How I do love them, pigeons,
Boiled, stuffed or barbequed.
Oh, it’s more than that!
It is their attitude
And treating everyone equally.
That I admire.

For us homonoids
Too much regard is paid,
To respect and positions,
Wealth or fame,
Young or old.
But pigeons do not give a shit.

They just do not care,
To whom you dedicate the statues.
It can be to presidents, kings or queens,
Poets, artists or movie stars.
Heroes or heroines.
The pigeons will just shit on them anytime.

Pigeons can sit on their heads,
Their shoulders or arms,
Or even on their noses or laps.
They will leave their droppings,
At anytime or anywhere,
And they do not even care.

You can try to wash it,
Or you can try to shoo them away.
But pigeons are not easily intimidated,
Frightened or even concern.
As they will always come back,
And let you know they are there.

You can always train your pigeons,
But you can never tell them,
Who to honour or to respect.
Pigeons will always do their deed,
And to whosoever they please.
That is why I love them pigeons.

Last night I met a lady with ripples for her abs, I confess.
She is so tough that when she bends over she can crack a walnut with her chest.
There is not an ounce of fat on her legs or thighs.
So if you dare to put your head there she will squeeze the balls out of your eyes.
She can hold iron kettles with her arms outstretched for an hour, smilingly.
I am afraid that if I try to kiss her I will loose all my teeth and be fitted with dentures, truly.
But she is so nice to be with and refreshing.
So when we go for a walk I will stay a metre away beside her adoring.

One day I met a young man from Calgary,

His bladder is the size of a cherry.

After four bottles of golden Stella,

He ran to the men’s five times an hour.

To everyone’s dismay his fingers,

is always on his zipper.

This way he is always ready,

When he makes a mad dash to the potty

Living in makeshift tents that dotted the harsh, dry and rocky landscape
Romantic visions of nomadic tribes settled on the land with only campfires
The innocent moon and stars to light up the evening skies
The golden sun in early morning shines to you the naked reality
Children walking around with unwashed faces and matted hair
Dressed in tattered clothes and going without cereal or bread for breakfast
Cries of hungry babies can be heard in the early morning
Dried up breasts with little milk and dirty water from the collect pools of water,
the satiate their hunger
Adults with their lust for power, money, dominance over their own kind,
wage wars in the name of god
Children are never asked to be born cried to the heavens above in their little hearts
The only replies they get are the caws of the blackbirds,
the silent twinkle of the stars and sometimes the howls of the wolves in the night
How do children become adults to carry on this incessant quest?
The first of the winter rains turned the camp into a muddy sty, what a miserable Eden
After the rain stops, you can see the children playing with sticks in the mud
and the flies follow them where ever they go
Oblivious to all around them and not knowing any better
Sudden shouts and alarms ring out in the night and a great sense of panic is in the air
All the adults and teens, quickly pack some of their clothes,
guns and ammo with little or no food and flee to the hill beyond.
Only the elderly women, children and crying babies are left and
you can hear the cracks of gun fires and some explosions drawing closer to the camp.
Toddlers and tiaras,
iPads and iPods,
Facebook and Twitter.
Summer homes and vacations.
Ocean cruises and Porsches.
Calvin Kline and Christian Dior.
Pension and retirement plans.
Is this the meaning of this life and what hopes and freedom are made of?
Let me return to the earth below my feet and let this dream end.
If there is a soul and spirit then set them free from this Eden without God.

I am a canary,
A bird, I am, I am
I live with a widow
next door,
Who’s been married seven times before.
In her rocking chair she sits,
Smoking her fat Cuban cigar.
I am a canary,
A bird, I am, I am

She keeps me
In a cage,
With no room to fly.
So I pluck my feathers
off my breast,
She expects me to stand on the perch
and sing and sing.
Cause I am a canary,
A bird, I am, I am

She bought me a ladder,
A mirror and a bell,
When she sips whisky,
She goes stir crazy.
I hope she does not expect me to climb the ladder
or preen my feathers in front of the mirror
or ring the bell.
Cause I am a canary,
A bird, I am, I am

I hope she drinks
more whisky
than the night before
and be crazy as can be.
I expect her to jump out the window
fall down seven floors
and be dead evermore.
Cause I am a canary,
I sing, I sing and I sing.

Take heed to the giants of the sea.
The humpbacks are calling out to you and me.
It is not calling for a mate or three.
Sad songs the humpback whale sings, you see.
With plastics, flotsam and oil, my blowhole is constantly plugging,
I can hardly breathe and my mates are dying.
With the chemicals and drugs, my sonar’s hardly working.
On the white sands my friends and dolphins are beaching.
We are not sun tanning can’t you see?!
Who will hear my sad songs, who will fix my home for me?

Take heed to the giants of the sea.
The humpbacks are calling out to you and me.
You are plundering the oceans and seas.
You snag and kill off the star fish, turtles and sea urchins, dear me!
Down to the ocean floor your nets are dragging.
Even those that you do not eat you are destroying.
There’s not much left of the krill, herring or sardines.
Then you complain that there is a lack of cod,salmon or blue fins.
When are you going to stop polluting and plundering the oceans and the seas?
Who will hear my sad songs, who will fix my home for me?

Take heed to the giants of the sea.
The humpbacks are calling out to you and me.
You boast the thousands of tonnes of catches.
Very happy and delighted with the millions of dollars it fetches.
The oceans and seas are strangely silent with feeding grounds destroyed.
First the forest and then the oceans and the seas you plundered.
Your smartness, technology and greed had sealed our fate, you see.
There is nothing I can do but sing my helpless plea.
It may seem like a siren of wondrous melodies in the sea.
Who will hear my sad songs, who will fix my home for me?

Take heed to the giants of the sea.
The humpbacks are calling out to you and me.
If you take a sea shell or a conch and put it to your ear.
You will hear the same sad songs every year.
But you will not listen but continue to destroy and plunder.
Then all hope is lost and it is of no wonder.
Soon there will be no tunas or halibuts, squids or stingrays.
There will be no more crabs or lobsters, clams or morays.
Pretty soon there will be no life in the oceans or seas.
Who will hear my sad songs, who will fix my home for me?

Each year the Salmon swims upstream.
It does not know why but goes ahead, full steam.
Except to lay some eggs and for sure, die.
No matter what the cost is, is the silent cry.
The salmon have no choice but to keep its date.
Instinct forces it to swim upstream to meet its certain fate.

Swimming upstream is fraught with dangers and a sight not pretty.
Losing all your strength and stamina is a certainty.
Gets eaten by bears and raccoons along the way.
Death is the ultimate end and nature has its’ say.
Corporately its is almost suicide,
And socially you are an outcast with no place to hide

Conform and you die a slow and torturous death that’s for sure.
Living to a different drum beat means the life of a bohemian to endure.
All eyes will be on you, full of contempt.
Labelled a rebel, anti authority, anti management are their lament.
To think independently is a crime in their eyes, I fear.
It threatens authority, management & the church, oh dear!

To be different is definitely not of one’s choosing.
It is as natural as breathing.
Even when you force yourself to a different rhythm,
It will, over time, reverts back to its natural dictum.
You can pretend to be something else or someone you are not,
But like the leopard you are unable to change your spots

Be yourself  and stay on the your own course to the end.
Being different has its own rewards, my friend.
For us, flowing with the tide is mediocre living.
But to swim upstream is as natural as breathing,
Be free and breathe the fresh mountain air and it’s exhilarating.
So be true to yourself and keep on ticking.

Aaah to be in love, and think you have reached life’s acme,
And not know pain is only to reach half way in life’s journey.
To say that you really know the full extent of trust encompassing,
And not know betrayal is to miss the depth of its full measuring.
To feel and experience the horrors of deep deep pain,
In broken love and trust that almost drive you insane,
Is to come to a full cycle of all that life has to give.
To be afflicted by what seems like an insurmountable grieve,
After reaching the starry height of ecstasy,
But they are all temporary conditions, you see.

Before you only think you know,
But now you experienced it to the very marrow.
It tells you that you are truly alive and kicking,
To finally touch life can be euphoric or frustrating and depressing.
To have broken love and trust and feels no pain,
Should leave you horrified because you are dead or insane.
Nevertheless be glad that you are alive and kicking,
Otherwise you will not know what you are missing.
For it is better to have a few short moments of ecstasy or pain,
Than to live one where there is no sunshine or pouring rain.

Once you have been afflicted with pain,
It is most difficult to love and trust again.
How can one reach out again and be alive,
Without feeling, wanting to crawl back to the dive?
Back into the shell, where its secure and safe,
Your own cell and steel bars and no need to be brave.
Now the pain is controlling how you behave,
If you don’t watch out it will certainly lead you to your grave.
Take courage and summon all that is within you,
And free yourself from the invisible bond that enslaves not a few.

Why torture yourself needlessly,
When the other party discards you carelessly.
What is your worth intrinsically?
Is it dependent on what the others think of you? Seriously?
It is much, much more than that my friend, hark!
Your self worth is only limited by your mind, to start,
Not counting your abilities, your integrity and honor. Fie!
Are worth more than anything that money can buy
Do not put your worth on things that fades with time
It is definitely not based on looks, nickels and dimes

Never let others tear down your self esteem or respect.
The only disappointment is your judgement but you’re not perfect.
Errors can be corrected and you will be wiser, you know.
If the other person have no integrity or honor to show,
He or she is not worth your effort, time or pity.
They neither value their honor nor their integrity.
So guard your heart closely,
And do not to give it away cheaply.
Give yourself a fresh start like the sun that rises each morning.
Breathe in the fresh air and life anew like flowers in the Spring.

To work their way back into your heart is their devise.
A grape vine can only bear grapes and not otherwise.
To be won over by their strong words and emotions is a mistake.
Even though a snake shed its skin, it’s still a snake.
So hold steady and be that person of strong character,
Otherwise worse pain awaits you, if you falter,
Summon your courage that has been hid for so long,
To take a new step and enjoy new the day like the glorious dawn.
You only need to be strong and courageous for this day,
Tomorrow is too far away and when it comes, it will be ‘today’.

There maybe rain, snow or sun,
But he’s a regular at the Rose and Crown.
His stomach growls, when he walks.
He looks thirsty and salivates even if he doesn’t talk.
He anxiously waits for Grandpa Joe,
To accompany him to the Rose and Crown at four.
Walks in like he owns the joint, stops,
And then looks around and licks his chops,
The regulars would call out,
Hey, Capt’n! How’s it going? is the shout.
They all love the good capt’n be,
He doesn’t care if you are a he or a she,
If you are trans or a gay.
Or for that matter black, white, green or grey

They call him capt’n for short,
Cause Grandpa Joe loves to sit for hours non stop
Watching James T. Kirk, Spark and Scotty of the Enterprise.
Captain Kirk is Grandpa Joe’s favorite, is of no surprise.
The Capt’n, he’s the friendly type.
A wide grin for a smile that you cannot dislike.
Capt’n has an even cut, short blond hair.
It is all natural with no chemical dyes or sprays
They would shake his hand at the Rose and Crown.
Or pat him on the shoulders and you can never see a frown.
Capt’n would stare at them with disgust, naturally.
If they touch his beard or feel his belly.
He’s not here to give anyone trouble.
He’s here to have his ale, on the double.

Homer, the bartender would have his ale ready.
The Capt’n would quaff it down quick and steady,
White suds would show on his upper lips, pucker.
Shortly, he’ll be asking for another.
The regulars and strangers would chuckle,
Laugh heartily or have a sort of kerfuffle.
Capt’n would visit the folks at each table
You did think he is running for mayor for he is quite able.
A politician he definitely is not,
But he is friendly, to all the lot.
Once in a while you can hear him burp out loud.
The crowd would roar and laugh or even shout.
And some would bend over with tears,
He relieves you from your stress and fears.

One thing you should know is, the Capt’n is very short.
So when he looks up, he can see some without undershorts.
Being the good natured creature that he is,
He will just walk away and not tease.
But you cannot wipe away his grin or his smile.
You see, Capt’n is a yellow Labrador all the while.
Even though you serve him his ale,
He prefers his Guinness or stout as long as its not stale.
Sometimes he likes to come up to you real close,
Nuzzle between your thighs or legs with his nose.
Just to check you up on your medical condition,
In case you have kidney stones or constipation.
He tries to tell but you would not listen.
You push him off and cross your legs for your own reasons.

After two ales or three,
Grandpa Joe would walk in the park among the trees.
A cane on his right hand and himself to steady,
Capt’n by his side, his very best buddy.
The Capt’n makes his mark and surveys all situation.
He makes sure he does not miss any action.
Keen on the ears, eyes and even sharper with the nose,
It does not matter if its a strange sound, sight or smell gross.
He would survey and check out every action.
You should be thankful for he is the good Capt’n.
Below his tail is his third eye,
You can try to hide behind him but on you he will spy.
He would keep track of all the rear situation
He has his third eye on you without any distraction.

So when you go for a drink, a walk or a jog,
Just remember Capt’n is only a dog.
He means not disrespect with his actions.
So when he comes to check out your medical condition,
Please do not shoo him away.
Or you will hurt his feelings for the day.
Or if he tracks you down with his third eye,
Do not turn away in disgust and say fie.
He is only interested in you being safe and not done in,
So just pat him not on the head but under the chin.
Give him a nice cookie or ale and let him not beg,
Also, before I forget, please make sure you bring a plastic bag
In order to keep his expressions,
In keeping with Park regulations.

On this cold and wintry morning,
The cold Arctic winds are blowing.
Heavy clouds roll on and on,
Grey upon grey like a never ending song.
Row by row, the soldiers stand quietly,
And a mixed crowd whispers impatiently.
An airplane appears in sight,
Everyone seem to be wound up tight.
Their hearts beat wildly in this instance,
The military plane drowns the silence.
It taxis to a stop in front of the stand.
Eternity it seems has come to an end!

The door flings open, all eyes are staring,
The mind struggles to control the emotions, baring.
Not a sound or whisper is in the air,
All eyes are on two red maple leaf draped caskets stare.
Each hoisted on shoulders of eight good men and women.
The Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry is the regiment.
Holding their heads up high, proudly,
A strain can be seen on all the brave faces, naturally.
The traditional bagpipes mourn and cry for its fallen.
Tears like dews roll down and sadness for young lives stolen.
Puzzled and with curious faces the younger children watch.
Slowly down the rampway the soldiers march.

You could have chosen anything, but the military.
You replied, ‘Afghan is calling and I am not sorry’.
I pleaded and begged you to be anything but the military.
You said, ‘I had chosen a nobler profession’ on the contrary.
Fighting for the freedom and rights of all,
Following the glorious many and the bagpipes call.
It is my duty to answer and be counted.
Diepe and Passchendaele are our valiant history proudly recorded.
But this one is not your battle I beg to disagree!
With firm conviction and resolve you answered me.
Death is not an end but like a stargate to worlds unknown.
Afghanistan, Afghanistan, you have taken the bests, my very own.

Many corporations are getting rich by your sweat and blood, I fear.
Some politicians, they give you second hand military gears,
Rented vehicles, helicopters and cargo planes.
And after you are dead they will all say, it’s a shame,
Our prayers and thoughts are with you and your family.
It sounded mechanical and hollow to us, honestly.
Who feeds you all that rhetoric and screwing up your mind?
They are the ones who change their minds with a flick of a dime.
Some politicians, who are back at home, safely,
Eating plumb turkeys, potatoes and gravy,
Brussel sprouts, cranberry sauces and pumpkin pies.
Sipping wine and dripping on their clothes and ties.

Canada, oh my Canada, it is plain to see,
What have you brought home to me.
Sons and daughters with blood on Afghan sands,
Two bodies to bury on this frozen land.
Twinkling lights on houses and trees with hanging fairies,
A season to be merry and I am supposed to be cheery.
I have traded poinsettias for wreaths,
Dinner table laughter for overwhelming griefs.
Presents wrapped and ribboned yuletide baskets,
For two draped red maple leaf caskets.
Sweet carols and noels for a bagpipe mourns,
Manger stories for eulogies, epitaphs and groans.

You are not to be swayed nor denied.
T’was a week before Christmas that you died.
You served that some young Afghan hearts may be free,
You served that some Afghans may think, speak and write free.
You served that you may finally be free, as heaven cannot wait.
For you had an appointment with your ineluctable fate.
Into the black hearse they loaded you with care,
The bagpipes continue to mourn as the hearse pulls away.
I salute you for the nobler profession you had chosen,
Two proud burials for a yuletide season.
Death and Hope together on this late December day,
Yuletide seasons will never be the same again after today.