I went to an all boys Catholic high school. Boys from many different backgrounds. Rich and poor. In uniforms. Controlled by a series of rules on conduct and appearance. Our English teacher introduced us to many fine poems. And then there were lively discussions. Some points of view came from left field. Others were well beyond that. But it all came to a cacophony of voices. The conflicts of the school yard focused on a class discussion. A poem in itself.

The moon slept in its garden. Clouds as thin as lace were tangled in the treetops. Bats flickered in and out of the high branches. Down below in the long grass the crickets were too loud. Two teeth shone like nuggets in the dirt. The headlights from the Jaguar crawled across a young woman who lay naked except for the bra around her neck. Blood ran out of each corner of her mouth giving the impression of a smile. A clown's smile. A tear running over her cheek. Her eyes were closed. Her hand...

Two factions of children in separate schools find themselves at odds. One is humiliated but rises to take vengeance on the other. It was war. And the children loved it.

Its odd being dead. Not what I expected. Like waiting in a doctor's office. Reading old magazines. But I'm here for a purpose. To help Sam move on. That's my husband standing there next to the compost looking at his pipe. Sam. It's gone out again. What possibly could be pleasurable about smoking a pipe when you spent half your time relighting it? Explains why women don't smoke pipes. They don't have the time to waste. It must be hot. Sam has taken a handkerchief out of his back pocket to w...

Lost souls. Orange hair. Everyone believes we are on the ledge. Of something. I turned 70 and my wife flipped some pancakes. Somewhere between joy and anxiety. I don't know how Trump survives himself. Why are some of us worried about the future and others want to trade hockey cards. These poems are snap shots. On the old Kodak. A black box with a shutter where we used to hide our memories. Now they are splashed all over the known universe. I feel like Soren Kierkegaard walking down the str...

The Exhibition is a story written like an Brueghel painting. Time turns on itself. Events are repeated and altered. Characters both dead and imaginary appear. At the core of the story is an exhibition of paintings. The paintings tell the story of the moments before, after, and surrounding the events in Dealey Plaza, on November 11, 1963. The assassination of John Kennedy. And amongst the crowd that packs the exhibition at the Zig |Zag bar is a serial murderer."I think you should ha...

The Trans-Canada Highway was approved by the Trans-Canada Highway Act of 1949. Construction was begun in 1950 and finished in 1971. Upon completion it was the longest highway in the world. It runs from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean. And that's when the adventures began. Stories about what happens to folks along the great highway. Small towns, villages, folks traveling, folks trying to get away from something. Or someone.

I don't know if I said something wrong. But Paul changed. He wasn't the Paul in the club. He started to act rough. He reached for the empty bottle of wine and smacked me on the head. I laid there for a while. Out of it. As I began to come to, I could feel his hands on my neck. And I passed out again. Slipping into a deep dark hole. The next time my head started to clear, I could hear him off to one side, near the bushes. He was crying. Like a baby."Why did you make me do it?" he moa...

I wait. It feels like my life no longer belongs to me. I wait for Aristotle to go to sleep. I cook dinner. I wait for Frank to come home. We eat. Frank talks about what some kid said in his class today. I listen. For Aristotle to wake up. I smile at Frank and pretend that I am relaxed. That I am interested. That I am in one piece and not imploding. Will Aristotle have another rash? Frank helps to clear the table and then retreats to the living room to read the newspaper. I put the dishes i...

There was a white van. Inside were four bank robbers. Next door to the bank was a restaurant. A pregnant woman worked in the restaurant. She was the wife of a detective. Outside the window she could see the snow continuing to fall. There were two thugs. Who had been engaged to collect a debt. From one of the bank robbers. The two thugs were being watched by two detectives. There was a loving couple. Who worked together for the gas company. Who were working on the weekend. In the middle of ...

Thoughts on a life well attended. I may have been tardy but I was awake.'I wish I was handsomer. I wish I was taller. I wish my bank account would grow. I wish I didn'tsmoke. I wish I didn't forget so many things. That's right, I don't smoke. I wish I was smarter. (Isthat even possible?) I wish I'd met Trudeau. (Pierre) I wish I'd been more successful. And my parentscould have seen it. I wish a lot of things that I don't really care about it. Someday I'm going t...

Across the hydro field butterflies, rags of yellow, white, orange, were tossed by the breeze from milkwood to milkwood. Dogs ran free, tearing through the long grass after unseen prey sometimes leaping into the air out of sheer joy. Birds, garter snakes, toads, and clouds of grasshoppers made their home in the grass. Sometimes a fox or skunk would wander out of Echo Valley and down the fields. At night families of raccoons waddled leisurely across the open spaces. On hot summer afternoons ...