Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.

The harlequin trees celebrate
With a red, yellow and orange
Ticker-tape parade
On all the streets of Ontario,
Announcing the onslaught
Of another miserable
Canadian winter.

Have another round, boys,
The time's on me.
Use the good time
While you can, boys,
In morning you will see.

Don't ponder vain dreams lads,
They thicken in your blood:
Leave it on the rocks, sir,
For there it will inspire,
For certain something's sensed.

          Keep me alive
          Don't let me die
          Tonight.
          If I stayed at home
          I wouldn't be
          Too tight tonight.
          Sensing delight in drinks
          Tonight's by me.

Let your insights falter,
Slip another disc.
Stay seated where you are boys,
Don't bother to resist.
Thrill your lungs
With tapered incense,
The myrrh of barroom bliss.

          While rambling through
          The ale and lager
          We remain serene,
          And all too soon
          I lie alone
          In sober company.

On the coldest day
We'll try ice-fishing,
In warm huts
Without winter's sting.

On the snowiest day
We'll try ski-doing
Through bare woods
Leaf-thick in spring.

On clear winter days
Try ice-parachuting,
Skate on ponds,
Wiggle like angels
On our lawns.

Don't sit inside
And fret and mope,
Grab a sled,
Hit the slopes.
Winter activities
Help us cope
Til we break
Winter's back.
Yes,
Til we hear
The final crack.

Too many can't live with it;
The rest can't live without it.

Set a timer.
Watch the millisecs tick away;
Not so much telling me
How much time is left,
But how much is irretrievable.
Not like waves,
Washing upon themselves and returning.
Not like the hour glass
With sand that once was a boulder
That once was part of a mountain
That rose up from the burgeoning strife of life.
The hourglass, that looks right-side-up
Or up-side-down,
Depending on your perspective.
Not like sundials, pointing in the wrong direction,
And always running clockwise.
No,
Setting a timer
Alarms me
For all the same reasons
As wearing a watch.

All poems are love poetry.
Love of language and wordplay;
Love of order and rhyme;
Love of lines and rhythms
     (yes, and capitals and punctuation);
Love of insight;
Love of sharing;
Love of caring;
Love of instruction;
Love of day and night;
Love of stars and moon;
Love of reading and writing.
Yes, even hate poems
Are Love Poems.

Time is a gilded gift
To offer or ask.
It diminishes in quantity,
Bound by its own law.
And yet,
She asks for more.
I argue:
My time is not
Environmentally friendly,
Reuseable or recyclable.
It's reduceable!
And therein lies
The problem.
You want the very air
In my lungs
Til eternity chimes.

Put down your pens and pencils,

You've been on that swing long enough.

Congratulations. You did the crime, now...

Your five minute egg is ready.

The ebb and flow of tides is discriminate.

Your light turned green.

... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...Blast Off.

... to conclude our meeting...

Just one more contraction...

My worthy opponent considers...

Find the escape door in this room before
Time's Up.

Be reassured. Be content. Good things take time, and don't wait
for them to happen.

But if Time isn't Matter,
Should it.

I taught children to write cursive.
And how to drive a stick.
In fact, they learned my boomer tricks,
Like reading, walking, talking.
They learned about winning, and all about losing, with dignity.
They learned about friendship, loyalty, honour, trust,
And perseverence.
They learned that truth, as hard as it might be, was ok.
These cannot be discarded.

And yet, today's child is not for these times.
They are time travellers.

I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."

How would things
Be different
If the tectonic plates
Were stable.
Would the world
Be closer?

If the Great Comet hadn't
Smashed our world,
Would the primordial cesspool
Bubble?

Time has told us:
Well, I'm all ears now.
How would my world be
If I hadn't shifted and crashed?
Time won't tell.

Sleep, Timothy, Sleep.
Let wishes dance about
Your feet for now.
Let angels fill sleep sweet dreams,
While all is as it seems.

Sleep, Baby, Sleep.
Worry not of
Place or times.
As yet, be happy
With childhood rhymes.

Sleep, Dreamer, Sleep.
Let  fancies fill your age forever.
Heed your heart
As sage
In waking hours.

Sleep, Angel, Sleep.
From dreams with candent smile,
You brighten,
Then light again
Where Angels sleep.

Every face has its glory;
Every scar has its story;
Swipe left,
Swipe right,
Hit like,
Hit dislike,
You're judge, gavel and jury.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing surely
An understatement,
It pushed so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But the hard rain that night
Made it all seem uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with hard rain that night
I was trudging uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet him.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with the hard rain,
All seemed uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

You're too long
Calling;
Too long texting;
Be long by the fire,
Belong to burning desire.
Don't be long away,
For you belong to me.

Years ago,
More like lifetimes,
I was better
Than most anyone
In any sport.
A champion.
I was very good,
Better than most anybody
In my education, with family,
Had two closest pals.
I had cars, motorcycles,
Clothes, girls.
I always had the better part
Of a North American middle class life.
Today, I'm elated
To be one of most anybody.

Sign outside a restaurant:
Today's Special:
*YOU

Da's  an ***** grinder,
Grinding heart and tongue;
Bull pizzles for his daughters,
Ewe livers for his sons.
Cranking in the summer kitchen,
Out of the morning sun.
He strings savory sausages
That please most everyone.

Mammy's in the smoke house
Anticipating some;
Mammy cooks when Daddy grinds,
She likes a little tongue.

Did you remember me today.
(I always remember yours),
Especially today, once a year.
You made such effort for happiness then.
I admired your mind,
Lusted for your body,
Held you in high esteem,
And you returned in kind.
We will never be strangers,
Though years have estranged us.
I get tongue-tied and stupid
When you're near now;
You seem indifferent.
I must live with this distance,
I deny I love you yet,
I deny, deny, deny.
Crazy, denial, the source
Of my isolation.
A symptom.
If I'd had cancer,
You would have held me,
I'd see the genuine sorrow about you,
Your tired eyes pleading for another day,
But  futility comes in many forms.
This way, I'd leave peacefully,
But I had to leave anyway.
So, after all these years,
Did you remember me today?

Did you know Tony?
          Yep.
Did you know his name was John?
          Don't think so.
I get Anthony. But not John. I prefer Tony.
          "Preferred."
What?
          It's an excellent OB. Do ye think it does him Justice?
Justice! They never can. Not an entire life.
          True enough.
Great picture, though. That's how I'll remember him.
          True. And grinning wide. Nice, indeed.
Cheers.

I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.

To think I could drink
Is pure vanity.
The thought that a draught
Wouldn't effect my progress.
The ON switch got clicked,
Might have been the OFF,
Either way, I found the cave.
The crawl from the crypt
Is difficult; I'm sick;
But the reward
For the struggle
Compares with nothing,
So humble,
As the love that waits for me.

We played with sand
Up to our nails,
You swung a swishing pony-tail.
We traversed unkempt trails,
Took chances out beyond the pale.
Travailed on routes with certainty;
Made more friends than enemies;
Increased and raised our family.

To what avail?

I had time to auto correct,
To re-direct my wayward steps.
To stop the fall from bad to worse,
To put shortcomings in reverse,
To curtail an innate curse.

To what avail?

I heard you promise too.
In sickness and in health.
I promised the same to you.

To what avail?

I tried.
Lied.
I'm tired.

To what avail?

To this avail.
I remember our first kiss,
The walks, the talks;
You called me funny,
The times together without money.
A tent, charcoal and book of matches,
A midnight campfire, a beat-up car;
When anywhere wasn't off that far.
We'd ****** two days alone
In each other's company.

To what avail?

I tried. Tried.
I lied. Lied.
I'm tired. Tired.

Memories aren't that selective.
There's scenes I can't dismiss.

They're part of me,
They're part of you,
I'd be remiss to discard these few.
They're in the memories I recall,
The good and bad before the fall.
I claimed, There's two sides to every wall.
But still there is the wall.

I tried... tried... tried.
I lied... lied... lied.
I cried...cried... cried...
I'm tired... tired... tired.

Trailers don't give away the entire plot.
I've been watching for years
As an active actor
In various melodramas.
  
     The good guy is clean shaven
     Beneath the lather,
     Emotes empathy,
     And never snickers.
     A straight shooter.

The other guy needs a blade
As cutting as sarcasm,
And aims when you turn.

     Then there's re-runs
     Whose endings never change.
     The prophet gets arrested.
     Tara burns. Ice bergs floe.
     I am under Lowry's volcanoe,
     Or leaving Las Vegas.
     28 Days is only two hours
     Of wine and roses.

The trailers just reveal enough
To give me hope.

Birthed by altruism or selfishness,
Motivated by personal gain
Or the forfeiting of a nation;
It's the betrayal of friends,
Country, cause and trust.
Cassius,
Judas,
Benedict Arnold,
The traitor has many personas.

Traitors are hated by those they prefer. (Tacitus)

I forgive those who ****** and steal,
but a traitor, never. (Zapata)

A nation cannot survive treason from within...
He rots the soul of a nation...
No wise man ever thought a traitor should be trusted. (Cicero)

Softness to traitors will destroy us all. (Robespierre)

An open enemy, however criminal, is no traitor. (Spooner)

To have a traitor as an ally is to have an enemy in waiting. (Carey)

It is the just decree of heaven that a traitor never sees
his danger till his ruin is at hand. (Metastasia)

There are but two parties now... traitors and patriots. (U.S. Grant)

If I had one bullet and I was faced by both enemy and traitor,
I would let the traitor have it. (Codreanue)

There is a special place in hell reserved for traitors. (J. Trudeau)

Every man must be for the U.S. or against it.
There can be no neutrals... only patriots or traitors. (S. Douglas)

Et tu, POTUS. (F. Lynch)

Did you read about the father
Who met the girl
With his daughter's eyes.
The gift of sight.
Post-mortem.

Then I read about the mother
Who gave her son a kidney.
The gift of ***.
Pre-mortem.

Finally, I met a girl
Forty years ago
Still using my heart.
The gift of love.
Eternal.

I watched the bus drive down its route
With all kinds of fares on board;
Heading to some stop;
Each on a personal journey,
As important as any you've got.
The cord will pull,
The door will open
To let some traveller off,
As another steps into the bus.
On and on,
On and off,
They travel on their routes.

I used to ride a bus,
And I knew this way back then;
Then I forgot for far too long, that
I'm still journeying friends.

I had hair, lots of it,
And wire rim glasses,
Bells, sandals
And elephant pants
With the Libra sign embroidered
On the back right pocket.
We wore leather wrist bands,
Listened to the cool music,
Knew all the Beatles' lyrics,
Dylan and Snow too.
We never wore peace signs,
Not after seeing Sammy Davis Jr.'s
Pendulous medallion.
We were trenders,
But that wasn't a term then.
Neither was sexagenarian.

Some writers are like comets,
A flash, and soon gone;
Some that burned brightest,
Are rocks that don't burn long.

Some writers are like meteors,
Burning hot through spheres;
As meteorites they stay with us,
Though brighter in younger years.

One writer, Leonard Cohen,
No brighter light revealed;
Still yearning for the fire,
Still burning all these years.

The collective elective
Threw a bag of human waste
On the White House steps,
Torched it,
And stuck around to watch it burn
Live,
On TV.

I've found a place
To park my verse,
To wail and scream,
To tsk and curse.
You may find it
Trite or True,
But in the end
We're none the worse.

What could be worse
Than a garden
Full of gnomes and trolls?
Is it:
Lawn jockeys and yardells;
Chuck adjusting his carb every Sunday afternoon;
Bathtub ****** Marys beseaching us to love;
Metal flowers on outside garage walls;
Fish ponds with gills in the filter;
Red gravel flowerbeds with little white fences;
Cosmetic door knockers;
Swimming pools without diving boards;
Mirrors on fences;
Burning ******* in fire pits;
Backyard landfills;
Icicle lights;
Weedy neighbours and an east wind;
The screech of tires;
The thump of metal;
The sound of screaming;
The absence?

Yeah. Plenty could be worse.

Trolls exist
If believed in,
Or if
Invited to invade
The mind.
Like leprechauns,
Look sideways,
They're gone.

Dig deep.
Trolls are nice people,
But nobody
Likes them.

From what I understand,
To get a poem to trend,
One hides
With pseudonyms.
Then you can
Start over,
With a newer formula,
And trending
Is the end.

Somehow the gate's been opened
To the urban zoo;
And the rural petting farm
Is something gone askew.
The wildebeests and monkeys
Are leading lambs and lemmings,
They're trumpetting their call,
I hear them through the concrete wall.

They pulled a *****
With Trump's *******...
I mean Election.

It's an old question.
Pilate asked.
Keats told us.
It's what we believe.
A lie is truth.
Some lies may coincide
With my truth,
But never quite the same.
There's always a bit of truth
In every line.

W
h
e
n
          I'm
          on
          your
          side
          I'm
          lyingagainstyou.

Tergiverate.
You're talking.
Equivocate.
I'm listening.
Prevaricate.
They hear too.
Mask it,
Cloak it,
With pretense
And disguise.
Truth seeps out
Throughout
Your pattering
Lies.

I have two T times.
One nourishes solitude
When I sip on the lip
Of my favourite cup.

One feeds the need
Of companionship
As we drive towards
My favoured cup.

In the middle
Of a farmer's field,
Newly plowed
And sprouting yield,
Three turkey vultures
Shared a meal
Of something black
With great appeal.
They cleared away
Winter's offal,
Doing what
For them was natural.
I eyed with awe
How they conspired,
Before feathers splashed
In smoke and fire.

I only want to talk with you,
To walk and spend an hour with you.
I only ask to see your smile,
Love you for a little while.

     But you say:

     It's not your turn
     To look for me,
     Or listen to me breathe.
     You will not touch;
     I will not hear
     The lie beneath the plea.

It's not for you I ask these things,
It's just my lonely disposition.
My situation's getting tough,
My demands are not so much.

     But you say:

     It's not your turn to stay awhile,
     I am not some listless child.
     Turn away you can't stay long,
     Your love is prematurely born.
     Go away.

And now these days lag
Like wounds,
That will not heal or seal my pain.
My need is more than I can endure.

     Yet you say:
  
     Offer some other church your money.
     Call some other Mary honey.
     Nail some other rightless wrong.
     Offer some other girl your song.
     Hoard it for the white-necked lay.
     You know you cannot stay.
     It's not your turn today.
     It's not your turn.
     Turn away.

My journal
Has blank leaves.
I turn one daily
To press a memory,
Record,
Write a blank verse,
Or leave blank.
Each leaf
Is attached
To the same spine,
Between the same
Covers.
A copyright date
Has yet to be decided.

Turn up the radio,
The sequels to
War of the Worlds
Are on.

Two houses,
A range,
Oceans and continents
Apart,
Separate
All the same.
Two lives
Never mined;
Two minds
Never melded.
This is what's left
When love's lost.
So I sell out
All property
And belongings.
Stand naked
And redress myself.
Learn a new song,
Write a new verse;
Slip it in
Drive,
Not reverse.