My attic's full
Of Thank You's
That can't keep out
The cold,
But rafters
Hang with laughter
To warm me
When I'm old.

My basement's full
Of Pleases,
Poor fuel for the furnace,
But air vents
Carry welcomes
To keep us cool
Or warm us.

The shed is shelved
With If's and Buts
And jars of
Maybe bolts;
The fasteners
Of family ties,
The glue
Of hearts and souls.

Search the garage,
Open cupboards,
Lift the sideboard lid;
Step into closests,
Check under stairs,
You'll find them everywhere.
We use them freely,
Need them dearly,
Those small words
Sound so good.

I believe
In the shameless love of this life;
Not in a previous or afterlife.
I don't believe
In reincarnation, transmigration
Ascension or decesnsion.
And all the sepulchres concur.

I believe in Christ,
Not Christianity or Protestantism.

I believe in Muhammad,
Not Islam
(And this list goes on).

I don't believe in banshees,
Astral projection or any OBE.
I don't believe in gnomes or trolls,
Elves, sprites and witches,
Nirvana, Valhalla, Heaven or Hell.
And I believe
I won't be disappointed.

I believe in politics,
Not politicians.

I believe in the Arts
(All of them),
And humanity,
And You,
The healers and teachers.

Oh Spirit,
Where is it?
I don't believe hovering souls
Listen to eulogies.
I don't believe in death-bed conversions
Just because...

I believe in a living consciousness,
For
I Am That I Am,
And that's what I am.

I will not go gently,
For I know,
There's nothing
To worry about.

It's as easy as, 1, 2, 3.
Understandable as A, B, C.
Undesirable as, Don't Take Me.

A simple ditty,
So listen, Kiddie,
There's no singing in the grave.

No foot tapping, finger snapping,
Lip smacking music where you're going;
But don't be in a hurry to get going
To a place where you're a gonner.

You won't be chatting with a Brahma,
Discussing laws with ancient Moses,
There's no sitting Buddha posing,
You ain't in blissful Nirvana.

You'd be  in heaven in Havana.

There aren't virgins waiting;
No loaves and fishes baking;
No bells ringing,
No Mecca wailing,
No roads paved with gold.

I miss those stories I was sold.

Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...
Whatever it is that ails you...

Was it us who failed you?

Stay a while, don't leave yet,
You'll find nothing you expect,
But you won't remember,
And you won't forget.

I wish you good health
Throughout your years;
With it you prosper
Behind smile's lonely tears.
Your conflicts,
Your fears,
Successes and failures,
Fade in pale wanings.
I wish you good health.

You could change the world.
You should.
Repeat this inauspicious comment to someone;
Age isn't part of the equation.
Even the youth may listen, may remember,
I should change the world.
You did. Some place, at a time unknown.
It's not so obvious as the Butterfly Effect;
Appearing subtly, less noticeable than
Pedaling into a velvet N-E Huron breeze
A walker feels on her wet lips
During a burnt Autumn stroll.
I changed,
And rocked the world
Of  my loved ones.

The store mannequin
Was rejected,
Her stats didn't comply
For a window show
To show its wares
To a town of passersby.

Her Do wasn't quite couture,
Her ******* were just such,
The arms that loped
Across her chest
Looked a little butch.
Her belly with its ripples,
Was all a bit too much;
Her ***** profile it was thought
Was maybe just a touch...
Her hips which had male appeal,
Were thought a tad too light.
Her legs rose up like lamp posts,
Her feet a a smidgeon tight.
Hanging, covering all her faults,
A dress not draping right.

The window dresser
Stamped UNSUITABLE
Across her harlequin face,
And packed her with
RETURN TO SENDER
In the original crate.

When I was tagged
As a child,
That meant I was IT.
And that's all-inclusive.
Being tagged as an adult
Means I'm profiled,
And that's a game changer.
It's childish.

Two brains, eyes, ears and lungs,
Two feet, legs, arms and hands;
Ten toes and fingers,
Two kidneys too,
And teeth to spare,
Still countless are my thinning hairs.
I'm ready for the deluge,
I'm a walking ark.

And why not two souls too.

If I had two souls,
I know what I would do;
Like Dorian, I'd degenerate.
Let one be ****** eternally,
The other gets Paradise.
The odds are in my favor,
I'm rolling dotless dice.

And two hearts would do.

If I could have two hearts,
How'd I be today?
One could be broken,
One stay whole,
Not to be given away.
Yet my outcome
Would be the same;
A thousand hearts won't do.

I buy lottery tickets,
But don't pray.

I curse the drivel on TV,
But own two.

I purchase alcohol,
But don't drink.

I roll stop,
But I flash the bird
(at you).

I don't like Rap,
But do Drake.

I abhor celibacy,
But I dress in white.

I love you,
But I'm not in love.

Laughter is universal.
Extraterrestrials **** themselves with it;
Martians **** their pants;
Venutians titter til they cry;
Earthlings **** themselves with it
Splitting a side,
Rolling on the floor,
Chortling all the while.
Politicians shake hands gleefully,
Snickering, cackling,
Standing us against the wall.
A good roar, hoot or howl
May be good for the soul,
But is dangerous,
Especially if you
Have a fit
Of tee hees, ha has and yuk yuks
While orbitting.

Jesus Christ Almighty!...

     *What?

A mouse ran up my nightie!...

     Ohhh...

He bit my ***!...

     Dear me!

Then ran lickety-split,....

     Where

*Slipping on my ****,

Squeaking for being so naughty.

The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was  Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.

A trophy doesn't designate
A winner
Anymore than swearing denotes
A sinner.
Think
Attitude,
Not
Platitude,
And
Wear a ribbon.

John wrote,
I read the news today...
He recounted accidents, wars, ***-holes.
I did too... today.
I read about charity runs,
Music under the Bluewater Bridge,
Teachers receiving National Awards.
There are many sections to the paper
I read through my wire-rimmed glasses.
I'm getting older, all the time,
So I avoid the nastiness with my morning coffee.
Is killing terrorists good news?
Oh boy!
What would John read into that.
We need some help!
I may skip the news tomorrow,
And make some holes
To let the light in,
The darkness out.

We need to talk to strangers,
If we wish to make new friends,
Get a date, find a mate,
A partner til our end.
My children were the strangest ones
Ever I did meet;
So I introduced myself to them
As they arrived, toute suite!
Some strangers become family,
Some life-long friends;
Some become your colleages,
Team mates and your kids.
And some become your enemies,
And that's good to know;
But we need to talk to strangers
Whether friend or foe.
The alternative is you're by yourself,
And that's okay too -
But you shouldn't talk to yourself,
And answer yourself too.

She was going on
About something,
But the metaphor
Wasn't universal.
Not like,
The funeral was as sombre as Cohen.

When I heard, ... blah, blah, yada, yada,
My attention span snapped,
Started thinking about those born
With a golden voice.

*******. Pure and simple. *******.
Be like a vampire
Refine your tracking trait,
Saving time and disappointment.
Recognize it when you hear it,
See it, read it.
I've had to eat beside it.
It rarely smells until identified,
You sense the patties are everywhere,
Inside and outside the paddock.
Speak out when encountered:
*******, plain and simple.*
Point in its direction,
Be a searchlight.
The room goes silent
Like a stop-action clip,
Frozen for the stink to seep.
Everything has the stench.
They're skilled,
But shallow.
One needs to go home and wash,
Do the laundry. Clean the kitchen.
Honestly!

The younger sister
Of the second wife
Of my dear friend
Of forty-five years
Died last night.

You don't know her.

She died at fifty-eight;
For many that's younger,
For more that's older;
For us, we knew her.

I really don't know why
I brought it up;
I shouldn't bother you.

She was...
a daughter, a sister,
a grandaughter,
a sister-in-law,
a cousin, a niece;
an auntie, a Mother,
then a Nana;
There are many like her,
But none other.

There's more. She was...
a friend, a true friend,
a lover and healer;
a soul mate,
a life mate,
a Wife and confidant.

Yes. Such  Women
We all know well.
But you don't.
Do you?

Well, she died last night.
Just thought you might
Like to know,
MJ died last night.

Beulah gave out
Blossoms this spring
As big as sunflower heads.
They entwined the branches
Like the ribbon enclosing an expectant shower gift.
It's fragrance was the extract
Of an unbottled aroma
That is the Magnolia tree.
I rooted her in the yard
Four years ago.
She is iridescent for a brief time
Past mid Spring.
She has many Springs to go
Above the green growth below;
Many seasons beneth
The blue Summer skies above;
During the Autums ahead,
When I am dead,
And colder than Winter snows
Below her;
She will be there.
Rooted with care.

The successful
Weight loss program:
Cook, simmer
Then eat
One lean poem
Per day.

Summer suns
Shine flawless
Near water.
Spring's wings
Transition and reproduce.
Autumn's offerings
Colour
Before winter sets in,
Deep and white,
Dark, dark night
Reflecting shadows,
Dropping the tired moon
Closer to our world.
Winter will be heard.

You play three.
Me, seven.
Fifteen for two.
This is where I lose you.
Your phone vibrates,
You leviate
Sitting across from me,
Making me an unwilling audience
To all the drama.
You vibrate. Your shoulders droop
Like the gape-toothed village idiot.
You gesticulate,
Fading in and out
In a semi-conscious awakening.
You're trembling under stones
Sitting on your chest.
It shows in your tembling hands.
Twenty, for two...
Twenty-five, for six...
I overhear your child is truant,
Another wants a ride,
Another a car, doctor or lawyer.
You're shuffling in your seat.
Not to worry.
Affter the stones are lifted,
And you're properly pegged
In the stink hole, the game's over.
Thirty, for twelve and a go. Game.
So deal with it.

Braille understood
The power of words -
The duality,
The irony
That all can feel
When words are raised,
To we, the blind,
Through poetry.

I won't accept the end
Gently or gracefuly,
But begrudgingly,
In private anguish:
That is truth;
Unadorned,
And sure.
I've not dealt with the vanish
Of comrades in battle;
Or happened upon
A loved one
At the end of the rope.
I've felt the tug,
The smell of CO,
The hardness beneath
The Bluewater Bridge;
The bottle, blade and pill
On the frozen faces of friends,
On family:
Michael, Marlene, Jimmy, Eucheria.
The family innocents
Whisked off
In the maelstrom of bounding youth.


But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some time..

Claudius speaks the cold hard truth,
But Claudius was childless;
Such guileless advice.
And Shakespeare's kids were playing
In the yard
As he penned his tragedy.
But,
Bury a child
And have an eternal membership
In the
******* for Life Club.

There's no water
In my well;
No pulley,
No bucket
On the end of a rope,
For you.

There's no water
In the cup
Of poison
I spew.

There's a fog over Inverness,
Wrapping the banks
Of the river Ness;
Enveloping me
As you once did.
A fog that will not dissapate,
A mist that mirrors
The break and ache.
A fog that chides
Lonely distress.
This fog can't hide
What I can't forget.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet him.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with the hard rain,
All seemed uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

I regret (usually too late), the authority
Of the sitting government.
Any government.
Once in power (I regret that word)
The back room broking good ole boys
At the exit polls loose their senses,
Sight and hearing.
Feelings get hurt.
Taxes are wasted.
The trough gouging is too loud.
I resent lying.

I regret (mostly from the evidence),
The too full baskets of organized religion
Overflowing from indulgences;
The Roman fingers
Poaching coins for another memorial window;
The glass cathedrals
And get-a-way cars.
I resent hypocrisy.

I regret people don't arrive on time
(no matter the time);
Especially when outside anyplace waiting,
Perhaps a light for a smoke is needed,
Or there's inclement weather,
The nearby company is distasteful.
Waiting dinner.
Late children are the worse.
They cause worry.
I resent the selfishness of time.

I regret being diseased,
And hated for it.
When in remission I'm loved.
Active, not so much.
The know-its say it's a matter of will.
Like you can cure
Cancer or smallpox with thoughts.
The one symptom alone, hurt,
Would need temples of meditating chanters!
I resent condemnation.

I regret failed relationships:
Family, friends and women.
My thoughts are mine;
If I said everything
You'd have a different opinion
Of what I am.
So we don't
Because we can't
Say things: we would appear as socio-paths.
We think good and bad;
Therefore we're real.
A virtual humanity.
I resent blathering.

I regret an educational system
That believes in paradigm shifts;
Spouting new-age lingo:
If it's not broken, break it;
Selling out to athletics,
Or Mr., Ms and Mrs. know
All about education;
They went to school.
Bullies top the list.
I resent permissive parents.

Most of all,
I regret
My resentments.

Do we remember John?
He was what we'd call a Simpleton,
Back when we were young.
He stood in his brown cloth coat,
Carried a notepad and a pen,
We suspected he had half a tongue,
Making notes on roadside lawns,
Near every manhole.
John was busy inside his head,
We never got a word he said.
Who was John before John was dead?

Did you know Stanley?
We didn't see him much.
He'd appear in the hood on holidays.
Probably went to New Hope School,
Where he was kept.
Stanley swore a lot,
He threw snot, drooled and spit at us.
We poked fun, and provoked,
Felt blameless,
For Stanley's condition was kept from us.
Segregated,
And not because of colour.

... as I was saying...
I'm sure you're just not listening.

We've succumbed
To the pandemic
Of awkward confusion;
Where the rabbit,
Not magician,
Is half the illusion.
We're topsy-turvy,
I'm getting sick:
We're highly toxic,
It's acute, not chronic,
We've set the cameras
On ego-centric.

The unhappy ****** sneered:
*Take your pants
And jacket off.

The paparazzi are staked out
For the latest splash trending.
Telephoto lenses focussed
On the door in a non-descript
Neighbourhood.
Eye-Witness copter hoovers,
We are in rhythm with the whirling
Chop-chop
Of breaking news.
Rivetted to our screens.
A door opens to reveal
A dentist
On his way to work,
Wearing alligator shoes
And wollen pants.
We'd hoped to see
A mane boa
Round his neck.

On my bookshelf
There is a stuatue
Of a monkey
With wire-rim glasses
Reading,
Looking
Like Rodin's Thinker.
I don't know who
The sculptor is,
But he's guilty
Of Identity Theft.

How will we progress today?

Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?

Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?

Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?

Will we defy with a righteous tone,
Or leave, tails tucked, like a dog with his bone?

Will we gauge goods for our Vegan menu,
Or show distentions as millions do?

Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose pickings from picked-over trash?

Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend visitations in a MADD rage?

Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching a sandless hourglass?

Did we place our script with the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across to Jordan's fair shore?

Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off bar stools?

Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?

Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station gives you right?

Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?

Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,

Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?
Our words can't bind all our wounds;
Few are born with silver spoons.
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing street flight,
That can't come too soon.

I'm beside myself,
What can I do?
Having an OBE
Because of you.

I'm next to an idiot,
The blame lies with you;
Like an NDE,
I'm leaving you.

Is this a dream?
My life's askew;
I'm not what I seem
Because of you.

My body of bliss
Roams looking for you;
My love for you made
An astral breakthrough.

I'm on a spiritual walk
On a plane that's new;
This plane will crack
If I'm snapped back to you.

A paranormal snafu
That won't do;
But I'll return
When my body's near you.

Extrinsicly
They fell behind
The minute curve
In the hit/like world.

Intrinsicly,
My curves bell;
My words
Serve me well.

The Hallowe'en costumes are on display
By the window dresser.
As I pass I look to see
My oval face, reflected by the pane,
Wearing a Superman cape.
Tights too.
I look powerful in solitude,
But others see through me.

I shuffled to the next display.

There I was, in high stiff black collar,
Draping a black silk cape.
Count Francie!
I curled my upper lip for fang effect,
Bela Lugosi style,
Instead, Elvis in Vegas returned his Baby sneer.
Scary, but in a different way.
Not me. No Karaoke!

Next.

A harlequin mannequin returned my gaze,
Wearing a jester's cap and bells,
Striped tights with curly toes.
My smile was designed for such a fancy dress.
No joking.

Tomorrow,
I'll find another display window,
And choose whom I want to be.
I can be anyone.

El Nino El Nino El Nino
(Sung to "Let It Snow...")

Oh the weather outside's delightful,
Not a flake of snow, it's respiteful;
And what's to credit for this show,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

The southerlies aren't abating,
The greens they're still awaiting;
I'm happy not to have a chateau,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

When I'm out gawking at the night,
I don't see the clouds of snow;
There's the flicker of firefly lights,
Dancing over green meadows.

The days are slowly growing,
Warm winds caress as they're blowing;
It's fifteen above zero,
Thanks El Nino El Nino El Nino

Call us perverted,
But read on first,
Then, by the end,
After our verse,
Call us your worst:
***** old men, gutter snipes,
Lecherous gawkers,
Cause we gaze in wonder and awe
At girls from eighteen to ninety-five.
Don't step back and feign aghast,
Whisper covert tsks, and gasp,
What? Oh such ***** old men!
But we are most the same.

We don't ogle or use a scope
Waiting behind a bush at night,
Til the lights go on
Through windows known to be undrawn.

We don't visit public pools
With goggles and a snorkel,
That's just sick, that's not us,
Our admiration's not so twisted,
We grew up to respect the sisters.

We wonder at the parade of beauty,
So pleasing to our eyes,
They dress to allure
Younger looks,
They swagger, tilt and sashay past
With legs as long as trees,
No VPL to interrupt
The curving imagination.
Compare it to one window-shopping,
Admiring wares and worth;
But please, read every line I wrote
Before bellowing, Pervert.

If we were eighteen years again,
We're lads out plowing fields,
Sowing wild grains,
Reaping refrains of They're boys just being boys.

We had our ancient pleasures,
Still comparable to now;
The lushness of the ripened fruit
Hanging on the bough,
Is for younger hands, not ours.

The columned temples of runway models
With flying buttress thighs,
And the bull-frog fronts and volleyball stunts
Please, but we don't pry.

          (We're not a ***** grabbing lot,
          That's not how we usually talk,
          In fact I haven't shared these thoughts,
          I'm reluctant to do so now).

You know you can't blame us
For what a blind man sees;
The cleavage, high-slits and commando style,
The augmentations meant to beguile
Has caught us in crossfire.

The soft unbleached skin,
The ***** and the neck,
The falling, twirling tresses,
Grace the backs of backless dresses.
Wear grotesques to dissuade us,
To disapprove our ageless looks.

Our eyes don't linger on the bust,
We don't display old men's lust,
In fact we're rather obsequious,
To the point where we're air,
You'd not notice that we're there.
But we are, and we look;
And I remember what it took
To be young and on the hunt
For the Yeti, Loch Ness, or alien jump.

Don't tell your friends we're perverted,
Scurrilous id-focused men;
We're neither. We're average fellows
Watching from the stands.

Yes, our daughters are older than
The babes seen on the screens,
But that has naught to do with us,
We still think like eighteen.

We watch re-runs of Mary Tyler Moore,
Drink tepid tea with toast and jam
To the credits of The Golden Girls;
But when the grandkids come to visit,
We take them for ice-cream,
Or if I take poodle to walk,
They pool like thirsty fleas.
It isn't my intent to bait, but I have eyes to see,
Those girls somewhat eighteen,
Like to please by teasing:
     I really like your wire rims.
Their eyes grip, the wind flips,
Their hands soft and supple...
I'm at a loss-
What's a man to do-
Between forty and forever?

This reaper's aged,
The harvest's in.
The grain that bowed the straw
Has now been threshed,
And milled to flour.
Add heat to rise again.

We lived
In our Goodwill bathing suits
During our arduous summer isolation
From school and friends.
They were shiny, silk-like.
The scrotums were always
A size too big,
And so, sagged,
Exposing us like water snakes
Raising heads from darkness.
We sat in the back seat of the Rambler
Like three monkeys,
Towels wrapped sarong-like.
The heated air rose from the hood
As visible reminders.
This was Mammy's idea,
Hoping he would feel obliged
After many hours of hoeing and weeding.
Just an hour at the Beach.
I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone
Beneath the tires as we backed out.
He emerged from the house,
Walked to the garage,
Never glancing our way,
A half hour later we got out.
But I saw, I heard, and now I speak.
Some fathers are never Dads.

The perimeter
Has been laid out;
A fine frame
To encase our landscapes.
We choose where to start,
Working from the top, bottom or sides,
And moving towards the middle ground,
Where land meets water,
The mountains are snow-capped,
The autumn skies are resplendent
With patterns of red and blue.
The copse is shadowy,
With dark green pines ******* soft clouds.
The white-capped lake will never quieten;
But we piece our puzzle.

Ungraded roads have many holes,
Gravel, and running ditches.
Before a rain, they seem more wide than narrow.
Long but terminal.
These roads I'm led to roam,
Not straight, but bending to travel.

Signs warn of deer or bumps,
With a bridge dead ahead.
Chances are, it's a single lane,
And timing dictates crossing.

My spinning wheels clear the ruts,
But soon they fill again,
As if I never passed.

Blue Conservatives...
          well, they've saddened us;
Red Liberals...
          have angered us;
Green Democrats...
          I'm inspired.

Byron enjoyed the feedback on his first run at poetry and asked me to extend his appreciation to you. As he said, "Thank 'em for me."
That lead to a discussion on some of the figures of speech he innately used in his pig roast invitation. I seized the moment to explain that a similie was an indirect comparison using words such as "like," or "as."
"Oh, like, you're a *******?"
We moved on to metaphors.
"Oh, you are a *******."
If we should get to it,
Anthropomorphism will pretty much sum up the Byronic universe
A hero.

A good liar
Is a bad liar,
And I was the worst.
I lost your trust;
Gave rise to sorrow
And a life of regrets.
I don't ask you forget,
But forgive, with peace,
Lay it to rest.

The Coronation is
A
Royal
Pain
In
The
Cosmopolitan
****;
The crowning achievement
of
Royal Navel Gazing.
Chuck it (them) all.