A poet,
One of our best,
Got far
Inside himself.
He LOL a lot,
Used emoticons
And dots,
To share
Personal thoughts;
Then he forgot
His name.

A pseudonym's
A precarious thing;
Its acronym
Might fool you.
But a nom de plume
Becomes you,
Like Twain, Orwell
Or Seuss.
So, when your writing
Takes you far,
It's important
To remember
Who you are.

A poet,
One of our best,
Got far
Inside himself.
He LOL a lot,
Used emoticons
And dots,
To share
Personal thoughts;
Then he forgot
His name.

A pseudonym's
A precarious thing;
Its acronym
Might fool you.
But a nom de plume
Becomes you,
Like Twain, Orwell
Or Seuss.
So, when your writing
Takes you far,
It's important
To remember
Who you are.

Suffering,
Like light rain,
Loud as thunder,
Alone like wind about the face.
I know it
As an empty bed,
Made, but not slept in;
An unplanted garden
Left empty on the plate.
Don't tell anyone
How you feel,
How we suffer
The agony alone.
There's an occasional text
To remind one of lonliness,
Especially around twelve o'clock.

I walked this way
To express my accounting,
To the ears of the deaf and dead;
Standing over the four of you
That will be my confessional booth.
The remission of sins
Pour from my skin
And shake me like November winds.
I tempted the elements
By my own accord.
October was wet,
You would have wept
Til I pushed the clouds away,
And let the sun's forgiveness in.

resign
Resign
REsign
RESign
RESIgn
RESIGn
RESIGN
PLEASE!

With the children gone,
She languished in
Her shameless morning.

One of my most favourite days
Of the year
Isn't the first day
Back to school,
It's the second...

Every night is Saturday,
Every Monday's Sunday.
If Tuesday is my lieu day,
Then Wednesday is my luncheon meeting.
Thursdays are long coffee breaks,
And Fridays are my Personal Days.
Saturdays are Saturdays,
And ****,
It might begin again.

You must be weary,
And a drop of teary,
From your arduous journey home.
The length of stay
While you're away,
Pierced me as a thorn.
Now stay awhile,
There's more to retract,
But they'll slip out
Because you're back.

Each year we lose
One heart beat;
That's less blood
To our heads and feet.
This means my breath
Is fading too;
But I'll keep beating,
And I'll keep breathing,
Yes, I'll keep living
Just to bury you.

I'm in remission,
That's my condition,
Inside a revolving door.
I'm in,
I'm out,
Now whisper,
Now shout,
But the lip service
Is what I abhor.
If I had cancer,
You'd have your answer,
But addiction's
A revolving war.

The ordained day arrived.
I didn't know what to expect,
If I expected anything,
But I did;
That's human nature,
But  I'm the only one
That seems to understand.
So, the expectations -
     **** expectations -
Fuelled by media,
Stoked by my desires,
Were prominent today.
     I was left spitting the ashes,
     Re-winding home videos.

Indigo.
I refuse to use
That word for blue.

Why say digit
When toe will do.

Indigo:     It's pedantic
                  Donnish
                  Academic
Sho­uld I mention
It's pretentious.

Some use it to explain
Deeper feelings
Than it can.

Sacrebleu!

What's the difference between
Bigots and the POTUS?
(space provided)
_____

I find readers still like
Meter and rhyme,
But the rhyming words
Must be sublime
When dangling at
The end the lines.

If you've a message
To get through,
Rhyming lines
Do it for you.
Don't get me wrong,
Free verse is fine,
But I only remember
One or two lines.
A poem that rhymes
Is easily recalled,
All of us do it
All of the time.

Rich red tea
In porcelain,
Explains how I'm
Enjoying sin.

Why did the vet
Disregard the elephant
In the House?
REWSNA: EREHT SAW ON NIARB YTIVITCA.

This ride I'm on
Leads to the dump.
I, refuse that I am,
Refuse to jump.
I ride with
Peels of poor me,
Rinds of regret,
Scraps of resentment,
Empty bottles
Of pain
And emptiness.
I, Drunk.
I drank
For forgetfulness,
In misery and anger.
Refusing questions,
Not giving answers.
I don't need
To hitch a ride
To the human dump,
The soppy landfill.
At any stop
I can jump.
Jump,
And walk.

I heard a nasty rumor about Robbie dying.
But that's not quite true;
At least not until he doesn't meet up with you.

I didn't see him daily, so, for me, he really hasn't.
Not quite yet.
We had lunch just the other day:
"We'll be teeing up in April," he smiled.
Smiled. He's so good at that.
Robbie might be dead then,
But not today. Not for me.

But that's not what they'll say
When he doesn't show.
Then I'll know.
And I already feel the hurt.

I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poeticaly clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron, or that poser, Yeats.
Each and every one you see,
Lifted their best themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's made me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're  now just dust and bones,
They still don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown, like,
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I thought that up before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poetically clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

Our music doesn't age like us;
It ages with us.

Where are our Percys, Johns and Gordons gone?
The rock and pop stars
Of words worth remembering.
We'll never shake them off
Like today's, washed up
On the shore of MTV,
Bleeding on the carpets,
Crying maybe baby.
I'm gagaing.

I've heard and read lovers recite
On love about their love;
… a full petalled blossom
in a silver vase...

Trite, I thought,
and so blase.
If what I recall is true.

I see my lover more like clover,
Spreading along a tree laden brook,
On a pathway through sun-streamed woods;
Spreading, thriving, covering green,
A more vibrant, living floral scene.

Trite, I think.

A roomful of virgins
Sat before me
Ready for an auction.
The bidding began.
Allies, and other less noticeables
Raised their paddles.
Tensions mounted
As the cannons were sold off,
The arsenals grew with each arm,
The bidders knew
The value of money
Decreases as anger rises.
Truckloads of boots
Emptied into
The streets and homes.
The auctioneer placed
His cap on his head
And left them counting
In the snow.

Mr. Rory Richards
Lived his life,
Taking garbage
Out at night.
He shovelled drives
He swept walks,
He listened intently
While others talked.
Others talked.

When Rory wasn't
Weeding the garden,
He was outside
Hanging laundry.
Moms were jealous,
Dads were shamed,
But whispering neighbours
Never complained.
Rory's good
At the husband game.
He presented well.
The neighbours continued
To tsk and tsk.

On his way home
From work,
He picked up the kids
From daycare,
He'd find time
To volunteer there.
He'd have treats
At home for them,
And their friends.

He volunteered with
Cubs and Scouts,
Always finding
Extra time
For jamborees
And overnights.

One day the cops
Came on the scene,
Rory wasn't
What he seemed:
His computer
Showed a different man,
A lurking, luring
Child **** fan.
And the neighbours'
Tsks cresendoed.

At his trial
He sat abandoned,
But neighbours there
Gave witness to
A man they thought
They surely knew.
A family man
In his pew.
All his life
He lived beside them,
A man they let
Their kids rely on.

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

The Queen is in the Tower,
She decrees to step out;
But the bouffant needs some tending,
And Royal chin y chin hairs sprout.

The Queen is in the Tower,
She dines well when she eats;
But Lizzie's in a tizzy now,
No walk-abouts on her street.

The Queen is in the Tower,
Standard at full mast;
When the Union Flag is lowered,
Royal Heirs will know she passed.

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.

I'll scale the hairs of Lincoln's beard,
Leap to the bridge of Roosevelt's nose,
Balance on Jefferson's brow,
Then plead on Washington's pate:
America, stop ******* up.
I'm slipping on the eyes
Of this granite outcrop!

I met you with a full bag of promises,
Leaking out a corner hole;
Leaving a trail even Gretel could follow.
You were lurred, picked up the droppings
Til you were sated,
Then turned back home,
Turned away;
The hook fell out -
We fell out,
Those promises lost their flavor.

She bounces on
My Granda knee,
As I bounced you,
As you bounced me.
Play infant games
Until she's two.
Same as you.

We'll dove-tail hands
On pre-book walks,
She'll feign to listen
While I talk.
Her harlequin senses
Embrace the beauty;
Same as you
When you were three.

We'll attend
Her fav movies;
Engage while
We're snacking fries:
I'll see the light
Light up her eyes.
Same as you
When you were five.

I'll be lucky,
And live long;
I'll be sure
To carry on
Helping her
All along.
The same as you,
And you grew strong.

What's ours yesterday,
Is gone today;
What's here today,
Will be gone tomorrow.
That how it goes
For joy and sorrow.
Balanced on a teeter-totter,
These highs and lows
Of our see-saw charter.

I descended the stairs in dread,
Shading my eyes
From the late August sun
Coming through the window,
Onto the landing.
The rakes leaned against the garage wall
Like prisoners on work detail.
Mammy had plain porridge,
Toast, jam and strong tea prepared
For our last summer breakfast.
No tomatoes.
We'd work on the clumps of dirt,
Breaking, raking, smoothing,
Preparing the ground for next Spring.
The root cellar we dug beneath
The newly poured porch
Was filled with the harvest
Of the auld sod's outlook.
On the sideboard, stacked in four neat piles,
Rose our school supplies for Tuesday.
He stood guard at the bottom of the yard.
I drove the prongs through the clumps,
Waiting for the school bell.

Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.

When I've aged
With passion spent,
I'll save my breath,
There's less to vent,
Save my energy,
Say, Yes.

When the kettle isn't boiling,
Or the hinges need an oiling;
There's no alarm to turn me on,
I sleep soundly through the dawn,
That's when I
Say, Yes.

I've read love rhymes,
Lived a few,
Now culled my books
And love letters,
Sacrificed like a goat
That's tethered,
Parsed my heart
To flames and feathers,
Still,
I say, Yes.

I say it to whatever's offered,
Break the lids off creaky coffers,
Scatter rainy days with blue.
Ah. Getting older's what we do.
And through it all,
Say, *Yes.

The broken heart cries,
Alone...
But leaves visible scars.

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.

We're treating our world
Like a retreating army:
The invaders won't survive.

Scotch and water
Never falter
Infusing me
With spirit.
It elevates my feet;
Invigorates my senses;
I even speak in accents
Of Highland double malt.
But then I have a descent
To lonliness, resentment,
Meant for one who falters.
I've got scotch and water
As libation on the altar
Of self-sacrifice
And capture.

I keep a private Scrapbook
You won't see on my shelf;
Stuffed with trivia from my life,
Known to no one but myself.

It's filled with words and actions,
Lies, cheats and thefts;
Nothing really serious,
But enough that I won't share.

Deeds I'm not proud of,
Words uttered to hurt;
Clippings from a checkered past
Sealed safely in my book.

There's some who'd like to read it,
Expose me for what it's worth;
They should proceed with caution,
They have their own Scrapbook.

Our world is screaming,
Cover our ears,
But eyes are open
To the turbulent reds
Swirling the sky.
We pose,
Some in rockers
With wry smiles,
Holding pitchforks,
Looking Gothic,
Harvesting potatoes,
Filling pockets.
We dance across
Impressionistic canvases
Framed by our art.
In the corner
Of my city
Waits an active asylum.
Put a jacket on,
Scream,
Things are
Coming undone.

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.

When the plank is up,
Icicles form like the sword of Damocles
Above my door.
Breath is whisked away by prisms
Hanging between limbs, flailing.
My parka rests in the closet;
The shovel looks incongruous
Leaning against the shed.
High, I giggle in the peopled park,
Waiting for descent.

There is talk of another Arctic Vortex,
Combined with the Texas jet stream,
A canopy of cold is raised,
Crueler in the bright sunshine of March.
But we see shadows, elongating and shrinking,
And my toes reach tentatively
For the softening ground.
But soon,
I'm high again,
Heading towards the bright, yellow sun.

I'm a young man in the spring,
Looking forward to anything...everything;
Undaunted in the offerings.
Nothing's too demanding,
What's out of reach is possible:
If I lift my arms I can fly,
Open my mouth I sing,
Close my eyes, I paint;
Reach out and envelope
What others too soon reject.
It's the spring of my year,
And summer's coming on.

I'm a thirty-something in summer.
Disappointments and expectations abound
Under a cloud-split sunny sky.
I can flap my arms, looking chicken-like,
I'm asked not to sing so loud,
I close my eyes, one at a time,
To read the chart.
My arms are getting full,
But I have room for more.

Autumn comes on my heels.
It's a time for preparation.
Savings, spendings, give-aways
Fill forty years of duty.
Taxes, mortgages, tuition,
Weddings, christenings,
Hellos and goodbyes to the loved.
Winter is coming in off the lake.

Today coincides with the solstice;
The least amount of light,
I can feel it now.
I close my eyes to nap,
I am grounded, well-grounded,
I accompany the singers with a uke,
And lip sync.
I hear every note.
I'm skating again at the arena,
Sugar Shack is playing.

Fledglings,
Now long
From the nest,
Alight with grace for
A brief repast,
And well-earned rest;
Then secret away
Before December's threats.

Fleecy sheep
From the promise
Of Spring,
Are fatted and shorn
And  blithely waiting,
Will feed on corn
And winter grain
In straw-warm barns.

So you, with
Youth's eyes
Intent with queries,
Focus on
The coming seasons;
When the nest's
No longer home,
When the wool
Has yet to grow,
And the barn
Has lost its glow,
And cannot
Keep you
Warm.

Meet opportunity.
It's a subtle wink,
And briefer than
You'd like to think.
Look to your stars;
Leave earthly woes
Behind.

There was the first look,
     It snapped by in a second;
There was the second look,
     It was alluringly fecund.
Like reading page one again
     On the face of a friend;
Don't close the book,
     Take a second look.

I have always enjoyed the shows
Being in the second row.
Here, I avoid the spittle from the stages,
Felt safe behind third base,
When a line drive missed my face;
Playing sax behind clarinets in Band;
The first row gets chosen first;
I could rest my head on my desk,
Slouch behind raised hands.
An A-Team player always got hurt,
Or worse.
Behind me,
Are infinite rows and tiers,
And each gets a turn;
After second row.