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.

Do atheists
Privately pray
For God to say:
******* Off!

I didn't do anything controversial today
Other than hear the news.
I must be an aberration; in the minority.
I didn't shoot my mouth off;
I didn't shoot anyone,
Or invade my neighbour's space.
If I did, I'd be the news.
All I did was write an inconsequential poem
With a pen moving across straight blue lines.
I'll bet Chris Wallace won't read it on the news.

There are mirrors
In all our rooms,
Passing them
Without a glance
Isn't vanity,
Isn't chance.
It's inherent in our genes,
The look is more
Than what it seems.
A survival tactic
Of our kind,
To lock our faces
In our minds.
Babies do it,
They're entranced,
The first step
Of the mirror dance.

So, I stopped,
I stared
At my glassy eye;
There I was,
Like an ambered fly
Trapped in the pupil
Of my eye.
Am I
Self-centred,
Narcissistic,
Self-absorbed,
Ego-centric:
Is it conceit,
Or human pride?
Self-doubt chides
My prying eye.

Past the disguise,
I realize,
My baby browns
Have waxed wise,
My outlook's changed
Behind those eyes.

Speak truth to power,
And don't dismiss the facts.
Why insipidly focus on polls
Like the failing Times,
The Murdochian lies
And the Hedge Fund huskers
Do.
CNN is rudderless.
The media is fascist,
Bending facts to fit the frame.
There is no Venn Diagram
For comfirmative circles.
Don't treat the true and the false,
The outrageous and the normal
As glossed over good people on both sides.
The sides are not equally valid
Because the Post opines it so.

New stars are debuting
On the galactic red carpet.
The IMAX night screens
The hand and foot print constellations
Illumed by the stage lights
In a heavenly theatre.
Shooting stars burned out
After their final take.
It's a wrap.

In my youth,
My sleek clean youth,
I was taught to pray.
Learn the right way,
Said men of the cloth,
And women of the rag-tag convent.
In rows, on knees, in suplication,
We prayed for days off Purgatory,
Babies, lost in Limbo;
Pray for starving
Blacks in Africa,
or
In Peru.

I prayed for you.

Beside my bed,
In my head,
For the Living,
For the Dead.
I prayed.
He delayed.
I prayed longer
For thirst and hunger.
I prayed harder,
Got no farther.
I saw little change.
Perhaps got worse,
Despite my prayers,
Or a longing curse.
                       Amen.

Which came first:
The egg,
The chicken,
Or
The pecker?

It's so very quiet tonight,
The mist makes no sound
The creatures are bedded,
Not a soul to be found.
There's a stillness around,
A spirit could get lost
Above the ground.
Only the glam of stars
Pierce the velvet backdrop.
Like a slender grackle,
I **** my head
To hear distant horns and whistles.

The dog that covered
His ****
With an extra kick,
Is he an ancestor?

They wouldn't be
If it were not for me;
I'm not talking about conception;
The work began at birth.
Decades of toiling,
And personal deprivation
To deliver the essentials,
The saving for school,
The resources used
For lessons and coaches,
Trips, gadgets and clothes,
The bed-time readings,
The front seat shows,
And all the ingredients for success.
They wouldn't be,
If it wasn't for me,
Yet they turn away
Because I strayed
From the image they fashioned for me.

Who read this book
Before me;
Read it so
Relentlessly:
Read it
Like you'll  read
To me?

Who carved letters
In this tree;
Neatly carved for
Me to read;
Will you carve mine
As deep as these?

Who walked these streets
Ahead of me;
Held a hand
As you hold me;
Saw deep puddles
And carried me?

Who loves me more
Than you love me;
Gives their love
So generously;
Hugs me like
Bark hugs a tree?

We read that book
To you nightly;
Walked these streets
For your safety;
Held you close,
Yet let you be.
We know you know
From your start,
Aine's carved
In our hearts,
Carried there
When we're apart,
So every pulse
Through every vein,
Gives us breath
To do again.

I've read it as vis major.
It was written in the Senate,
And dealt with all detractors,
And the Judes and Cristos,
And the gods know whom else.

He said it leaving Elba,
Cas fortuit, was the figure head
Cutting through the white water waves,
Churning all miscreants beneath his rising currents.

The columns rose from Ettersberg Hill
In black reeks and was read in cries,
Casus fortuitous.

These are forces we will reckon with,
And as the predecessors went,
So will today's,
Dragged like Faustus,
Unrepentant and ******
For the cold blue smoke
From the shark grey barrels.

I can rise to any daily challenge,
Except the diagnosis;
Then the days of respite
Are scripted,
The scales are tipped
To measure meaning.

     Yesterday I felt the pressure
     Of my father's hand
     While I wed the garden;
     Never thinking I'd long
     For those days.

Memories fade cool.
First, I wonder,
Then, I ponder,
Now I worry.

     I've read
     The Death of Ivan Ilych,
     I know It.

I'll give traitors
A sneering reprieve,
Dismiss,
Turn my back,
Breathe between the particles
Of a middle-class life,
Then languish
Between your clean eyes.
Will you miss Christmas
This year?
Am I asking too soon
About fewer rooms?

Who would call them losers
Because they couldn't stand;
We lifted when they moved about
On worn out knees and hands.

We didn't call them fools
Because they didn't talk;
We oohed and ahhed with all their sounds
When they stood free and walked.

We heard a blend of letters spew
Like spilled out alphaghetti;
Raving with their oral prowess,
Like roars on the Serengeti.

As years passed by, and they were graded
(And most certainly not by us);
They might return with D's and E's,
But we never judged or fussed.

This is how we treated them,
Our children that we raised;
I pray that our changing world
Will forgive, forget and praise.

My brother did.
I haven't.
Others have, going back.
Forward, I will;
But today isn't the day
For theologizing on the mysterious,
Unknown will.
I won't squander away,
Vicariously,
Beneath  indiscriminate winds.
I don't get it.

Fledglings,
Now long
From the nest,
Alight with grace for
A brief repast,
And well-earned rest;
Then secret away
Before December's threats.

Fleecy sheep
From the promise
Of Spring,
Are fatted and shorn
And  blithely waiting,
Will feed on corn
And winter grain
In straw-warm barns.

So you, with
Youth's eyes
Intent with queries,
Focus on
The coming seasons;
When the nest's
No longer home,
When the wool
Has yet to grow,
And the barn
Has lost its glow,
And cannot
Keep you
Warm.

Meet opportunity.
It's a subtle wink,
And briefer than
You'd like to think.
Look to your stars;
Leave earthly woes
Behind.

For decades now
We have serenely, blandly,
Had the Huron horizons
To the North.
All colours of clouds,
Bringing shade or rain,
Snow and flora;
And all the shapes of Noah's zoo,
Morph approaching our soft shores
Of sandcastles and tender fires,
Those milestone from our youth.
Our fresh waters have given much,
And taken more with wailing
For the never returners.
For mothers with terror splashing
Over  faces and maligned hearts and spirits.
The alone times of punishing memories.

I walked this way
To express my accounting,
To the ears of the deaf and dead;
Standing over the four of you
That will be my confessional booth.
The remission of sins
Pour from my skin
And shake me like November winds.
I tempted the elements
By my own accord.
October was wet,
You would have wept
Til I pushed the clouds away,
And let the sun's forgiveness in.

Can't live with her.
Must live without her.
That's life.

Sol burns bright;
Yet burns out.
So too we,
Love.

Did you know Tony?
          Yep.
Did you know his name was John?
          Don't think so.
I get Anthony. But not John. I prefer Tony.
          "Preferred."
What?
          It's an excellent OB. Do ye think it does him Justice?
Justice! They never can. Not an entire life.
          True enough.
Great picture, though. That's how I'll remember him.
          True. And grinning wide. Nice, indeed.
Cheers.

"Mr. Biden, tear down this wall," pled Juan.

The Mutual Admiration Clubhouse
Is a Hall of Carnival Mirrors.

I wish you could feel the hurt,
Not pain;
The thud and drumming of absence,
The waiting, listening, and loss of hope,
Silent, dull and lasting.
It's noticeable in my eyes and voice;
I see it when I shave,
In the clothes I wear.
It lies on me like a rash I can't scratch.
I look average. I look normal.
That's the hurt I wish for.

Peeing's easy
When I traavel,
From five days to a week.
I can piddle,
While you fiddle,
Dancing down the street.

But things do change
When I roam
From five days to a week.
Suffice to say,
On those days,
My bowels work best
At home.

My new windows are transparent,
Free from smudge and tarnish.
I was clear-eyed gazing out,
Reflective peering in.
Two-sided.
Finger prints have been wiped free,
But around the edges there are still ridges,
Evidence of being opened and closed,
Unbroken in their sturdy frames.

But time is no friend to glass.
Winds assail it, birds bounce off at break-neck speed,
Dust accumulates, it becomes opaque.
Missiles assault its permanence,
Shattering the pane into foreboding shards, like a shell.

Some desperate glazes never get replaced,
They invite stone-throwers.
Then the building becomes derelict, untenable.

One stone can break a window,
Or fell a giant.

I've lived loyal lies,
And since moving,
They're in storeage,
Under lock.
I've forgotten where,
But if revealed,
I'm not fearful of discovery.
Should someone assemble
My dissemblings,
Parse the pieces
And make a small announcement,
I'd agree.
I chose lies for themes;
Well-motivated intentions,
Yet carefully selected words
To hurt.

Demons bang on firewalls
With lost love.
I am aging in oaken barrels
Bound with rings,
Dried in kilns,
Soaked as silk yarn
And bowed with
Honest lies.

I only want to talk with you,
To walk and spend an hour with you.
I only ask to see your smile,
Love you for a little while.

     But you say:

     It's not your turn
     To look for me,
     Or listen to me breathe.
     You will not touch;
     I will not hear
     The lie beneath the plea.

It's not for you I ask these things,
It's just my lonely disposition.
My situation's getting tough,
My demands are not so much.

     But you say:

     It's not your turn to stay awhile,
     I am not some listless child.
     Turn away you can't stay long,
     Your love is prematurely born.
     Go away.

And now these days lag
Like wounds,
That will not heal or seal my pain.
My need is more than I can endure.

     Yet you say:
  
     Offer some other church your money.
     Call some other Mary honey.
     Nail some other rightless wrong.
     Offer some other girl your song.
     Hoard it for the white-necked lay.
     You know you cannot stay.
     It's not your turn today.
     It's not your turn.
     Turn away.

Roam my beach
Where proof gets stranded
With every inch of water.
I will keep my secret shelter
In the dunes.

Here I dig to cover
(As the Nile's favourites once endured)
Ones like me.
I think.
I too built my sphynx to oulast
The odds, the waves,
And time.

Past the lawns of lakeshore
The family still waits
For the feast.
As for the calf, save the leather.
Rings don't look good on me.
What will come from all the rejoicing.
Oh god!

My brothers, Jake and Ben, understand:
The inheritance was never mine alone.
Let the feast begin.
Save me a seat.

An infant has no cares
For affairs of any state,
Outside its snotty, soiled, salty-eyed self.
It needs no By whose authority.

From a second passing glance,
The child recognized individuality,
Exerted some influence,
But succumbs to authority.

By the teens, there is control
Over the body; offers suggestions,
Some listen;
Builds a matrix,
Sits for ID,
Moves from table to table,
Much more careful of soiling.
The third glance confirms the leap

To twenty-one, a global adult
Of the **** Erectus.
Exposing clan colours,
Digging trenches, eating meat.
Soiled, salted and respected

At fifty, and recognizing the conflict,
The approach of incriminating retirement,
Visitors commenting on the lack of edges,
The smoothness of demeanor.
Late life arrived before relaxation,
And the falling off of directives.

Who wants to **** with you
And your remaining sanity.
By whose authority do they act.

I grow weary of worldly affairs
As infancy nears.

Heap o' problems.
Elliot! Please fix!

In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
When she lifts the lid,
Set in the mirror,
Shines the most precious jewel,
And Granda's treasure.

Let's have a gathering.
I'm inviting all readers and contributors of HP
To my house for New Year's Eve.
Ring in the new and all that stuff.
We'll have a bonfire.
Bring your worst poems
(not the ones published here)
I'll keep the fire going for the first hour.
All our tinder will get free light.
Bring your inkless pens, blank paper,
Keypads, phones, laptops,
And we'll toss them all on the heap.
We'll drink, and smoke, and curse;
May even use some bad Trump words
As we quaff, inhale, and turn the air blue.
We'll feed the metaphoric coals with odes,
Watch them rise to heaven in simile sparks,
Smell the figurative smoke,
Hear the onomatopoeic couplets sizzle.
We could burn an effigy of Elliot,
That's with a Y not a T.S.
                 (Just for fun...)
Several pinatas, one Pence for sure,
You can bring your favorite to beat on.
Can you imagine the fun we'll have?
And when the evening comes to a close
In the early morning,
And the fire has died down,
We can read our best aloud
To put everyone to sleep,
To alleviate the hangover.

I'm Home
Awaiting Notification,
Or perhaps a Message
About My Poems.
I add to My Collections,
Or to My Favorite;
But my Preferences
Are still yours,
HP.

When you soar,
Others are up there too.
When you fall,
You fall on someone.
When you stand,
You don't wait alone.
When you dream
Of having wings,
Or being chased, tripping
And falling before the beast,
When you dream
Of being naked in the crowd,
Laugh out loud,
You're still not alone.
There's a few billion doing the same.

I've heard and read lovers recite
On love about their love;
… a full petalled blossom
in a silver vase...

Trite, I thought,
and so blase.
If what I recall is true.

I see my lover more like clover,
Spreading along a tree laden brook,
On a pathway through sun-streamed woods;
Spreading, thriving, covering green,
A more vibrant, living floral scene.

Trite, I think.

Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.

I'm of two minds
These days.
This is a sobering thought.
One fraught with yesterdays,
The other with tomorrows.
Today,
I'll give my duality a rest.

I've had a better life
Than a squirrel.
Ask anybody.
But looking out,
I'm envious of that
Mite invested, bushy-tailed one,
Fleeing up my tree.

Strange guests appear on Christmas Eve,
Entities, more real than seems;
And POTUS soon will get three visits,
From three well-known, transparent spirits,
That call as an unholy host.
Stormy, his first ghastly ghost,
Then Moscow Mitch to **** his boast;
But the ghost of Christmases to come,
Is New York's Vance; there's scary fun.

I used to call her every night,
The black spiral cord stretched far and tight;
My changing voice kept to a whisper,
Against the hinges of the hallway door.

I used to write her every day
When she lived sixty miles away;
Sent thoughts and verses that I wrote,
Sealed my love in a white envelope.

We came together.
We grew together.
Then grew apart.

What would we do
If we got back?
What could we say.
How would we act.
I've Romanticized on that.
The memory of us.

While lying on my couch,
The sun breaks through,
Moving across my closed eyes;
If I open them,
Could you be standing in the room,
Then sitting beside me,
Hand on my head and hair,
Asking, am I okay.

It wouldn't stay this way.

The memory of us
Is sweeter in the thought.

Today you live not far from me,
But a greater distance than it used to be,
When we were sixty miles apart.

Driving home
From Toronto
I had to stop
Before the ***
Took over me.
Underneath
An overpass
I had to do it,
I couldn't last,
I put the car
In park.

Whilst waddling
My zipper
I noticed a blue box.
Of course I meandered,
As I wasn't stranded
So I took a look.

A dead and frozen cat.
That's a cruel fact.

Winds these days
Cut both ways,
As spring is fast arriving.
These gasping blasts
Can't repel what's thriving,
The give and take of time.

This snowy, sleety, wet, cold season
Brought flues, agues, chilblains and sneezing,
And holidays with families,
Births, deaths,
And another year,
The passing of those times,
Pics, grams and friends with wine,
The games, tricks, sighs and smiles
Of another season of our lives,
And the memories
We didn't pose for.

Hawking's told me
My universe is contracting;
Then he changed his mind,
It's now expanding.
Sounds like a new wave diet.

Sometimes my life splits me in two,
In daytime I never dream of you;
But then I turn my nightlight off,
My real world brings me back to you;
The moon is sun,
The sun is you.

I am a stranger to you.
I may greetingly nod as we pass;
Or hold a door open as the line lengthens.
Big deal.
But I just want you to know,
You are real, an individual whom I know is worried.
Worried for the children.
Worried for our safety.
Worried for our shared state of affairs.
I know worry doesn't add one minute to our lives,
But not worrying can remove lives.
At the end of it all,
Are you okay?
I sincerely mean it,
Cause I know I'm not okay with all this **** drama,
Being played out... DAILY... HOURLY.
Burrowing into our heads like hungry worms.

I don't ride a Harley. Do you?
I have no need for ingots or ketchups. Have you?
I'm atheist. Are you a believer?
I'm in the body. Are you marginalized?
I respect LGBTQ. Are you in and out of your body?
I have a NEXUS. Do you have a country?
Good thing the air and sunshine have no borders.
It's not about me.
It's about us.

One's falliability
Is too often reconciled
In the eulogy;
When the offended
Nod,
In agreement;
Accept,
Yes,
Forgive.
Yet,
They too may wait;
Til they too
Are late.