Right now, if you're feeling devoured by pain,
Remember that there was a drop of rain.
And because of this rain, a flower grows
And because of that flower, a girl's smile glows.
And because of that smile, a kiss is shared.
And because of that kiss, a bond is repaired.
And because of that bond, a new life comes to be.
And because of that life, this poem you see.
Because of this poem, I hope you feel warm
And know that I'm so very glad you were born.
In fact, I would love to come hug you, my Dear.
Please know that I'm so very glad that you're here. 💖

Only Albinos
Can be  mimes,
(Or Johnny or Edgar Winter)
For Hallowe'en.
As for trick or treating,
There's enough Al Jolson masks
Out there to ***** us all.

Poor wee me
When I was wee,
I used to sit on my mother's knee;
Her apron tore,
I fell to the floor,
Poor wee me when I was wee.

Poor young me when I was young,
The song's of youth are those I'd sung;
Songs of love that since have gone,
Poor young me when I was young.

Poor middle me back some years,
I worked and worried, drank whiskey and beer;
Paid my way and prospered here,
Poor middle me back some years.

Poor me today, poor me will stay,
For many poor years to come;
For I've things to do, places to go,
With granddaughters and grandsons.

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.