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 honoured 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
Canadian pulses beat taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

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.

The man on the cross
Wears a ****** mask
Of eternal pains.
The god behind the pantomime
Smiles with eternal gains;
He has inside knowledge
Of our temporal life.

One little
Two little
Three little students
Running home from school.
Four little
Five little
Six little students
Not paying attention to rules.
Seven little
Eight little
Nine little students
They're playing on the street.
Let's make sure
Our little students
Have a safe summer break.
Oh, and by the way,
All ten little students
Made it home today.

When I'm not content
In my skin,
I identify with
My animal kin.
I think outside
The box,
Can be as sly
As the fox,
Sturdy as the ox.
I'll be resilient
As a rat,
Or purr and prowl
As a cat.
I'll be small
As flies on walls,
Avoiding webs,
Hearing all.
Be as stubborn
As a mule,
Laugh like hyenas,
Look like the fool;
When I lack
Self-confidence,
My wise old hoots
Can make more sense.
Once she goaded
Me to fight;
But I stood my groud,
Like a deer in lights.
At times I'm gentle
As a lamb,
Or slippery as an eel;
And if I find you need hope,
I'll be tethered like a goat.
If I don't get my fair share,
I'll not be your Pooh bear.
When I'm pleased to share my share,
I'll give my all, den and lair.
Should you find
Your world callous,
I'll share the milk
Of human kindness.
I'll spread my wings,
See me soar,
And claw my way
Back to humanity.

The sheep are shorn.
The lambs have flown.
The rams are caged.
The ewes left alone.

The fleece now woven on foreign shores,
And the toilets are flushed,
Filling sewers strewn with rebel nails.

Near embers of tri-coloured blazes
We hear yarns of ancient wages,
Now spinning in their graves.

Our heirs have no airs of their own.
No promises kept for mothers weeping.
There is no wool on the wheel at home.

The keypad is the abattoir,
The counter a barred cage.
John Barry faces East,
The Rebel faces West:
One for reliance,
One for defiance.
All wait in requiem silence.

The Dailys wrap the Dail
Stained with lamb's blood.

Be sure you get a house
With an attic.
Basements can be dug up,
But attics burn down.

On the coldest day
We'll try ice-fishing,
In warm huts
Without winter's sting.

On the snowiest day
We'll try ski-doing
Through bare woods
Leaf-thick in spring.

On clear winter days
Try ice-parachuting,
Skate on ponds,
Wiggle like angels
On our lawns.

Don't sit inside
And fret and mope,
Grab a sled,
Hit the slopes.
Winter activities
Help us cope
Til we break
Winter's back.
Yes,
Til we hear
The final crack.

I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.

          I should feel slighted.
          Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
          Bacon tastes good, is good.
          The surgery is booked.
          The schools are over-cooked.

The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.

It's a happy mouse
Trapped in your hold.
Snap!
I'm enwrapped
In rapture.

When you’re alone,
Or with others,
Enjoy the poems
Between these covers.

Poems of love and hope,
Praise and pride,
The times we laughed,
The times we cried.

Through the years,
From birth till now,
We grew in number,
And thrived somehow.

Your natural talents
And acquired skills,
Fill my pages
With timely thrills.

You weren’t entitled,
You didn’t squander,
You earned the prizes
For your endeavours.

Read now how it came together.

The mass for the dead
Envigorates me.
I'm never more alive
Than when I hear about Lazarus,
With Martha setting about,
And Mary running out
To greet her Master.
I'm at a very busy place.
This is critical to the faith.
The knell surrounds the neighborhood
Before dying over the lake, for good.
None suggested, none expected
To return alive.
This question is just hanging there,
Like IN+RI.

I stook in naked thought
Beneath the waterfall spout,
With the quiet roar
Cascading over my ears,
And the hot water
Massaging the tenseness
Away from my deep thoughts,
When one swam to the front
About Three Parent Babies.
The procedure is reproduceable,
And the bio-ethics is someone else's concern
Who knows more than me.

I am concerned about the
33% better chance we have
To ****-up the kid
Before age thirteen.

The hands have moved.
The sun is up and down.
Stars shift.
Tides advance and recede.
Trees add rings.
Winter over. Spring here.
The oven is pre-heated.
The oil change is due.
But time with you
Is immeasureable.

This time of year,
When trees go bare
And snow covers our ground,
I come down
With a seasonal disease...
Weeks prior to Christmas Eve.

The onset is a distant twinkle
Shimmering in the deep;
That gives me such a nuanced twitch...
I itch to hang a wreath.

And when I sneeze,
I'm joyfully pleased
To shop for such and stuff.
I horde it in a secret place,
Then worry I've not enough.

When my muscles get tired and weak,
My back gets bent and sore,
When my body starts to sweat...
I await the seasonal cure.

I'll run a fever, hullucinate,
Take to my bed and wait.
Don't present me meds,
Don't ring me up a nurse,
I'll protest and rave.
This winter ailment,
This gifting curse,
My present proclivity,
Will only break
Come Christmas morn.
Oh Come, Oh Come Nativity.

It's 2 a.m.
The phone rings.
It rings differently,
You lift it gingerly,
Afraid to say, Hello.
Hello, this is Sgt. B.D. Gnus.
May I speak with
Mr. or Ms. Mel/Ann Colley.
A minute later,
All you hear is the dial tone,
And a thud
In you head,
And a rattle
In your chest.

The Ash Tree is metaphor
For the disappeared;
Like Mayans,
Liberals and fair play.
Nasties bore through
Looking to survive.
Not for ivory or painted fur,
Not for all the cod.
Check out the bins behind restaurants,
The methane valves in neighbourhoods,
Geysers in Bear Creek,
Toddlers vanishing into preshcool,
The tainted years of our elders,
The ones who've failed to launch.
Fire, not water,
Urns, not coffins.
I think of these as I water my tomatoes,
Not for survival,
For sanity.

I'm a sinner,
Our boy's a swimmer;
Pray for us.

I crave to man handle
Lads in our *** scandal;
Pray for us.

My hub's a ******,
Pleads, L'amour toujours;
Pray for us.

We seek your affection,
Count our Sunday collection;
Pray for us.

We drink golden showers,
Are massaged for hours;
Pray for us.

On our private jet,
We ***, drink and fete;
Pray for us.

You don't know squat
Till you Manage a trois;
Pray for us.

We are rich,
And white as hell;
And richer now
That we fell.

Pray for us all.

The overnight fall
Is framed through my bedroom window
This morning
I will wrap myself
In the blanket
Before tires, squirrels and bootprints
Mar my pristine scene.

Easter's over.
I rose to the occassn.
More than once.

He has a thing
That hangs on him;
Keeps it with him
At night, asleep,
In light of day,
He keeps his thing
At work or play.
It's craddled and cuddled,
It seems to double;
He's kept it all these years.
He hides it from fam and friends,
He'll keep his thing
From now til then,
Never knowing how or when
This thing will be no more.
It's not a ribbon,
It's not a bow,
How he got it
He doesn't know.
A keepsake that he never shows,
Unless you visit him,
But you're not invited in.
He's dogged by his thing,
His private, personal sin,
Thirsting from within.
Although his cup's filled to the brim,
It's not enough for him,
And his thing.

If my hearing's weak,
Or I seldom speak,
Perhaps my mind may wander;
Don't overlook
My eyesight's fine,
I detect
Eyes roll and shift.

I know, I know,
I repeat myself,
Echolalia is my mantra.
At this age one forgets
Who heard his story,
Tsk. Tsk.
Such disrespect.
Ah, well.
What should I expect?
Did I call,
Or send a text,
Use Skype or Face?
I'll learn what's next.
Sometimes I use snail mail.
Sorry, memory fails.

You must admit
Your old man
Tells a story
Like no one can.
Stories drip
From my lips;
But given time
I'll learn to mime


The muscles relax,
One can't hold back;
Please tell me if I smell.
You may be bolder
If I make an error;
**** happens
When you're older.

I say
I love
You
Say you
Love me too.

I yet adhere to the one.
Can't find the replacement.
I've loved in many darkened rooms,
Yet still believe in one.
Is there any other?
Now gone. Not dead.
Therein lies my difficulty,
Knowledge that lives on,
Beyond reach,
Beyond hope,
But lined up next to fear,
Still after all these years.
She presented well,
I accepted graciously.
She slipped into retreat,
I tripped hard,
And slid off into the wild.

Canada is renaming the Great Lakes.

Lake Superior..........Lake Canada

Lake Ontario............Lake Ontario (stays)

Lake Erie...................Lake John A. Macdonald

Lake Huron..............Lake Jacques Cartier

Lake Michigan........Lake Trudeau (that should **** him off... but we
                                   know we mean Pierre, not his bonehead son)

Lake Champlain....Lake Quebec (although not a Great Lake, the
                                 orange guy wanted to make it a Great Lake back
                                 in 2018).

We have our own cartographers.
Gimme the Sharpie.

I saw him wince,
I saw no smile,
I saw the hurt
In his eyes.
I heard the lines
Of jokes misspoken
In the guise of humor;
And thriving like malignant tumors.
Finger pointing at shortcomings,
Of race, religion, creed,
Or a Newfie, Pole, a Jew;
A priest, rabbi or preacher,
A doctor, lawyer, teacher;
Gay or straight, make no mistake,
They're fodder when one utters
A slight not misconstrued.
We should be adamant,
We should make a fuss.
If we fail;
If we're unjust;
The joke reflects on us.
.

Mindless
Wandering
Drivel.
Watching a fly
Buzz against
The pane;
Dustwebs fluttering,
Outside sputtering,
Scribbling on a page.
I want to engage
The rage;
Drip red,
Smear words,
Write a dirge.

Mindless
Wandering
Drivel.

I hold the pen
In my hand
Like a knife,
Ready
For a good
Blood-letting.

You say you won't cry
(and you know I know why),
But you will.
When memory reminds you
Of our life and thrills,
Our talks of love
In the park on the hill.
Our fear for our children,
Our love for each one,
Our love for each other
Before our love was gone.
You say you won't cry,
But you know you will.

Is there room in the tomb
Of our sun and our moon.
All creation stands waiting.

It's filled with transgressions,
Our ungoldly sharp sins,
A shroud unstitched by Seraphim,
With heavenly hosts on the pin.

It's darker outside than the light within.
And the temperatures rising,
There'll be no denying,
There's room in the tomb,
The sun has risen,
The curtains are torn,
All sins were forgiven
That first Easter Morn.

I need permission
To break through this invisible forcefield,
To give you a hug,
And make it not ******.
Yet...
We both know
It not to be true.

I'm the average
Upstanding citizen,
And ecologically wise:
I'm the one to re-cycle,
In boxes near curbside.

You wouldn't know me
By my refuse,
Those empties,
Truly, aren't mine.

     I never dranka drop.
     I've long since been a sop.

Whistling, cycling
On his rounds,
Comes the blue box scavanger,
Looking, knowing
I don't have
Empty bottles of liquor.

     But I had my Irish cousins visit
     And we've left the empties here.

I had a driving need to explain:

     I never drank one drop.

The metal peddler heard my claim,
Shook his head,
Said with dismay:
     Freeloaders.
As he rattled along his way.

Do you believe
In life after death?
Do you believe
In life after birth?
Do they share
The same consciousness,
Or do we
Consciously share
The same dream.

The hearth is almost cold now,
My rooms are dimly lit;
The shadow near the firebox
Stirs the ashen pit.
They'll peer through my window,
Point and query why
I sat under my blanket
Wearing such a smile.

For thirty years I lived within you,
For twenty years without;
Still you show up in many rooms
For the living and the dead.
I'm stopped, I stand in awe of you,
Then must turn my head.

You glide by me like deking strangers,
You never glance my way;
I see whispers when you move your lips,
Hear bursts of laughter from my perch.
And even so, what could I say:

     That roads once merged
     Now diverge
     To maneuver through terrain,
     Traversing time's hard memories
     That cannot be reclaimed.

Just once more in a well-lit room,
When all the kids are present,
We would share our stories,
Catch up on years gone by.
Laugh because we can now
At times that made us cry.

I've warapped,
With much consternation,
My years in you,
Without hesitation.
I adorned myself
With framed sheep skins,
Kept your eyes glittering,
To be more appealing.
You pressed your nose
Against the shop window,
Longing for the man
In the red suit.
I forgot about the ribbons,
You misplaced the bows.
I lied to some Santa,
Many years ago.

There's stuff parents will never know,
The kicks and blows we all endure
To mind, body, spirit and soul.
The run-ins with society,
With the good and the Just for me.
Children should never ever know
Half the stuff they should never know.
The other half I won't tell,
Like the half my kids won't share as well.

Who else knows the stuff I've done,
Alone or with the chosen ones,
Who shared memories with me.
One has died,
One has forgot,
One was always on the spot,
But now stolen from memory's vault:
My recall is true and false,
But the memory now is real,
None here to make appeals.

He knew all of my youth and teens,
Knew my life and all my moves,
My families, old and new;
But his memory is fading too.
It's not forgotten,
It can't be retrieved;
It's lost and can't be found.
These memories now are treasures,
Forever buried underground.

Don't call me Honey,
I'm not that sweet;
Don't call me Sugar,
I'm no beet;
Don't call me Dear,
I'm a ***** Buck;
You say: Let's make love,
I say: *Can't we...

I've been tested,
Yes, I'm arrested:
I freely confess
Being under the influence.
I'm compromised
By breathalyzer eyes.

They called him, Paddy,
Who brought the old world here,
With curses, **** and beer.

We called him Towser,
A cur-mixed bowser;
A dog with a bone.
Both lived at home.

How would things
Be different
If the tectonic plates
Were stable.
Would the world
Be closer?

If the Great Comet hadn't
Smashed our world,
Would the primordial cesspool
Bubble?

Time has told us:
Well, I'm all ears now.
How would my world be
If I hadn't shifted and crashed?
Time won't tell.

There was always Christmas Eve
And birthdays waiting
Walking home from school.

Then you would smile,
Or was that guile
That heightened my breath.

Then there were your eyes
That stretched my longings.

Needing belonging
I saw it all as hope.

Through winter clouds
The spinning sun is hazy,
But it's there.

As long as hope
Is in the box,
I'll open all lids,
Let distractions fly out,
And remain.

Say the three
Words
I love hearing:
*See you tomorrow.

The pastries are tempting,
     But my little voice speaks.
Drinks spill into my cup,
     My little voice speaks up.
There's a beauty needing company,
     But my little voice starts warning,
And I'm hard of hearing.

Dark at day,
Light at night,
Chaos mocks us
With villainous smiles.
I have yet to meet
A godsend I could trust,
A fluke of luck,
Or twist of fate
To rely on.

Blessings in disguise
Are mirrors in my eyes;
Health or weal
Has timed repeal.
The dealer insists
It's in the cards,
Like karma now,
And kismet next.

Chaos mocks us
With indifferent results
But just give it time..

If you want a ballad
On a tragic conflict
Of important people,
With a little magic,
I can write of kidnapped girls
Who disappeared
From our world.

I can pen a narrative
On the Lady of the White House
Seeing her world
Reflected in a mirror,
Like Jackie's interior struggles
With all of Jack's trollops.

Perhaps a dramatic monologue
Such as Push one for English.

Sonnets will cost you more,
But an ode comes cheaply
As I praise your features
In lofty style,
Or personify
Your shoes with soul.

I can be a winner
With eulogies
And elegies.
I once grieved for Elvis
While standing
At the dais
With lyrical style
And more.
Just say what you adore;
If you need a poet laureate,
I can write a couplet.

One brief glimpse of heaven
Before neverending exile
Is Hell.
Left with eternal longing,
After the universe contracts
To a pinhead.
Yet, I experienced perfection
With impenetrable mountains,
Bedless lakes,
Plains of current-ridden grasses,
Bluest skies.
Ethereal realms don't appeal
When I have this world to peek in on;
This Sistine to confound me,
This sentient reality in full.
The angel is coming to drive me out,
With fire and ice,
I lived paradise:
It is blue and green.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon,
Whom they call Asset,
Meets Beauty,
Whom they call Eliza, who does little,
Except frees Asset's willie.
Del Toro has certainly pulled the bull over our eyes.
Two hours of my life I'll never get back.

Small voices
Are muted by buds
Pounding the bass.
Like a headache,
Blurring,
Not wrong,
And jarring the song.

Bullies are wired,
The me's get hired
Carrying small compassion.
That Voice
Has no auditions;
We are type cast
In roles of contrition.
Don't slur,
Be demure,
Have patience
To hear
Your voice
To conclusion.

Join the dance,
Be resolute.
Hear the voice
With repute.

Be real about hallways
Lined with windows, or mirrors.
Be real about dreams in stanza form,
Which aren't real - stanzas I mean.
Write about flowers and rain,
If you must, throw in some stars;
Moons always read well,
Or seaside waves lapping.
Call it a poem,
A free verse or well-crafted couplet,
Matters not, unless it comes from the heart,
Whole or broken; wise or foolish.
Temper it with lovers, friends and family,
Bake it in the soul,
Then release.
Dump your lover,
Start another.

You must be weary,
And a drop of teary,
From your arduous journey home.
The length of stay
While you're away,
Pierced me as a thorn.
Now stay awhile,
There's more to retract,
But they'll slip out
Because you're back.