It's a cheap food source,
For the young,
Running like icicles
To their tongues.
It's wiped on sleeves
Up to the elbow.
Or rolled for ammo
Between finger and thumb;
It's a missle
When aimed and flung.

And during the night,
We don't know how,
It's smeared on walls,
Pillows and covers,
And hardens on headboards,
Where it stays and hoovers.

If you're at home,
In need of glue,
Your nose provides
A stick or two.

Granda uses hankies a lot
To dig and pick at his Grandkids' snot.
Blow one nostril at a time
To thoroughly purge the wet green slime.

It harbinges our imminent distress,
When we spot piles of wet kleenex.

And lastly,
At the dinner table,
When no one's looking,
Then you're able,
To stick your ******
Beside last week's gum.
If Dad or Mom
Should happen to see,
Just reply,
’Snot me!

Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.

A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.

Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.

Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.

The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”

There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.

There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****.

The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.

A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.

An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.

Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.

Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth  of Ontario.

On my shovel
They appear the same.
Colour,
Density,
Weight!
A snowflake
Is a snowflake
Is a snowflake.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.

Sol burns bright;
Yet burns out.
So too we,
Love.

Her shield, displayed,
Shunned errant knights.
The force field, impenetrable!
She was armadilo-like, but
No soft underbelly.
No teddy bear arms.
She endured a hard day.
Me, a soft night.
I strayed on my mini pad
Till her light turned out.
I lay on my side,
Beside her,
In another Romantic tale,
In a galaxy,
Far, far away.

Less daylight...
More starlight
Is just right;
Prolonging
Our night.

Some body used a stick
To get an ant;
Some one watched
And used it
To spear a fish.
Somebody used a bow
And stuck it to the boar.
Then we launched
Missiles
So some body
Can walk
On Mars.

Some cops,
Are one bullet
Short of
A full clip.

George came by bus everyday
From Alvinston;
A No-Daddy community.
I've heard that town
Should be fenced
And re-named a Zoo.

During a power outage
George was suspected
Of being the dumper
In the middle of the gym floor,
During class. He was present.
The evidence was piled against George,
But inconclusive.

When George brought
A bag of **** to school
I called his mother,
A worn-out, retired pole-dancer.
When she arrived I showed her
The bag. She was pleased
I didn't turn George over to the cops,
But roundly upset with George
For swiping her good stuff,
And not the skunk ****.
Some kids' parents.

The corner house
Has three missing fence planks,
So the boys got their short-cut
Across the front lawn.
It was three a.m.,
I saw them, I yelled from the window,
Hey guys. Stop that!
They tossed their cans onto the asphalt.
Her bedroom light came on;
They were the night.
I heard their hurried pace,
Their laughter like warning fog horn blasts.

Butch's mother next door died.
It was a year before I knew.
I thought she went to Florida.
I pictured her sitting in the sun.
But she was gone.
Butch shovels snow,
Obsessively.
That's what I know.

The doobie brothers
Live next to the cop.
Their driveway's a busy spot with comings,
And goings.
But the cop's part of our hood,
Disrection's understood.
Besides,
Officer Bob has his troubles to tend to.

Then there's small Mary,
She lives two doors down.
She has to be over a hundred,
Once lived on a farm.
She rakes debris with her hands,
Bent over for hours,
Cleaning her lawn.
     (Butch shovels her walkway,
     but stays to himself)
I've waved to Mary
When she's out and about.
Good to see you, I shout.
Nice to be seen, she replies.
No doubt.

Someone's mother died today,
So let's pretend her to be
A sacrifice to winter,
For birds are singing now,
The sun and sky
And all seem to conspire.
The chill has left the air.
The very ground has softened
To receive her.
We've removed an outer layer.
Namaste all the years.

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.

Whatever I think on a theme
Is somewhere in a song;
I want to muse on something,
That hasn't yet been done.

Political verses aren't much read,
Nor social satire on the quick and dead;
Relationships are switching lanes,
Sparking up or down in flames.
Family, friends, coming, going,
Everybody's naming names.
Any doggerel I might choose,
Is just a story in the news.

Arise and spin where you stand,
You'll get dizzy, you'll be queasy,
I knew this wasn't to be easy.
It's somewhat like a paper cut,
It's quite like that when it starts up,
Hardly noticeable, but for the sting,
But it gets in under the skin.

It's sweetness strong to draw a bee,
Flowery scents on a breeze;
An attraction meant to pull you in,
A stinger poised to pierce your skin.

I have my joys at end of day,
A little sleeper, a swift silent dreamer
That grows like our emotions,
Just needing our endorsements.

It's not been parsed as it could,
Discard the evil, keep the good;
It's in our veins, as sure as blood,
I'll focus all my wit on love.

I returned early,
You were still there.
You left a chair and table
For my meals.
My recliner and lamp were waiting,
Before the new flat screen.
You made-up my bed,
One pillow at the head.
Closet space had its place
With missing clothes and shoes.
Others fared less well
More were desolute;
But you walked out in style,
Took time for a Good-bye.
The house has less furnishings,
Plenty of meaningless stuff;
It's not the missing articles,
But your missing voice,
I guess.

I know nothing about
The semblances of affection,
Or the pretension of passion;
I only know one kind of love:
The one I can't part from,
I really cannot, I really don't not.
I suffer ultra extreme separation anxiety.
No psychotic weird stuff.
We don't want to be apart,
But we do, for years at times.
I'm not a simpering wimp,
Or a wimpering simp.
This love lasts a lifetime,
A sane lifetime.
It makes me want to live.
I'll succumb to prayer and hope,
Whatever to never have it end.
     (I do mean never)
One love shouldn't have to subscribe
To the same cruel rules as everything
     (I do mean everything)
Else.
Something serious is askew
When one love leaves and love
Lives on in the other.
Our love lived once,
But died twice.

I have something systemic
That's not an emotion I know.
It's more than a feeling,
It's a metaphoric something,
Not literal, more figurative.
Empathy is close;
And it's certainly not sympathy,
That's too aristocratic and snobbish.
I could compare it to an older sister
Moving into her own bedroom;
Or an older brother vanishing
On the first day of school.
For example, I visited my friend, Oafy
In the nursing home.
He had his shoes on the wrong feet,
And he didn't care,
But I did. That sensational something
Is the gist of my systemic something.
It's human, probably universal,
Rational, not inane.
Mothers, I understand, sense it.
Fathers, being one, too.
Humanitarianism is a big part of it;
So is altruism,
But it's bigger than charity.
It's a connection with all the senses,
But real beyond cognition.
It's a field-tested faith,
But I don't know what to call it.

I can't but think of you
When those old familiar songs air;
As familiar as the friends we shared,
Songs we once grew old to,
That played as you ironed hair.
Tensions grew as the volume raised,
As your parents worried upstairs.
Songs of innocence, songs of experience,
Were on the radio,
And you'd find a station
In Daddy's car
As we drove back to school.
Lyrics I didn't know I knew
After all these years;
No photo could make you
More vivd than now;
Songs that immortalize
Those moments of our youth.
You tanning in the sand,
Transistor craddled in an alabaster hand;
The smell of beach on you.
Lips parted as you whispered words
To the ****** burning in me.
Then you dance close,
Your hair a symphony...
Some songs I hear
Are too much to bear
Beneath a firefly night,
When nothing came between us,
But the notes of songs we liked.

If years could be booked,
Our pages, lover,
Would spread between
The covers;
To lay our plot,
And the life we sought,
For a setting like no other.

Yet shifting shapes from
Distant dates,
Weigh heavy on our pages;
A ring appears
Throughout the years,
To circle and engage us.

If years were versed
Our lines would rhyme,
Metered in perfect time;
Sonnets would spring,
And ears would ring,
With cadence soft and beautiful.

Those seamless shapes
Of distant dates
Are yet to be our pages.
The ring appears
With smiles and tears
To keep us through all ages.

When words and songs
Fade and fail;
When our bodies grow old
And our minds grow frail;
When the final note
Wanes from this song,
The world will know
Our love won.

You know what I don't hear
That I heard when I was young;
It'll all be over soon.
Sooner than you think.
I heard the doctor say that,
And the pacings of
The Presiding Proctor
Raise tensions in the room.
Then someone says, It's good for you.
But I'm not holding the spoon.

This too shall pass,
The same sun will rise,
The rain falls evenly
On both our sides.

I don't believe in six of one
Or half dozen of the other;
Or the other side of the same coin.
Seldom do we get what we deserve.
I have yet to witness the last
Going first or vice versa.
Maybe there are lasers in space
And brain worms,
Black is not white,
White is not black.
Words are friends.
Fear not,
For they are with us always.

If to
Can have an extra O,
As in
You're too incredible;
Then so
Can have an extra O,
As in
You're soo beautiful.

Guy was a real roust-a-bout:
Drinking, drugging, *******;
Not coming home;
Not leaving home.
Yes, he was troubled,
He was a handful.
But he looks so good,
And the arrangements
Are splendid.
We take turns
Congealing over him
To conceal scars.
Sorry for your troubles,
Then and now.

Anyone ever hear that Cortez might have said,
lo siento;
Or Hudson's Bay recall one blanket?
What regret or remorse would be achieved.
Why? Because of more or less.

Sorry. I'll try harder.
     That sounds like your heart was never in it.

Sorry. I ****** up.
     That's sincere.

I recanted on a really big SORRY,
And sorry I am
That ever I did mouth it.

Temptation shies
From revealing sun,
Its subtleties
Shine on everyone.
Don't look for horns,
Fork and tail;
Its method ensnares
The unsuspecting,
Should they dare
Challenge to outwit.

We'll trade our souls,
For a sack;
Barter what we dearly hold;
Trade it in
For selfish goals.

Some advertise
A soul for sale
By self-service.
That ultimately fails.
Cuckold a friend,
Cheat at the end;
The tempter likes it
When we're lost
In the simplicity
Of detail.

So sly
We think
We lose our souls.
Terrified by
Eternal flames
That burn without
Consuming skin.
We don't
Lose that,
We wallow
In our sins.

This temptation needs
To stick us
In the end.

We've been... a... part... so long;
We've not been... to...gether, a... lone.
Together alone.

I hear the lonely house sounds
Of dripping, creaking, and window wind whoshes;
The semi-muted fiber optic sounds;
The various vehicles dopplering past.
These I hear in my fractured second,
Before asking, "How ye doin?"
Which shatters into glass the silence
Held too long between us.
But now we are alone, together, alone.
A silent alone, together.

I have two brains inside my head,
Sharing thoughts in synoptic threads;
Sifting what's been heard or read;
Random, weird, or rational doubts,
They get crowded, some fall out.

Like mustard seeds some fall near stones,
And wither away before full grown;
Un-liked, un-loved, barely a hit,
Not to pass our reader's lips.

       Have I sown more *******?

Some scatter near the thorny bush,
The root is strong, but growth gets crushed;
It seems I can't discriminate
What readers like and what they hate.

       I need re-evaluate: Am I writing for writing's sake?

Some thoughts find richness firmly grounded,
The how and why leaves me confounded;
But the ideas blossom, some are priceless,
A palate treat with figurative spices.

       Now, this is more to my reader's liking.

I never had a choice
With what I love;
Like tasting ice-cream,
Sunny days,
A child's expectant face
At a parade;
Puppies and kittens are adored;
Closing sales at favorite stores.
They ignite a spark I can't extinquish,
A blazing warmth that's out of control,

I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.

          I should feel slighted.
          Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
          Bacon tastes good, is good.
          The surgery is booked.
          The schools are over-cooked.

The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.

She's so beautiful,
I'm speechless,
So, I'll write
About her.

Do you scan
With speeding eyes;
Looking for consonants -
Some are silent,
And the y
Can be an i.
Then you're lost
Between the capital
And the period,
Remembering names
And deeds,
But missing the resonance,
The nuance of character
And motive,
The results.
Curling up with
Paper or screen
Is not a race
To the ribbon.
It's an adventure.
Flip back,
Re-read
The good parts.
Discover
The Aha moments.

I once believed spelling was important.
But that's just stupit.

Your ***** bank
Has recorded N.S.F.
Make deposits,
Don't withdraw.

Spirits are demons,
It's alluringly clear;
Cordial at first,
With smiles
Cloaking sneers.
Devils in bottles
Of liquor and beer.

Sometimes my life splits me in two,
In daytime I never dream of you;
But then I turn my nightlight off,
My real world brings me back to you;
The moon is sun,
The sun is you.

The perfect verse,
The one that would resonate,
Cannot be written.
Not by Chaucer, or you,
Not by the rood or sickle,
Not by notes or dances,
Or brush and ink,
Clay or marble,
Any substance, any tool.
But it's there, inside,
Giving us a splitting headache,
Trying to get through the crack.

So many roads lead back home,
But not the one where I was born.
That first wet road was slippery,
With curves and hills and holes,
But every mile I travelled on,
Without knowing, I headed home.

Those many highways,
Like a wheel,
Were radiating spokes,
But like the wheel,
They're circular,
So always lead back home.

Trying to spread the word?
Reach as many as possible?
Get your point across?
The twentieth century
Has provided the means
With
Telecommunications
Telstar
Telegraph (really the 19thc)
Telegram
Telephone
Television
Telethons
And coming soon,
Teleporting.
And yet,
With all our tele-technology,
If you really want world-wide attention,
Tell-a-friend
A secret.

You had me
With Spring.

Today is the first day
Of Spring in Ontario
After an arduous winter.
We have waited with
Northern patience.
I cruised my Shadow
Along Lakeshore Rd,
The sun strobing through
Leafless, budding limbs.
The smell of Spring clean-up,
The burning of leaves and wood;
An invisible, invading aroma.
That one assault held the force
Of all my Springs,
Before I worried over CO2's.

Spring reminds me
Of being thirteen,
And sprouting.
The verdant tufts,
And budding girls.

It's early in the day.
The birds chirp Spring awake;
The trees are in their underwear,
They've yet to brush their teeth.
The rain will wash their faces;
Right now they're a disgrace.

He moves slowly in the morning,
Scratching bark and boles;
He ambles to the frozen lake,
Before donning fine green clothes.

Spring is waking up now,
Sap's running from his nose,
Spring is waking up now,
Rubbing blurry eyes,
Spring is waking up now,
And winter's in repose.

Walking  haunts is enlightening.
Your Centennial Spruce over there,
Grew straight for over fifty years.
Your home is no longer the dark chocolate I layered.
The recent owners are unknown to me.

Neither change nor inactivity
Is necessarily progressive.
I mean, I like the new colour,
And Magnolia trees have vibrant blossoms.
Yes, modulations and mutations are as inevitable
As clock hands gliding silently through time.

Grandparents don't have interesting dens.
Art galleries befuddle me.
Roads get shaved and paved in one passing.
Houses come Pre-fab.
We are the Spruce trees,
And the exterior walls,
Waiting
For a box-lunch.

"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...

Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.

Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.

Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.

I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.

(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)

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.

A House of Cards
Should only have
Two Jokers...
Right?

I was never an adulterer,
I did **** myself over,
And ****** alone;
But the "A" that keeps sticking
Is as prominent as Hester's.

I was never an abuser,
But I can do a real fine job on myself;
And then the guilt sets in,
Like a hard-packed snowbank,
And I need to get the shovel.

That amber-coloured "A"
Always leads to the stairs of shame
I climb like my cross;
Then lie in state
Until the resurrection.

The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.

On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.

(A perfect metaphor, thought I).

No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.

So? What's not replaceable.
That's too rhetorical.
Let's be practical.
From this side,
This viewpoint,
There's no change.
Or it's indiscriminate.
I've been replaced
By
Stand-ins and stunt people.
Seems everyone's replaceable,
Except for the original,
You.

Be real about hallways
Lined with windows, or mirrors.
Be real about dreams in stanza form,
Which aren't real - stanzas I mean.
Write about flowers and rain,
If you must, throw in some stars;
Moons always read well,
Or seaside waves lapping.
Call it a poem,
A free verse or well-crafted couplet,
Matters not, unless it comes from the heart,
Whole or broken; wise or foolish.
Temper it with lovers, friends and family,
Bake it in the soul,
Then release.
Dump your lover,
Start another.