The skins were sounding,
Plaintiff pounding,
Summoning all to fire.
Charcoal sticks,
Picture graphics,
Recorded our desires.
We flashed lights,
Waved our flags,
Telling all to come.
Lines were laid
Fathoms deep,
Connecting continents
In their sleep,
With window shoppers
On their streets.
Poles were raised
Along our roads,
Life-lines stretched
Like sweater yarn,
Remember we were warned.
We added stars
To our nights,
With lights of red and green;
Geo-centric, like God,
Heard, but never seen.
From drum to satellite,
We've tried but failed,
We can't get it right.

Still toe to toe,
Face to face,
That's how to
Communicate.
Not by a cloud,
Look to the face,
The culminating
Human race.
There's a passion
In one's eyes,
That one
Can't mistake.

These years are speeding darkly
Since the epiphany. You don't get
A lot of those.
Last night
On the beach I laid back to watch
The shooting stars; some say
The heavenly stars. The Perseids
Burned indiscriminately,
I counted two.

I was starstruck watching
The four satelites,
In a pre-determined orbital,
That would burn as sure as
A ghetto.

Ogling the dark spaces;
Comforted, there's more stars
Out there for some other reason.
And wham. It happened , always unexpected.
It's not because something's not there;
It's because it never was, but for
Two meteors and four satelites.
I saw the light.

Drove to London in a downpour.
My daughter's family lives there.
I had a picnic in the bathroom,
With Aine pouring tea.
She held out a sponge plate,
Offering watermelon soap,
And facecloth chicken salad sandwiches.
Though long lost,
I dialed in her perspective;
Her bubbles never burst.
I'll recall that wet picnic,
On sunny summer days,
As a favored meal.

The tree was split
By the power of an unknown spear.
That night, the orange moon flared;
The blinking eyes of night
Shadowed the forest,
Following him.
What authority clapped the thunderous air
With flailing branches,
Demanding service, obedience, fear.
The simplicities of home and fire
Offered up assurance and warmth.
He returned to think on it;
To resolve questions with more questions
Before sanctifying the place of wrath.

She shakes her ****
When I get home;
Does everything
To get the bone.
She realizes;
I recognize.

The new born eyes
Me so intently;
I return the gaze
Just as gently.
She realizes;
I recognize.

The battered bird
With feathers thinning,
Knows Spring's waxing,
Winter's waning.
It realizes;
I recognize.

So too with art
As pieces languish,
Some we banish
As too outlandish;
Some are lost
At our great cost;
Some are found
Underground,
In a cave
On frescoes walls,
In attic, cellar,
Flea market stalls.

A sonnet found
In some distant shire,
Or ten words
Of wisdom
We retired;
Banished today,
Tomorrow admired.
We realize;
We recognize
Not all our work
Can inspire,
When buried in
The hit pismire.

Do I believe
There's been a breakthrough
With some significant findings
Through time-released research:
Using study groups,
Control rats,
And free range monkeys?
The announcement's delivered
By a team of thesbians,
And once I was convinced,
I took a decisive step
To get the Japanese water filter.
I almost felt philanthropic
Knowing third world countries
Benefit from my purchase.
I was, I think,
Deceived by a soporific placebo.

You've seen a mother
Nursing a child,
Giving freely
Of herself.
So altruistic,
She finds maternal pleasure
Through nurturing.

My close friend
Gave his son a kidney.
His very own *****,
Putting himself in jeopardy
For his son's prosperity.
The pleasure of altruism
Wasn't lost on me.

Have you seen the picture
Of the man on the cross.
He wears a smile
Behind his blood mask.
He found pleasure
In offering salvation.
No greater gift,
Can be bestowed
From man, woman or god,
Than the innate pleasures
Of self-sacrifice.

A flash. A crack.
Then the skies opened.
The ground swelled
With similies and metaphors;
Punctuation pooled into puddles
Of alliteration,
Forming rivulets of comparison,
Making streams of consciousness
For any to dip a toe, wade, swim, submerge.
Cascading rivers of figures
Of speech
Will evaporate
Wordy clouds
To wash over us again,
And soak us in blue verse.

One smiles and smokes,
And ryes 'n cokes,
While claiming one's
Forever broke,
As one simultaneously
Takes a ****.
How does one
Manage,
At all
To cope,
Binging while
One quips a joke.
Has one found
The ancient code
The alchemist couldnt't
For making gold;
Or a money-tree,
A gem-studded bank,
Where wealth is found
By shaking free.
At times I shake
Like those leafs
When worn down by
One's Poor me, pleas.
I think I know
How one can binge:
It's all the Bull
You're shovelling in.

The boyfriend spinned the tires
On my daughter's car
As they sped to meet their plane.
I watched the tail lights
Fade into the falling snow,
And prayed,
For the power of prayer.

"If everyone around you is forced into the Bubble,
Then you don't need to wear a mask."
                                                           D. Trump

What is the difference,
Asked the educator,
Between being skillful,
Such as a *******,
And being educated,
Such as a teacher?

*Well, replied a prostitue,
One educates skillfully,
The other skillfully educates.

Which is which?
The educator responded.

Depends, said the *******,
On the pay and benefits.

We met on a sun-sand beach,
You asked for a pull
On my ciggarette,
So many decades have passed,
Yet,
I can't forget
You pulling on my ciggarette.

You had a recital, I missed;
Your hands poised, back straight,
Toes touching the hardwood stage
Near the pedals.
Stillness filled the theatre;
I felt the transmission of inaudable notes
Blending, peeling,
Stinging my senses.
I confessed my unintended sins,
My one of omission -
The one that left you on the swing;
The one when you fell.
I missed your recital,
But I attend it often,
Echoing and bounding over swaying hills.
Such an Ode... such Joy
At the tranquility.
Such a burden.

Addiction issues are certainly predominate with the sensitive souls of writers.
Is the cause the world they perceive and abhor. The greed, despair, hunger, hate and such. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we celebrate the beauty we see in charity, love, generosity and such, too much. There is an abundance of such.
Or,
Do we just prefer to mix our drinks?

Our foes,
Some of whom we can surely name,
Pray to the same God.
A rose is a rose is a rose.
The rain and sun
Cover the same game site;
There's no referee calling foul,
Illegal procedure or out of bounds.
This is more like Gaelic Football,
No perceptible rules for finger pointing
From the spectators in a very large stadium.
But, make no mistake,
Every game has a timer,
And his thumb is poised
On the stopwatch.

I found a hole in my bucket list
Like an hourglass
My dream are slipping,
Dripping on my bare floor.

I should be really ******
Because I'll miss
Entering through unknown doors.

I haven't time to fix the hole,
The grains are moving,
And Mammy's calling her babes home.

My favourite just hit the ground,
Like a blood stain,
Or a sewer vein,
It  makes not a sound.

Two floats in the air,
Three's on the lip,
Four swirls near a hole,
The remaining dreams
Are caught in the eddy;
The final drop's precariously ready.

Eliza's fix would surely falter,
My bucket list can't hold water.

I must hurry to the meeting
In the committee room,
We'll vote on closure
Of the heart,
Get back to work by noon.
All the players are present,
We're sitting side-by-side,
I'm next to an idiot,
Beside myself
With opinions that collide
Within myself,
About myself,
Infused with self,
I'm the chair of the meeting,
The only one in the room.
My many colored selfish life
Has left my heart forlorn.
We take a vote
To remove the chair,
His outlook
Is too biased;
He had a heart per diem,
Mismanaged in a poem.

There are no free rides;
Not since the '30's.
There's no free lunch;
Do you think food
Grows on trees?
There's no free-for-alls;
Unless you hold
The winning ticket,
But don't bet on it.
There are no free trials;
We don't return it
Because we can't find it
After the thirty day
Money-back guarantee.
There's no free verse;
That's an oxymoron.
I spend inordinate amounts
Of time, alone, struggling,
To make it look free.

When all the world had lost its senses,
There was always you.
When wars are raging,
Children starving,
I lost myself in you.

When I envision your sweet face,
Loving eyes, saving grace,
I knew at once I found the best,
I knew at once I found some rest.

Our love will grow with double pains,
Double pleasures,
Loss and gains.
The hate in love is love's regret,
The love in hate we both beget.

     (the separation is setting in;
      you lie above, no need at all
      in narcisstic love.
      I cringe below; sullen and sour;
      I don't know)

Yes, passion's desires get caught between
Our reason and emotion.
What can I do? what can I say?
I'm dumb-struck with devotion?

I am part of your smile today.
I might be in the curl of your lip,
In the corner glint of your eyes;
Or the concave of a dimple.

I will trip across your tongue today
When you speak of plans;
I will be today's man,
Clear the wreckage from the storm,
The tempest that began your day,
Reminding you we too were young.

When on your morning walk,
You might feel my hand slip in
And be with you awhile,
In your thoughts and smiles.

Braille understood
The power of words -
The duality,
The irony
That all can feel
When words are raised,
To we, the blind,
Through poetry.

Wiping clean
The bathroom mirror,
Didn't absolve
The inner sinner.
Two eyes bore through
A remorseful soul,
Like silver pissholes
In the snow.
Then the blood
Ran while shaving,
Red droplets
Not worth saving,
Found design on my neck,
Like the thornless rose
From the tarot deck,
Looking at a lost soul-mate,
Red-faced and forlorn.
Fierce and piercing
Love and hate;
The paradox
Of the repentant's fate.

There will be  pictures I want to see.
Pictures of your life-line growing,
In a background with Christmas Trees,
School days, soccer matches,
Recitals and dinner blessings,
Parties, proms and outright laughing,
When all who matter are present.
I'm not taking the picture.
I'm not in the picture.
So, Remember Me.
Don't release me.
Sit with your children's children,
Open and tell a story
About a picture in the book;
They may laugh with bewildered looks
At the old Irishman,
The Da da, Daddy, Dad, and Faja,
The one who's loved you
From conception on,
Your old man.

If she met him in a different life,
Not this one,
Where he lost his wife;
Would she give this guy a chance,
Despite his failed and trying romance
With her.
Could she understand the shortcomings and frays,
And take a chance he's changed his ways.
Could she touch his skin, smile with her eyes,
And realize he's not the same.
That man died
In remorse and regret,
He did what she can't forget.
Now years later,
Could she live -
Not with a man she can't forgive-
But with a man who doesn't show
The hidden scars the damaged know.

This happened
Faster than the speed of light,
Immediate like deja vu;
While coming across your picture,
Just then, I am with you.

As enlightening as an epiphany,
Shorter than a sub nano Zen;
I was one with my reality,
I am in the picture then.

I snap back,
I put it back
Beneath the orchid cloth,
Where time and space lie dormant
For these moments that I have.

On the drive from St. Andrews to Aberdeen
I stopped at a roadside cafe,
For toast and jam and tea.
The young blonde server
Took my order,
And never spoke a word.
Then her mother bellowed
From the back of the room;
And her father barrelled through the door,
And a baby cried;
She's wanting more.
This is their country;
She was their girl.
I paid for the platter,
I tipped the teen,
And continued on
To Aberdeen.

They met
When but sixteen,
She called herself
His ****** Queen,
And he her ****** King.
Thus they remained
Til seventeen,
When his lowered drawbridge
Breached the moat,
And for forty years
He paddled her boat.
But coldness grew,
The ice-palace too,
She was an Ice Queen,
His armor tarnished,
His sword was sheathed,
The Lady and her King
Severed bonds,
Relinquished rings
And set new realms and dreams.
He's a western-style S.O.,
He didn't know
Cowgirls rode backwards.
He's now a sexagenarian,
And the Ice-Palace,
A planetarium.

The hearth is almost cold now,
My rooms are dimly lit;
The shadow near the firebox
Stirs the ashen pit.
They'll peer through my window,
Point and query why
I sat under my blanket
Wearing such a smile.

For thirty years I lived within you,
For twenty years without;
Still you show up in many rooms
For the living and the dead.
I'm stopped, I stand in awe of you,
Then must turn my head.

You glide by me like deking strangers,
You never glance my way;
I see whispers when you move your lips,
Hear bursts of laughter from my perch.
And even so, what could I say:

     That roads once merged
     Now diverge
     To maneuver through terrain,
     Traversing time's hard memories
     That cannot be reclaimed.

Just once more in a well-lit room,
When all the kids are present,
We would share our stories,
Catch up on years gone by.
Laugh because we can now
At times that made us cry.

Aine, Xavi and Ga, their dog,
Were hiking through the Sifton Bog;        
                                                        
Ga sniffed, then barked in a hollow log.                                    

What is it, Ga? Aine asked out loud.

Is it a frog? Xavi asked his dog.

So Aine peeked in one end,
And Xavi in the other.
It was hollow, that's for sure,
They waved to one another.

Oh!... But Oh!... something moved inside.
Brown and hairy, with flaming red eyes.

It moved towards Xavie, who stepped back, then cried:

Aine, come here! Come here NOW!

In a flash she was by his side.

Together they would live or die.

With twelve powerful legs and six beady eyes,
It leapt at them, then hopped outside.
There huddled ‘n shaking at Xavi's feet,
Were three wee bunnies, cute as can be.                            

"Ooooo, Ooooo," they both sighed.
Can we take them home to feed and keep?
And in  beds we’ll let them sleep!
Xavi asked, No. Xavi begged.

Hmmm, thought Aine, quite perplexed;
But she remembered what her parents said:

Be cautious with our furry friends;
The birds, fish and earthy crawlers;
When you find them,
Be careful-kind,
And they'll be with us always.

But Xavi worried, so he asked his Sis,

Are bunnies okay if left like this?

Hmmm, thought Aine (who's getting good at this):

Let's call Granda.
Tell him what we've seen.
Mom says he knows everything!


Hello, Granda, this is Aine.
Xavi and I have a question for ya.
We came across some wee bunnies
Huddled in their home.
Are they okay if left alone?

Granda could hear their concern,
So he told them all he had learned.

All the bunnies I have known,
Have done real well when they have grown.
I knew Buggs as a wee bunny,
And he grew up to marry Honey.
                            
And Rabbit’s a good friend to Pooh,
And Mr. Rabbit loved Cap’n Kangaroo.

Wasn't Miffy your first rabbit friend?
Did Velveteen turn real in the end?
    
And Roger starred in his own movie,
Like me, your Granda, he's cool and groovy.

Thumper thumped his left hind foot,
Br'er Rabbit was naughty in several books.
                
The White Rabbit lead Alice down a hole,
Where March Hare was late... as usual.            
                  
If you like heroes found in comics,
Read Captain Carrot, he’s supersonic.
And don’t forget Crusader Rabbit,
Who rides a horse and feeds it carrots.

I’m sure you've heard of Beatrix Potter’s
Tales of Peter, and his sisters and brothers.

All these rabbits were once wild bunnies,
Now in movies, books and funnies.

Even magicians pull rabbits out of hats.
                                                  
I surely hope I’ve allayed your worries.
You’re bunnies will grow up cute and furry.
But of all the rabbits I know  best,

Is the Easter Bunny, au chocolat!!

Xavie and Aine were much relieved.

Thank you, Granda. Hope to see you soon.
Have a Happy Easter, and too-da-loo.

And off they hopped for some Easter treats.

Does she know the silver chain wrapping
Around her ankle is terminal and deep
As a trans-Atlantic cable connecting the island
And here.

That a single full-breasted pull
On a summer cigarette was
Life altering.
Her body was beach-burned, her hands
Sifted grains of sand
Funnelling beneath her thread-bare towel.

Our silver natal thread contracted
As the blue smoke rose,
Magnifying the August moon.
Three hundred moons have dimmed.

We walked in step from the Village
Through the park with the slack chain
Dragging, scraping on cement.
I have often polished that chain,
Used muriatic acid to untarnish.

We didn't know our brains would
Become onions behind our eyes;
We didn't know towels would become
Patchworks stitched over bones.
I didn't know a chain of being could snap.

When I close my eyes
I've an IMAX silver screen;
My projection room is stacked
With reels of a re-run dream.

I'm typecast as leading man,
You're the starlet, so it seems.
Today I'm screening tragedy,
That I played like comedy.

Two reels have played,
I'll need three,
To disuade me playing a parody.

I'll need to re-write,
And a location set;
I haven't run
The credits yet.

You protested the direction;
The hero fades out with rejection.
It's a cliff-hanger.
Will the girl return
A fallen damsel?
A chastised angel?
A spiteful devil?
I'm lying waiting
To dream the sequel.

I used to find a pop bottle
And cash it in for a two-cent grab-bag.
Three could get me a five-cent
Wine-dipped cigarillo
To smoke in the dug-out on a Sunday afternoon
With my best friend.
We went door-to-door
Collecting bottles, clothes-hangers and baskets,
Get fifteen cents and play a game in the pool hall;
We traded old Supermans for older Batmans.
Successive generations decrie
Their loss of innocence,
But this one tweets, twitters and instas;
I see ultra-sounds of small penises, and more.
There goes the last surprise.
I'd rather loose innocence than privacy,
For after that,
All you've left
Is the skin of your teeth.

I left Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled.

He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He circles the Zamboni,
On memory's icy mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.

He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

I saw Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled;
His nose a puck.
He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He drives the zamboni,
Making the ice sheet a giant mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.
He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

The slip is on.
It's slippery,
But not like a floor,
A bit of paper with X's and O's,
Offering promises,
Gears and clutches needing oil;
Not like memory of your speghetti straps,
Or an announcement of a slipped lip
Revealing dumbfoundery.
They are temporal and physical.
This slip goes to the soul,
Dispiriting and lying low;
Not discernable to public scrutiny.
I tripped on a rabbit hole
That changes the world,
And makes me late
For a very important date.

Standing camouflaged
In the shadow,
Back pressed against
The wall
Like a masked
Cat burglar,
Is the coward,
Sneaking,
Never present
Until gone;
Prowling,
Like sleep,
In playgrounds and hospitals,
Airports and backyard pool;
Or by knives, decrees,
Enemies or envy,
Even by longevity
Or in explosive proximity.
Cheeks drain. Eyes pool
At the moment of recognition,
When the sneak thief
Is present,
He's gone.

Do you like the sound
Of other voices:
The choir,
The chant,
The litany?
Or is it the sound
Of your own voice:
The blather,
The blither,
The grate,
The groan?
You use volume to make
Yourself known;
To make yourself heard
And join the absurd.
Do you like
The sound of your own voice?
Join in the chorus.

I quiver til I shake,
I tremble,
But won't break,
When approaching you.

My heart, I won't foresake,
You'll not know my mistake,
Although my ground will quake,
When I'm nearing you.

You see, I will retake
The joys, not my heartache,
The day I drive the stake
Deep inside of you;
And finish building the fence
To separate we two.

The store mannequin
Was rejected,
Her stats didn't comply
For a window show
To show its wares
To a town of passersby.

Her Do wasn't quite couture,
Her ******* were just such,
The arms that loped
Across her chest
Looked a little butch.
Her belly with its ripples,
Was all a bit too much;
Her ***** profile it was thought
Was maybe just a touch...
Her hips which had male appeal,
Were thought a tad too light.
Her legs rose up like lamp posts,
Her feet a a smidgeon tight.
Hanging, covering all her faults,
A dress not draping right.

The window dresser
Stamped UNSUITABLE
Across her harlequin face,
And packed her with
RETURN TO SENDER
In the original crate.

For us,
The Super Bowl
Is poetry
In legal motion.

Maura gave me a watch
Many Christmasses ago;
Time and again its hands
Moved me.
It had a crystal face,
Nickel-plated case,
A golden crown,
Calendar window,
And a dial with Arabic numerals.
A ten dollar Timex
That made me feel like a million.
The brothers didn't have a watch,
But I had a second hand
For accurate readings
Of who could **** the longest,
Hold their breath for two minutes,
How long it took for the kettle to boil,
Or a snail to crawl.
Everything could be timed,
And timing, like my watch,
Was everything.
I was the timekeeper,
And took duties seriously.
I wore it on my left arm,
One day the sweep second froze,
The big and little hands stopped.
A spring or something broke;
The date was a constant
Grim reminder.

Following Friday's sins,
I'd usually sleep in.
That Saturday Mammy called up;
There was Daddy dripping blood,
Clinging to his thumb.
He was stubborn.
He sat back,
I drove fast,
And left him in emerg.
Hours later,
Back at home,
The phone.
The power switch
Was already off,
But on the floor,
Next to the saw,
I saw the thumb
Lying strangely alone,
The skin, the nail, the bone.
He died incomplete.
His stump was a talisman.
Grandkids got a kick from it
Asking him to count to ten.

The things some do
When they're alone,
Would melt the marrow
In your bones.

Some scratch their ***
With such vigor,
Sink to their knuckles
Up their nose,
**** themselves
In *****-hose,
Find their stash,
Find their liquor,
Get high alone,
And that's good for some.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They scrape the goo
From their eyes
In the afternoon;
Hork out phlegm
In the kitchen sink,
**** loudly,
And not think it stinks.
They pop a pimple on the mirror,
Do nasty things
(I won't say liver).

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They'll surf the net
For *******
In HD or photography.
They'll roll gobs of wax
From both their ears,
Run naked up and down the stairs.
Landscape private body hairs,
And like a monkey, smell their nails.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

Some deficate in the shower,
******* until they holler,
Then spark a doob,
Check out the mirror,
Then cogitate on tomorrow.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone,
It's good they're done
Alone at home.

Near death stories
Are not death tales.
The widow's daughter,
In Nairn, to whom
Did she speak?
In Bethany,
Near Galilee,
Where Lazarus
Learned to talk,
Who asked him
On his walk,
With his dog on a
Sunday afternoon?
Jarius' daughter
Would like to offer
A quote and goat
At the altar
Of atonement.
She was never asked,
So she never spoke.
The scribes never scribbled
To answer the riddle;
They never went to press
With the Extra Big Scoop
On life after death
From the three
Who knew best.
Never recorded for all time.
Never a word from their minds.
Would they tell of a
Long lit tunnel
Lined with familiars
Slapping their astral *****
As they ran the gamut
Into eternity.
Nearing the Eternal Throne,
They hear:
     It's not your time.
     Go back for more.
     Keep the secrets,
     Believe in Him,
     For he won't
     Live to be thirty-four.

And so it's not written,
Let it be so.

Say the three
Words
I love hearing:
*See you tomorrow.

You don't need to wear a wristwatch
To give me the time of day.

I recycle,
I reduce,
And when it's healthy,
I reuse.
That's how we deal
With tin can blues.