Children aren't cruel
Because of their learning at school.
From earliest times,
They're fed on Nursury Rhymes
From Mother Goose,
Of children being fatted for the oven,
Jack breaking his crown,
Humpty got cracked,
The Duke got sacked,
And as fast as he could run,
The Gingerbread Boy
Never got home.

I awaken mornings feeling upbeat,
Praying my prayers set like concrete.
But No!
This repetitive routine has no soul.

Perhaps I'm praying wrong.
Perhaps He prefers a song,
A Hallelujah chorus
To **** of the Anti-Christ.
(but the Creature lives... it ***** up all our hopes).

I'll pray again tonight:

Now I lay me down to sleep.
And pray that God won't willfully keep
That blakened spot he calls his soul,
Dispatched to Hell for our repose.

It's not the losing hair
That's bothersome;
But the bone
With eyes and brows gone,
And an unattached jaw.

The first vernal moon
Measured one-seventh lit,
Backdropped by
A star-studded pit
Of ebony sky,
With Venus, brilliant,
By her side,
A ring of light
Outlined the disc.

A man, standing
On a ladder,
Stretches a finger
As if to flip
A peephole plate
On a galactic door.
And through the hole
Streamed pearls of light
From a well-lit room.
Did I espy eternity
Au clair de la lune.

Then conjecturing
On a whim,
I thought of one
Peeping in,
To see how ones,
Such as us,
Weathered winter's boons.

Everything about a child
Bundled against winter gets me.
A toque, under a taut hood,
Chapped, like lips,
Mitts covering hands
Joined like tin cans,
With fingers communing
Warmth along lines that
Join our hearts and souls.
Sleeves pulled down
Over mitts with
Wax-like icicles.
Bootsoversocksoversfeet
Under pants, over skin and bones
(that hardly seem warm)
All over me.
Now you see,
They're all over me like nothing.
Bundled in me for
All winters.

Twelve red roses
Will wilt;
Twelve red hours
Continually bloom.

What crisis changes a life?
A birth.....................defected or not;
A death....................expected or not;
A break-up..............rejected or not;
A make-up..............accepted or not;
A ****-up................degenerative or not;
An accident.............not ever planned;
Or,
All of the above.
There are no boxes to tick;
No likes to click;
No swipes right or left;
No emoticons to stick.
Just choices and decisions
That are life changers.

The upper branches
Of the Family Tree
Are visible.
I'm not near the base
Where I used to be.

There are fewer branches above;
And as I move there's
More and less to love.

Some limbs above have broken,
Suffered drought and heat
Through the elements of life.
But the trunk is true, strong,
Stalwart and flexible
As the lineage of its rings,
These expanding circles of life.
And above,
The transplanted branches
Were rooted with love.
Sprouts apppear below,
As further up I go.
And my limbs
Are moving slow.

The slip is on.
It's slippery,
But not like a floor,
A bit of paper with X's and O's,
Offering promises,
Gears and clutches needing oil;
Not like memory of your speghetti straps,
Or an announcement of a slipped lip
Revealing dumbfoundery.
They are temporal and physical.
This slip goes to the soul,
Dispiriting and lying low;
Not discernable to public scrutiny.
I tripped on a rabbit hole
That changes the world,
And makes me late
For a very important date.

Oafie lingers before his mirror
Pointing at the slinger Dillinger,
In his black suit,
******* his loot,
He won't go in there.

Then Oafie puts an old coat on,
Posing before his cheval,
Sharing jokes with Robert Duvall,
Who lights a smoke for Lauren Bacall,
Who say his coat fits well.

I know this seems humorous,
But Oafie isn't left too much;
His acuity is out of touch.
But he played guitar like a harp,
Which sadly isn't that far off.

For now the famous visit often.
He shuffled steps to classic Sinatra,
With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
I'll visit Oafie one last time,
And slip a mirror in his coffin.

Lights are twinkling,
My eyes are blinking,
Bulbous deer are shaking.
Across the street
Bloated Santa Claus
Rocks to the season's flaws.
It's Christless time again.

The trees are hewn,
Stores are spewing
Free wrapping,
Ribbons and bows.
Wreaths are hung,
Good tiding flung,
Frosty's song is sung.
It's Christless time again.

We've planted seed
That feeds the greed
In the old and young.
We know the songs
That should be sung
To vanquish mammon.
But it's Christless time again.

Still, on that Eve
Gift reprieve
With a silent, Holy Night.
Hear the bells
From distant years,
Before the yule log light.
It's Christmas time again.

Some *****
Are like Faberge Eggs:
Irreplaceable
And needing
Coddling.

We know there is an island for lost toys;
A chest for lost treasure;
Pandora's box for one last hope;
The morning brings lost dreams;
And the heart fills with lost loves.
For socks, we have a dryer.

We should re-name
The AMA:
*American Music Awards For Canada.

When you first left, it's true I missed you,
More concerned than surprised
Of a life not living with you,
And not on the lookout for.

We were deep into the day-to-day;
Rising, showering for my pay,
Coffee driving to be the workplace slave,
Going out to get a bite or two,
Watching favorite shows with you,
Before retiring for the night.
Getting rest, restarting bright.

It got steeper the further we climbed,
Something was missing, hard to define,
The kids came, there was less time,
Dashing here and there was all fine;
Will I miss that too?
I had plans. I stewed.

So, we cracked the atomic nucleus,
The fallout made us think;
We couldn't life in the shelter,
Outside would make us sick.
The emergency supply was dwindling,
You were itching to get moving,
But the all clear hadn't signaled yet.

The sirens wailed, get out and breathe
Fresh air and some needed reprieve.
One path diverged, and I'm good,
I don't miss you like I thought I would.

The White House is an inverse reflection
Of the matter/anti-matter chamber:
It's Not, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
No. It's, The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
What matters matters.

The game is over.
We have winners
And losers.
Shared joy,
Dashed hopes.
It wasn't a failure,
It's over.

The artisan
Completes a piece,
And moves on
To the next.
He hasn't failed.
It's over.

Marriage is a living art,
Complete with Janus masks.
It may end,
But not fail.
It's just over.

Shoes of all colours and sizes
Shuffle by my North American Middle Class House.
We are temperate, they walk in all seasons,
Down here, between the Great Lakes.
These S-Westerners look haggard;
Even the young...
All waiting... waiting for the veil to lift.
Smiles are cracking, making new lines
Like road maps to happiness.
And yet, it's worse
In Talibexas, Loseiana and Floridistan,
Where there are fewer paths.

If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.

The mysterious answers eluded me.
Friends left on bikes,
Went to Expo,
Had backyard tents.
I stood, palms pressed, waiting.
Then Marlene and Jimmy died
And I knelt before the maze master,
Looking for an exit.
All, I am told, are answered,
But the lines of communication
Seem crossed.
Does he get the ways of man
As well as we get the ways of him?
I supposed your prayers were realized
When you left,
Yet the same rain and sun drenched us.
I should expect a summative explanation
When I get
My commuted response.

I counted
Thirty-three flies
Stuck
On the fly-paper.
A few stll
Wiggled their wings,
But the feet
Were cemented.
Even if you're born
With wings,
You can't fly off
When well-grounded.

Our music doesn't age like us;
It ages with us.

In this race,
Receive the baton,
And pas it on.

Our skin is a thin veneer
Plied over masks
That put a face on
Our many selves.
The visible outward features are shallow;
Beneath, we are change artists
Vigilant through eye holes.

The last of the fools
Has been exposed;
I'll look no further
Than the end of my nose.
The glass has flipped
It's me I see.
The last of the fools;
Flip one,
You'll see.

Time is running out on us,
The hands replace the feet;
Hasn't time run out on him?
What time can we meet?
His ebb's my flow,
His desert my beach,
His frozen bed my sundae,
Wrap him in white sheets.
His fall's my rise;
Will you close his eyes?
Has the shifting finished yet?
Count his hairs,
His last sun's set.

I see you're getting old, sitting there,
With youthful eyes, but graying hair;
But I recall the splash of tresses
Blending with the golden sands.
The time shows in your hands;
You don't hide the blemishes
That youthful pride concerned you with;
The thin lines of loosening skin
Are not what keep you in.
But I recall your winter porcelain,
And summer lines of worship;
Cherokee cheeks and Burmese neck,
Sun-dappled tops and blue jean dress,
The tennis smash and victory dance,
The on and off of our romance.
And in your memory, locked away,
You dance and sing and nurse your babies,
As if it were today.

Come hither.
Come by.
Come soon.
Come whence.
Come forth.
Come up.
Come hence.
Come often.
Come now!
Come back.

Less daylight...
More starlight
Is just right;
Prolonging
Our night.

What are you hiding.
A stash. A cache.
A tatoo. You.
Do you have pride;
Are you black inside.
Is classical your gas.
Do you like your fine ***.
Is that a crucifix under your shirt.
Do parents think your friends jerks.
Is there a drink in your cupboard.
Expose it. Reveal it.
No longer conceal it.
The truth will set you free.
If you don't believe me,
Believe in you.

In cities, flushed.
In landfills, buried.
In the Middle-East:
ISIS

I left my tidy home
For several weeks alone;
When nature interloped.
It was invaded,
Raided.
Droppings,
Breedings;
Laying siege
To my larder.
They'd been waiting
For the moment
Of conjugal entropy.
All they smelled
Was theirs
In dark and quiet.

But who turned on
The flat screen;
Made a cup of tea?
Sat with seeds
And left a pile
In front of my T.V.
Not mice,
But
Entropic progeny.

Cain's despair of separation
Needed no mark.
His anquish looks back at me
Through the ink spots
And small words,
Useless words when the ethereal is in play.
The co-joining and sharing
Of organs and events.
Children carrying my stories to you
Like a string between two cans.
I hear your virbrations
Through them.

I'm a Swiss cheese man
With a life of holes.
People, places and things
Don't fall through the holes,
They are the holes.
They don't close in time;
There is an aura surrounding them,
And I'm not looking for fill.
I like my holes.
They become me.

If one discounts the minors -
     Rafas
     Jujus
     Shamans
     Medicine Men
     TV Evangelists
     Animists
     Polytheists, etc.,
Move on to precedent.
There hasn't been one pointed to,
Or witnessed,
Whose name I would whisper
On bent knee,
For centuries now.
Will no one step forward
To testify on our behalf.
I'll go on-line to look
For a virtual someone.

One smiles and smokes,
And ryes 'n cokes,
While claiming one's
Forever broke,
As one simultaneously
Takes a ****.
How does one
Manage,
At all
To cope,
Binging while
One quips a joke.
Has one found
The ancient code
The alchemist couldnt't
For making gold;
Or a money-tree,
A gem-studded bank,
Where wealth is found
By shaking free.
At times I shake
Like those leafs
When worn down by
One's Poor me, pleas.
I think I know
How one can binge:
It's all the Bull
You're shovelling in.

Whether it's
A novel,
A fist,
A bottle,
Adultery:
It's all about
Lying,
Lying,
More lying,
And more.

"I'm gonna," isn't good enough,
And good enough's not far enough,
And far enough's not near enough
To get us half-way there.
Forget about a song and prayer,
To get us where we need to be,
To where we breathe deep and free.

Wherever you go;
Whatever you do;
Whomever you choose;
Whenever you leave,
I'll not question Why.
But allow me a How.
How can I help
On this trip you must travel,
Climbing up hills,
Then viewing the valleys
On this quest
Of a questionable life.

I've no master
In a lofty mansion
Forgiving wrongs,
Addressing my transgressions,
Throwing my daily sustenance
To be foraged before the dogs;
All-powerful and glory-ridden.
That's reserved for the down-trodden,
Praying from boxes,
Lucky to inherit the wind,
They're told.
But don't bank on it.

Poetry is
A hot knife;
Not a teeth-rattling
Jackhammer.

In Heaven,
Human love
Needs
Divine distilling.

I was sound asleep. Work tomorrow

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 6:30 A.M.

Alarm on. Out and into shower.
Shave. Can't hear radio.
Getting dressed, and in the background's playing, Imagine.
Then Wheels, Beautiful Boy, Help, I Should Have Known Better.
Why?
And the news sinks in. And I have to go teach Grade 6 English
and read Curious ******* George to four classes of Kindergartens and Grade ones.
And, I'm alone in my new house, in a small town called Aylmer (population 5,000).
My wife is away during the week at University, and I hate my job,
and he's decaying on some slab as I read to twenty-five five year olds. Some of these kids will get to know and love his work. So will their kids and grandkids. I know. Like Mozart.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 10:00 P.M.

Me, Johnny Walker, and the turntable going round and round, like his wheels.

Every body,
Micro, macro or ***** Whale,
Whether healthy and hale,
Or weak and failing,
Will die trying to live,
Will bend, mend and maintain,
Suffer and celebrate to sustain
The body.
I am a body.
Not any body, but one of everybody.
I am bending,
I can mend,
I will sustain.
You could say,
I am some body.

Take solace from sol;
The icicles are long,
And elongating.

Old men know
As much about
Love as the
Fifty-one shades
Of our gray hair.

That field stone bridge, as bridges do,
Waits over brown waters, joining roads
Where Legions marching, marched on.
Her waters breached the ocean, bringing back
Bottles, birds and songs.

In the morning between the columns,
The water breaks from sloping bends,
But under the evening light, when the house
Across the bank shimmers,
They return, marching, dipping, flowing.

Time and time the ebb and flow disturbs ripples
In my mind.
Reflections change from foundations and windows;
Boots and birds go by with the Usk
To deeper waters.
The same tidal waters.
My time here joins roads with the bridge I walk,
Feeling leather below my knees, as Legions did
Before the dig.
Their shields and spears resting,
They bend over fires
And drink clear water that cleverly flows
In and out beneath the bridge.

These same waters,
Ripe in paradox,
Keep days and nights still;
Where past and now meet
In diurnal echoes.