We deserve sounding boards of truth,
Not sponges of deception.

My head is full of lies, equivocations and beguiling stories.
Who can I trust?
The poor?
The limb-lost warrior?
Residents in Cell Block A through Z?
Patients found out but can't breathe.

We must be sound,
And let the voices of truth echo.

You couldn't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.

I enjoy the snow,
Looking from the window.

I applaud the speakers,
Listening to my radio.

I get excited watching sports,
Calling plays from my armchair.

I feel the strain of athletes
At the Olympic trials,
Cheering from the side.

I don't cast my vote by proxy.
I am present, and I am toxic.

Donald has a comb-over,
******, a funny moustache;
Hair Donald?
Heil ******.

It's finally come to this...
"I just don't get it!"

I dreamt love sent three kisses
Across the world to me.
She blew them from my homeland,
Across the expanse of sea.

Her first caressed
A southern breeze,
And wet an unknown shore.
There strangers slept,
Awoke, I wept,
That kiss was meant for me.

Her second swirled
On a wandering wave,
Was carried far from me,
Where it landed
On another man,
Far from the Irish Sea.

In morning rains
I stare at stones
Outside my cottage door;
The magpies flock,
They seem to mock:
"There's only one kiss more."

I'll get some rest
On that last kiss
With eyes part open,
Lips cracked,
Not broken,
When that kiss
Finds me.

There's a darkness tempting you,
I stood still, thinking why
You'd be gone so soon.
I collected my things, my cap and mac,
And you said, Don't go just yet.

Go where?

You slapped your ruby gloves
Against your outstretched palm;
You turned that look of regret;
Then was heard what we knew was absurd:
Please, don't go just yet.

I've been struggling
To create a poem
With the fewest words.
Once I got down to one word:
"Yes."
That's it, "Yes."
Now, I have accomplished the unthinkable,
For me,
A minimalist's Eden.
A no word poem.
Here it is
(except for the title)


                          History of Our Planet
...ooooooooooooooooooOOooooooooooooooooo...

I must walk away
Til I reach a place
Where the world ends;
Where the sky meets.
Especially at night,
I'd see shooting stars-
Brief as they are.
I'll start out barefooted,
Bring coffee and some cigs.
So, I begin.

Distance dwindles,
I focus on a silhouetted outline,
Always, as a dream...
Just ahead of me.

I recognize a gait from behind.
Siren-like, then me.
And I walk to catch-up,
Walking from everything,
With the end of my world.

The perfect verse,
The one that would resonate,
Cannot be written.
Not by Chaucer, or you,
Not by the rood or sickle,
Not by notes or dances,
Or brush and ink,
Clay or marble,
Any substance, any tool.
But it's there, inside,
Giving us a splitting headache,
Trying to get through the crack.

Should poets be like good Romans,
And fall on their pens
When they loose the fight;
Or should we take flight,
To write another day?

Our yesterdays are foreign shores,
With unusual customs.
Among us are worm-holers,
Using foreign words
Like Whitey, ******, *****, Indian.
Archaic phrases,
A woman's place...
A child should...
Are you a man...
Our boundaries have shifted.
Isolationism, provincialism, racism,
All derogatory isms
Are placed in a time capsule,
Not to be opened by this civilization,
This new country for ex-pats.

You're like a bird
The way you unload
Before flying off.

This flower
In the dark
Of night,
With petals
Of carnal delight,
Like Venus, snaps
To hold one tight;
Repeats
The feast
In morning light.

You left off
Your ambiguous secrets,
Your coyness,
Your arbitrariness
When you cut
With sharpened pencils,
And dripped heavy
Leaden words
Down.

It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?

She rides the bus
Near a window,
To watch her world
Blur by;
She sits alone
At the back,
Distracted when she cries.
She grabs her bags of bags
When de-boarding at her stop,
Then sits on her cold wet bench
For her return ride.

It's drop dead sad
When someone dies,
And you can't pretend
Through dry eyes,
Or even breathe
A grieving sigh
You give a ****!
But you do.
Deep down you wish
He'd do it again.

I want to remark
On my disease;
It's not as obvious
As a sneeze,
Or an allergy to cheese.
It's not profound
As cancer,
But will lay me in the ground.
It's worse than an itch,
Though that's part of it,
I can't stop scratching.
I look the picture of health,
You'd never know I'm sick,
Until you get a whiff.
But I am,
Bottle or can.
****... there's no pill to take,
And the cocktail doesn't work.
The worse part of all,
Those who say they love me,
Think that I'm a ****.
I'm not.
I'm sick.

Those of you
In warmer climes
Haven't a clue
What frozen pipes do.
No shower, no tea.
And the log jams
Have my face flushing.

While you're romanticizing the setting sun,
And conjugating all the figures of speech
Such a metaphorical red orb produces,
Allow your eyes to wander over
To the duck,
Waddling westward.

Observe his tail feathers.
Notice how preened and coiffed they are,
With a tinge of midas gold.
See how the breeze gently whips
The wispy wafting plumes,
Swaying right to left,
Exposing its avian chute.

Look,
All you who gaze upon the re-minted
El Presidente,
Donaldo, Don Come Mierda,
Who does indeed have the uncanny resemblance of
The East End of a Duck Walking West.

Street plows
Push snow waves
To douse
My shovelled drive.

Watch
While you have eyes.
Breathe
While you taste the air.
Walk
With your head inclinced.
Touch
With care.
Things
Make sense this way.
Age
Like sleep is stealthful,
Putting the unfeeling
To rest.
Like a woman
Walking away with sway;
You say:
I used to remember such things.

She has tomato red lips,
And kale green eyes,
Strawberry cheeks,
And warm earthy thighs.
I tend to her daily,
My garden of delight,
And I'll harvest
My labor of love
Tonight.

A trout, going about its fish business
In the stream, breathing and searching,
Is distracted, then attracted
By the flash of the lure;
A fly, an easy meal, languishing on the surface.
But the real story is on shore,
Reeling.

Some nights I spiral up
to my wormhole dreams
and stay
till morning light
people that have left
are there
some still here there too
travelling at the speed of time
that holds you present
to surprise me
with a childish kiss
but the lack of light
the room inhabited
I was distracted
being close to you
in the stillness of your sight

Thin ice;
A roll of dice;
A crack,
Then over
My head.

A slippery *****;
A crag of hope;
A boom,
Then avalanche.

Egg shells strewn;
Troubles
Brewing;
Down,
But still not out.

I won't hear you breathe
During the night.
My left arm is useless,
My hipbones need replacing.
I make three cups of morning tea
When six was once the norm.
When songs we knew so well are heard,
They don't sound the same:
This has gone on far too long,
I'm spinning on refrain.

I won't see your breath
When you're in the winter air;
I can't forget the way you looked
Retiring up the stairs,
You required lead time,
Before you'd be mine,
In the hollowness,
Somehow bottomless,
Heartfelt phantom pains.

Guy was a real roust-a-bout:
Drinking, drugging, *******;
Not coming home;
Not leaving home.
Yes, he was troubled,
He was a handful.
But he looks so good,
And the arrangements
Are splendid.
We take turns
Congealing over him
To conceal scars.
Sorry for your troubles,
Then and now.

Suddenly
Our struggle
Matches the effort
Dealing with troubles.
Youth will wane,
Years duly wax, and
Promises are forgotten songs
With hollow echos
Of Tomorrow;
Now that you're gone.

I have a true story. Unbelievable, but true.
You have one too.
This too is true.
It's so unbelievable I can't tell you,
As you cannot tell me.
I think mine more far-fetched,
And you think the same of yours.
You wouldn't believe me,
I won't believe yours,
Even though yours is probably more believable.

It's a secret, but not a secret,
Because I want to but won't tell it...
Because who'd believe it.
They'd sooner believe in voodoo... not true.
Why tell a truth none believe.
It has a dangerous intrinsic result.
What personal good is found
In crosses, nooses and needles.
There's truth there, but refutable truth.
Unbelievable truth.
There's the sticking point.

I'm scared.
I'm silent.

It helps me understand broken hearts and crushed spirits.
The lonely, hungry lost stories of the unfathomable.
Believe me. Don't believe me.
The result's the same.

Legends, myths, folklore tales grow
Because the whole truth went untold,
And mixed with a partial lie,
Becomes our reality.

So, I'm reticent to share mine.
I'm open to hearing yours,
If it's what you say it is.
But I doubt it.

Wrap those arms around yourself,
It's a boost for mental health.
Embrace all feelings when alone,
Then hug until you reach your bones.
Squeeze until it's hard to breathe,
Slowly release and know relief.

Now wrap your brain around yourself;
Unbind the belt cinching sense,
The straight jacket 'round your head;
Buckled and strapped,
It fits like skin;
Too much penance for all our sins.
Unravel the sticking, needling voice,
Whispering...

I have no choice.

It's not because you're lacking wealth,
Family, friends or stable health,
But one's perception of oneself.

Don't wrap your neck inside a noose,
Or shoot yourself with an overdose;
Don't splay yourself on a subway track...

I wonder would I feel that.

Leave Daddy's gun locked in its holster;
Hold high your chin while treading water;
Stand still on bridge, cliff or ledge,
You won't hit bottom til you're dead.

April showers,
And freezing temps
Have festooned our trees
With crystal chimes.
Breezes move the limbs
In a clear symphony of spring.
I've never been endeared
To chimes.

You're too long
Calling;
Too long texting;
Be long by the fire,
Belong to burning desire.
Don't be long away,
For you belong to me.

For all you've done and said,
The care and understanding,
All the unsaid and undone
Makes my response sound trite.
I could paste wings on your photos,
Create an award in your name,
Establish a child sweatshop,
Radicalize the altar boys,
Trade up to a ******'s rifle,
Join a Cartel,
Put granulated sugar in your tea,
Vote Conservative,
And even then,
After the fire,
I'd be at a loss for words.

There's a sleeping giant
On the floor,
Snoring, blocking
All the doors.
I tip-toe 'round the
Massy bulk,
Lest he wake up hungry,
And I'm the morsel
He first sees.
There's a pillow 'neath
His massive head,
The mirror fogs,
So he's not dead.
He sleeps, yawns,
Grinds yellow teeth,
Flutters eyelids,
Causing grief.
Smoke exhales
As he breathes
Through his nose,
Which makes him sneeze
And stretch his limbs,
Then he rolls over
On his chin
To expose his naked neck.
I should grab
A shiny axe
And give that giant
One clean whack,
Put his head in a gunney sack
And bury it in the garden,
Between the rows of corn,
To fester for the worms.
I'd take the body
To the lake,
Weigh it down
And let it sink.
Then we children
Would sleep well,
The sleeping giant
Sleeps in hell.

Minimalism gives me no choice.
The fewer words, the better.
Brevity is next to godliness.
Someday, I will cover
The entire canvas with
One stroke of the brush.
So, I am reminded:
In the beginning
And the end,
There is one
Word.

I appear unexpectedly,
For no apparent reason;
And I begin a conversation
You've waited for.
You're reticent when I speak,
When I sit in a familiar chair
In a room we both know;
Where I don't belong.

I've no control over my visits,
No more than yours.
Others are peripherally present,
With marbled voices.

Your focus is me,
Wondering why I'm there.
Do I move to your blind spot, occasionally?
I am invasive and untoward.
I am not plasma, a phantasm or apparition.
I emerge from the mist to your surprise.
     What are you doing here?
I ask the same when you visit,
Yet I love to see you, relaxed, intwined.
You treat me as an old friend
With inquiries and interest.

I have so much to confess to you,
But you're disinterested in past failures.
Someone interrupts us,
You leave,
Through the same ethereal.

If you called to say you were coming
For a visit,
I'd get no sleep.

I admit, in writing,
I like my work read
Aloud.
So why do I cower
In dread,
When I hear it read
Before family and friends
At celebrations
For the living and dead.

I won't drink your bourbon.

         Well, I won't buy your beer.

I won't ride your Harleys.

         Oh Yeah. Well, our cars don't need your wheels.

Says who?

          Says you.

Did not!

          Did too!

No way, Jose.

          I'm telling.

You're a scaredy-cat.

          I know you are but what am I?

You're a *******.

          I'm rubber and you're glue.

If you love it so much, why don't you marry it.

          It takes one to know one.

Will not!

Will too!!

La la la la la la la. I'm not listening.

I crossed the line,
Learned to despise;
It wasn't the plan,
Just my disguise.
I saw the loss grow
Through your eyes.
You looked at me
With such regret;
You thought I'd finished,
But I wasn't yet.
Red flags flapped,
You raised the white;
No more cave-ins,
No more fights.
I found it hard to accept;
You thought I was done,
But I wasn't done yet.
Seasons passed,
Years followed through;
I can't see
What I saw in you.
We're not strangers,
We're not friends,
But should you need me
Near the end,
I'll be standing there.

The lone pebble
Thrown waywardly
Into the pond,
Cascaded,
Rippled in my mind,
Splashed over
Like lines in verse.

May I take this opportunity to be plain and simple.
I've learned by speaking less, listening little,
Reading and watching more.
Let's begin with the beginning, something simple,
Birth.
It's universal, a de facto truism.
We've caused it, done it, feared, dreaded, cherished it.
Birth is like unto us a parable.

Which brings me to religion. From being ditch water
to the moon landing and beyond, we've pursued the ideal through
knowledge. One  of our earliest stories tells we paid dearly for it
too; otherwise we'd have grasped thunder and forgone tresspassing on foreign lands.
A favorite quotation convincingly talks about turning into dust. I've seen the hate and violence, and the bodies unearthed weren't even dust. The ragged clothing looked more like us. I think the most confusing quote is about being in an afterlife with your body.
Why? Who you gonna swim with?  

                  Vestal ****** ******. Maintains an Eternal *******.

The poet said, Why worry about death. There's nothing to
worry about.
Hmmm!

So, then, what's up with death?
Well, what I know for sure, is that it's a lot like birth,
With one fatal difference.

Cold sores never leave the body.
They are grafted into the being,
And become a hybrid life,
A symbiotic thing, perhaps a protective shield
From the unwanted, unsolicited other.
A wart, on the other hand,
Can be frozen, or, with the likes of you,
Repeated Compound W.

I'm watching leaves blow
On my lawn;
Praying more blow off
Than on.

George moved
Me humming
His garage sale blues,
Selling stuff
He'll never use.
I'll miss George
Like an older brother;
I told him as much
And got a cheap snow-blower.

You
   can             shine
a     light
          on        me;
          yes      please
            brighten                    up
    my                   day
           just send
   five
   bucks
    my
    way.

Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.

Beat it
Into resignation.
Flog it
Into degeneration.
Disparage it
Into decomposition.
or
Leave it
To wither all alone.
These are some choices.
There are others.
Embrace it
To become integral.
Surround it
To become enclosed.
Adopt it
To be your mantle.
and then
You wither alone.

Mammy's favorite colour was red.
Cycle red. New born red. Deep cuts red.
And roses.

Daddy preferred earth colour.
New potato patene, manure mix,
And bottle brown.

We all knew green-eyed envy,
White-flag truces and surrenders.
Black somber calls in the pitch of night.
The passion of purple,
Serenity of blue wounds.
The orange hues of morning and evening
Where anticipation and destination meet.