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.

If I was a bigot,
Or xenophobic,
Or prejudiced,
Or sexist,
Or racist,
Or even Evangelical,
I would argue
The Wrath of God
Has enveloped America,
Like a plague.
But I'm not, I'm a non-believer.

I, in my vanity,
Felt sympathy
For my writer brother;
Chained like a pen
In a bank.
Now, I feel empathy
With non sufficient funds.

We were on the bubble;
Now we're in the bubble.
No ****** please.

Da's  an ***** grinder,
Grinding heart and tongue;
Bull pizzles for his daughters,
Ewe livers for his sons.
Cranking in the summer kitchen,
Out of the morning sun.
He strings savory sausages
That please most everyone.

Mammy's in the smoke house
Anticipating some;
Mammy cooks when Daddy grinds,
She likes a little tongue.

Don't greet me
When we meet.
Don't look into my eyes.
Don't say, Hi.
Don't tell me how you're doing.
I'll do my best
To do the same.
I'll just close my eyes
When I say your name.

By being
Individual
Beats
Of a
Universal Heart,
Our actions
Prevent
Arrhythmia.

I made my Dr.'s appt on time... early... as normal.
And waited one hour. But that's okay.
He takes his time, and will also do so with me.
I'm called in.
I sit, and wait another fifteen minutes. But that's okay.
He arrives. He's older. In fact why hasn't he retired.
But, I'm pleased he hasn't.
So, he begins, as he brings my chart onto his medical screen,
What brings you here today?
I'm concerned about my health. I have a family history that worries me.
Oh!, he sounds. What is it in particular that worries you?
Death, I answered. My family... (and the litany ensued)
Death! I heard. Your chart doesn't have any serious health issues to red flag you, he consoled.
True, I said. But look at my family history. It goes back generations, in Ireland and now in Canada. Both through my maternal and paternal sides. Uncles, Aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters...  died.  All of them. Is it any wonder. I have a family history of near and distant relatives dying. It's chronic, it's acute. Wars, disease, accidents, suicide. You name it. They've died from it, and I probably will too.
A textbook case, he said. Nurse, next.

This winter's first snow came tonight,
And it falls like moon feathers,
No wind to sharpen the edges,
A snow-globe pillow-fight,
Streetlights smudged,
Rockwell houses, tundra streets.
Known as the ****** snow,
No squirrel or footprints
On my porch steps;
I need re-fill my gas can.
I'll give it twenty more minutes.

She bounces on
My Granda knee,
As I bounced you,
As you bounced me.
Play infant games
Until she's two.
Same as you.

We'll dove-tail hands
On pre-book walks,
She'll feign to listen
While I talk.
Her harlequin senses
Embrace the beauty;
Same as you
When you were three.

We'll attend
Her fav movies;
Engage while
We're snacking fries:
I'll see the light
Light up her eyes.
Same as you
When you were five.

I'll be lucky,
And live long;
I'll be sure
To carry on
Helping her
All along.
The same as you,
And you grew strong.

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.
Their 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 honored 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 played taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.

Don't chase
After happiness;
Wait,
And it will
Catch up.

Sure, it's easy to define life.
Explain everything using the variable,
X.

Sitting in a waiting room,
I envied the young
With children,
Reading.
The door opened
To an octogen,
Who looked at me
And remembered when.

They're laying their hands on
Two of everything;
A and B have my mother's chin,
I've seen the pictures,
Though they're still in.
Two bassinets and blankies,
Strollers and onesies,.
Cots, cradles and potties.
And let's not forget *******.
Surely both will be put to the test.
Perhaps alternating could garner some rest.
Those peanuts at present share one shell,
And the bump... well, you should see the swell.
Soon they'll gather and cut the ribbon,
There'll be crying and laughing
At The Grand Opening.

I couldn't help but wonder how the day began.
Did he spend precious moments on his knees,
Searching for the toothpaste cap.
Perhaps behind the toilet.
Meanwhile, the wife was going on about her job interview
While changing the baby, when, from down the hall, she hears,
Aha!
I'm sure he looked out the bathroom window and cursed
The snow-packed driveway needing shoveling
Before leaving for the forty minute commute.
His older girl was talking about her weird gymnastics coach,
And he rubbed his cheeks after shaving.
He hardly noticed the clink of coffee brought to rest on the baby-blue  sink.
He was glad he clipped his nose hairs, but paid no heed to the softness of his facecloth.
He poured a re-fill after shoveling, kissed his wife perfunctorily,
And poked the kids.
When I saw the crushed metal at the crossroads,
I wondered if his day began like mine.

Whatever I think on a theme
Is somewhere in a song;
I want to muse on something,
That hasn't yet been done.

Political verses aren't much read,
Nor social satire on the quick and dead;
Relationships are switching lanes,
Sparking up or down in flames.
Family, friends, coming, going,
Everybody's naming names.
Any doggerel I might choose,
Is just a story in the news.

Arise and spin where you stand,
You'll get dizzy, you'll be queasy,
I knew this wasn't to be easy.
It's somewhat like a paper cut,
It's quite like that when it starts up,
Hardly noticeable, but for the sting,
But it gets in under the skin.

It's sweetness strong to draw a bee,
Flowery scents on a breeze;
An attraction meant to pull you in,
A stinger poised to pierce your skin.

I have my joys at end of day,
A little sleeper, a swift silent dreamer
That grows like our emotions,
Just needing our endorsements.

It's not been parsed as it could,
Discard the evil, keep the good;
It's in our veins, as sure as blood,
I'll focus all my wit on love.

I first saw John sitting in the third desk of the first row.
I sat in the second, my new jeans cracking,
No curling iron-on patches as of yet.
A pin from my baby blue shirt pricked my neck.
I stepped in red ball Jets, before the soles became flapping tongues,
And the insignia peeled from the ankles.
Our well-used, wooden desks had pull-out drawers for stuff,
And always in need of re-arranging.
We invited our Guardian Angels to sit there, on the wooden drawer.
John sat, with black-rimmed glasses, on his pull out,
Graciously giving up the well-worn seat for his angel.
I liked him already.
His specs fit my sight. I could see the alphabet above the blackboard.
My first friend. Not a brother or sister. Someone who heard me.
Someone I listened to.
He was the oldest of six.
Had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in Canada.
He had instinct. Knew my lacking, shared his relations.
We studied the Catechism, had Confessions, First Communion, altar duties, patrol boy corners, sports, jerks and girls.
We learned to smoke and drink, drive and thrive.
We were Best Men, fathers and grandfathers.
I am not eulogizing John,
But celebrating while alive.
If all goes well,
I'll die before losing him.
But then,
Why would I do that
To my life long friend.

Today, I am reticent;
But when the inevitable call comes,
What will I say?
Will I profess my pent feelings;
Say what needs saying?
Will you embrace without pity?
The call will surely come,
So why hold back, waiting?
Why so taciturn now?
Now hesitating.

I testify. Testified.
Everyone ,
Including me,
Believes truth will taste better salted.
Salted.
Yet apathy prevails.

I am deluged with words
With diluvial figurative curves.
I see how a king can pass through
The guts of a beggar:
I don't need to be a melancholy Prince
To understand the string theory
When a worm gets stretched
From ground to beak,
Or the night sky becomes a crossword
Puzzle.
Lakes are pools of tears;
Clouds are bandaids covering
Bleeding dimensions.
The earth is a five ball
Caromming through the green felt universe.
Does anything seem as it once seemed?
I have voices conversing
In figures of speech.
Should I be tied to a stake,
Or,
Heard as a soothsayer.
There,
See what I mean?

I am the collateral damage
Of a riddled, war-torn heart.
Open your borders
That I may find refuge.

My grandchildren will read
The year had already passed,
By the time they were born,
To stop climate change.
I don't know how they will get the information.
I don't know when they will get the information.
I don't know from what or whom it will be delivered,
Or how it will be communicated.
I'm sure the news won't and shouldn't come from me;
Although it came duplicitously from me, and others;
Driving them everywhere, flying around, BBQing animals.
And all the entrapments of a twentieth century middle class life.
The grandkids will have serious questions,
Like Why?
I have loved you to death.
Will there be any to answer
When the signal arrives in 2070?

When I get big, as big as Granda,
I can do whatever I wanta.
I won't have to go to bed,
Even though I'm nodding.
I'll stay up late, yawn and stretch,
Let my eyes dry, rub and scratch,
Staring at the late night screen,
And think of jobs in need doing,
Like raking, shoveling, weeding, mowing.
Thanksgiving isn't far away, then
Christmas comes and family stays.
Granda stays up late and thinks
Of doing something before he sinks.
He doesn't have to clean the harvest,
Stain a table for a daughter, or
Drive to London for a visit.
He doesn't have to go to school,
And follow everybody's rules.
For all he's worth, and we're not sure,
He's staying here for many more.

Easily done
If you’re a draught horse,
Or ******* pulling a cart,
Or pointing a gun,
Or under a yoke.

I’m fine staying here;
I’m not moving on.
I don't want to.
Such advice as, You need to move on,
Sounds cheap, pithy and unaware.

What do we know about moving on?
Or moving up, or out, or in.
It’s decisive and aggressive.
It’s a judgment call.
It’s supposed to be good.
A learning experience.
For whom?

This is what I don’t need.
I have enough friends.
I've met with enough romances.
I won't move on.

Move on.... Indeed.

There's a patient
In my bed,
There's nothing wrong
Inside her head.
She sleeps restless,
She breathes deep,
There's reason for her
Antic raving,
I understand she's misbehaving.
There, she shakes,
And chills and beads,
Calling names
And personal needs.
I'm no doc, but I'll prescribe
A script to calm her passionate side.
Take two pills,
I'll take mine,
Call in the morn,
Call anytime.

I keep a private Scrapbook
You won't see on my shelf;
Stuffed with trivia from my life,
Known to no one but myself.

It's filled with words and actions,
Lies, cheats and thefts;
Nothing really serious,
But enough that I won't share.

Deeds I'm not proud of,
Words uttered to hurt;
Clippings from a checkered past
Sealed safely in my book.

There's some who'd like to read it,
Expose me for what it's worth;
They should proceed with caution,
They have their own Scrapbook.

There are thirty-four holes to fill in your home.
That could do.
All things gravitate their way.

I brought capsules
Filled with the smells of *****-turned earth,
And a sun-dried piece of carpet beneath my knees,
Lying between morning rows of an ***** garden
That touched my arms as I reached.

Holes begin to fill.

Then there is the touch of a cool coin in a pocket hole.
The sound of gravel crushed beneath tires
On a promised Beach Day.
The heat is piled on the hood, and mixes with the
Smoke-soaked upholstery.

Several holes to go.

I smear mud, made by man, and mixed with the
Scent of parental bedrooms,  work clothes,
A sweat-dried pillow, and an open window.

Holes are disappearing.

The nursery ceiling has been dimpled beneath hot-wired
Survival smells
You too will know.

Fewer now.

When you moved to another room,
I filled using your old books:
The Giving Tree and The Bone.
I used holidays, blankets, music and soothing cover stories.
Then I sanded above me,
Behind the mask of a mime.

One left.

So, I finished the job.
Smoothing and painting over the scabs.

No picking. No scratching.

I have a mouseolem,
Somewhere in my walls;
I set traps with favored cheese,
Peanut butter really teases,
These are my preferred baits.
Some days they just can't wait
To navigate my drawers.
Eat bristles from my BBQ brush,
Crumbs on counters and on floors.
They're good at reproducing,
It's what they're wired for.
They're good with their escape,
Both mouse and my bait;
And that concerns me.
Is their rate of copulation
Proportionate to a brighter breed?
Twice the traps have disappeared
With all the treats in tact;
I was sorely feeling stumped,
Yet sure I wouldn't be out-*******.

I'm on top of it.
They won't win.
It's a survival struggle we're caught in.
If we snap the minion mice,
We'll surely ****** the rat.
And every cat will arch it's back,
The traps are set,
No going back.

Time is a gilded gift
To offer or ask.
It diminishes in quantity,
Bound by its own law.
And yet,
She asks for more.
I argue:
My time is not
Environmentally friendly,
Reuseable or recyclable.
It's reduceable!
And therein lies
The problem.
You want the very air
In my lungs
Til eternity chimes.

When you're gone,
Who'll I compare
To the setting sun,
To it's reluctant rays
When you're gone?
Don't think I don't compare,
But won't, now,
That you're gone.

I find readers still like
Meter and rhyme,
But the rhyming words
Must be sublime
When dangling at
The end the lines.

If you've a message
To get through,
Rhyming lines
Do it for you.
Don't get me wrong,
Free verse is fine,
But I only remember
One or two lines.
A poem that rhymes
Is easily recalled,
All of us do it
All of the time.

So many signs slip by.
The big ones, like stigmata
And the leaves changing
Are easy to spot.
If not, if missed,
The sun still shines.
Other signs will surprise us,
Births, texts, disappointments, so ons;
But before the sun fools me again,
I'll perceive the smile,
The whisper and whisp of eyes
While the spin continues
Revealing the daily signs.

Women abhor the "c" word,
Less than the big "C" word;
So say it with a silent P
Followed by a k.

Juliet's Good-night
Is a cold comfort,
As promising as
A new moon,
Or daylight heavens.
Full of senses.
My ears hum with
A Carol King tune.
I'm not keen on
Standing here,
Shoes mired in slush,
With my head covered
In anticipation of
Extreme Unction.
If I see you tomorrow
I will still love you,
But tomorrow is
The new moon,
And you yet languish:
Even if dawn breaks again.
So, I will leave:
*See you tomorrow.

Hey, the very last thing
I wanna do,
Is die.

The omnipotent
Doesn’t lead seminars.
The Universe is real.
Believe.

Dying times arrive
When hands are at ten and two,
And there's no where to turn.
Would I know the time,
Read it on the wall,
See it in the shades lying on the ground;
Could it be an assigned time,
Say, 06:01 for fifteen minutes
Of infamous celebrity;
It could be part of recorded history
Where a song is written
About gale winds
Running a boat aground;
Someone taking a mid-night stroll
Past their favourite market;
High noon's been a recurring time,
And paces at dawn stare down the rising sun.
Could be in the quiet of a mid-morning breeze
Whisking the curtain veils
After I've set the alarm
For a well-deserved nap.

Merry What?
Did I hear you right?
In this day
You have the audacity
To wish me
What?
Haven't you been paying attention?
You must have been out of the country.
You can't be serious.
It's Holidays or Seasons.
A fatwa has been proclaimed;
A jihad has been called,
The synagogue curtain is torn,
Graves open when that word's spoken.
We don't start the day
With The Lord's Prayer,
And you think you
Can get away
With wishing someone
A Merry Christmas?
HOHOHO LOL.

Everytime,
Yes, everytime
I pour out a poem,
I think I've finally
Brought one home.
But then it languishes
In the cloud;
Suddenly,
Yes, suddenly,
I'm not so proud.
No thunderous applause
Makes it rain,
My paltry poem
Is blown away.

It takes all my resources
To see life
As the opening night
Of a brief run.
It's hard to keep on script,
To act normally,
As I've done,
For now.
Got good and not so good memories,
Got the present to keep up,
And got the non-events
Of the future ahead;
Then... what?

It's not like the movies,
Or the kid being hurled
Through the windshield.
I'm no longer a spectator.
I won't be talking about it;
The media will report
A well-turned condolence:

A fine parent, child and sibling.
Dedicated teacher and friend.
We would like to extend our sympathies.
Sorry for you troubles.

Troubles!
I'll have none of that.
That's for survivors,
(As If I were a
Shipwreck
Or reality show).
Well, I didn't.
Did well for a brief time:
Good job, spouse, kids,
Collected a few pensions
Lived middle class with
The occasional splurge.

Stones only have
Limited space,
And I've already said
Too much.
Then pre-existent consciousness
Prevails,
And I am back to where I began:
It takes all my resources
To see life
As the opening act
Of a brief run.

I've poured cement
On a love
That will never surface
Again.

I've passed the homeless on the street,
Wondering if today they'll eat,
And I cry, Why me?

I know plenty who attend AA,
And many who didn't make today,
And I cry, Why me?

I know there's millions unemployed,
As dwindling aid keeps them buoyed,
And I cry, Why me?

They're lonely and they're isolated,
The throngs, apart and dissipated,
And I cry, Why me?

Many friends and family die,
Yet still I cry, Why me?

Why me, indeed, a plaintiff wail.
Why me? Why me?
Until I fail.

At Christmas, when I was five,
I got a nickel to go and by
A candy bar for my mother;
A special present that pleased us both.

As a young man I gave a special woman
A cats-eye ring for Christmas.
For her it was all things.

Then I gave my life and love
To my endearing spouse;
I thought I gave her all I had,
And glad to give it too,
But she also got the house.

I don't know a comfortable chair
Til I've sat in it;
Nor a fine car til I've driven it;
Same with a strong coffee,
Or a poem til I've written it.

How did love begin?
Was it here before original sin?
Did we pluck it from a tree?
Did you take a bite for me?
Did it start with our conception,
Perhaps it's merely physical attraction.

I have love of country, love of travel,
Love of life, money and art;
Love of nature and her siblings,
Love for food and all else,
That excludes my heart.

I have love of parents, and love of mate,
Love for my kids, family and self;
And if truth is told, my dog, Jake.
That includes my heart.

Love like spirit is omnipresent.
We love love for its own sake.

Sign outside a restaurant:
Today's Special:
*YOU

(Geraint & Michael)

Decency is here;
And if there,
Then everywhere.
Here, it sang
To relieve the distressed,
Reduce her dread:
Are you alright?
Asked the lads.
A three note Wales song,
Whose symphonic cadence
Moved my world
Three thousand miles away.

There is indecency here;
And if here, then everywhere.
But here we will rebuke and retune.
And if here,
Then everywhere.

Are you alright?
I am not three thousand miles away.
I am beside you,
With an ear for lyrics.

Let's listen for Swansea's Song,
Here, there, everywhere.

I've read your lips;
Studied your body language.
We're alike.
ESP is way over-rated.
I don't want to know your thoughts,
Nor you mine.
His Holiness has nasty thoughts,
As does the Dala Lama.
We are envious, jealous, and discouraged.
Powerful people have lust in their hearts.
We would occupy a lonely world
If our private thoughts were known,
Our actions exposed
When we're alone.
That's the operative word,
*Alone.

The shoreline
Has noticeable variations
After years
Of indistinguishable ripples
People wade in.
Roots are exposed;
Groins vanish under
Undulations;
A scenic road slips
Stone by stone
With waves of regret
And nausea,
Falls of remorse.
**** it all.