How close did you come
To having it all:
A middle-class life
Hung framed on the wall.
Two cars, a house,
Three kids and a spouse;
A fulfilling vocation,
On hold for vacations.
You cheered from the side-lines,
Offered counsel during half-times;
Standing, whistling, clapping, gasping,
Not knowing those moments
Would forever be passing.
You'd bundle the kids home from the field
To the loving aroma of a home-cooked meal.
The house soon secure for a well-earned sleep,
Living the dream between clean flannel sheets.
With grand kids in store,
And retirement soon;
All this and more,
But stories are looming.

You'd a plan going forward,
Somethings were said,
Things never heard,
But whispered in dread.
The worm set in years before,
An infectious destroyer
As it continued to bore.
A simple beginning, but not much said;
But cancerous rumors take root and spread.
They've lead many living to join with the dead.
You took the high road, decided to ignore it,
Believing the rational mind would abhor it.
But like a lead apron it draped common sense,
All things unraveled, a sad denouement,
You've been tried by opinion,
Found far from innocent..

I like what I see
In my kids;
Others may say, They're like her's or his;
That's okay, but they don't see
The subtleties revealed to me.

They were listening when I spoke,
And now they hear other folks;
They were watching when I'd act
In sync with our social contracts.
Please and Thanks was our mantra,
Repeated now as personal dogma.

I didn't see they were watching,
Watch they did, and they were copying.
Believe me, I'm not being boastful,
If that's the case, I too am blameful
For anything that causes pain,
Though unintended, it's the same.

I'm so pleased with my kids,
And they aren't just like
Her's or his;
They're mine.
And I like what I see in their kids.

Do you like what you see
In mine?

I didn't die.
I felt the sun on my inner eyelids.
It appeared on time,
Traipsing from the east.
I last saw it dropping like a child's ball
Just west of the St. Clair, into Michigan.

All is all right.
But I know to expect
Changes in the weather,
And seasons... lots of seasons...
I will dress appropriately.

Drop an egg,
See the splatter
Of microcosmic
Universal matter.

It's drop dead sad
When someone dies,
And you can't pretend
Through dry eyes,
Or even breathe
A grieving sigh
You give a ****!
But you do.
Deep down you wish
He'd do it again.

I've read your lips;
Studied your body language.
We're alike.
ESP is way over-rated.
I don't want to know your thoughts,
Nor you mine.
His Holiness has nasty thoughts,
As does the Dala Lama.
We are envious, jealous, and discouraged.
Powerful people have lust in their hearts.
We would occupy a lonely world
If our private thoughts were known,
Our actions exposed
When we're alone.
That's the operative word,
*Alone.

The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was  Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.

Can't live with her.
Must live without her.
That's life.

Dying times arrive
When hands are at ten and two,
And there's no where to turn.
Would I know the time,
Read it on the wall,
See it in the shades lying on the ground;
Could it be an assigned time,
Say, 06:01 for fifteen minutes
Of infamous celebrity;
It could be part of recorded history
Where a song is written
About gale winds
Running a boat aground;
Someone taking a mid-night stroll
Past their favourite market;
High noon's been a recurring time,
And paces at dawn stare down the rising sun.
Could be in the quiet of a mid-morning breeze
Whisking the curtain veils
After I've set the alarm
For a well-deserved nap.

A male child born, ***-wise,
His mind not made-up,
Not by a long shot.
He needs time to grow,
For now he could dress
Like Oscar Wilde,
Anyway's good for this child.
At six he follows
Male role models,
So confused.
Dysphoria soon insists,
Sets in to ambiguity,
Leading him to his feminine side,
Where her gender surely resides.

Easter's over.
I rose to the occassn.
More than once.

Aine, Xav and Ga, their dog,
Were hiking through the Sifton Bog
On Sunday morning, sunny and warming,
Hunting for their Easter eggs;                                                    
When Ga sniffed, then barked in a hollow log. 
What is it, Ga? Aine asked in wonder
Is it a frog? Xav asked Pumper.

But Ga smiled and left to lift a leg.

So Aine peeked in one end,
Xav peered 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 at Xav, who stepped back, then cried:

Aine, come here! Come here NOW!

Quick as a flash she stood 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 cuddling ‘n twitching 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 play bunny games till we fall  asleep!
Xavi asked. No. Xavi begged!

Hmmm, thought Aine, quite perplexed;
But then 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.

Still,  Xavi worried, so he asked his Sis,

Are they okay if left like this?

Hmmm, thought Aine (who's getting real good at this).
Let's call Granda.
Tell him what we've seen.
Mom says he knows everything.

(They Zoom Time on Mom & Dad’s phones)

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

Granda heard 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.

Rabbit's a friend to Kanga and Roo,
And Mr. Rabbit got carrots tricking Cap’n Kangaroo.

Miffy was Kathleen’s first rabbit friend;
Mark loved Velveteen’s happy end?

And Roger starred in his own movie,
Like me, your Granda, he's so cool and groovy.

Thumper keeps thumping his left hind foot,
And Br'er Rabbit’s still naughty in all his books.

The White Rabbit leads Alice down a hole,
Where March Hare’s late... as usual.
                      
If you like heroes found in comics,
Read Captain Carrot, he’s supersonic.
I can't forget Crusader Rabbit,
He 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.

Why, even magicians pull rabbits out of hats.

Your three wee kittens were left alone
While Mummy Bunny left on her own
To gather food bits to feed her wee kits
Waiting for her safe return.
                    
I surely hope I’ve allayed all your fears,
Don't worry, your bunnies are here for years.

But there's one more bunny I should address,
And I'll tell you who so you needn't guess
This bunny's the one we might like best:

It's the Easter Bunny, au chocolat!!

Xav and Aine were much relieved
To let their bunnies
Live wild and free.

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

And off they hopped for some Easter treats,                    

Pumper got his treat back home.
Leftover from dinner-
A tofu hambone.

After sixty years,
Easter morns
Still give me a
Resurrection.

The successful
Weight loss program:
Cook, simmer
Then eat
One lean poem
Per day.

Delivered to inviting hands
With one breath;
Then sculpted in a parent's arms
To feed on sweet caresses,
Inhaling life with one kiss,
As prologue to her song;
She'll carry on.
Mature. Secure.
Bound and forged
In infant iron.

She hears, listens, then deduces,
To apply their teachings
When cut loose;
Lessons she will reproduce
To set her free,
Unfettered by mediocrity.

Like the Sphinx,
She crawls,
Then stands to think.
At times, we know,
She'll forget
Steadier hands
Held her *****.
She will fall again,
Then stand and walk,
Perhaps with Pride;
And should she fail,
She knows she tried.

First steps lead
To stage or field,
And honours
On her battlefields;
Protected by
Parental shields.

She'll receive
These life-long gifts,
Then start anew
At age six.
If she walks alone
She'll find,
Friends can make
The walk divine.
She'll filter them,
Some in, some out;
And trust a few
With her life;
Avoiding others
She's learned aren't right
By socializing,
Not over-protected
Or compromising.

Her early years
Sow the seeds
Of second breaths
And good deeds;
To balance friends
With second looks:
The cover can't
Disclose the book.

Most of all,
She'll understand
She grew and grows
With helping hands.
And when she stands
With womankind,
She'll extend
Her hands
To all mankind.

I won the race,
  tail me.
I lost my balance,
Don't right me.

I won second place,
  bewail me.
I lost the toss,
Don't kite me.

I won the ribbon,
  impale me.
I lost my cool,
Don't ice me.

I won the job,
  avail me.
I lost the argument,
Don't cite me.

I won the bid,
  assail me.
I lost the battle,
Don't fight me.

I won the vote,
  hail me.
I lost the my way,
Don't slight me.

I won the lottery,
  blackmail me.
I lost some will,
Tread lightly.

I won the case,
  bail me.
I lost the cross,
Don't indict me.

I won the girl,
  unvail me.
I lost some teeth,
"So bite me!"

We deserve sounding boards of truth,
Not sponges of deception.

My head is full of lies, equivocations and beguiling stories.
Who can I trust?
The poor?
The limb-lost warrior?
Residents in Cell Block A through Z?
Patients found out but can't breathe.

We must be sound,
And let the voices of truth echo.

When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.

Three eliptic lovers
In one sphere
Need simultaneous
Orbits
In one direction
Lest they collide
Creating a black hole
Devouring
Their hearts.

El Nino El Nino El Nino
(Sung to "Let It Snow...")

Oh the weather outside's delightful,
Not a flake of snow, it's respiteful;
And what's to credit for this show,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

The southerlies aren't abating,
The greens they're still awaiting;
I'm happy not to have a chateau,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

When I'm out gawking at the night,
I don't see the clouds of snow;
There's the flicker of firefly lights,
Dancing over green meadows.

The days are slowly growing,
Warm winds caress as they're blowing;
It's fifteen above zero,
Thanks El Nino El Nino El Nino

It's difficult to tell
When something as big as this started.
He was witnessed holding my little brother
As though he were a fawn drinking milk
From a snub-nosed brown bottle.
He was indifferent with a cuff,
It could've been a hug.
His aquaintances used his talents
For personal gain;
They sat at our table,
Enjoying chops and fried onions.
He was never in the audience,
Never in the stands beaming;
He was as dysfunctional as Claudius
Among melancholy princesses and princes
Who clasped palms to foreheads.
If I'd known Alas and Woe,
That's when I'd voice them.
One night, I considered pouring poison
In his ear.

Better to have
Your face flush
Than
Your blood settle.

She calls me names
You never mouthed;
I hear the unfamiliar, Sorry.
And *** stings my ears.
You called me nothing,
Or anything;
You knew no need
For words of endearment.
Today, you're loudly missed
By the sounds of your vacuous absence,
By the atoms we once crushed
In the melding point of names.
Do you squeeze out terms of entaglement,
Now?
False hope on rising pride,
To hold the darkling years ahead,
To keep him in your bed?

I remember.
I forget.
I wonder why.
You're so easy to remember.
You're so hard to forget.
Time ticks out no respite.
Today I am wrong.
The other day,
I was right.

"I'm gonna," isn't good enough,
And good enough's not far enough,
And far enough's not near enough
To get us half-way there.
Forget about a song and prayer,
To get us where we need to be,
To where we breathe deep and free.

Okay, okay,
Enough scribbling
About old flames,
Old friends,
All the analogies to death,
E.R. runs, hospices,
Palliatives, Vision Nursing Homes,
Black gloves and lilies,
Suicides and terrorists.
Enough of that
Already.
Now,
What's left to theme about?
Just love.

These walls are wet
Where I've kept
Myself entombed
Too long.
Shoulder to stone
I'll push and wiggle
Until the light is warm,
Until the dark is gone.

I step unseen
From the grotto
Where I wallowed
With my song;
The stupor echoes
Of my voice,
The only voice,
Of an aria
That went wrong.

The music's sounding
Better now,
I'm distanced from
My cave;
I'll keep moving
East for now,
For westward
Is my grave.

I left my tidy home
For several weeks alone;
When nature interloped.
It was invaded,
Raided.
Droppings,
Breedings;
Laying siege
To my larder.
They'd been waiting
For the moment
Of conjugal entropy.
All they smelled
Was theirs
In dark and quiet.

But who turned on
The flat screen;
Made a cup of tea?
Sat with seeds
And left a pile
In front of my T.V.
Not mice,
But
Entropic progeny.

I'm raining,
Draining with flotsam,
Washing onward
To the gutter.

I'm decomposing,
Recomposting
On the truck
To the dump.

I'm recyclable,
Reuseable.
Re-fashion me
For a different life.

Papa,
Had you held her,
She'd be the death
Of you.
We see it
In her lineage,
Which we
Ascribed to you.
Eons of Irish tribes
Coverge in her
Blood lines;
She is like
The ripening fruit
That cures and makes
Fine wine.

520 000 is Unjust
520 000 + 1 is unjustly better.

I've been playing
With my epitaph
For years now.
So far, I got:
*I'm Sorry.

Here lies a liar
Because the liar lied here.
Now the liar's stable,
For the liar's inable
To equivocate and lie.

Potus fallin'
Flotus stallin'
Scotus appalin'

Kim's cryin'
Vlad's lyin'
Donnie's dyin'

Joe's soarin'
Dems scorin'

God's in heaven,
All's right with the world
(Almost)

At twelve years old
S/he recognizes
The s is now mis-placed;
S/he's not a tom-boy,
But a real boy,
Running
His own race.

I mentioned Monty Hall
In what I thought was casual conversation.
Maybe I interjected,
...yeah, like Monty Hall.
But still,
A woman taking a drink of ***** gurgled,
A fella rolling a spliff snickered;
Even the dart thrower stopped;
They chorused in unison, Who?
****! Monty Fecking Hall.
Door #'s 1, 2, 3?
The few listening were confused.
Maybe it was the tone I used.
One face had a glimmer,
Almost a gesture of recognition
Tracing his  pierced eyebrow.
Really!
Monty Fecking Hall.
One day, in the not too distant future,
They'll hear,
What's a Fecking Jedi?

Everybody loves the twins, you will too.
Everybody loves the things they’ll say and do;
Their eyes smile when they see you coming,
You smile back because they’re so loving.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Brigid likes to crawl along the wall now that she can stand,
Ophelia does the same but the girls have to use their hands;
It won’t be long now until they’re walking,
Wait another month and they won’t stop talking.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too
The girls surely love you two.

They don’t know how to say they're in love with you,
But that's okay you can see that its plainly true;
They light up when they see you coming,
The arms start flailing and their legs start pumping.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Dreaming of your loves in the comfort they’re in love with you,
Dreaming of your loves in the comfort that you love them too.
Dreaming of my loves in the comfort I'm in love with you.

I have today grown old.
I was never told,
Make every day count.
I counted days,
Missed some years,
My advice may fall on deaf ears
To those who know how to live their lives.
Everyday. Everyway.
It's not easy.
I recognize the mantle
On my children's faces;
See them counting milestones,
Running theirs through the paces.
How do I tell them
Count every day,
and not count every day;
But make every day count?

I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.

My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...

He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.

The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock  there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.

They did all in their power.

He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...

It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.

He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.

I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.

The baby... is the image of him.

My heart is torn.
I  could be washed in tears.

These lines didn't exorcise you.
I'm followed.
I need protection.
Get a crucifix tattoo.
Draw curtains, let
The daylight through.
Whittle stakes.
Move your...  my ashes to my landfill.
Drink ***** and holy water.
Cross lit candles behind the cobwebs.
Fashion my ring into a silver bullet.
Pinch and pitch them down the toilet.

Too bad
We can't
Rid ouselves
Of the excrement
Called
ISIS,
As easily
As the astronauts
Expel it
On the
ISS.

I hear you royally ******-up.
Don't worry 'bout it.
It's all one's perspective.
Let's just say
Experience is what you have left over
From your mistakes,
And we know
Everyone applauds experience
Like a slice of apple pie.

As children,
Expletives were banned
From our thoughts, words
And pens as a form of expression.

Empiricism has had the same effect
On Spirit, Soul and God
In my writing.

Thank God I have
My old expletives back
To express myself.

Must I,
Like some fitness freak,
Do 10 000 crunches
To see my feet?
Or,
Rely on
Water's erosive powers
To expose my toes
With 10 000 showers.

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
     I'mhxpressthinmythelf.
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
     Na.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
     Na.
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
     No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth!
Sorry, what was that?
     I'mapontingxprschmyselpth.
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

There are mirrors
In all our rooms,
Passing them
Without a glance
Isn't vanity,
Isn't chance.
It's inherent in our genes,
The look is more
Than what it seems.
A survival tactic
Of our kind,
To lock our faces
In our minds.
Babies do it,
They're entranced,
The first step
Of the mirror dance.

So, I stopped,
I stared
At my glassy eye;
There I was,
Like an ambered fly
Trapped in the pupil
Of my eye.
Am I
Self-centred,
Narcissistic,
Self-absorbed,
Ego-centric:
Is it conceit,
Or human pride?
Self-doubt chides
My prying eye.

Past the disguise,
I realize,
My baby browns
Have waxed wise,
My outlook's changed
Behind those eyes.

I hoped,
Before the old girl died,
She'd request to meet me
Eyes to eyes,
And apologize.
I never got the call,
And it was getting late
For a death bed confession,
A plea bargain absolution.
I would have blessed her,
Held her hand,
Let her know I understand;
Seeing, as I'm a man.
So, I went to meet her,
Eyes to eyes;
Held her face
And apologized.

Some *****
Are like Faberge Eggs:
Irreplaceable
And needing
Coddling.

I fact checked
Whether God's
Dead or Alive.
In fact...