Steve Mc Queen, we call him, he's a grand old gent
He's slightly hard of hearing and his body's bent

He don't remember me, but that is quite alright
I say my name is Guy, and click his seat-belt tight

We talk about the things we see, where he used to go
I say; Oh, is that right? But the script is one I know

He goes to church each Sunday, from the nursing home
Sometimes he lapses silent, I watch his mind go roam

Like footprints in the melting snow
our past lives fade away
while leaving hints of where we'll go
from their seeming course we often stray.

The future is the breaking dawn
a day promised but not yet here
a figment we depend upon
as its focus becomes clear.

My path has led me many ways
both random and chosen with care
which disappear in the past's haze
as if I wasn't ever truly there.

Pontoon

With this hand of cards I've been dealt
I make the choices without regret
I choose my path along this bumpy road
As it digs me in, to deeper debt

This hand of cards is full of jokers
I make the call and await my fate
I stand at the crossroads in my way
I know my decision, I nervously wait

Decision made
Flick of the wrist
I watch you twist

I should've stuck
But I took the risk
I bust as you twist

life’s chances
are dances danced
in some square,

onlookers watching,
even their stare,
sees us quite
plainly,
see us
quite plain
in life’s
dancing quiet --

altogether
insane.

Gripped in ancient curve of world,
hazed blue to black on turns of planet speeding slow
across bright vision of new civilization,
the gleam of shining cities spread myriad
along brief crusted scabs of continent
means nothing to the emptiness of eons
light itself can never conquer
through instances of stellar distance…

…no culture proud will cross a million years
of centuries grown geologic in glacial duration…

Our Tukid has ridden a Chessberg away
On a grammical Aziph turned down-
Your Chessberg’s an iceberg, the Queen tried to say,
But iceberg’s a nice burg to hang round!


The King has turned blind, disappointment and spite,

The tip of the iceberg and money;

The Queen’s awake, worried about mating all knight

On a diet of bread without Honey
 


So, if you see Kay, if you see our Kay,

If you see our Tukay-Tukid,

Tell her the Queen has abandoned the scene

.
I don't want to start a new poem
I've nothing yet to say

like making love more than once
one must rest between bouts
a gestation period, if you will
and I finished a write just moments ago

but I can't wait!
my hand trembles in anticipation
I can't seem to help myself
my pen keeps on writing

I don't seem to care that
nothing of value or import is written
small talk, pillow talk,
baby talk, crazy talk,
nonsense, on and on
etc.forever

Fuck the clever dicks of this world ,
Who think they know better.
Piss on those who live to put you down.

Shit on those who don't accept my choices,
They are mine and mine alone.
Even if my language makes you frown.

I'm sick of worrying about opinion,
I'm gonna be me.
If you don't like it ,
Then bollocks to this fucking town

Phone call, entirely unexpected
by tone of voice it's not a joke
toward hospital I am directed
mother's had another stroke

Throw on my shoes and rouse my wife
jump in the car, away we speed
will this be the one to end her life ?
an answer now is what I need

It's late, no lack of parking space
so we park right at the front
up the steps to door we race
to find it's not the door we want

I often read of optimism,
of utopian enlightenment
seen through hopeful prism
of largesse and entitlement.

Sometimes I hear positive language
that speaks of strength and light
and the power of love's advantage
flooding all our futures bright.

But what I actually see,
when in clime of real life
I confront bleak reality,
is runaway unfettered strife,

and what I inevitably feel
when watching world's collapse
is that warfare will be the deal
in the wake of our care's lapse: