Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(Ireland’s thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll whisper aloud her one true name:
                            "Mammy."

There lies the raccoon, so still, so grim,
On the median strip where the light grows dim.
Cars swerve around it, their tires hum fast,
It’s sprawled on the asphalt, its life in the past.
No twitch, no stir, for its heart’s gone dead,
A lifeless form where the pavement’s spread.

Flat as a mat, squashed neat on the street,
His paws outstretched like a child in defeat.
No breath, just death in the sun's cruel light,
A bandit of night felled by day's cruel might.

It crossed the road in a reckless dash,
Not for the first time, ignoring the clash.
No glance to the left, nor right did it peek,
Lost in its thoughts, so weary, so bleak.
“How tough,” it mused, “to be a raccoon,
Scrounging for scraps ‘neath the sun and the moon.”

Then out of the blue, with a screech and a blast,
A Honda Jazz roared, and its fate was cast.
It struck the poor creature and sped ‘round the bend,
Leaving the raccoon to meet its sad end,
Leaving him smashed and bashed so flat,
His little face left where it sat.

The car’s cruel wheel smashed it flat to the ground,
Crushed its sweet face, not making a sound.
Its nose, once so twitchy, now broken, forlorn,
It lies like a log where the asphalt’s been worn.
Only a breeze, so soft and so slight,
Stirs its fine whiskers in the fading light.

It never foresaw such a sorrowful lot,
No hint of the grief that its death would allot.
Since dawn’s early glow, it had schemed and planned,
To crawl from its hollow with a goal so grand.
To the town it would scamper, through brambles and thorns,
To fetch juicy sausages for its little ones.
At home, its young kits, with their bellies all tight,
Clutched tiny paws in their hunger’s sad plight.
For days they had whimpered, so feeble and sweet,
“Daddy, dear Daddy, we’re dying to eat!
Daddy , dear Daddy, the cupboard's bare!
When's dinner?
It's not fair!"

It snapped in reply, with a huff and a frown,
“Who tossed out a banana when no one was around?
That fruit was ripe, not a speck of decay!”
Its wife growled low in a grumbling way,
“Get to work, you loaf, don’t laze in the shade!
Our kids need fresh veggies and meats ready-made!”

But no, that’s too harsh—she loved him, it’s true,
Her heart was as warm as the morning’s soft dew.
Whatever she scavenged from forest and glade,
She cooked with such care, and his plate was well-laid.
This morn she embraced him, so tender, so kind,
Kissed his soft cheek with her worries behind.
She licked his damp nose and whispered with care,
“I know you’re worn out; life feels unfair.
This parenting grind—it gets me down too.
This parenting is rough,
times are tough,
But love's enough,
my scruffy fluff.
Stay home, my love, take a break, just do you.
No cell, no computer, just rest for a spell,
Things will work out, and all will be well.”

The raccoon clutched its head
with a wail and a moan,
“My family loves me,
and I’ve been so prone
To act like a fool, ungrateful, unwise!
Let me hug you all tight
‘neath these morning skies!
For you, my clan, I'll be the man!”
Then off through the woods, with a bound and a leap,
He raced to the town where the streets climb steep,
To hunt for some food, for his heart was set right,
To feed his dear kits and bring joy by tonight.

But what happened next, oh, the tale turns grim,
For fate had a plan that was cruel and dim.
Crossing the road with no glance left or right,
He was struck by a car in the harsh morning light.
Now dead on the median, his body lies still,
A victim of haste and a moment’s ill will.

The cops soon arrived on their mopeds’ loud drone,
Cordoned the street, left no car to roam.
Yellow tape fluttered, their hands swift and sure,
Three paramedics rushed in to explore.
They prodded the raccoon, its fur cold and slack,
One raised a finger, his voice sharp as a tack:
“Raccoon’s dead on the scene!” he proclaimed to the air,
As onlookers gaped in a sorrowful stare.

Then Justin Trudeau swooped down from the sky,
On a parachute bold, with a tear in his eye.
He gazed at the raccoon and cried, “What a shame!
Whose wheel could have dealt such a terrible maim?
Oh, horror, oh, grief!” he wailed to the crowd,
His voice ringing clear, both anguished and loud.
To the news crews he turned, with a vow firm and grand,
“His memory will live through the heart of our land!
To his family bereft, with no breadwinner near,
Ten million dollars I pledge—let’s be clear!”

But Andrew Scheer roared up, his bike’s engine shrill,
“Trudeau, you’re mad!” he barked with a thrill.
“Ten million for a raccoon? That’s a crime!
He’s a trash-raiding rogue, not worth a dime!
Ten mil? Absurd! That's quite a sum
For vermin who eat garbage ****!
Ten million’s a wound to our budget’s core,
I say nine’s enough—or six, maybe four.
No, five’s the limit! No, scratch that, none!
No cash for this trash when all’s said and done.
Raccoons overrun us, they breed without end,
They’re bandits, they’re thieves, not a soul’s faithful friend.
They crowd out the critters we ought to hold dear,
The more that get squashed, the more RHINOS cheer!”

The raccoon’s poor soul, floating high o’er the fray,
Could bear it no more and had something to say:
“What gibberish nonsense you’re shouting below!
I’m no Ontario crook—let the truth freely flow.
I’m Ratun Lavoir, from Quebec’s proud land,
Write that in your papers, make the world understand.
I died by mistake, but no drama’s required,
Live kindly, love deeply, let peace be inspired.
Cherish your children, hold your spouse ever near,
Walk with your God, let no quarrels appear.
And when crossing the road, oh, please take due care,
Look left, look right, lest death catch you unaware,
Moral more bright than a stop-sign so red:
Mind where you tread or you'll wind up dead!

I messed up and died, but I’m not one to rue,
I was a good dad, and my heart was true.
My wife, my sweet spark, held me close to her core,
Though death split us briefly, it can’t break love’s lore.
For love's never gone when it's true from the start,
It burns past the grave, soul to soul, spark to spark.
So wave to my babes, send them kisses so grand,
Spin tales of their dad with a sausage in hand.
I'll watch from the stars, where the trash cans gleam gold,
And paradise tastes like the junk food of old!"

On August 8, 2017,  
by the Gregorian calendar,  
the weather in Chicago was awesome, totally chill.  
Dusk was settling in.  
Night was taking over from day.  
A cool breeze carried lake moisture,  
filling everything from edge to edge.  
Trees rustled their leaves like crumpled paper.  
Over the horizon, near a Target store,  
the sun faded, slowly dipping out of sight—  
darkness was creeping in to take its place.  
A black squirrel darted across the lawn by the park entrance.  
A bit deeper in, down in a ravine thick with wild berry bushes,  
a small, timid bunny hid.  
By the dumpster, fenced in with wooden slats,  
a sneaky raccoon was loitering with nothing to do.  
At the intersection, by the traffic light pole,  
someone’s engine screeched and sped off.  
Like I said, it was getting dark everywhere—  
night was rolling in.

Right then, Oliver, the cat,  
leaped onto the wooden fence,  
plopped down, letting his cocky tail dangle,  
twitched his whiskers, and stared at the sky.  
A full moon hung up there.  
Oliver squinted,  
opened his mouth wide,  
and swallowed it whole!

In the woods, not far from the city,  
wolves looked up and froze in shock.  
“How are we supposed to howl at the moon,” they said,  
“if it’s not there where it’s supposed to be?”  
They huddled up,  
sighing and grumbling,  
then wrote a notice  
and pinned it to every pine tree:

-------------------

Whoever brings back the moon  
and teaches that cat a lesson,  
we’ll give you some chickens  
swiped from Old Man Johnson’s farm.  
We’ve done this before, no scam here.  
Look, we’re attaching  
feathers from the chickens we nabbed  
to prove we mean business.  

The Wolves

P.S. Need eggs? Talk to Frankie the ferret.  
He’s always sniffing around Johnson’s farm like he owns the place,  
sneaks into the coop weeknights from 10 p.m. till dawn,  
and comes highly recommended by Rusty the fox!

The chaos that followed was unreal!  
Word of this spread like wildfire across the globe!  
It got so bad you couldn’t step outside—  
every passerby was trying to nab a cat, any cat,  
to trade with the wolves for a couple of stolen chickens.  
Who knows how this madness would’ve ended  
if the U.S. government hadn’t stepped in?  
They sent the cops after Oliver,  
cuffed his paws,  
locked him in a glass cage,  
and shipped him off to The Hague  
to face an international tribunal as a criminal mastermind.

In The Hague, they grilled Oliver for a whole year,  
then finally set a trial date,  
inviting every Tom, ****, and Harry to show up.  
They assigned him a lawyer—Sly Fox.  
Judges in black robes sat smugly at the bench.  
Guards with rifles hauled in Oliver’s cage.  
The prosecutor, defense, and jury took their seats.

The prosecutor spoke first.

Prosecutor:  

Oliver the cat is a clear and present danger to society.  
He’s charged with stealing the moon!  
His entire life led up to this heinous crime.  
I’m sure everyone’s dying to hear his story.

Sly Fox:  

Objection!  
Oliver’s past has nothing to do with this case.

Judge:  

Overruled.

Prosecutor:  

The defendant was born into an average family.  
Nothing hinted he’d turn into a ****.  
At his baptism, they named him Oliver.  
He was a sweet, cuddly kitten, went to school,  
acted like a good little Christian.  
But that didn’t last long—just a few months.  
Soon, girls and their parents started complaining.  
He couldn’t keep his paws to himself!  
The school kicked him out, his mom gave up on him,  
and nobody’s ever seen his dad.  
At night, he turned to petty street crime,  
and by day, he was hustling:  
scavenging city dumpsters for food scraps  
and selling them as “gourmet imports” wherever he could.  
From a young age, he showed a knack for shady leadership!  
Instead of doing his civic duty—catching mice—  
he teamed up with them.  
Under his command, gangs of ten to fifteen mice  
ambushed lone women at bus stops,  
and Oliver made off with their purses.  
Tons of cell phones, makeup, and credit cards passed through his paws.  
When he tried cashing out one of those cards,  
he got caught  
and sent to a reform shelter—basically juvie.  
Think he turned his life around there?  
Fat chance!  
In the shelter, he converted to Islam!  
Nothing wrong with that,  
but he only did it to blend in with the other inmates,  
who were mostly Muslim.  
He gained their trust,  
then started corrupting them—selling them bacon,  
smuggled in by his mouse cronies from the outside!  
Thanks to his cute face and fluffy tail,  
Oliver didn’t stay locked up long.  
A girl named Annie adopted him,  
falling for his meows and purrs.  
At first, he planned to bolt,  
but then figured he could run his scams better  
as a “well-mannered house cat.”  
Without telling his shelter buddies,  
Oliver converted to Judaism—playing the Jewish card to expand his market.  
Soon, he trademarked “NOT-BACON,”  
and his sales skyrocketed.  
When he diversified his dumpster menu  
and started frying bacon (dyed with stolen makeup),  
his business blew up.  
His little gang soon became  
an international crime syndicate!  
Oliver got canadian citizenship  
and started jet-setting like a maniac!  
He made two trips to Mecca,  
snapped a selfie with the Dalai Lama,  
lit a greasy candle at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,  
and was spotted in the Vatican three times!  
There, he rubbed against a few cardinals’ legs  
and licked the Pope’s hand.  
Soon, Oliver’s business interests turned political.  
He funneled money into every party and movement,  
yowling loudest at both pro- and anti- rallies.  
Among other things, he was seen in Ukraine’s Donbas region,  
fighting in the conflict—  
nobody could pin down which side,  
probably both.  
And last summer, he was vacationing in Miami!  
What a ****!  
In every city he passed through,  
he conned his way into marriages!  
Look at his wives and kids—  
they’re in the front row, crying and begging for help!  
He doesn’t pay a dime in child support, despite his wealth!  
And to top it all off,  
in August 2017,  
with the help of Squirrel Sally as a lookout  
and Raccoon Ricky keeping watch,  
Oliver climbed onto the dumpster fence in his backyard  
and ATE THE MOON!

We still haven’t figured out the bunny’s role in this crime ring.  
Nobody’s seen him.  
Oliver needs to be locked up for good—or worse.

Judge:  

I’ll now give the floor to the defendant’s attorney, Sly Fox.

Sly Fox:  

Oliver should walk free!  
The moon just fell into his mouth when he yawned.  
He’s not a criminal—he’s a victim!  
He nearly choked!  
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
It happens to everyone.  
Come on, he couldn’t have been where he wasn’t supposed to be.  
There’s nothing to discuss.  
Oh, and by the way—he’s not a cat, he’s a she-cat.  
Those kids? Not his.  
This trial should be thrown out  
because the charges are nonsense.  
Here’s his statement  
demanding a gender change.

We can’t let the global elite  
trample on the rights of those who are different!  
No to injustice!

(The courtroom erupted, chanting:  
“Free Lady Oliver!”)

Judge:  

Please, settle down.

Prosecutor:  

To prove this crime,  
we reached out to the global scientific community.  
Sadly, most bailed:  
Hawking pleaded disability,  
Dawkins said he was too busy,  
Perelman played dumb to dodge us,  
Geim and Novoselov told us to get lost,  
Feynman reminded us he’s been dead for years.  
Only Neil deGrasse Tyson stepped up—  
he said, “Sure, why not?”  
So, I’m thrilled to give him the floor.

Neil deGrasse Tyson:  

Ladies and gentlemen, this is…  
a total mess!  

I hate to break it to you—  
trust me, I’m not thrilled about this—  

YOU’RE ALL NUTS!  

I’ve been saying this for years,  
on the internet, on radio, on TV:  

GOD DOESN’T EXIST!  

HE’S NOT REAL!  

It’s scientifically proven.  
Stop kidding yourselves!  

(A court assistant hands Tyson a scrap of paper.)  

—Oh, my bad, looks like I’m here for something else.  
Let’s see… “August eighth…” hmm… “in a ravine…”  
Nah, we can skip that.  
What’s with the bunny, squirrel, and raccoon?  
Oh, here we go:  
“…ate the moon while sitting on a fence.”  
What a tragedy.  
So, what do you want from me?  

Prosecutor:  
We’d like you to tell us what happened to the moon.  

Tyson:  
To who?  

Prosecutor:  
The moon.  

Tyson:  
Ohhh, the moon! Got it.  
It’s gone.  

Sly Fox:  
Is there scientific evidence for this?  

Tyson:  
Weird question. There’s tons.  
Here’s one example:  

On the evening of August 8, 2017,  
the weather was perfect.  
I was chilling on my porch,  
sipping a beer, nice and slow.  
I decided to check out the moon through my refractor telescope.  
The moon was just a few meters from perigee,  
hanging out between Sagittarius and Aquarius,  
all cratered up, covered in regolith.  
Its librations were normal, within the tilt of its orbit.  
Everything was standard, beautiful.  
Then I ran out of beer,  
so I stepped away from the eyepiece,  
went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerating gizmo,  
grabbed another bottle,  
threw on a robe on my way back—  
it was getting dark and chilly, and I was just in my boxers.  
I look through the telescope again—  
and I see whiskers in the sky!  
Where the moon was just a second ago,  
there’s a hole, and I can see the stars it was blocking.  
I logged everything meticulously  
and sent my observations  
to the global astronomical community.  

Sly Fox:  
Did you get a response?  

Tyson:  
Nah.  
But I didn’t ask for one…  

Judge:  
Do you believe the cat ate the moon?  

Tyson:  
Well…  
That’s completely impossible.  
You see…  
The mass difference…  
How do I explain this simply?  
Cat’s tiny. Moon’s huge.  

Prosecutor:  
But you saw WHISKERS!  

Tyson:  
Yup, I did.  
But I can’t give you a scientific explanation for that.  

Prosecutor:  
Your Honor, esteemed jurors!  
Anticipating these difficulties,  
our investigators decided to help science out  
and present undeniable proof of the crime,  
so no one’s left with any doubts.  
Take a look at this X-ray of the cat.  

(Shows X-ray image of Oliver.)  

Look closely at his stomach.  
As you can see, the moon’s sitting comfortably inside.  
And get this—  
there’s still plenty of room in there.  
Oh, and it’s already a third digested.  

Judge (to Tyson):  
What do you make of this?  

Tyson:  
Well, yeah,  
that looks pretty convincing.  
And the cat looks… alive.  
Can I go home now?  

Judge:  
Sure, go ahead.  
Bet there’s still plenty of beer in your fridge—  
I mean, refrigeration unit.  

(Chuckles.)  

Just a joke, sorry.  

(To the courtroom):  
Alright, we’ve heard from the defense and prosecution.  
Now, I’m calling for FINAL ARGUMENTS  
from both sides,  
where there’s no chance for truce or reconciliation!  
I summon Donald Trump!

Donald Trump (striding forward):  

The moon is the property of ALL American people. Sorry!  
No debate needed!  
I promise to bring it back. I’ll handle it.  
If the moon shows up again—and I’ve always liked it—  
I’m not giving it to anybody.  
I’ll eat it myself.  

Half the American delegation  
erupted in wild cheers,  
while the other half stayed quiet,  
shaking their heads in disapproval.  

Trump:  

The moon theft is a national disgrace.  
It happened under the previous administration—  
let their leader explain himself.  
I’m passing the mic to Barack Obama.  

Obama:  

Good afternoon, thanks for having me.  
The moon is the result of humanity’s collective efforts.  
Its disappearance is a horrific crime.  
This is unacceptable.  
We can’t let it slide.  
We must all unite to ensure this never happens again.  
That’s my stance.  

This time, the other half of the American delegation  
burst into thunderous applause.  
Though the half that cheered for Trump  
hissed and stomped in disapproval.  

With that, the arguments wrapped up.  
The judges stepped out to draft their guilty verdict  
but returned quickly—  
it was all crystal clear to them.  

The head judge cleared his throat and began reading the verdict.  

Judge:  

The cat is guilty on all counts. He’s a THIEF!  
The cat is sentenced to death by hanging,  
while strapped to an electric chair  
hooked up to high voltage.  
Given the notorious resilience of cats,  
the following measures must also be strictly enforced:  
A lethal injection—er, shot—into his paw,  
and three soldier-executioners will fire four bullets each  
from Heckler & Koch ****** rifles  
to ensure the cat finally croaks.  
No mercy for this cat! As they say, tough luck!  
Justice doesn’t tolerate mockery.  
Considering other circumstances,  
the cat is also ordered to pay massive compensation  
and undergo gender reassignment surgery.  
He’s owed an apology—  
which he’ll receive while serving a life sentence  
in the courtroom…  
—Uh, no, sorry—  
While serving a life sentence. Period.  
—In the courtroom…  
—Pardon, what a mess.  
I think I mixed up the pages.  
(To his assistant)  
Is this right?  

(Adjusts glasses and continues reading.)  

In the courtroom,  
he must be immediately released—  
so he doesn’t suffer,  
and everyone walks away happy.  

(Looks up at the room.)  

I hope I didn’t skip anything and read it all.  
Since the points of this verdict  
contradict each other,  
they should be carried out in any order.  
The form doesn’t matter—it’s the substance that counts.  
You can’t fool Justice.  
Don’t take us for fools, and we won’t take anyone else for fools.  
The goal is to restore fairness and punish evil.  
I’m confident we’ve punished and restored,  
even if it took tremendous effort.  
Long live the adversarial judicial process!  
The cat, as they say, is toast—because the moon’s no mouse.  

Everyone turned to look at Oliver’s cage—  
but THE CAT WAS GONE.

The guards, armed with rifles and pistols,  
rolled their eyes in confusion, muttering into their radios,  
as if asking someone how this could’ve happened,  
but no answers came.  
Meanwhile, Sly Fox, the lawyer,  
slipped through the crowd of spectators toward the exit  
and hasn’t been seen since.  

From the start, he’d figured  
this case was a lost cause and Oliver had gone too far.  
So, keeping his cool,  
he decided  
to bribe the guards with Bitcoin,  
so they’d act all shocked and bewildered  
while letting Oliver slip out of the courtroom.  

At first, the guards were outraged by the offer.  
“Stealing the moon is a heinous crime!” they said.  
“People are suffering! We’re not letting this cat go, no way!”  
But Sly Fox countered their objections:  
“You won’t get in any trouble for this!”  
And just like that, they agreed.  
And, true enough, they faced no consequences.  

As for Oliver, he bolted out of the courthouse,  
called an Uber, zipped to the airport,  
snuck into the luggage compartment of a plane,  
wormed his way into the cockpit,  
hopped into the pilot’s seat, fired up the engines,  
deployed the ***** and all the fancy gizmos,  
and flew back home to Chicago to his owner, ANNIE!!!

--------------------------------------------

Little Annie, smart and sweet!  
Go to sleep, it’s dark outside.  
Mom’s getting mad, she’s had enough—  
tucking us in’s no fun anymore.  

Hop into bed, make a cozy little nest!  
Look—out the window, past the curtains,  
see the moon floating above the horizon?  
Well, that moon—it’s NOT REAL.  

It’s staring at us, all suspicious-like!  
NASA engineers painted it on  
a plaster ball, coated with shiny paint,  
and launched it into orbit by Ken Harris.  

Every kid from Mississippi to the Yukon knows it.
Every parent, every scientist—
Einstein, Galileo,
Every teacher, every critter in the woods—
bunnies, raccoons, even that smug squirrel,
Every boy and girl, every politician, every judge — all know it.
You and I know it -

that the real moon—
the one that blazed in the night sky,
the one that lit up the world—
well, last August,
right between sunset and sunrise,
in front of everyone and everywhere,
with his big mouth wide open, -

IT WAS GULPED BY OLIVER THE CAT.

There he is, lounging on the chair, licking his chops, the charmer—  
purring and smacking like a pro.  
Be careful with him: give him a finger,  
and he’ll chomp your arm up to the elbow.  
But don’t blame him. He’s just a cat,  
not one to fret over boring morals.  
When something floats right into your jaws,  
it’s hard to say no.  
I’m no different—I grab what I can,  
hold tight to what I snag,  
and I’m not throwing stones at that cat,  
lest they come flying back.  

I’m drifting off with you, not thinking of a thing,  
already half-asleep, unsure of what’s what:  
is it night finally chasing day away,  
or day swapping places with night?  
I’m stumbling through this sleepy haze,  
can’t make sense of it all—  
did Oliver really gobble up the moon,  
or did the moon swallow us all?  
And now, tilting its head just a bit,  
it gazes down, full and satisfied, on the sleeping city.  
Sleep now, my little bug, I love you  
because I’m REAL.  

We’ll snooze, we’ll lounge,  
wake up tomorrow and have some fun,  
play with the stolen sunlight,  
say a prayer, make up with friends,  
then change our minds and bicker,  
rejoice in life—  
because it’s OURS,  
and we’ll shout it loud—IT’S HERE!  
Look, the Creator’s got the whole sky held hostage:  
where’d He swipe all this for our sake?  
So let’s thank Him for the light, the water,  
for our daily bread, for Wi-Fi,  
for what we have and what we don’t,  
for the tiniest sliver  
of what’s left of the moon,  
for the dark of night, for the blue of the sky,  
for the gifts of life, for the losses of death,  
for the pile of temptations and trials.  
Let’s thank Him for it all.  
Amen.  

And for that sly cat, too—  
who we’ll scratch behind the ears, shake a fist at, sigh over,  
and then, finally, go to bed.  

How much more of this nonsense can we take?  
This story’s worn me out.  

School’s tomorrow.  

GOOD NIGHT!

They laid me to sleep
in a coffin made of glass
lined with velvet apologies
thinking I'd dream of oceans
or forgiveness
or that one perfect nectarine
I'd dropped in 2003.
The ceiling shattered
while a symphony played
... wolves chasing Peter,
and me.
They chewed on my ankle -
wearing a voice that once prayed for me.
My nerves bloomed bruises.
My hands turned to questions,
tossing runes to the laughing sky
that held no answers.
My skin peeled,
old wall paper from worn bones,
regret curling
smoke above untended altars.
This is what it must mean
to be haunted by your own heartbeat,
to taste rust on your tongue,
with feet that remember
what a mind will not admit.
Love letters delivered in salt,
signed in static,
that simply read
"Persephone,
come home."

Fingers to our lips while they talk,
I won’t make so much as a whisper
should you find a way outside.

Never a question, not a word
—I’ll follow you there if you’ll have me;
close behind and holding on
until we’ve broken free from beneath.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

Whisky and gin
will blend
into the skies
ocean's plains,
Stomach pains
of the ulcers,
which I wish
I felt
of no pain.

I was born to dream
this whole world,
would disappear,
into a felt tear,
and God's heresy,
Our forgive-ness.
is our misery,
filth-ness,
and wandering,
home-less
are the streets
until we give in.

8 years since you moved on
It's still so hard to believe, you're gone
I want to know how you're doing,
I want to believe you're somehow around me

The child inside me, often bangs on my heart
She always thought someday we'd restart.
Fate is such a strange thing
I don't know what you were here to teach me, if anything

Maybe it was to hold onto love even, if it's scary
Or to fall into change, I should be more daring?
I could ponder for longer, but I'll leave it at that for now.
I'll never forget you Ossie.