I’ve got one hand in my pocket and the other one is playin’ a piano —Alanis Morissette I can never have enough pockets. I’ve bought a...

I’ve fallen in love with every animal in the world. So much so I’m unable to do a thing around the house. You ask me to clean the windows...

Our friend prefers Victor to Vic. He has no patience for those too lazy to include the second syllable. What’s the big deal? he hears,...

There are 20 quadrillion ants upon the Earth, at least that’s what the experts gauge, and there’s two-and-a-half million for every human....

This village through which we’re driving is home to “Wild Bill McKeen”   and though we haven’t a clue who he is— or was— his name is on a...

I missed my car’s odometer hitting the 100,000 mark, despite my awareness it was coming, that at 99,999 it was just a quick jaunt to the...

After thirty years of struggle, I’ve penned my masterpiece. It’s the poem I can gloat is perfect: funny, heart-wrenching, born of blood...

I’ve been told to never use heart in a poem. It’s worn, archaic, schmaltzy— used by all the doggerelists this workshop leader has warned...

Lovely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come between us                              —The Beatles   The parking meter has ripped me off...

My landlady is ranting about the squirrels, how they dig up all her flowers, calling them tree rats, that all of us would hate them if it...

On the other side of the fence, the neighbour’s grass is lush and weedless. I see him kissing his stunning wife, tenderly, without...

The path to peace it’s said is found in sacred books of old, on parchment, scrolls and ink; in a choir’s hallelujah, ringing bells and...

She holds open ruptured bags as I heave loads of coloured leaves into their crinkled, paper mouths like a backhoe dropping dirt into a...

Our daughter races, attempting to catch the birds. If she had the wings of a pigeon, she'd leave us, dropping occasional notes. Andreas...

Breath is the bridge which connects life to consciousness, which unites your body to your thoughts. – Thich Nhat Hanh My muses must have...

I’ll sign my pseudonym to your confession, echo expletives in overture, regretting the passing through birth canals, staging reenactments...

The steeple bell from the Anglican church chimes every 15 minutes, doing a double at the bottom of the hour, and nothing short of a...

Yes, yours was the most unusual of reasons, to avoid the city playgrounds, the parks where noisy children race amok. One of these little...

got to pay your dues if you want to sing the blues –Ringo Starr I’m melancholy enough to sing the blues. There’s surely no shortage of...

I, more stolidly, tend to suspect that God is a novelist — a garrulous and deeply unwholesome one too. – Martin...