Today is like any other day,
However,
Don't plan any trips to the Senate,
Stay off of stairs and away
From people named
Cassius or Brutus.
Wifes are dreamy, so listen and look.
Knives are for cutting, not stabbing.
Should a soothsayer
Warn,
Beware the Ides of March,
Don't leave without an explanation.

You were born with a ticket
For an ego-trip;
Languished on the axis
Of the Id Grid;
Dryed your hair with a comb
Before the vanity mirror.
That's how it was
When we were at home.
You fit many uniforms.
You never learned;
Never broke stride,
Now
You say good-bye.
Re-wind,
On slow-mo,
Review the moves
Then go.
Flip the rear view mirror;
It's bigger than you.

____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­______________

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 picture's worth
One thousand words,
Yet there's only  one word
In "Selfie?"
The "I" creates
One thousand shots,
So shooters
Do your worse.

In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
When she lifts the lid,
Set in the mirror,
Shines the most precious jewel,
And Granda's treasure.

Six, sixty or a hundred and six,
Every day's a holiday,
A festival of lights,
And roller coaster
Lows and highs.
Yes, it matters
If someone dies,
But you didn't,
Enjoy your ride.

I needn't wait until dark
For the killer to stalk,
But I'll unplug my fridge,
Turn off the TV,
I won't use FaceTime
Or socialize on FB.
My cell screen is dark,
No Snapchat or Podcast,
Or Instagram and Vimeo.
The Cloud has been compromised;
In short, disconnect,
For the killer's inside,
And knows what to expect.

Charles didn't heed the Puritans
He was God's appointed,
Anointed and empowered.
He tumbled from above,
Down through the law,
Lost his head.

Nicholas was placed in the basement crypt,
A cult-like condemnation;
So they stood him against the wall,
He listed to his Monk,
His reasoning debunked,
So they shot the anointed one
On his golden throne.

Benito was above the law,
High on meat hooks.
Could we dare to look?

If you were lucky,
If you were tied to a stake,
And the ******* ignited,
Someone dear would tie a bag
Of gunpowder around your neck.
Why let the crows pick out his eyes,
Make golden nests from his hair.
End the torture. Pull the life-line.
Sever the head from the body politic.
It is the righteous thing to do;
It is the civil thing to do
In pensive state.
Rise up from your ashes.
It is the kindest cut of all.

The King of kings
******* licks
With Lucille,
Has ascended.

The lads
Are streaming ****.
Don't be too quick
To scorn;
To understand my monologue
Know Sears stopped publishing
Catalogues
Of women in their ******.
And Geographic
No longer shoots
******* Amazons.
I don't claim it's right,
But boys are boys,
Night follows night.

My grandaughter's great grandmother
On her paternal side,
Died.
Aine's grandmother's name
Is Rose,
The daughter of
Mae
They meet again
Some day.

Hey, the very last thing
I wanna do,
Is die.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

I like being liked.
We do.
It matters who likes us too.
Do your parents like you?
They have that option,
It's obvious in adoption.

My friends like and are liked by me,
Or they aren't friends.

Teachers liked me.
Some students are hard to like,
But succeed.

Co-workers liked me.
Had their ups and downs with me.
Some didn't like me, but once did.
My status changed. Their's didn't.
I moved from their likeness image
When the bosses liked me so much,
They made me one.
Bosses have fun, but with more cash,
And less time to enjoy it.
But when the time arrived,
I liked the bosses too.

My spouse liked me.
Denise likes me.

Most importantly, my kids.
They like me,
So much so,
They gave me a sign:

          If Dad Can't Fix It,
          We're all *******.

Do I want to be liked?
Don't you?

Like I said,
I like being liked.

Try to imagine being dead,
With nothing running
Through your head,
But worms and water
And other things.
Your eyes are closed,
Your ears are stopped,
All your orifices corked up
So you don't smell
Or make a fuss
As the living outline
Your casket.
You lie in state,
But there's no wait,
The line-up starts with you.

In a museum, or forgotten barn,
A small red twelve inch two wheeler
Hangs on invisible wires,
Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust.
But Tannehill rode it once,
Like something in a dream.
He was too long-framed for it.
He controlled it, rounded the corner,
Pedalling hard down the sidewalk,
Across the street from our new house.
I gawked from the front yard:
He was a boy with his bike,
Like The ****** on T.V.
It was the first I learned to ride,
And the falls were magnificient,
On grass or asphalt.
Girls' bikes were easy,
One size fits all.
Then I learned to pedal
Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'.
Push the pedals,
Shift the midrift, and be gone.
Always from somewhere
To somewhere else,
Far from the soft front lawn.

The moon, the stars
The all of it.
For what?
     Naught.

The house, home
Fence and all.
For what?
     Squat.

The emotions spent,
The dreams dreamt.
For what?
     Rot.

The treasures mined
In days of leisure.
For what?
     Lots.

Teachers, good teachers,
Have it without throwing chalk.

Significant others use it daily
For Yes, or No.

You don't want to see it
In your Doctor's eyes.

Priests had it
Til we saw through the lies.

Superman has it in double.

Betty Davis had it.
Trump doesn't.
All the Kennedys did.

Parents use it
In the rear view mirror,
Or church,
Or anywhere they believe
Kids should be seen and not heard.

When children have it,
We're exposed,
And so is Santa.

One can't cultivate it.
It's as natural as our first breath,
And lasts til our last.

I met a girl
With the look of the day.
Unadorned, but not plain,
No ink or glitter
On skin,
Warm-water smooth;
Therapeutic as epsom.
She'd no
Liner to draw attention.
Her eyes caught you,
Even closed.
Lips, blistered
With satiation,
Are drop dead red.
Her nails are jewelry.
No piercing couture,
Her style is what makes her;
Her clothes always fit her.
She's quiet, not shy,
The slightest disturbance
Sets her about.
My girl's a captress,
Her appearance is flawless;
Reminding us daily
Birth beauty is ageless.

In my youth,
My sleek clean youth,
I was taught to pray.
Learn the right way,
Said men of the cloth,
And women of the rag-tag convent.
In rows, on knees, in suplication,
We prayed for days off Purgatory,
Babies, lost in Limbo;
Pray for starving
Blacks in Africa,
or
In Peru.

I prayed for you.

Beside my bed,
In my head,
For the Living,
For the Dead.
I prayed.
He delayed.
I prayed longer
For thirst and hunger.
I prayed harder,
Got no farther.
I saw little change.
Perhaps got worse,
Despite my prayers,
Or a longing curse.
                       Amen.

The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.

The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.

Da could drink like a fish,
Eat like a goat,
Work like a horse,
Strut like a rooster,
Bray like an ***,
Be bull-headed about everything;
Could ram his opinions until you gagged.
He laughed like a hyena,
Prowled all night;
Was a sloth on Sundays,
Sly as a fox,
As forward as a raccoon,
Prolific as a rat,
Tricky as a monkey,
But powerful as a gorilla,
And slippery as an eel.
He was an animal
That never wagged a tail.
But the memory that sticks most
Is when I'd need some of Mammy's TLC,
Then he'd make suckling sounds,
Like a piglet. How endearing!
Did he fear our nipping at his dominant heels.

He lived down the street from us,
And came to be known as,
The man whose wife left him.
We speculated and surmised.
None but two knew the reason why
He became
The man whose wife left him.

He stopped cutting the grass
And weeding the beds.
He won’t play his uke
On the porch like he did.
From all accounts,
He was a good Dad,
None ever heard him
Explete a foul word.
He worked till retired,
Never was fired.
I'm told he lived a gentle life;
Never started a fight,
Or ran from strife.
That's what I heard
About the man whose wife left him.
Left to his own devices,
The man whose wife left him,
Left.

The serpentine
Hissed wit
Whip keen,
Quick as mean,
Flicked tongue
At open sores.
He fancied himself clever;
Surveyed with
Cold red eyes,
Called no one
His better:
This Master of deception.
Others never
Felt the lash,
The cat-tailed snap
Of lips that cracked
A child's
Self-perception.

Zoom
That was close.
Whoosh
Just past my ears.
I heard it whizz by.
Swoosh
Just about.
Nice try.
Zing*
Ha! You missed!
Just over my head.
Another word flew by.

The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.

The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.

Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.

We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.

We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.

We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.

Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.

I remember by name
The Miss,  Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.

I'll never make you smile again,
Not as your lover,
Not as your friend;
Not like it was
Way back when.
What is now, is not then.
I can smile
When I recall
The laugh you gave
When we were all.
Each day our oyster,
Each night we'd cloister
From the day's travails.
But memory pales,
And your smile fades
Into the mists of recall.

Looming on the hill,
A real monument,
Cut with granite chisels,
On the necropolis of Glasgow.
To remind us who wrote
Willie Winkie.
A remarkable effigy
Of Miller.
There were others,
Weathered and moss ridden
That caught my tired eye.

Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.

Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.

So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.

Rhythm is found everwhere,
About us in nature,
And in life:
The beat of a heart,
The tick of the clock,
The rain pattering
On the roof,
The left-right
Of marching soldiers,
The one-two or
One-two-three of music
And dancing,
The ta-***, ta-***, ta-***-tum-tum
Of the drum,
The tolling of a church bell,
The clang of a fire bell,
The moaning of the wind
In the trees,
The rise and fall of waves,
The ebb and flow of tides,
The accented,
The unaccented.
All add a chorus
To the music
Of poetry.

The names I carry
Are phantoms,
Whisps
Across the lips.
Stored in the shed,
Beneath our pillows,
Deep in the mattresses,
Or below our beds.
Launder them,
And try again.

How many eyes
Have read these
Granite names
On copper plates.

Whose ears have heard
These names
Mumbled in our sleep;
Or,
Are they set so deep
For private sorrow
And personal refrain.
These, our names.

If I was a bigot,
Or xenophobic,
Or prejudiced,
Or sexist,
Or racist,
Or even Evangelical,
I would argue
The Wrath of God
Has enveloped America,
Like a plague.
But I'm not, I'm a non-believer.

Will and Kate,
Take my advice,
To give your new girl
A lovely life.
Choose a moniker
That'll be a thrilla,
Elizabeth, Victoria,
Diana as the middle,
Those are fine,
But not Camilla.

I didn't intend on joining
Neighbourhood Watch
When I stepped onto my perch,
The elevated porch.
I spied a lad
Trying a car door
In the drive
Next to the cop's.
That's forbidden fruit
In the dark of night,
Under the slight light
Of a quarter moon.
Had I called the cops,
Would he now be homeless
By an ignominous,
Effaced father.
His pride's a tailored fit
From rejected rags.
Friends may post the antics
In glossolalia on FB
For all nations to read
The mark against him.
I didn't call.
The sin of the father
Is exposed in the sun;
Not in alleyways
Under broken street lights
Where a rejected son
Devises a defense;
Thinking no one sees him;
Thought he was alone.
I yelled to him, go home.
Go home, very few can.

The best irony ever,
Is not that the Prizes
Grew out of dynamite
And cannon fodder,
No,
The greatest irony
Is that no religious founder:
Not Abraham, Jesus, Mohamed
Or any number of Swamis,
Received a posthumous
Peace Prize.
And with good reason.
Religion has never been
A peace broker.

The perfectionist
Sees an open circle,
And closes it.
The obsessionist
Sees an open circle,
And studies it.

I'm wearing the old man's housecoat.
His lawn's not blue ribbon now,
And two rails of his fence are down.
It's blue and black checkered
Down to my ankles,
A long tie cord and massive pockets.
You've seen them in nursing homes,
The men shuffling in the wrong direction,
Looking for the familiar,
Two nails.

I'm wearing an old man's slippers,
Black leather with red in-steps
And leather fraying at the heels.
I bought these.

Singlehandedly,
Reducing the numbers
Of the homeless,
Poor and diseased.

The  smile on the moon
Seems a frown,
Since our world
Flipped
Up-side-down.

The one-legged runner
In a three-legged race
Smiled,
Cause his bi-pedded
Partner
Can't keep
Up the pace.

The one-eyed
Astronomer
Studied starry skies;
Discovered all the
Black holes
When he closed
His only eye.

It's only one's perspective
Making one selective;
I'll be more receptive
To those so soon rejected.

Draw a knife
Through the living,
And it bleeds.
Pull a union asunder
And there's much
Bloodletting.
The color should
Make us blush
With shame
For what we do
To the one we loved.

What is my operative word?
Go?
Stop?
Never, is it Yes.
Always it is No!
Sometimes in a gesture,
Occasionally in a gait;
If I were blind
And read by braille,
My fingers might feel Wait.
And we've met some
Who don't have
An Operative at all.

There's movement afoot.
Occupants and sycophants
Are scattering
From the Rainbow Rooms
To the more concrete setting
Of the Oral Office,
Where the North and South Porticos
Admit the transients
Behind the secure cement walls
Of the Skinners.

The eye of the hurricaine is still and lonely.
The sands on the beach are left untouched.
The church pews sit empty.
The store shelves are scant.
The pitches are quiet,
The playgrounds are empty.
The fields are burnt.
The waters are grey.
The air about is thick and acrid.
The windows are shuttered, doors are barred.
There are no moving bodies on the streets.
Cars sit idly parked.
Schools are childless.
Does this sound like the dawn of the apocolypse,
Or another four years.

After all, we're not savages. We're English.
And the English are the best at everything.
                                                     ­       (Piggy)
The hovelled huts
Near  school house ditches
Hardly sheltered starving children.
Emaciated, pale and ghastly,
Three million lost.
Exports defined them,
Imports denied them,
The world was told their hunger
Was the wrath of God.
For seven hundred years
Untolled Rachels wept;
Twice as long
As Jews were kept
Enslaved in pagan Egypt.
This was Ireland,
Not Auschwitz.

Beneath the banners of
Labour and Freedom,
Toiled the innocents.
Eyes burning from hot peppers,
Bodies weak and wrecked
From boarding;
Skin separated by flogging
Thousands of Cypriots.

Over soup and sandwiches
A demarcation's drawn,
So Hindus now face Muslims
Seeking their new homes.
Three million displaced
During lunch,
Brain salad served up on a hunch
By a line
Drawn by one man.
This wasn't Treblinka,
But Pakistan.

Millions fenced in labour camps
In what they called  
The Dark Continent.
The torture was horrendous,
With random executions.
Think the worse, you're still not there,
Think ravenous dogs and mutilation,
**** and human degradation.
Eyes gouged out, ears cut off,
This was Kenya,
Not Warsaw.

Sir Winston wore
His crocodile shoes,
Feigning the blues,
While blocking friendly supplies;
Letting three million hungry die.
His callousness was cruelly matched
When delivering Mahatma's epithet:
“Has Gandhi not starved yet?”
This was Bengal,
Not Dachau.

Their ****** count adds up.
Their new policy was errant:
Imprison all the peasants.
It was racist to the Nth degree,
A million desperate detainees
To exile when they're freed.
But half died on their knees
In Malay,
Not Buchenwald.


The Boer War and Apartheid
Were blessed with Royal Assent.
In Amritsar Brits opened fire,
To cut down Innocents.

This isn't just in history,
It's happened all too recently.

Argentina's watery graves
Gurgle from The Belgrano,
Sunk by Royal torpedoes
For a rock of sheep.
Such was the work
Of a band of brothers,
To fly their flag
Over Falkland waters?

There's no denying
The atrocities
Of her maternal
Ferocities.
The Spinners
Wrapped their glories
Furled in Jack's war stories.
The winners
Have detoured their crimes,
Enjoin us denouncing
**** times;
But the sun hasn't set
On Empire fires:
China, India, Kenya, Aden,
Ireland, Africa,
All invaded.
All degraded.
Imperialism is not benign,
The legacy lives on
In Palestine.

Under pretence
Of flag and king,
The English are
Best at everything.