The Vortex has bolted;
The Express left;
The sun, moon and stars
Conspire in the sky
In imitation of Spring,
Before the final plunge.

Then, the Red-winged,
Red-breasted and
Yellow-footed featheries
Will nest and roost
Where I don't want them.

The droppings of winter
Are exposed;
Last Fall's leafy refuge
Upbraid me;
Winter's cover
Is pulled back,
The slumber ends.

I am compelled
To join the festival,
Buy gasoline
For Spring's toys.
I will,
Perhaps,
Be calm
By November.

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.

The broken heart cries,
Alone...
But leaves visible scars.

Like the four horsemen
They're walking two abreast
In brown with clipboards;
Bulging satchels hang by their sides,
With brochures and pamphlets
For me, who looks down from my window,
To ponder when they leave.

The crowd on the hill is talking,
Gathering, nothing's still.
All ages, colors and creeds,
Smiling, grasping, awaiting his will.

It looks like earth they're offering,
Year after year the same.
Casting nets, these fishermen,
Fishermen beget.
They're card said they were sad to miss me.

They take it from the young and old,
The ill and hale, and all between.
They are the cream between the wafers,
These Guides and their cookies.

Happen upon
The special one,
Like you've known
Her all your life.

Take Aine,
My grandaughter,
Like I've known
Her all her life.

She gave me a stone,
And her turkey wish-bone,
She'd been saving.
Then presented a pen
She'd hid in her sock
Under her bed,
In her special box.
These are her gifts;
They're all that she's got.
Gifts from a child,
Giving and smiling.
She's not eccentric,
To her they're aesthetic;
If I'm worthy,
Tomorrow,
There's a blue-ribbon stick.

Mr. Fawcett
Was a friend
Who ran hot and cold.
When he was hot
He drank a lot,
And smoked and toked,
And ****** and slurred.
We thought him quite absurd.
He wheezed and coughed
And finally croaked,
Turning himself off.

Beware the highs of March,
You've forty-eight hours.
Sliante!

She keeps saddest memories
Closest to her heart;
A death-like permanence
Keeping us apart.
Like X-ed out family pictures
In an album loosing pages.
She believes there were no good times,
Her memory's gone hazy-lazy.

I am love's *****,
An untouchable, and
Alone.
I once anticipated the moisture
From your lips,
To find compassion
Looking back.
I shared the food you brought,
At arm's length.
I am dis-eased,
Laden with our sins,
Chased away to wonder.
I've left my fallen fingerprints
Where you
Once let me touch.

I was born
With white privilege;
Irish ethnicity at that.
Remember their holocausts!
Occupied, evicted, brutalized, lynched, starved, hedge-scbooled, and,
Refugeed on their own land,
And on and on, and so on
For seven hundred years.
These things were before my time,
But not my Granda's.
It's so very true,  I was born with white privilege,
But not with white entitlement.

don't call me old til 75
and only then,
if still alive;
only then
i'll let you drive
to florida -
the west keys,
and only then,
if i please.

i sleep late -
i seldom rise
without the help
of pfizer.

i soak my teeth
i wear a diaper
you think
it's yours
ever after
that's if the kids
agree.

yes, i have property
on the lake,
income rentals
you'd like to take,
but the kids,
they won't agree.

i am daddy,
sugar-coated,
yes, i know
my ego's bloated,
yet you signed on
for free,
but there's a hidden fee;
leave your family.

and you thought
lunch was free.

Mass.
It can be so heavy.
Especially in church.

A person's stature
Is never to be measured
By height.

She said she needed
Some me time;
She was suffocating,
Couldn't breathe.
I paid too much attention.
She was right,
Though  pre-conceived.

But now, she seems alone.

Her shield, displayed,
Shunned errant knights.
The force field, impenetrable!
She was armadilo-like, but
No soft underbelly.
No teddy bear arms.
She endured a hard day.
Me, a soft night.
I strayed on my mini pad
Till her light turned out.
I lay on my side,
Beside her,
In another Romantic tale,
In a galaxy,
Far, far away.

When I was a child, I was told to be good,
We were never the most amazing children forward from conception.
We tried to please. Compliments were scarce, but not unnoticed.

In my disengaging years, I was clever enough in school to pass (all but one or two usually did). I'm into life-long learning. I didn't get to grade two because I was seven.

It was never suggested that I might be the smartest, most prodigious brain in school, any school in any district in North America. No one framed my finger paintings and straw art.

I was okay in sports. Most sports. Never got a Participants' Ribbon. Make the team or get cut. Pass the ball or get benched. My parents never knew the coach's name, usually didn't know where the game was played. Do something else. Practice. Oh, and the medals, trophies and team pictures are lots of fun.
And, you will handle them every so often, and remember...

Later, I found out I wasn't ugly. I've my share of blemishes, but there are plenty of kisses and dates out there to go around. Trust me.
I wasn't described as David, recently stepped off his dais, or, the heartbreak of thousands, the man you want to be in the mirror. Actually, we all look much like yourself... the same.

No one told us to be clever with money. That, if it existed, belonged to my parents. I didn't get any. I did take out some garbage cans for two old girls on Tuesdays, for fifteen cents. Ask Boomers about their jobs. There's lots of stories about earning money.

We belonged to the Age of Entitlement. Grew and matured expecting a good education, a fair wage for a fair job, a planet to live on with some intermitent world peace.
You are entitled to the same, Dear Millenials.
The same way. It works wonders.
And don't tell anyone (especially your kids) they're ******* Royalty.
We know how Majesty ends.

What's this?
A set-up?
I never volunteered
To be the patsy.
A whipping boy?
Don't like the story line,
Or being the understudy
Of a flip side;
An expendable.
This is a con
In night gallery.

I'm in the crowd,
In the frame,
And the shot is printed.
Success at shutter speed.

Then you wrote a letter,
Started it endearingly,
Signed it with an old promise
That once was clear to me.

My OFF switch is off,
Which means it's on:
I may have brushed it,
Flicked it in full sight;
I didn't throw a shoe at it,
Or ***** during the night.
But that's how my switch works
When I'm not attentive.
The OFF goes ON,
And then I'm done,
I head towards the cave,
Alone and dark,
With my finger on the switch
To flick, when feeling fit,
When I've had enough of it.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

My sleep is crowded
With recurring nightmares
Of failing Grade 12 French;
Standing naked and exposed;
Seeing the one you love
Love someone else;
The anxiety of an empty back pocket;
Swerving cars,
Crap falling from planes;
The inevitable chase and stumbling
Just ahead of the apocolypse.
The morning daymare news
Is definitely more frightening,
The end times more certain.

This time, this place
I mime control;
When we meet
Face to face,
I avert my eyes,
To save some face,
To save a memory.

The hands will sweep
Past midnight again,
The dewy hours will
Lift by ten,
Then I'll remember
Your emerald eyes,
When they looked
At me
In midnight memories.

We are too much in the world
Of distant sirens, each one racing
To our homes.
The plume of smoke arrests me;
The shoe on the yellow-dotted line
I passed, wondering how one limps home,
Not noticing.
The other night I heard the empty thud
Of flesh and skin and then my cell was vibrating.
I have a message from South Carolina,
FB wants to befriend us;
Twitter assails us;
What's Ap pesters;
E-mail harasses.
We have more messaging orifices
Than a Bell operator,
And hearts beat faster with every siren,
Every baby's cry.
Night shades, ear plugs
And sensory deprivation
Will only heighten our anxiety.
We're kissing urns and spitting ashes.
Our connection falters.

Sleep, Timothy, Sleep.
Let wishes dance about
Your feet for now.
Let angels fill sleep sweet dreams,
While all is as it seems.

Sleep, Baby, Sleep.
Worry not of
Place or times.
As yet, be happy
With childhood rhymes.

Sleep, Dreamer, Sleep.
Let  fancies fill your age forever.
Heed your heart
As sage
In waking hours.

Sleep, Angel, Sleep.
From dreams with candent smile,
You brighten,
Then light again
Where Angels sleep.

I'm not searching
For a rental,
Something less
Than tempermental.
She doesn't need
To be a model,
Yet should react
To the throttle
When I press
The pedal.

Lou left!

It was an unexpected cataclysm;
A rogue wave in my face;
A flapping jib in the lightning;
A broken string
As I began Yesterday.

Today, I read his life's history,
His likes and loves.
I will replace that string,
And finish the song.
Before I forget,
Before too long;
For I was his mate
In many a storm.

Cicadas and crickets
Bring up the chorus,
With bullfrogs and barn owls,
And winds from our forests;
Nature in harmony,
Be part of this song
Join in the choir
Come on, sing along.

Stars in the heavens,
Moon in the dark sky,
Meteors flashing
Like galaxy fireflies.
A roll of thunder
A warm washing rain,
No two Summer nights
Are ever the same.

Then the clouds come
Adding more fun,
A cleansing ensues;
I believe I'll stay
Til the end of this day,
And wade in the morning's dew.

Should tomorrow bring us sorrow,
It can't dampen this night's revelry;
So we'll stay and we'll say
As the night fades away,
*When dawn comes come what may.

Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.

Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.

I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.

Jennifer is my cleaning lady.
Very efficient, and reasonable.
She comes every two weeks.
She knows all my shortcomings,
She empties my bins.
One week, she left me a note,
With a poetic question.
Two weeks later, I waited for her
To discuss her query.
Jen is lost without love,
Lost her love,
Wants to write about the pain.
Quid Pro Quo, thought I,
We were soul mates,
So I took the opportunity
To ask about stain remover,
And behold,
Her poem is born.

My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under sun and scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.

To think I could drink
Is pure vanity.
The thought that a draught
Wouldn't effect my progress.
The ON switch got clicked,
Might have been the OFF,
Either way, I found the cave.
The crawl from the crypt
Is difficult; I'm sick;
But the reward
For the struggle
Compares with nothing,
So humble,
As the love that waits for me.

Let's get out the rawness of life.
Expose emotions long supressed.
Talk about lonliness like the shadow's
My only compay.
Living without the only one.
Pain's a good theme.
Not solitude pain, or desperation anxiety;
The pain that poisons all systems,
Biological and Metaphysical.
To think nothing else
Beyond this immediate moment
Has been proven:
Abysmal philosophy.
Corruptable theology.
Contemptable hypocrisy.
In light of all this,
Nothing matters more than
The truth, and the search.
Tedious, numbing,
Truth.
Now that's raw.
And real.

The dividing line
In our
You/Me partnership,
In our
Us/Them friendship,
In our
Love/Hate relationship,
Is a listing/sinking
Forward slash.

Time to go wild;
Join the pack,
Don't look back.

Time to animalize,
Drop the disguise,
Extend your claws,
Swipe your paws,
Open your maws
And bare your teeth.
Run down the street
With blinders on.

Go primordial.
Try commando,
Eat blue meat,
Crouch and spring,
Do everything
You can
Tonight.
Avoid the trappings
Of civilized man.

I have two brains inside my head,
Sharing thoughts in synoptic threads;
Sifting what's been heard or read;
Random, weird, or rational doubts,
They get crowded, some fall out.

Like mustard seeds some fall near stones,
And wither away before full grown;
Un-liked, un-loved, barely a hit,
Not to pass our reader's lips.

       Have I sown more *******?

Some scatter near the thorny bush,
The root is strong, but growth gets crushed;
It seems I can't discriminate
What readers like and what they hate.

       I need re-evaluate: Am I writing for writing's sake?

Some thoughts find richness firmly grounded,
The how and why leaves me confounded;
But the ideas blossom, some are priceless,
A palate treat with figurative spices.

       Now, this is more to my reader's liking.

Do you hear me today, how do I sound.
Is there softness in my voice,
A calmness to be found.
Did last night's snowfall drown my psalm,
In the chilling winds.
Should I feel wronged.
After all, I prayed so hard,
For some peace, and a little goodwill to men;
For our indulgences to come to an end.
Do I sound hoarse from being up all night?
I knelt humbly, I plead somberly,
Praised the Lord and all his sundry,
That in my lifetime or near future someday,
Peace would reign before Easter Sunday.
That's a story preached to the elders,
Unraveling back through five millennia;
Past the Cross, across Jordan,
Much deeper than the burning bush,
Back to the foot that was to crush
The head of evil.

A crack appeared in my resolve,
A fissure to release my god;
Rise from obsequiousness,
Dust off the knees and do my best
To do my part, to stop my prayer,
For I can start with peace from here.

I shooed a June bug
Off my front screen door;
The freighters' fog horns
Roll on The Huron and St. Clair.
The mist rises like incense
From the black tar on Spartan,
Still a warm May drizzle drifts tonight,
Anointing gardens and lawns.
And Beulah, my new magnolia,
Blossomed yellow for me this year.
But Brigid and Ophelia,
Heralded my Spring,
Brought warmth and light,
With a fresh green lease to everything.

My journal
Has blank leaves.
I turn one daily
To press a memory,
Record,
Write a blank verse,
Or leave blank.
Each leaf
Is attached
To the same spine,
Between the same
Covers.
A copyright date
Has yet to be decided.

I keep my monkey
In a vice;
The jaws are tight,
The pessure's right,
To keep my monkey
Close in sight.

If you have a monkey
That will not go away,
Put your monkey
In a vice,
Tight enough to stay.

Like me, become **** erectus,
Have ***** as big as T-Rex's,
Standing, drooling,
Above the vice.

I chanced on her
In line at Giant Tiger,
A familiar haunt.
Her pose reminded me
Of a girl with
The bearing of old money,
And steady Oxford brogues
That walked home from the Village
Speaking ****** thoughts
With little thnking.
She removed her wallet to pay
With hands that once
Tied ribbons and wrote love letters,
Cooked and loved her family,
Enjoyed stability.
The line moved
And she dropped her card.
Such strange, familiar manners
When she stooped.
The waterfall hair line
Showed sun-worship thinning.

The transaction completed,
She turned to exit,
Without glancing back,
This all too
Familiar stranger.

When I turned the key on the house
I anticipated my return.
A protracted absence ensues.
The air behind is trapped, absorbed my everything.
Heavy and lush as the garden.
Feet-weary carpets rebound.
Plants watered, counters subdued.
Traps baited in favorite niches.
Spiders already weaving like a sweatshop.
The kettle will sing again.
My legs will be elevated.
Home again from thousands of miles,
Planning my next getaway.

Where are our Percys, Johns and Gordons gone?
The rock and pop stars
Of words worth remembering.
We'll never shake them off
Like today's, washed up
On the shore of MTV,
Bleeding on the carpets,
Crying maybe baby.
I'm gagaing.

A hit!
     That's it!

A like!
     Might spike.

A comment!
     An event.

A collection!
     Not done.

A repost!
     Thanks host.

A trend!
     Near the end.

The Daily.
     Mais, Oui!

After many, many storms,
There's a singular leaf
Still hanging on.
Shaking and twisting
With an arthritic hold
On one bare branch.
It doesn't seem likely
This leaf will remain.
Today I'm gripping
The same.

I will not write on lost love,
But do rim shots on a drum.
Blow a flourish at your exit,
Sounding the fury you left.
I hope you hear how well I'm doing.
I can roast baby back ribs,
Add softener,
Keep a clean kitchen sink.
I think I could birth now,
And do just about anything a woman can.
I am male. A man.
I need remind myself
After public emasculation
For the unbridled innateness
Which is sometimes us.
We are heading towards equality,
Finally, and,
When all is said and done,
Keep the ribs.

Poor wee me
When I was wee,
I used to sit on my mother's knee;
Her apron tore,
I fell to the floor,
Poor wee me when I was wee.

Poor young me when I was young,
The song's of youth are those I'd sung;
Songs of love that since have gone,
Poor young me when I was young.

Poor middle me back some years,
I worked and worried, drank whiskey and beer;
Paid my way and prospered here,
Poor middle me back some years.

Poor me today, poor me will stay,
For many poor years to come;
For I've things to do, places to go,
With granddaughters and grandsons.

I hear a disembodied voice,
It doesn't sound like mine.
I hear it in home movies,
We hear it all the time.
A voice over voice,
Narrating your lifetime
From Summer to Spring
Dancing, playing,
Standing, speaking,
Praying.

I filmed you blowing candles,
Unwrapping Christmas joys,
On celluloid in Mother's arms,
With girlfriends and with boys.
You're sitting on your Granda's knee,
Granny's there too pouring tea.
There's cousins, sisters, aunts and uncles,
Everyone's filmed with your cuddles.
That's you on stage,
On the field,
In a rage,
Or a cartwheel.

Then you're singing,
Packing, leaving.

For thirty years
You've been my focus,
Never out of frame;
Never blurred,
Never obscured,
My eye was on the game.

Years ahead,
When I'm dead,
You will watch these too;
But you may wonder
As you view,
I hear his voice,
But where
Are you?

You dream.
You dream like me.
I dream.
I dream of you.
Submit.
Admit to twilight swirls,
You dream,
You dream like me.

During the night,
Out of the blue,
Not always,
Yet always,
In the most unusual settings:
The dreamer and the dream concur
The reality is not so sure.

There's those you expect to see,
Leaning into conversations;
There's others there
We want to talk to,
The scene eludes you,
Trying to get through.

The conversatin goes nowhere:
A room full of comfort people
We're surprised to see.

We think it not quite possible,
But the talk makes us believe
These unreal cacophones,
You see,
You dream,
I dream too.

I hate love
When forced
To say
Good-bye.

Jack entered centre stage
With a flourish,
And a wooden spoon,
To a stainless steel home,
Gilded in precious metals.
His lineage was confirmed.
He would become
A stationary salesman,
Bent under the weight
Of headboards and showrooms.
Nesting tables would be
His succor.
But, there was a sideline
Of coffins in the adjoining parlor,
And Jack was schooled
In the features
For prospective clients..
Too young for overseas duty,
Jack was an apprentice wanderer for
Forty wilderness years,
Selling, dealing.
He raged,
But never struck out
In anger.
Jack is embedded
In the peripheral.
We don't know Jack.