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.

We love my mashed potatoes,
With butter on our plates;
But at the Trumpian table,
We'd eat from Donnie's pate.

Mass.
It can be so heavy.
Especially in church.

The White House is an inverse reflection
Of the matter/anti-matter chamber:
It's Not, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
No. It's, The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
What matters matters.

I shooed a June bug
Off my front screen door;
The freighters' fog horns
Roll on The Huron and St. Clair.
The mist rises like incense
From the black tar on Spartan,
Still a warm May drizzle drifts tonight,
Anointing gardens and lawns.
And Beulah, my new magnolia,
Blossomed yellow for me this year.
But Brigid and Ophelia,
Heralded my Spring,
Brought warmth and light,
With a fresh green lease to everything.

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.

The most rhymed word
In the poetry world is
Me.
That reveals volumes about
Us.

Our heros keep exiting the stage,
Leaving us their music, art, film, and literature.
Their athletic accomplishments,
Their political discretions,
And hidden battlescars,
Their scientific and medical wonders.
Our ancestors left us the wheel and fire,
The family unit and our extended compatriots.
A good lineage always starts in the cave,
And helps us make it through the night.

Got back successfully,
From weeks of ecstasy;
Coming down from a high,
Still not measuring up.
My hill is daunting,
The valleys so low;
I watch my step
From backsliding below.
I know there's reason
Where the light's up this road.
I'm still plodding
Where I need to go.

I've laid the shovel down
And light a candle,
Though I hardly remember why.

I've grieved for the niches
Of para-pschology,
And a general spirituality.
The out-of-body vacations,
The near death revelations.

I pine for the oaken smell
Of pews in a row;
The creak of ancient kneelers,
A red bright sanctuary light.

I am pagan,
Meditating in a copse.

I built the playhouse
To withstand
The seige of time.
Like Hadrian,
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Crescent moons
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Memorial Walls.

There's stuff parents will never know,
The kicks and blows we all endure
To mind, body, spirit and soul.
The run-ins with society,
With the good and the Just for me.
Children should never ever know
Half the stuff they should never know.
The other half I won't tell,
Like the half my kids won't share as well.

Who else knows the stuff I've done,
Alone or with the chosen ones,
Who shared memories with me.
One has died,
One has forgot,
One was always on the spot,
But now stolen from memory's vault:
My recall is true and false,
But the memory now is real,
None here to make appeals.

He knew all of my youth and teens,
Knew my life and all my moves,
My families, old and new;
But his memory is fading too.
It's not forgotten,
It can't be retrieved;
It's lost and can't be found.
These memories now are treasures,
Forever buried underground.

When she said, Don't talk to me,
She lost some of her voice.
Then I heard, Don't look for me,
She gave no other choice.
Don't touch, I have no feelings,
You make my skin crawl,
Don't expect a pick up,
If you pick up to call.

But I still smell her everywhere:
The shampoo used on her hair;
The bedsheets where we lay bare;
The fragrance of her festive tree;
Her aromatic herbal teas;
The lilies she could grow in sand,
Are sensational in my memory glands.

Young and hot.
Old and cold.
Life is a thermometer.

Once upon a time, there was this country called America.
It was a place of dreams and imaginations.
Where anyone in the world could go.
Anyone could be an American.
You can't become Indian, or Italian, French, Irish, Russian, Chinese,
Japanese, etc., etc., etc. by moving there and assimilating.
You'll never be one of them.
But, once upon a time, America was the Golden Ring.
That ring is out of reach now. It's rusted and broken.
And the merry-go-round keeps spinning.
And the occupants keep flying off in all directions.

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

She said she needed
Some me time;
She was suffocating,
Couldn't breathe.
I paid too much attention.
She was right,
Though  pre-conceived.

But now, she seems alone.

She wanted some
Me time,
Which didn't include
Me time.

I need
Some Me-time.
So, I must
Turn this off,
And this,
This too,
This as well,
And this, and this...
And the TV.
And finally,
The light.

It's cold, **** cold,
I blame the north wind.
It pushes the ice on Huron
Against the shore
Making great dunes of frozen water,
Cooling the wind passing over.
It penetrates my outer layer,
Warming itself between inner clothes.
Dampening my cheek;
Cold whispers in my ears;
A cruel embrace,
Girdling me,
Seductive as the dead.
It wraps my house
Like it knows my address;
An unannounced visitor,
Reluctant to leave.
It's mid-January;
Glad the sun's casting
Longer shadows,
Before the wind retires.

I wish she were on my mind,
But she's not. She's in it,
And has full possession.

I've lost my mind;
I'm beside myself;
I'm next to an idiot!

She has my mind in her hands,
And I have time on mine.

She takes all mine. My time.
But I don't mind spending time,
And gladly giving all of mine,
If she would only mind me.
Mine me.

(There is treasure to be had)

The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.

He needs to grow
A pair of hairless ones... soon.

The courtroom was buzzing,
Deals were struck,
Before Her Worship
Heard from the docket.

Will Luke be saved.

A line of roguish consorts
All on Legal Aid,
Paraded before Her,
In judical chains.

And the lawyers are asking
About The Game of Thrones.

There are too many cops,
All creased and shiny,
Carrying file folders,
Outling the crimes.

I was a spectator,
Small in my corner,
As Luke went to stand
Before his maker,
Before his deal breaker.

All charges dropped,
As if a matter of course;
Except for the charges
From the laswyer and court.

I would find the rainbow's end
To reclaim lost treasures
That went missing over my many years.

Some, mere sparkle a crow might crave;
Others, minor shadows in Plato's cave.
In some kind of after life,
Will I find my gold penknife?

I lost it on Easter Sunday:
Jake flashed it on John's jacket;
From nape to back bottom *****,
He sliced the new dress coat in half.
My penknife vanished,
Like the invisible mend.

I miss my pubescent chums,
When imagination was all the fun.
But really, we would look askance,
Not actually sure of a come-by-chance.

Youth got lost, slipped off my face;
I got distracted, it got replaced.

Friends and family have gone,
And with them took
Their share of treasures.

Should you, my dears,
Be lost, I will find you,
Everywhere.
In albums, jewelry boxes,
Closets and cushions.
I'll search the last place first.

I'm standing where a tree once stood,
It's branches, leaves, and roots weren't good.
Perhaps they used it for a rood,
Down in Alabama,
Where skies are lit with flames,
And chants are raised to holy names,
As though they understood.

In the park, an empty swing
Is twisted by a changing wind;
I cannot hear the children sing
Of lambs gone to market.

In the class an empty desk
Draws one's eyes to stare and rest
On a sharpened pencil
That scribbled with regret,
The names we'll soon forget,
For they have gone to market.

What was here,
Now is missing,
It's as if no one's listening;
And it began with our christening.
Like a ship I too am listing.

Here's what they'll say of me:
*He stood once like a tree.

When you first left, it's true I missed you,
More concerned than surprised
Of a life not living with you,
And not on the lookout for.

We were deep into the day-to-day;
Rising, showering for my pay,
Coffee driving to be the workplace slave,
Going out to get a bite or two,
Watching favorite shows with you,
Before retiring for the night.
Getting rest, restarting bright.

It got steeper the further we climbed,
Something was missing, hard to define,
The kids came, there was less time,
Dashing here and there was all fine;
Will I miss that too?
I had plans. I stewed.

So, we cracked the atomic nucleus,
The fallout made us think;
We couldn't life in the shelter,
Outside would make us sick.
The emergency supply was dwindling,
You were itching to get moving,
But the all clear hadn't signaled yet.

The sirens wailed, get out and breathe
Fresh air and some needed reprieve.
One path diverged, and I'm good,
I don't miss you like I thought I would.

I called her Molly Bloom.
Then the final blossom fell from Molly
As I sipped over the lip of morning.
She grew on me.

I grow into things as well.
I was once worried about my height,
But I had large feet,
Not to worry.

I grew as the present slipped.
Hair was important
To grow.
It appeared, slowly, on arms,
Pits, lips and legs.
And groin pains followed.
Atrophy and entropy grow,
Take root like my historical assimilations.

I daily **** out apathy.
Molly was different.
She was presented with love,
And received with indifference,
Then I cared too much.
She was my Bloomsday
When I raised her ashen petalled face.
Should I vacation on Reunion Island
Where they make great ***.
I could pestle her blooms to reinvigorate myself.
Or kid myself, believing her shadow
Will open in the sun.

Which day brings unique
Unexpectedness,
Momentous  at the outset.
The day that adds a dimension.
With expectations
That fall short, meet or excede
Yesterday's forethoughts.
Start with mother's gift.
The warmth and excitement
Of  home after the first day.
A birth,  a funeral,
Excites different
Sounding bands.
Today was such a one.

A Good-bye Day.

Until her return
My days are numbered
Until  
That Momentous Day.

I was sound asleep. Work tomorrow

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 6:30 A.M.

Alarm on. Out and into shower.
Shave. Can't hear radio.
Getting dressed, and in the background's playing, Imagine.
Then Wheels, Beautiful Boy, Help, I Should Have Known Better.
Why?
And the news sinks in. And I have to go teach Grade 6 English
and read Curious ******* George to four classes of Kindergartens and Grade ones.
And, I'm alone in my new house, in a small town called Aylmer (population 5,000).
My wife is away during the week at University, and I hate my job,
and he's decaying on some slab as I read to twenty-five five year olds. Some of these kids will get to know and love his work. So will their kids and grandkids. I know. Like Mozart.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 10:00 P.M.

Me, Johnny Walker, and the turntable going round and round, like his wheels.

I keep my monkey
In a vice;
The jaws are tight,
The pessure's right,
To keep my monkey
Close in sight.

If you have a monkey
That will not go away,
Put your monkey
In a vice,
Tight enough to stay.

Like me, become **** erectus,
Have ***** as big as T-Rex's,
Standing, drooling,
Above the vice.

I was trying to put the cutlery
In their respective slots,
Then the flash of a thought struck me:

     I could train a monkey to do this.

Don't call them noble,
Nobles aren't even so.
They're pretty good though,
The monkeys.

Hey, when I whack
A really good one,
When I'm in the Zen
Of perfect flight,
My buddy will remark:

     Give a monkey a typewriter
     and sooner or later he'll spell
     a word.

So, I have the greatest respect for our Simian brethern
But those other Nobles... Meh!

There's a monster
In my house;
Neither el-e-phant
Or mouse.
By one o'clock
All is cool,
My wee monster's
Back in school.

You don't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.

Where are the Eleanors
And Godivas riding
In power and insight,
With spirit and mystique.
They aren't in jewelry
Or splashed on jeans.
Vishti refused to attend
Her drunken Lord;
She is no mirror for Isabella,
So inexperienced in love.
Anne H. fought for liberty,
Bella likes to shake blonde ringlets
On her shoulders;
The nervous Anastasia,
The clumsy Swan,
So modest
And ill-spoken
With downcast eyes.
Katniss is no Palla Athena
Or Garibaldi, though there's promise.
They are bound, timid heroines.

Malala never shot an arrow,
But spoke like Rosa, like Golda.
Yet, your childish sword-bearers
Are still desired by the men
They encounter;
Not as Susan B was courted.
Do they understand
How the chase ends,
These self-depricating heroines.

Try not to think more of yourself than others.
Try not to think less of yourself than others.
Don't think less of yourself more,
But more of yourself less.
Sometimes, think less of others more,
And you won't think less of yourself.
But do so with charity and courtesy,
Lest we forget.

You couldn't love me any more.
I don't love you any less.
More or less?
Which is best.

Judy took the silverware,
More than thirty pieces;
Entered by the front alone,
She made it look so easy.

She carried off twelve settings,
And tongs and butter knives;
She covered then with velvet plush
To hide from curious eyes.

It turned out to be an inside job,
A sneak thief in daylight,
With more than thirty pieces,
Long tarnished in my sight.

The overnight fall
Is framed through my bedroom window
This morning
I will wrap myself
In the blanket
Before tires, squirrels and bootprints
Mar my pristine scene.

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.

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

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

Most movements
Begin with an idea:
Some,
With a ****.
The latter we flush,
Some former we should.

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

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

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

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

Move on.... Indeed.

Mr. Fawcett
Was a friend
Who ran hot and cold.
When he was hot
He drank a lot,
And smoked and toked,
And ****** and slurred.
We thought him quite absurd.
He wheezed and coughed
And finally croaked,
Turning himself off.

Red herrings tend to be trustworthy,
But lead us astray.
Orange orangutans are trustworthy:
If it looks menacing, it is;
If it grunts, it's meaningful;
If it moves, it's unpredictable.
In captivity they're studied
As evolutionary wonders,
But it's still an orange orangutan,
Pounding his chest.

We just got a new mutt pup.
A cross between
A Peesaspleases and a Shitzoncue.
They aren't rare.

On my way
To the Lambton Health Unit,
I saw a child in a window,
Holding up a sign.
Be Positive, it sparkled.
Only if I'm negative, I mused.

My brain is in the landfill,
My ego's in the dump;
My id's been spread as fertilizer,
My heart's a paltry pump.
So, how do I say
Love's grown in me,
Like invasive weeds;
I need to ***
Between the rows,
For you,
My mustard seed.

Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who's scared shiteless on election night?
Donald's scared shitless on election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to *** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to *** on beds.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.