With a Song on My Lips

With a song on my lips

And poetry in my heart,

I sing of women and ships

For this is my biggest part.

Men will go down to the sea

Just as they will return to shore,

For no greater love could there be

Than women and ships in lore.

Atop the waves from crest to crest

With a stiff breeze at my back,

Before the mast I’m meant to test,

And love I find with each new tack.

But my girl she waits on the shore

And my true love can’t be denied,

Until like all sailors gone before,

Stem I can’t the rising tide.

And of our time to remain

With my girl or ships to be,

And which I love more or the same,

Depends if I’m home or at sea.

Heard At the Bar

The turnip and the onion dip

Were talking religion at the bar,

Then the salsa I heard it quip,

Its religion was the best by far.

To eavesdrop on these condiments

Or ‘appies’ as they’re known,

I didn’t get their sentiments

For surely logic was not being shown.

Yes, each with their own point of view

Espousing loudly from their bowls.

Only their religion would do,

And theirs alone could save souls.

Now I’m not cut from the same stock

So I really didn’t have much to say,

But then the lemon and lime began to talk,

Yes, in my glass they twisted away.

“Religion,” they said, “Is merely bunk,

And nothing better refutes,

For you morons where the crackers dunk,

Still won’t accept us fruits.”

The Old Man in the Window

The old man in the window

Kind of caught me by surprise;

A reflection so very slow,

I recognized those drooping eyes.

On that busy street I swear to God

Outside that store when it struck me,

That was me that sorry sod,

And when so old did I get to be?

A million times I’d walked that street,

Light of foot and young at heart,

But then it was I’d chance to meet,

In that window this older fart.

And kid myself I could no more,

The proof was in the window there;

Holy crap outside that store,

I knew it was impolite to stare ….

But damn it I was caught off guard

Was that old man really me?

And though I looked long and hard

In the end I knew it couldn’t be.

Now in windows I don’t look

For to reflect there are other ways,

And to that old man I mistook,

Happily inward I’ll keep my gaze.

Four Corners

Four corners of a pie imagined I.

But someone said, “Ain’t pies round?”

“Oh yeah,” I said with a sigh,

“Lately, I’m just so tightly wound.”

“What the hell was I imagining then?

Maybe it was cake, yeah, yeah it was cake.

Okay, okay let’s start over again;

The four corners of a cake for crissake!”

“Yeah,” he said, “if it was in a square pan.”

“Well hell the same could be said for a pie,” Said I.

“Cake maybe but pie’s never square man,

It’s just the way it is, I don’t know why!”

“What about the four corners of the earth,

If it’s round why do people say?

Yeah, man for what it’s worth,

Who really cares anyway?”

“Anyway back to the four corners,

The ones I imagined way back when,

Maybe they weren’t really corners

And I should start over again.”

“But wait, don’t I remember from school,

Yeah, yeah, the math teachers said it there;

Wasn’t there some theorem or rule

That said pies are square?”

Dungeons

Can you imagine being confined

In a dungeon dark and deep,

With only what is in your mind

And cold concrete on which to sleep?

            Truly, me neither!

So why such a poem to start

For justice I could never do?

Man, the critics would pick apart

And all they’d say would be true.

For in a dungeon I’ve not been

Nor have I felt the fear and cold;

No, such hardships I’ve not seen,

So I’ve no right it’s been told.

From the critics, I have heard their scorn,

And at my rhymes let them rage,

But here in bed on a Sunday morn;

Do they know the fear of an empty page?

City Streets

Listening to the sounds of the street,

There’s a rhythm running through;

Snapping my fingers to the beat,

I groove doing the old soft shoe.

Cars in the rain sound like symbols

And the streetcar clacks like a snare;

Yes sir, I’m grooving on gimbals

Like a compass man, I’m getting there.

There’s a hum to this human choir,

Man, I feel like one of the ‘Pips’;

City streets I’m getting higher

Just swinging now these old hips.

Then I notice all the stares,

Well it seems I’ve drawn a crowd,

And suddenly I’m back with the squares

Where grooving ain’t really allowed.

But some wise ass throws me some change,

And you know I thought, what the hey,

My schedule I can rearrange

And I don’t feel like working anyway.

Time and Space

Take away their time and space,

Ain’t that what hockey coaches say?

Play the game at a faster pace

And in the end you’ll win the day.

Be relentless in your pursuit,

Forecheck, backcheck, chase, chase, chase,

And always if you’ve chance to shoot,

Opportunities you must not waste.

Now from the game I have retired

And life I live at a slower pace,

But sometimes I get so damn tired

As through these stores I try to race.

Until it is I am spinning,

Racing now from place to place,

And I wonder if I am winning

With all the line ups I have to face.

Forecheck, backcheck, chase, chase, chase

This life of mine, holy moly!

I’m telling you there’s no time or space,

I should have been a goddamn goalie!

Apple Barrels

To the barrel’s bottom I have been,
Yet, good apples I still found;
Ain’t it funny the things I’ve seen
In all the barrels I’ve been down.

Oh, rotten apples I’ve seen to,
But truth to tell if you’re to shop
And barrels you are looking through,
There can be rotten apples at the top.

Yes, top or bottom where I have dived,
I’ve seen some rotten to the core,
But at every layer when arrived
Of good apples there was always more.

Call Me Irresponsible

I was thinking just today

Of all my changes over the years;

And who am I come what may –

Not much has changed it appears.

Still I pull for the underdog,

And though in management I’ve been,

Yet, in all those years meant to log,

With the workers I would lean.

And for the almighty buck,

I never really cared that much,

And important issues I was apt to duck

And never was I quite in touch.

An adult I have pretended,

Yeah, for sure, I played the game,

But sitting here my thoughts suspended,

I sometimes think what a shame.

To that boy of nine or ten,

You know I kind of miss that kid;

Hell, maybe I’ll go back again

And this adult crap, I’ll be rid.

So you know, that’s what I did;

I never even told my wife.

Yessir, once again I am that kid,

Though I’m not so sure about this single life?

One Good Poem

One good poem is all I ask,

Each morning on my bed lying;

Yes, this my daily task,

And for just one I keep trying.

So it is my head I clear,

Until empty is my noodle;

And just what will appear

As across the page I doodle?

For perfect words waiting,

In metre and rhythm to flow;

Like a hook I’m baiting,

And the big one I’ll catch you know!

And so I keep trying,

For the perfect poem I won’t quit;

But on my bed lying,

It’s now apparent, this ain’t it!

Irish Mist

In filmy eve these words I scratch,

With a warm whisky over neat;

While the rain falls upon the thatch,

And the fire glows from the peat.

These words of mine to plot and twist,

Within this cottage hewn of stone;

While fairies dance in the Irish mist,

And poetry o’er the breeze is blown.

Oh, enchanted isle of emerald green

Surrounded by the bearded sea,

With words and whiskey in between

Your poetry is calling me.

A Drifter on a Moonbeam

A drifter on a moonbeam

Was his introduction to me;

A man of wealth he’d once been,

But now it was he flew free.

Current address was unknown,

The great outdoors and beyond;

Upon a moonbeam he had flown

Just I swear to put me on.

And humour him I surely did,

This moonbeam drifter I just met

For pretty soon I’d be rid

And away from him I could get.

But something kept me hanging ‘round

Just to hear his moonbeam tales,

Because sitting there on the cold ground,

I was tired of riding them old rails.

Now a moonbeam drifter to

Is something I would like to be

‘Cause riding these old rails I’m through,

And the sky’s the limit for me.

When opportunity comes knocking,

Of course a drifter such as I;

Upon a moonbeam if we’re talking

You got to know, I’m game to try.

Old Photos

Old photos I am looking through

Of myself in all my ages,

And still my head space it is true,

I can recall all my stages.

On Santa’s lap on Christmas Eve

With such excitement on my face,

That little boy I can retrieve

And know that life was mine to chase.

And older now a cub scout kid

In a uniform proudly worn,

To do my duty, “Dob, dob, dib, dib,”

There was still a chance I might conform.

Now here I am a snarly teen

With arms folded and face so long;

Yeah, such a jerk I must have been,

A rebel was my angry song.

And look at this one, “Holy shit!”

My early twenties sitting there;

With not a clue on how I fit,

But man, I had a head of hair.

And this one when I was sailing,

At the helm how I looked the part;

But truth to tell I was failing,

A girl had just broken my heart.

Yeah, looking through these old photos;

A thousand words you’re kidding me!

‘Cause I’m seeing what no one knows,

And all the angst there used to be.

Laughter

Ain’t laughter the greatest thing

When spontaneous and uncontrolled,

And all decorum takes wing,

And you’ve only your sides to hold?

Until you are a blubbering fool,

Gasping for breath on the ground;

With eyes watering you begin to drool

And you know you’re no longer sound.

Ain’t it just the greatest thing

Upon the ground to roll;

When laughter you are able to bring

From the very depth of your soul?

For touched by the gods you’ve been

Such laughter from heaven is sent

And into the meaning you’ve seen

When with laughter you are bent.

Negative Spaces

To the artist negative spaces
May help define a shape,
While to the poet negative spaces
Are nothing but a blank slate.

Now words and negative spaces,
I wonder, are these thoughts of mine;
If I was to leave out in places,
How would that look on the line?

Maybe old Gertrude had it right,
“A rose is a rose is a rose.”
And maybe we poets have lost sight
Writing what the reader already knows.

So perhaps the perfect poet to be,
I could become like the lost leader;
A master of the negative space, that’s me,
And the rest I’ll leave up to the reader.

The Rose

In matters of the heart, God knows,

I have no business addressing,

But holding here this lovely rose,

There’s no better metaphor I’m guessing.

Of course who amongst would not reach

And grasp such beauty to hold,

But lessons learned the rose will teach;

There are thorns when hands are quick to fold.

But learn we must the hard way,

For such is the beauty sought,

The rose and love I have to say,

The pain of both, I’ve been caught.

But alas such beauty here to hold

Keeps me coming back for more,

And while to grasp I am sold,

I’m much more cautious than before.

Stuck Inside a Thought

Stuck inside a thought

And I can’t get it out,

Now with fear I am fraught

‘Cause I can’t forget about.

Compulsive I’m becoming,

Over and over reviewing;

Through the same thought thumbing,

What the hell am I doing?

But got to get it right,

Some order is needed here;

Oh my god what a fight,

This thought I need to clear.

A crazy compulsive twit,

Do you think I have OCD?

Okay, okay, I’ll do it,

I’ll go take a goddamn pee.

Upon My Duff

Half Irish I am told

And Scottish half as well,

But here in this land of cold,

A Canuck, I’m here to tell.

What is it ‘bout these northern climes

Where weather is so very tough?

In the wind to hear the chimes,

The cold will get you off your duff.

But, “Lay on Macduff.” I’m apt to say,

On this cold Canadian morn;

The house is warm and what the hey,

I’m tired of fighting each new storm.

Central heating in northern climes,

With Yeats and Burns on my mind;

Upon my duff with silly rhymes,

A lazier Canuck, you’ll not find.

Another Woody Allen Flick

Another Woody Allen Flick

Has got me thinkin’ ‘bout dyin’;

Jesus, of all the movies to pick,

Now dammit, I feel like cryin’.

Religion, mortality, holy cow,

Woody’s monologue a runnin’ riff,

And me well, I’m thinkin’ now,

Ain’t a woody a different kind of stiff?

Sorry, I know I can be crude,

And a deeper thinker I wish I could,

But all this talk of dyin’ dude

Has got me touchin’ so much wood.

Bring Me Magic

Bring me magic I ask my muse,

Words to pop inside my head;

Just like that they’re yours to choose

And I will write what you have said.

So very easy this craft of mine,

I am nothing but a simple scribe;

Words a plenty upon a line,

I will follow what you decide.

Oh, fast to flow you’re on a roll,

This pen of mine is on the move,

So very easy these words you dole,

Man, I tell you we’re in a groove.

You’re the best oh muse of mine,

Your words to flow like beer on tap;

Keep them coming, you’re doing just fine,

And so what if they’re mostly crap.

For they pay me by the word;

What the Dickens, you’re kidding me?

I know my muse it is absurd,

But I’m so glad that you agree.

One Shoe Willie

They said he had an old soul,

Right from the time he was young;

One shoe Willie with eyes like coal

Was like a song yet to be sung.

A sad song maybe I should have said,

A boy born to sing the blues;

One shoe Willie to his Momma’s dread

For she knew he was meant to lose.

From the very time he could walk,

Willie would not make a good slave;

A runner always would be the knock,

Like he had one foot in the grave.

One shoe toward the North Star

While the other barefooted stuck;

One shoe Willie dreamed of freedom far,

And died running out of luck.

Annabelle Lee

For my first love Annabelle Lee,
This poem I write for you,
And though you won't remember me,
My long ago love remains true.

I see you yet with your blonde curls,
And the freckles upon your nose,
And though I said I hated girls,
I was just afraid, I suppose.

I'm sorry if I made you cry,
And would that I could dry your tears,
And now with so much time gone by,
I wistfully recall those early years.

Hurtful words I never meant to say,
Please forgive me Annabelle Lee,
And would there was another way,
But my love I couldn't let you see.