'm followed.
I need protection.
Get a crucifix tattoo.
Draw curtains, let
The daylight through.
Whittle stakes.
Move your...  my ashes to my landfill.
Drink ***** and holy water.
Cross lit candles behind the cobwebs.
Fashion my ring into a silver bullet.
Pinch and pitch them down the toilet.

I'm a born mourner;
Not a whimperer,
Or whiner;
Don't cry for me,
Don't worry for me.
Let me mourn.
Although an orphan,
A singleton,
I'm better off
Than all the dead poets,
Stacked one atop the other,
Babel high.
When that high,
It's a sudden drop.
If somethings human
Should locate
Forty percent of my bones
Sometime down their road,
Then you can worry about me.

Are the most ego-centric of bigots;
Believing in one's own godhead.

Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
                            "Mammy."

His drag-line pals
Called him Jemmy,
The little man
From Ireland.

Jemmy thought
Himself quite clever,
Cursed at us
With what you'd never
Call your own
Inside your home:
You're an ejit,
An egot, a clod,
A sod, a fool,
As useless as ****
On a bull.

When Jemmy got
Right roaring ******
(Something he would seldom miss),
He hissed:
Ya pissmire.
Eyes burning cold red fire.

Thus was Daddy
Endeared to us.

His wit was keen,
Quick as mean,
Evasive
As the charming fiend
Bellying out of Paradise.

His viscious,
Veracious
Flicking tongue,
Left not knowing
The damage done.

Getting older
Means
Hear today,
Deaf tomorrow.

When the storm is upon us,
We have no fair-weather friends.

I learned to ask for nothing
At an awful early age;
And nothing gets monotonous,
Cause nothing stays the same.

As I grew in beingness,
Nothing never changed.

I expect nothing less
When I'm aged and grey;
Cause nothing still awaits for me
When cold and in my grave.

Don't dwell on your afterlife,
Don't fret on what you got;
After all the prayers are done,
There's nothing in the box.

Whatever hand swirled
In the cosmic bucket,
Continues to stir the stars.
Keep swirling them
Across my sky.
In daylight I know
There's work afoot
Maintaining the equilibrium
Of the gyroscope;
But remove it,
And we're feeding oats
To the horsemen's rides.
The stars will fall in upon themselves;
And me,
And you.
Digits of chance, luck, chaos and coincidence,
And the thumb of phenomena
Move through the infinite waters,
Clockwise,
One second at a time,
Swirling, swirling, swirling,
Like the snail on a rock.

This bark's outlasted
The wintery blast,
But at the cost
Of the main mast.
Raise the spiniker
And the jib,
Hoist a sail,
Man the pumps,
There's no good reason
To jump - just yet;
We're temporarily adrift
Searching for a friendly shore
To lay anchor deep,
Waiting for your
Lighthouse eyes
To show the way home.

Don't feel wrong
When things go right;
Like running out of gas
With a station in sight;
Or you're wearing
A few pounds,
But you're still feeling light.
Too many sins
Have filled our heads,
Those of omission
Or some thoughts instead.
Strip off the guilt,
Bury the shame,
It's good to feel right,
No one's to blame
For you feeling so good.
Unclog the drain,
Open your pores,
The weather will change
Whether you're in or outdoors.
Seize this feeling
Of feeling so good;
It's good to feel right,
When you feel it your sure.