I'm long overdue thanking
The heroes of my youth.

Thank you Superboy
For teaching me how
To read plot and character
And dialogue.
Your comics
Brought phonics
Alive.

Thank you Bouncing Boy
For being somewhat chubby,
And teaching me
Patience and understanding
Of those not quite the
Shape of me.

Thank you Mon El and Ultra Boy
For helping me focus
On one strength at a time;
I've held my  
Weaknesses back from
Overpowering me.

Thank you Lightning Lad
For teaching me that
Accidents happen;
I can move on,
Learn and be stronger.

Thank you Karate Kid
For teaching me that
An average boy,
Through practice and determination
Can achieve what
I dreamt.

Thank you Cosmic Boy
For teaching me to channel
My energy, work with forces
Greater than myself,
And maintain control.

Thank you Chameleon Boy
For the lesson on
Adaptability and attitude
Adjustment.

Thank you Colossal Boy
For making it resoundingly clear
That stature and success are fleeting.
One always returns to
The one before.

Thank you Invisible Kid
For teaching me that I
Will not always go unnoticed
In an opaque world.

Thank you Brainiac 5
For teaching me the importance
Of education and life-long learning.

Thank you Sun Boy
For teaching me to
Shine and look my best,
But never forget
What's inside is brighter still.

Thank you Elastic Lad, Jimmy Olsen,
Who taught me that a loner, a cub,
A red-headed, freckled-faced boy
Could stretch himself,
Can walk with Heroes.

Thank you Shrinking Violet,
Saturn Girl, Phantom Girl,
Lightning Lass, and Supergirl
For all the shapliness
And upskirts
A young lad needs;
You saved ***** Lad
From a life of celibacy
In a Jesuit Seminary.
A Big Thanks!

I have this friend
          (it's really me)
Who has this girlfriend
          (who's really she)
Who has this quirk
          (really several)
Which she'd deny
          (which is another)
She's not anti-gay,
Sees right past color, creed and ethnicity;
Sees women for being women,
Men for men,
And any combination thereof,
And vice versa.
No, she can see right past bigotry,
Is blind to prejudice,
But has an innate drive that goes straight for wardrobe.
From the gowns of celebs,
To the color of Alex Trebek's tie.
A sartorist, that's what she is.
          
          I heard that.
          And I am not.

          (contrary too)

The third incarnation
Of the green blob
Tenaciously grips the drain lip,
Threatening
A fourth invasion.

I wanted to live a life of my own,
From the onset of reason,
Til nothing seems feasible;
To whatever age must come,
I have lived a life of my own.
And loved the love of my life.
No child such a mother,
No husband such a wife.
I've lived a life of my own,
Not alone and alone,
This life's loves are settled
In her home, her home,
And her home.
Never alone,
In this life of my own.

I know.
You know.
I know you know.
You know I know you know.
We're very knowledgeable
With what we know.
You know?
I know!
So.
We  do know?

Happen upon
The special one,
Like you've known
Her all your life.

Take Aine,
My grandaughter,
Like I've known
Her all her life.

Everything about a child
Bundled against winter gets me.
A toque, under a taut hood,
Chapped, like lips,
Mitts covering hands
Joined like tin cans,
With fingers communing
Warmth along lines that
Join our hearts and souls.
Sleeves pulled down
Over mitts with
Wax-like icicles.
Bootsoversocksoversfeet
Under pants, over skin and bones
(that hardly seem warm)
All over me.
Now you see,
They're all over me like nothing.
Bundled in me for
All winters.

They say the Bard's been dead four hundred years;
But each time I attend Stratford,
He struts upon the stage,
Fretting about our human condition,
Our foibles and grandness,
Like a parent,
In the wings.

Dead four hundred years?
Don't believe it for a second!

I was born.
I was born male.
I was born white male.
I was born white, male Caucasian.
I was born white, male Caucasian in a Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large, loving family.

I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large loving family, and I'll never work as a talking head.
Why, tell me, do all the others have all the luck.

I'm pleasantly surprised
I'm alone this morning.
Twenty years ago,
A generation or so,
It wasn't so still.
The gift vault doors were shut,
And children were gathering,
Wanting in.
Not selfish,
Curious with anticipation.
I never imagined
I'd be alone
On this morning,
For a few hours.
Soon children with children
Will gather at my door
With anticipation,
Not curiosity.

Lilian hit eighty-five,
Shot nine holes for forty-eight;
Drives her car not to be late.
Man alive, she's eighty-five.
That's not far off, Bro,
A few thousand weeks,
I ride my Shadow,
Shoot thirty-eight.
That's not far off, Sis,
A few thousand hits,
So I'm shooting for eighty-six,
Playing with my ***** and sticks.

To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
H­omosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transs­exuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)

Does Genesis have anything right?

Given the choice...
There is no choice.
No alternative
To poll your voice.
Be surgical.
Be precise.
This isn't the time
For being nice.
Fight against what you know's not right.
This is the quarrel for our childrens' lives.

We should re-name
The AMA:
*American Music Awards For Canada.

The brain.
An amazing *****
Of surety and doubt.
You believe
What isn't there,
Or,
Not believe
What is.

Mirrors recur here frequently
In verse and lyric.
I'm reading obituaries and
Seeing pictures of what will be.

Death recurs here frequently,
And pain, lots of it.
Broken people too.
It's like we're ambulance chasers,
****** reporters running down a story.

Am I absurd
To think some words
Can change the outcome
Of a world
Gone beserk
With wars that can't be won.
When the absurd is heard,
What good can come?

I seldom write on love,
Youth's passions cooling:
I use my words
On worldly concerns,
Hoping to be heard.
Truly,
Am I absurd?

Am I a copy-cat Romantic
To say, I love you;
Your eyes shame starry spheres;
Your nose is a rose bud;
Your lips are a crevice to treasure;
Your neck a downy repose?
Haven't I read this before,
Between lines of death and rebirth?
You've struck that pose before,
The profile with backlight,
Your cameo hair bunned up
In shade,
Your shoulders sheared off
Just at the ***** of your *******,
Inviting fantasy.
You are the incessant beat of desire.
I will put your picture
In my wallet,
Where the creases become blood lines.
Your likeness will fade
Each time I take it out.

I believe you misunderstood.
You can't leave again,
If I never invited you back.

The maple was neither proud nor noble.
No more than a buck in the cross-hairs.
Chance is out with certainty.
The tree is pieced out,
Like fingers in a cigar clip gangster clip;
Or a gangerous WWI leg.
The sound the tree once made
By catching the passing wind,
Falls to the ground,
Never reaching the roots.
The cutters are as sure as orthopedic scalpels.
They notch limbs that give the final thump.
A sound I dread.
And yet the most pleasant irony
Is the chipper.

Refrain from purchasing
Racoon at your local
Wet market.
In your belly,
It can spelly,
Corona.

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.

The same ones
Are always the anarchists.
The dissatisfied,
The disenfranchised.
They share the same beliefs:
More power through struggle.
We are the same too -
Collateral damage.

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.

S/He/It
SHeIt
Sheit
****
It happens.

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.

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.

We should get married,
Shouldn't we?
Is that a nod,
Do you agree?
Should we expect
Two to three?
Will this car be enough,
Should we plunge
For a bigger house
To store our unused stuff?
Can we make the payments,
Will I be promoted,
Or will I loose my job?
Parent/Teacher Night's tonight,
I'm late for the rehearsal,
I've got to go coach little league,
After Health 'n Safety Training.

Am I homophobic?
Am I alcoholic?

Did I see gray about my temples,
Crow's feet around my eyes?
Am I gaining extra weight,
My waist is twice my height.
I have lumps and grunts
I didn't have before,
I hear thumping in the night,
Did I lock the doors?
And this is just our personal life,
The world outside is crumbling:
Brexit, Walls, pipeline horrors,
The Amazon Rain Forests.
Acid Rain, O-Zone, Isis
(And throw in North Korea),
There are multitudinal crises,
All conspiring succinctly,
With too much sneaking thievery,
Adding grist to an angst-filled life.

Do I really need to ask,
What will our kids do,
When they leave their angst behind
To be worry free as you.

I'm wondering
What went wrong;
HP's becoming
An animal farm.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to strike
      when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Keeps my nose from turning up.

     the front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to
      strike when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Turned noses down that stood straight up. The front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

Fair Warning*

The reerrection
Is based on
The Living Wood,
The Risen Wood.

What was that. A knock?
Sssh!
Listen.
I heard something.
Was it the wind, scratching across my pane?
The pine tree branch thumps its fingers.
Squirrels, racoons and mice scurry over my roof.
My porch light is a beacon of revelation.
The doors are locked against friend or others.
I will wait.
Fall asleep.
Dream.
A hut on an island in the blue,
No ghostly memories.

Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.

I am Canadian. We are considered polite.
I will remain so here.
We are a socialist democracy.
You, a capitalist democracy.
Our Prime Minister makes mistakes.
He's comparatively young. He takes good council.
He speaks of what he knows,
And knows when not to speak.
He can be mean (depending), but never cruel.
He has great wealth, but neither flaunts nor hides it.
When he equivocates or lies, he knows it.

We have all the amenities of a capitalistic society,
With the security and comfort of our social pluralism.
Our youth enrol in a free and fine education.
We have no rich or poor school districts.
We have no security guards or metal detectors.

We are not an economic super power.
We do not influence worldly affairs with an itch or a sniffle.

Our Senate is powerless (enough said).
Authority and power lie in the multi-party system;
Each chooses its leader.
We don't vote for the Prime Minister,
But every four years (and many times less) we can vote one out.
And get this: sometimes the party changes horses midstream to rein in getaways.
A coup d'état is almost impossible,
Unless we get invaded for our fresh water.
We're not nuclear armed,  but when called, the Forces are tenacious.
We're not war mongers. We really do prefer peace.
Our former P.M. won a Nobel for coming up with the idea of a U.N. Peacekeeping Force. That's a real one.

We have serious problems like you. At times, the innocent and the guilty get hurt; that's never good.  And believe me, we support most of your political initiatives, domestic and foreign, and your peaceful demonstrations. We know pain too.

I know you love your country. And you have **** good reasons.
Most Canadians love you too, and we are very worried about our southern neighbours who treat us so well when we visit west of the St. Clair River.
We've helped you when you were in need; when your country was under attack. We are your good neighbours with good fences. We will always be there for you and whatever Democracy you choose.
Please, choose wisely.

Bless America

Another gladiator fell
Watering the field in blood.
His head was sheathed,
He never cut through the net
That descended from the stands.
The iron-****** trident
Brought thumbs up from the spectators
Indulging in the beer and nuts.
There are always some to be sacrificed
To placate the mob in the colosseum
Beneath the night lights on Mondays,
When Coke is the drink of victors,
And jerseys are sold to the trainees
Who now put on their spikes.
These are ours
Running headlong into the arena.

You remember Byron from other poems
I told you about. You can look them up
Later. Most of what I said was true
(Same as Twain -  Mark, not Shania).
When I arrived for my visit, Byron's good friend,
Clive, was there, holding a cold one in his country hands,
Before the wood stove in Byron's man-cave.
They were talking about welding joints,
Or the pitch of a roof frame, or something
I know ******* squat about.
Both men, uneducated, but clever as hell.
Without writing down a measurement,
Or drawing a sketch,
Could reproduce the Taj Mahal.
Like Plato's cave dwellers, they just see it, make it, nail it.
I brought up the problems my daughter is having
With her toy poodle,
And Clive joined in about his disobedient
Great Dane. I'll call him Laertes,
Though his real name is Butch.
Clive says Laertes never stops barking,
Shock collars don't work.
Treats were to no avail.
Obedience School only worked at school.
I could see Byron's hand on his chin,
Looking off and up to his left,
Out the window over the wood stove:
Have you tried speaking Danish to him, asked Byron.
Enough said.

We know there is an island for lost toys;
A chest for lost treasure;
Pandora's box for one last hope;
The morning brings lost dreams;
And the heart fills with lost loves.
For socks, we have a dryer.

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.

Elections
And euchre,
Chance and chaos.
Elect to make it trump,
On a hope and a prayer
Your partner tricks,
Getting tricks,
You're in a game
With one
Who's guiled
On tricks.

Sit, fast.
Lie down if you find privacy.
It's a wave, cresting over you,
And you wonder,
Should I continue breathing?
Gulp, and let the wash begin.
Look to the feet first,
And calm your soles:
Work the legs,
Think outside the head,
But stay down -
You'll walk again,
And wait, and forget,
Then forgive yourself.

Every body,
Micro, macro or ***** Whale,
Whether healthy and hale,
Or weak and failing,
Will die trying to live,
Will bend, mend and maintain,
Suffer and celebrate to sustain
The body.
I am a body.
Not any body, but one of everybody.
I am bending,
I can mend,
I will sustain.
You could say,
I am some body.

I woke to the warning blasts
Of fog horns on the St. Clair.
They comfort like a weighted blanket.
And the rain falls evenly, now,
On my vegetables,
On everyone's lawn and garden.
All is as it should be this morning.
Quiet, ordered and secure.
I'm glad I'm not over there,
Or anywhere else,
But here.

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.

I saw a satyr in the woods,
A centaur in the meadow;
Travelling on, I remarked on a fawn
Hallowing out reeds for a pipe.
The world around me was green,
The water ran clear, cold and fresh,
The air I breathed was historic.
Crosses were in the future.
No Mecca to visit,
No Temple to rebuild.

I am a beach ***, a sun-worshipper, a tree hugger.
I will worship the dove, not the sacrifice.
I will homage the god of the kingdom that is here,
Before she rejects her offspring.

When I hear:
I know what you're thinking.
I know you have no idea
What thought
You just brought up,
Or you'd leave.
And I'll take the penny for that one.

I've been on a dig
Of personal depths,
Picking as far
As I can get,
I surprisingly stopped
My troweling action,
To ask if I'm digging
In the right direction.
The deeper I go,
The less I know,
The opposite
Of my quest.

I ascend for a look and see,
And the world's
Glittering differently.
Did the air down there
Have an effect on me.
I saw an enemy,
But I didn't see her,
At least
Not until much later.
I must've tapped the vein below,
While mining the hardness
Of my soul,
Retrieving stones
From my emotional hole.

I cut my gems
Beneath a glass,
Carved my present
From my past.

I back-filled my dig,
Got what I needed,
A cache of hindsight
I can live with.

I saw a squirrel
Take a ****,
Something no one
Wants to miss.
He paused on
A knotty bole,
Let it run
With no control.
The difference between
The squirrel and me,
I shake myself,
He shook the tree.

Did you have a place
As a child,
A spot to hide
For a little while,
Until your fears could subside?
A shack, a tree, a copse or cubby,
A niche away
From your toils and trouble.
Reach back through the mists of time,
Re-visit that place and there you'll find
The peace you found
When you were a child.