When making love
With you,
I've a stroke
Of genius.

I hear you royally ******-up.
Don't worry 'bout it.
It's all one's perspective.
Let's just say
Experience is what you have left over
From your mistakes,
And we know
Everyone applauds experience
Like a slice of apple pie.

She used her sway
Like a dangling watch
Swinging on a chain:
She stopped my eyes,
I was mesmorized,
Entranced,
In a post hypnotic haze.
If she snapped her fingers
I'd cluck,
I'd bark,
Do whatever she'd ask,
But she kept on swinging
And left me panting
In post traumatic stress.

Everybody loves the twins, you will too.
Everybody loves the things they’ll say and do;
Their eyes smile when they see you coming,
You smile back because they’re so loving.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Brigid likes to crawl along the wall now that she can stand,
Ophelia does the same but the girls have to use their hands;
It won’t be long now until they’re walking,
Wait another month and they won’t stop talking.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too
The girls surely love you two.

They don’t know how to say they're in love with you,
But that's okay you can see that its plainly true;
They light up when they see you coming,
The arms start flailing and their legs start pumping.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Dreaming of your loves in the comfort they’re in love with you,
Dreaming of your loves in the comfort that you love them too.
Dreaming of my loves in the comfort I'm in love with you.

The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.

I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
Eat tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The  northern breeze there never dies.

I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.

Honey I'm drunk,
Don't come by,
But if you do
Bring Canadian Rye;
I've two feet planted
Six feet high,
And I ain't right ready
To lay down to die.
But the sun is sinking,
And my body's stinking,
Honey will you come,
Please bring that Rye.

Honey, I drink,
We both know why,
Let's not pretend,
Let's not lie.

Honey I'm dry,
I'm gonna die,
I've six feet planted
Two feet high.
I ain't quite steady,
I could use a high.
The sun's in the east,
My demon's a beast,
So Honey drop by,
Please bring that Rye.

We've heard from
Abraham, Jesus,
Mohammad and Selassie;
God!
If we'd heard a humble apology
For the pre-emptive strike
In Eden, way back then,
It would have saved us all
A lot of grief.

When I hover
Over your heavenly body,
I'm ******* the constellations
In braille.

It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.

I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.

The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.

I watched a rarity across the street,
Walking like an endangered species
On his way to school, alone.
Don't his parents realize,
As ours did,
That single men live on his way,
Looking out windows
With coffee and cigarette;
Married couples are household occupied,
Labourers, professionals and unemployed
Are behind closed, locked doors,
Busily preparing for another day.
Cars drive by, one slows behind him,
To ensure her carrier pigeon fledges along.
The lad in question pays no attention,
Playing catch-up with his shadow.

Ole Hunchback
Got a right Royal burial;
That smiling villain's bones
Bleached black-blonde
In underground parking.
Exhumed and parlayed
For over two years;
Confirmed to be he
Who caused a Queen
To cry vats of tears
For the Tower boys.
Poor Anne dropped her hankie.
His horse-drawn caisson
Is a subterfuge,
A distraction to veil
Civil dissatisfaction.
He finally got his horse,
And we get the droppings.
And I see Cromwell
Standing beside Churhill
And Charles ouside
Westminster.
Perhaps Manson
Will be busted
In Poet's Corner.

Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.

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 you see 'em they're surely 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.

These years are speeding darkly
Since the epiphany. You don't get
A lot of those.
Last night
On the beach I laid back to watch
The shooting stars; some say
The heavenly stars. The Perseids
Burned indiscriminately,
I counted two.

I was starstruck watching
The four satelites,
In a pre-determined orbital,
That would burn as sure as
A ghetto.

Ogling the dark spaces;
Comforted, there's more stars
Out there for some other reason.
And wham. It happened , always unexpected.
It's not because something's not there;
It's because it never was, but for
Two meteors and four satelites.
I saw the light.

We were misplaced and confused,
So, I bought a coffee, sat with a magazine,
But felt so antsy, I went to the Kiosk,
Inquiring about your flight,
Then went looking in the other places.
So many people started looking like you:
Their hair, shape and walk.
So many doppelgangers.
It was getting way too late, hours, in fact.
Now concern settles in,
But seconds make the difference,
Not some butterfly in China.
If I'd lingered, sipping,
I wouldn't have walked right into your tears
Around the corner.
I happened to have a tissue in my pocket
To dry your found eyes;
Now let's get the **** outa here!

The sentient clod in Book One,
Sat up, cleaned up, removed his thumb.
With leafless Eve and fruitful tree
(made fertile with Theology)
Gave rise to Sociology.
Of all the ololgies to appear,
Without this one we're not here.
Buy in, ward of tribal wrath,
Empathy's good for a sociopath.

You can't go far
Down on all fours,
Drooling and babbling
And hugging the floor.

I see you're stumbling
On your Jango legs,
You'll fall if not careful
On your new paradigms.

Now you're leaving
With stature and grace;
You pirouette, glide,
You've found your own pace.

You will return,
Of that I am sure,
With one of your own
To crawl on my floor.

Charity is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Your simple act of selflessness
Cannot be reduced.

Kindness is never wasted,
Even when refused;
To think we think of others first
Cannot be diffused.

Courtesy is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Shake a hand, open a door,
Say Please and Thank You.

Patience is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Bide your time contentedly
Dealing with the obtuse.

Faith is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Believe in what cannot be proved
Even if confused.

Hope is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It gives the taste of fine red wine
Brimming o'er the cruse.

Hate is never wasted,
I know you feel abused;
It's just a tact under attack
That haters like to use.

Love is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It's educed, then enfused,
And spreads as it accrues.

Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.

I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and,  smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.

The greys and blacks
Are fighting again,
Despite an abundance
Of food and shelter.
The greys are malcontent,
And bigger, with increasing numbers.
They've declared a Jihad,
They're relentless;
And won't stop 'til they've
Occupied all the trees out front.
The trees in question aren't the issue;
Others have similar branches and fruits;
It's their belief system
Territory is everything;
It's their manifest destiny.

During a lull in fighting
They graze side by side,
Always wary of proximity;
But the greys know
Their tails are larger and thicker,
And they recognize the enemy.

I know better
Than interfere
With their shenanigans.
Oh, I could quell the activity,
Scare them for a while
Pelting stones and gushing water;
But they'll re-group, stronger,
Like ants,
Like us.
It's a conflict I can't fix.
They need to figure it out
On their own.

Visions of crystal cobwebs
swept up in awesome lies;
ambergris whisked scentless
to a sea-streaked sky.

Watching the melting snow,
feeling clouds of fire,
hearing the orchestrated chime,
touching every liar.

Morning passed, blue's forgone
for a quiet afternoon;
vapours pulled at all my senses
towards the rising moon.

Faint southern lights soon faded
against the silent sphere,
no starry sky was witness,
to your smile beguiling sneer.

They met
When but sixteen,
She called herself
His ****** Queen,
And he her ****** King.
Thus they remained
Til seventeen,
When his lowered drawbridge
Breached the moat,
And for forty years
He paddled her boat.
But coldness grew,
The ice-palace too,
She was an Ice Queen,
His armor tarnished,
His sword was sheathed,
The Lady and her King
Severed bonds,
Relinquished rings
And set new realms and dreams.
He's a western-style S.O.,
He didn't know
Cowgirls rode backwards.
He's now a sexagenarian,
And the Ice-Palace,
A planetarium.

I've weighed the pranks:
Pulling out a chair;
Flooded fairways;
Skunky beer;
Onion candy apples;
Mayo in cream-filled donuts;
Lubricating jelly in handwash;
Polyurethaning soap;
Baking soda in ketchup bottles;
Flushing while the shower's in use;
Sending a welcome card on behalf of your friend to Kingdom Hall;
Eliot was right,
Snow in April is the cruelest.

I enjoy driving slowly
Up Kathleen Avenue,
It brings out my
Split personality.

The sun strobes
Through pre-leaf spring;
I remember a boy
Twirling on the dance floor lawn,
Then called to the back,
To the used nail pile.

There's gratitude for the rain,
Splash in gutters;
The weeds will grow.
The spades, like naked stick-children,
Are heeled into mounds,
Beneath the dripping clothesline,
Far from his playful sounds.

I am me,
I was you:
My cryogenic memory
Thaws to resolve
We two.

My dentist
Strongly recommended
A cardiologist
To fill
My cavity.

We're kinda small,
But we can be tall,
And play with the switches
On the walls.

We can run.
Ready. Set. Go.
You'll never catch us,
Don't you know.

We can reach anything
Out of reach.
We ride our bikes on our street.
We sometimes laugh until we ***.
We get our bruises riding scooters.
We're one on our teeter-totter.
We see-saw you.

For us,
The Super Bowl
Is poetry
In legal motion.

I undressed for my shower,
And noticed something queer;
Something I've used all my days,
Suddenly disappeared.

I had it with me yesterday,
And used it several times;
I always put it in its place,
And took care of what was mine.

I really can't explain it;
Now what's a fella do;
I'm not to blame,
I refuse the shame
Of the hashtag framed MeToo.

Trolls exist
If believed in,
Or if
Invited to invade
The mind.
Like leprechauns,
Look sideways,
They're gone.

Please,
Don't be in love
With me,
I know I can't
Love you.
Yet,
She's in love
With someone else,
We're conflicted,
Misconstrued.
Our quadrangle
Leaves us dangling
On parallel love lines.

He keeps my stories to himself,
The ones I can't tell anyone else;
He laughs with me at myself,
And even more at one's self.

The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******* (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.

A poem is like a tickle,
It gives you joy and pain:
With blissful tears and
Tearful giggles,
You'll read that poem again.

A poem is like a damaged heart
In need of surgery:
The cut that heals,
A line that leaves
A scar along your heart.

Our youth was seasoned
With greens and blues
When your skin scorched me.
Still burns.

Could we but flip
Pages like clock hands;
We need only agree,
And nocturnal waves
Would lap again,
And all the world
Would fall in time
Upon itself.

Elements, such as we,
Cannot.
Your present calendar
Has days X-ed off,
Days checked on.
Times have changed
Peoples and places.

I remain yours.

Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.

In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.

It was suggested to me
I should read a great book:
Why Do Men Lie.
My response was,
*Why Do Men Do Anything.

Her eyes a lighthouse
When I'm set adrift.
Her arms a berth
For a slipless ship.

I will eat
From your hand
Close by the fire.
Feed me, warm me,
Know desire.

We used to hear it all the time:
Can you come outside and play?

We heard that chant throughout the hood,
From screened back doors where our friends stood.
Calling just when time was right,
For Hide and Seek at the dawning night,
Or Hopscotch, Double Dutch
Kick the Can,
On neighbour's lawns and sidewalks,
On streets, driveways or city parks.

My daughter got a text today:
Can you come to my house and play?

In Shediac
The sidewalk threads up Main,
Past Church and hospital
To a yellow-frame;
Where wishes and the real world meet
Near Leger Street.

Here,
Quiet evening stairs leave cares,
And blueberries, dahlias and Parley's foam,
Like Sirens call our thoughts to home.
A quilt work of faces,
Some young, some grown,
Looked through windows to a time unknown,
Past the ledger of Grand-mere,
Past Hector's chair.

Though
Emilie was consumed with cooking,
Quilting, cleaning and sometimes singing,
She fed the dreams of her dear born,
And sheltered concerns of a heart well-worn,
Like a wrap-a-round porch in a Northumberland storm,
On Main Street.

These
Porch steps led to worldly affairs,
Finance, healthcare, CN, shopwares.
Each step, each child bore Emilie's breath,
Et dans l'eglise St. Joseph.

But
Bricks are brittle and paint will wane,
A picture or poem will fade and stain,
Yet Sirens still call out your name
In Shediac.

One tear of love or joy
Can fill a resevoir.

One tear of hate or pain
Is a diluvial drop.

The tears in between are
Neither drought nor flood.

On this side of the bridge,
Between time and eternity,
A foothill to the Necropolis,
Rises the cathedral.
The remains of St. Kentigern
Maintain it, the founding Father.
The spire tops the cruciform
Pointing the way to Glorify.
Within, walls are embedded
With plagues, standards and swords,
Praising foreign campaigns
And distant expeditions
Of long lost brave hearts.
Pilgrims stand silently;
Tourists nod quietly,
Pointing at remarkable achievements
Of Empire, and the young,
Beatified on distant lands.
The fading banners protest:
For this I gave my all, my best.
The stones are cold,
The windows stained:
In the crypt, St. Mungo lies,
The foundation of all
That died.

The words have stopped,
The music aint flowing,
There's been the death of a lady's man,
The death of one Leonard Cohen.

My suede shoes are green.
Well, no, they're forest.
My, how the sky is blue.
More cloudy and teale.
The Church is corrupt.
Their message isn't.
The educated egot.
I've been called
Egit, stupid, idiot,
And codface
(try to find a definition for that).
Not proud of those nomenclatures,
But at times they fit me like cells.
But when I come across the Midvale gifted,
Who try to convince me that
East Indians are West Indians,
Well,
I remove my simpleton's conical cap.

There came a rabbit
To inhabit
A space
In my Easter basket.
He wasn't Peter,
Or Velveteen,
But chocolate
And much sweeter.

He wasn't always
Chocolatey,
But furry,
Like the others.
But he was determined
In his drive,
To make my Easter
That much sweeter.

So he wished
Upon a star
To morph into
A rabbit bar
Of nugets,
Caramel and nuts;
And then for added
Greater taste;
He asked for drenching
In choc'late.

The Big Bang is soundless.
The galaxies dim.
The universe contracts.
Compared to you.

Evolution has peaked.
Humanity is humane.
Nature can nurture.
Compared to you.

Family takes root.
Generations prove lineage.
I, Me, Mine are ours.
Compared to you.

Life has no end.
Death has no beginning.
Compared to you.

God has relinquished
Ownership
With a blast of his breath,
Blowing the dust
Off the rock,
Sentencing us to death,
Worse, maybe life,
With our will.

There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.

Before air became gas
And water waste;
Before light became lasers
And fireworks cannons;
Before cars got wings
And trucks got tracks;
Before rafts were raiding ships
And we breathed underwater;
Before sticks were arrows and spears
And we exalted ourselves;
Before Empires rose and fell
And rose and fell,
A femur crushed Cro magnon's skull.
It's a marvel
How any of us
Are here
At all.