Producers are making films
On the decades of my life.
I'm sitting there, and
I think out loud:
I remember that!

At the Henry Ford Museum
They've displayed my Radio Flyer
And wooden Yo-Yo.
I lost them long ago.

Flea Markets sell postcards
Of Grand Bend Beach and Casino.
I bet my life there.

I've been told
My steel tubular kitchen set
Is retro.
I didn't know.

Classic Car Shows
Put barrier ropes
Around VWs.
They were cheap,
Dependable.

And everything's back in vogue,
'cept me.

The mother of the one
Claiming to be God-like
Was executed
By her god-like son
Playing his part
In a pagan tragedy.

I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.

I followed
When you lead;
If you leave
Should I plead,
Will I grovel
On my knees,
Press my hands
In supplication,
Live my life
In degradation?

No.

Should you leave
A floor outline,
I'll dance on it,
Pen a rhyme
To embody you
And your crime.

A tragic love
In pantomime.

Have you found a Saviour;
One to emulate,
Then denegrate,
Whip and crown and tree?
Then turn, and say,
It wasn't me.

Would I have seen the god-like qualities,
Listen to the sermons,
Eat the fish and bread,
Drink the watery wine?
Would he raise me from the dead?
Could my feet fit the prints
On the sands of Galilee.
Would he admonish me
For having two coats,
Finishing my smoke
With one straw in my coke?

I have found my Saviour.
His name is Xavier.

An unexpected virus came
Diabolically and odiously.
Sniffles like missiles;
We will cough
Green-brown phlegm
And seaweed;
Eyes itch with sweat;
Throats sound guttural warnings;
Muscles ache from making
The sign of the cross in European monasteries;
The tentacles are spreading, grasping, holding hard;
A boy lies face down on the firewall
Like a tethered goat,
Invasive, infectious and deadly.
The body politik has been exposed,
Vulnerable and fallible.

I returned from three days of golf
At Lake Orion, with a philosophical man.
A PhD talked the ear off me,
And spoke so deeply on the meanings
Of life as we approached the green.
Across the fence in a sawgrass meadow
I saw a doe grazing in spite of us.
I don't remember much of his diatribe
But the ball and the doe stuck.

He continued on the fallacy of memory,
Asking me to name the cities of the Olympics:
Mexico, Rome, Beijing, Montreal,
I think I was able to name them all;
But the ****** pup swimming
Beneath the walkway
Dragging a branch underwater
Cleared the air,
Like a thump on my chest,
Took my breath away,
And stopped my ear.

Because I've ten digits,
I can write ten word midgets.

I have a Buddy,
True Buddy,
A Buddy all life long,
When days are long
My Buddy,
Makes right
All that's wrong.

I have a Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
A Buddy when I'm glad,
For years I know
My Buddy,
Can always count on Dad.

My little Buddy
Has a Buddy,
To always depend on;
When Buddy
Needs her Buddy,
She'll always hear her song:

     I want you Buddy
     To read to me,
     Walk with me,
     Skate with me,
     To share with me,
     To laugh with me,
     Sometimes
     To cry with me.
     I need you Buddy
     To stand with me,
     Grow with me,
     Be by me.

I have a Buddy,
True Buddy,
A Buddy
All life long.
When days are long
My Buddy,
Makes right
All that's wrong.

Let's ban beer,
Expel wine,
Prohibit whiskey.

Let's banish ****,
Curse smokes,
Relegate ***.

Drive off knives,
Expatriate guns,
Deport bullies and fists.

Let's ward off the devine,
And the ghosts,
And those who think
They're holy sons;
In any or all
Religions.

Let's proclaim a holy war,
A jihad, if you wish,
Crusade against what
Makes us human,
And live in boring bliss.

Did I dream
I saw a funeral
Procession leaving
St. Giles Church?
Sans caisson,
Black horses,
Boots and  backward spurs;
No black feathers,
No armbands,
No Oliver's crocodile tears;
No Orleans trumpets
To allay my eternal fears.
I caught them slide
The silver casket,
Bullet-like,
Into a chamber,
To shoot into the ground.
I never heard a sound.

Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.

The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.

Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.

The Keeshond  
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.

If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.

The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.

I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.

I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.

The moon wore Janus masks last night,
Winking and nudging at our daily shenanigans;
Our wrong turns, the vanity of our foibles,
The apprehension of non-events,
Poking at our comedy of errors.
Our youthful angst.

The other mask keeps an eye closed
To our secrets,
The thoughts we cannot share;
Our furcht of past to future
Since our first fires,
Since someone said, You've said too much,
Or, What business is that of yours?
I've buried my losses beneath that mask,
With all the irreplaceable loves and deaths
Of my real drama.

I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the *******,
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.

I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.

I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.

This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.

No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.

He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.

The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.

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.

I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.

Of course,
Of course we misunderstood
That somethings bad
Are someone's good.

I was standing in the open,
Feeling spirits broken,
Fearing the unspoken.
I should run for cover now.

These times are surely falling,
My shades are halfway down,
The locks are frozen,
My hands are cold,
There's a fire inside and it's taking hold.

Soon the terms were meted,
The losers greeted
Like old comrades in arms.

It started up again;
Begins as it began,
And I'm standing in the open,
I'm mad for cover again.

Great people die,
Just like you and I.
We all came the same,
Naked, with a brain;
Walked, then talked,
We're all the same,
But great ones do it
With their brain.
Size doesn't matter.
You can be a pea brain,
Or a nit wit:
Why, if someone says,
You've half a brain;
That shouldn't be
Cause for shame.
You never know
Who's got half a brain:
It's been proven,
Sometimes half
Is greater than the whole.
Use what you got,
Live your fullest.

My girlfriend has coveted
Installed bookshelves
For over thirty years.
She has imagined them
Bookending her hearth,
When a visitor walks up
To scan her collection.
She has books lying about
On her tables, my tables,
A few on outside tables.
She is an insatiable reader,
But never had shelves.
So, as a double gift,
I fabricated,
Installed and stained
To match her gum wood mouldings.
From vision to reality,
Better than Plato.
She's so pleased and proud
She refuses to use them;
To distract the viewer's looks
With books.

I don't know how old you are,
But you don't look your age.

Your skin is tight,
Your eyes are bright,
And yet
You loose your teeth at night.

I don't know how old you are,
But you don't look your age.

You don't walk
With a cane,
Wear a diaper,
Or leave a stain;
Usually you
Recall my name.
But then you have
Some nose hair
Like late September grain.

I don't know how old you are,
But you don't look your age.

You don't wear knee-highs
In Bermuda shorts,
Your moles are hairless,
You hide your warts,
Yet you don't play
Outside sports.

I don't know how old you are,
But you don't look your age.

Your hair's not blue,
Your ears are hairless;
There's things about you
That seem ageless.

I don't know how old you are,
But you don't look your age.

You swagger like an actor
On a curtain call;
It's hard to gauge
The age you wear
Since your overhaul.

I don't know the half of it,
But you don't look your age.

It's December in Ontario,
And an early morning fog
Has cancelled school buses,
Again.
In a few more years,
We'll worry about frost
In our orange groves,
As Florida digs out
Of another blizzard.

When compared to the average life span
Of the average human, on one side,
Dogs come up short of us; tall ones, even shorter.
And trees, especially tall ones, live longer. On the average.
How many times, in an average day,
Do I come between such?

I kept a screen
Before my mind,
To re-run clips
Of your fine lines.
Glad for new-age technology,
The IMAX use of 3D;
I'll use the big screen monolith
To screen the edit
Of your breadth and width.

On the ticket for mayor of Sarnia,
Was a sixties bloke, one Wills Rawana;
But the anti-*** vote,
With good conscience can't support,
A politico called Mayor Rawana.

Zero One and modern blight
Travel at the speed of light.

We wondered on the Wandering Jew,
Or, in lieu,
Orthon, Urian or Lilitu.

We trepanned our empty skulls,
Searched our humours,
Were touched by Rulers!

Now troubling symptoms of want and need,
Have blighted growth of yesterseed.

Patient Zero left no lead.

East fingered West
(and vice versa)
Was Ireland really the cause of cholera?
Did Blacks languish in Tuskegee squalor?
We christened Mary, but drank the water.
Fracked Incubus and Succubus
From son and daughter.

Patient Zero left the slaughter.

We deprived women of their tea
To cure wandering womb hysteriae.
Deviances and leaking lesions
Were headwaters of women's *****.

Patient Zero has no season.

The barber sensed it might be smell,
So our widened streets became a sulfurous hell.
And wastelands swelled
Where curled cats dwelled.
(no talk of Michelangelo)

                                         II

Our children's blight has a techno name,
Like the rose, IT smells the same.
With zero tolerance I lay blame
On screens and phones and video games.

The world wide box stores flipped their lids,
Touching all who crawl the social grids;
From the base of Mammon's pyramid.

Now Jake believes he's a gangsta dude
Since posting whatever on You Tube.
Nothing to gain, nothing to lose:
No services rendered but expects what's due.

Inflated egos are a system symptom,
Clearing firewalls, reaching children.

Patient Zero is no phantom.

There is no tale of rat or flea
As cause of lost immunity.
There is no open sore to fester,
The Selfie is the X-ray picture.

Patient Zero is so much quicker.

In our gel of techno bliss,
On our elliptic petrie dish,
Bathed in more than we could wish,
Patient Zero will finish,
And with that whimper
All vanish.

Where will I sit?
Will I make friends?
Do I look okay
On my first day?
Do you think
I'll do alright?
Is it like learning
To ride my bike?

     *Congrats, my child,
     You're doing fine,
     You've just learned
     The first day's rules.
     The fears, anxieties
     And self-doubts,
     Are life's hard lessons
     We could do without.
     There's no teacher
     Or book of stories
     To allay your ever-present worries.
     The stress now filling up your head,
     Is with you til the very end.

*But I want to stay home!

What good can come from words of mine,
In open, blank or crafted rhyme;
Could they affect a single mind,
And if so, for how long a time.

If my heartaches touched you
Because of what you read,
I know you understand
My truth needs to be said.

If what you read
Brought pallid tears
Over your quick and dead;
Or the words I chose to write my lines
Cast shadows before your blocked sunshine;
Or wrote good and bad of family and friends,
Of our descents and our ascends,
Or a general lack of recompense,
I truly make amends.
If you felt shame or remorse,
Don't rue the day you read my verse.

(You see, I concur with your every curse)

But if you winced or held a giggle,
Rolled your eyes at some recognition
Of our shared quixotic plight,
Then I'm pleased to get it right.

I stand sturdy in this room,
Facing you new from the womb.
I press my back against the wall,
To push you back,
To watch your back,
To be your wall.

I keep my heels against that wall
Where others stood before I crawled.
If I'd been dipped in River Styx
I'd linger longer,
But I will fall.

I'd daily bathe in ambrosia
To ward off eternity,
I'd lean forever
Against this wall,
But for mortality.

And so my hands are calloused,
My great grief known;
I have Achilles' burning rage,
I have Achille's heels.

Before that day we'll warm a bench
Near the rowan tree,
I'll wear a cap, carry a cane,
Sit small ones on my knee.

We'll name Lakers, carrying coal,
Fewer now to unload,
And tell silly tales, and get old.

I'll know the joy you'll bring me,
Like letters carved in a tree.

My happy heels press and stall,
I'm stalwart facing you;
I'm backed against the wall.

I needn't wait until dark
For the killer to stalk,
But I'll unplug my fridge,
Turn off the TV,
I won't use FaceTime
Or socialize on FB.
My cell screen is dark,
No Snapchat or Podcast,
Or Instagram and Vimeo.
The Cloud has been compromised;
In short, disconnect,
For the killer's inside,
And knows what to expect.

It's better I give
While life's within;
The situation's
Sin-win-win-sin.
I must appear as an altruist,
But scratch, you'll find a hedonist.
And so I give more than receive,
The pleasure's in giving,
I'm not deceived.
Been one all along;
It feels right to be wrong.
Admittedly so.
I'm a hedonist.
I amass such joy
Reaping the benefits.

The taller you are,
The longer it takes to sink
In this quagmire.
Reach down,
Extend me your hand,
So I can throw you a rope
From solid ground.

You know Cohen and Ellis,
Powel and McEnany,
Hutchison, Meadows,
And soon, Giuliana;
But try not to recall
The most infamous POTUS of all:

Donald the orange-skinned POTUS
Has a Pinocchio nose,
And everytime he speaks out,
You literally see it grow.
All of his well-placed minions,
And millions that can't be named,
Try to protect the Donald,
But only expose their shame.

Then one sunny DC Day
SC Jack Smith  says:
Donald with your team in flight,
Your term in office is finite.

Then how his minions left him,
And they shouted silently;
Donald, you long-nosed politico,
You're a blip in history.

That girl held dearly,
Soon crawling  in the yard;
Eating grasshoppers like Einstein,
Might change our world.

That boy slurping soup
With no thought of seasoning,
Spooning ferociously.
He'd pass Edison's test of reasoning.

Your teen may dwell on video screens
With keenness as he shoots;
Fischer was the same, I hear,
When mating his pursuits.

Our youth mould with nuance
Unknown or heard;
Like Beatles when they sang their story,
Changed our world with words.

You see that child with quiet demeanour,
Shy, wise and independent;
Misunderstood and fiercely inner,
Strong-willed and confident:
How could that child hurt himself!
She might think of suicide!
What is it that we recognize
Only when they've died.

Sometimes the precocious go on display,
The kind kind, not the snide,
They reason well, abstractly think,
Still, they're lacking pride.
Although this child loves the test,
She'll play piano with the best.

Nose in the shelves or cheering,
Joining clubs or donning jerseys,
This one belongs to many groups,
Can “stand one” in the pub.
Friends get a wink or inside joke.
Their loyalty counts when they vote.

The flower vender didn't know
When selling flowers to Van Gogh,
His flowers would always grow.

The orchard worker had a flaw,
He left the apples far too long.
Now we've Newton's Law.

In the bar fight, glass was broken,
Swept out with the rubble.
Copernicus saw that glass that day
Now we have the Hubble.

We know parents rarely see
The true presence of a genius;
But we live in fortunate times
We get it when we see it.
Like sitting in a Hawking's lecture,
Having Cohen sing to us;
Some who voted for Gandhi,
Can still watch Messi play.
Old men fish with Hemingway
When they read his book,
We can watch a Hitchcock,
When brave enough to look.
We sit through Lear
And hear Shakespeare,
Or tour St. Paul's with Wren;
Stand and stare at  Dali
Until the world unbends.
Or just walk Rome.
You may even find one
Sitting at home.

Rely on natural ability.
Persistence precedes reputation;
Provide the extras and common sense,
And love will lead to eminence.

Children breathe our same air,
But  exhale differently;
Genius can be found right here,
Before posterity.

For the child born today,
Will there be seasons
To play in leaves,
Build in snow,
Smell flowers grow?
Swim in fresh water?
Will wars end,
Friends make amends,
Will we finally stop the slaughter?
Will there be clean air
And rich soil?
Will there be moments
Free from turmoil?
I sit at peace, and wonder
If this child may be the answer.

Did you read about the father
Who met the girl
With his daughter's eyes.
The gift of sight.
Post-mortem.

Then I read about the mother
Who gave her son a kidney.
The gift of ***.
Pre-mortem.

Finally, I met a girl
Forty years ago
Still using my heart.
The gift of love.
Eternal.

What did Sisyphus know
About a slippery *****;
Shoulder to stone
His feet groped,
Shifting inclinations;
Each step consequential,
A mythic joke.
Wiggle the toes,
Feel for the edge,
Sliding is inevitable.
We have no victims
On  fallacious slopes.

Which lost hair defines bald;
Which millimeter makes you tall;
How many dimes makes one well off;
Which freckle makes you cute or beautiful;
Which ounce makes you fat,
From thin to Bottacelli.
Where does one begin?

Removing sentiments,
One at a time,
You find you straddle
The love/hate line,
A line drawn on a mountain top,
And splitting  your Sisyphus rock.

I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.

Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.

I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.

We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.

The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.

The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.

Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.

Be the chosen one,
You know how.

Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.

But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.

The digs prove the existence of eternity.
Lucy joined millions of years ago.
Thats a long time to be in eternity,
But that's hardly eternity.
Her relations don't bring flowers,
Or trim the grass.
They stopped mourning years ago.
Perhaps hours after she died.
Eternity is a long time not to talk.

Love doesn't really stay in your heart forever.
Forever? Too Romantic a notion.
My eternity began at conception,
And I'm in no hurry to continue.
Neither should you.
It's a long time.

Will someone or something
Find forty percent of my bones down the road.
There's not enough time to fill eternity.
Remove it from famous sayings
And we have no comparison
For love, duty, time and beauty.
Can we really see it
In a blade of grass
Or in an hour.
Digs don't prove reincarnation, resurrection or spooky stuff.
Just eternity.
Silent. Non-existent.
Imagine a dove swooping down and brushing our world
With one wing
Every thousand years.
A soft or palatable swipe.
It's all the same.
Every thousand years.
After a period our world eventually vanishes.
Every mountain and ocean – gone.
Skyscrapers and swimming pools – gone.
Boulders and grains of sand – gone.
And the animals of ground, wind and water,
And earth itself – gone.
Eternity begins with the last brush
Of its wing.
That's a long time to be dead.
A long time being quiet.

I read endless poems about eternal love
And self-destruction,
Only one theme defines eternity.
Death.
The digs have proven it.
Lucy was found alone,
No lovers' bones.
Death wins out in the eternity theme.
Constant and sure.
And that's a long, long time.
Don't dwell on it.

O indiginous tuber to Peru,
Now in nations' daily stews,
From the Polar South to Timbuktu,
Ranked with rice, wheat and maize,
Oh staple potatoe
You grace our table.

We plant seed spuds,
Red, yellow or brown,
Harvest the new ones,
The remainder mound
To thrive in leisure,
As buried treasure.

Heel the spud *****,
Unearth your trove,
A gatherer's surprise
To woo true love.

We slice, dice and mash,
Roast, deep-fry and bake.
It's not an egg,
It'll never break.

     Medium-rare, please.
     And make mine a baked.
     Oh, and don't forget the butter,
     Oh, and sour-cream, just in case.”

It hasn't got *** appeal,
What you see is true,
But make no mistake,
I swear by what's holy in taste,
It only has eyes for you.

Pharmaceutically,
It soothes,
Burns, itches, puffy eyes,
Migraines and headaches.

Make a stamp,
Make silver shine,
Clean your windows with its brine.
And potatoe muffins are simply divine.

When blight strikes,
When crops don't thrive,
Many starve,
Many have died.

So, I raise this toast
To the lofty Tuber,
And I dedicate this Ode,
To the one,
The only:
*Mr. Potatoe,
This bud's for you.

I'm up to my elbows
In Summer sun,
I've hit my funny bone;
The gangs have hit the pavement,
No one mentions home.

The towels are stretched
On sand dunes,
Water falls free and clear,
There's no time for dwelling
On one's sun-kissed despair.

There's amusement parks
And animal farms,
Camps and hiking trails;
Boats slice turquoise water,
I've daughters tugging tails.

And there,
Beneath the snuggled moon
Couples spoon,
Leaving room
For air.

We end our daily frolics
With our evening walks;
I'll find time
To lift my elbows
After equinox.

You won't like
Your colonoscopy,
I know,
I've not liked mine.
It's invasive,
You're contorted,
And the Prep
Is too unkind.
Yet,
One needs
A **** snoop
In the
Intestine.
It postpones
Eternity,
That makes it
Worth your time.

Believe me when I say
I am an above average equivocator;
A hyperbolic exaggerator;
But I love to listen to the experts,
Their promises of love, wealth, justice.
Now, I'm also a reflective skeptic,
Remembering in tranquility and such.
And the wellies fit well.

We're nearing as we ready
The home with green and red;
A deflated Santa on my neighbour's lawn,
Canned snow sprayed in window corners,
Polyethylene on a white Christmas tree,
Gingerbread people drinking hot ***,
Mistletoe hanging from sticks and jambs,
And an apron round the stem.
I decorate, make my fruit cake,
Set out the children's books,
The ones I've read so often:
Rudolph and Old St. Nick,
They look foolish on my table.
Displayed in  their fixed place.
They're not like my Christmas bling,
The blinking lights, false stars at night,
Twas the Night Before Christmas
Is the real thing.
At midnight we'll hear choirs sing,
Joy to the World, Peace on Earth,
For one night I'll believe again.

Stay good night.
I see my words rise on my breath,
Being swept up to your stars.

Stay good people.
Who missed this year.
Who came last,
Who comes next.
I surely miss you all.

Such heavy memories
Of snow-laden branches,
Castles in globes,
Ballerinas in boxes.

My new memories
Will never last as long
As the ones I've carried all along.

I gave, you took,
My heart,
My soul and time.
You left, I stayed,
Withdrawn and supine.
I was a still life,
In the shades and lights of day.
I wrinkled and went dry,
Through skin down to my core;
Was fading and wasting away,
Like a Banksy on a rainy day.

Everyone,
To begin.
We have no choices,
Depending on gurgled voices
Recognized in utero.
Trust radar's not activated,
Despite the life experiences
Of our carriers.

White collars
Dig for gold
Wearing masks and gloves;
So we rely on eyes
Despite the hunger
Behind the disguise.

We are tied to swivel chairs
In block buildings
And asked to trust
As they notice the dirt
Beneath our nails
Ripe-red for pulling.
They want the correct answer,
Not the right one.

Love partnerships
Are unstable vessels
At  best.
We secure trust
In disposable
Jilted pirate chests
Waiting for discovery
In teary depths.

We find refuge
In our children,
Though we notice
Eyes roll and shift
As we age and drift.

In whom do we trust?
In the unborn
Who will
Live by our words,
And define the world
We leave in trust.