Word Storm

toys letters pay play
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Words skid down our windscreens

All now times

Rainy words

Snowstorm words

Hailstorm words

But they dribble down into the gutter.

Our words are worthless

Now there are templates

“The Nation is in danger”

“Immigrants threaten our jobs”

“We have to maintain the purity of

Our race/language/economy”

“Our colour is the best color”

Who’s worried now about the Panda

The rule book says now propaganda

Let’s toss the Ozone or Amazon or drugs

All under the bloody rug!

Take a hike, Right?

And you there shut off the mike!


The Net Commandments

new commandments

Ok so now

It is time to climb the mountain

and waste away

Japanese style in a culvert,

A cave or a corner.

When now the weight of all

sins falls heavily like

A ton of bricks

Through a rat-chewed Net of frail and aged threads!


Ok so now

nobody is listening

or even within earshot

The rats have taken over the world

It is as they have already said

No country for old men.

Well really thumb lick through the pages of history

The rats have always ruled

And dogs lived their

Foretold life.


It is strange

They shout spacewards

Is there anybody out there?

While people squirm and starve and shrivel

Under all that spoken drivel!


Today if Moses

Climbed up the mountain

He would find a tablet perhaps in a neat box

And perhaps maybe certainly Really

With Netflix and Apple TV!!

Volcanic Anger


Everyone gets effed up sometime

Even the Earth splits

And spits lava

Such beautiful names-

Vesuvius, Mt. Etna and Hawaii

But wait?


All over

When will the lava burst? Again

Civilized people are stunned

He’s insane

Families smothered; some make their escape

When I explode.

It takes centuries for civilization to reappear

On these shores!

Oh it is going to be a long wait.

Meanwhile the gossipy archealogists

minerologists and geologists

pick at the safe corners of the blast

mumbling at least it adds to the land mass

Six meters of ashes are hard to come out of

It takes centuries.

No wonder they keep repeating oft

“Don’t blow your top!”

A Violin Blow

back view of woman holding her denim jacket
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Violin blow


The soft breeze

Like the first accidental brush of a bow

On a violin before the go

Of the orchestra!

A gentle purr of a breath

A blow, nature whistles

Just lifts a strand of hair

On her head

And cools her brow’s sweat

Ruffles her collar

I forget summer

And shiver with a vision

Of a cozy winter with her.


Fine tuning the dawn


The first bird of the morning

Whistling and tootling

While fine tuning the dawn

Temperature and colours.

Sqeezy doll sound bird

Another like a night watchman’s weird  whistle.

Dogs yap at the emerging light but

That first bird keeps tootling

A tiny twit of a bird flits past

Sparrow sounds

First milkman

First reverse gear horn

First Crow Caw

Still the tootling

He has not yet perfected the dawn.

Then a loud motor starts

Startling the birds

The spell is broken

The city begins at once

Now is a new

Same anxiety day

A city day

Magic dawn is over!

This man on the road

What a shame

Nothing will ever change!

How long will this man last on the road

Thinking his personal odes!

Why is he worried about the world

Hasn’t he heard?

They have passed him by!

They are waiting for him to die; to pass away

On this road unknown

That will shut up another anti-voice.

They want jargon

Garlands and bargains

Doublespeak, spin, din

Not anything that makes them think

Die old man

Die in peace

Nothing will change

All will remain the same

As was 5000 years ago

Kings, Maharajas and Pharao

Gentlemen proper

But unseen millions of paupers!

Nothing will change!

It will remain the same!

Run don’t walk my man

Escape their clutches while you can.

The Wall got your Job!


fired fireman

Once you have lost

your job

And your neighbour

comes dashing

into his driveway

With determined jocosity &

his  lunchbox and briefcase

You do think

Oh My God

I am nobody!

Thanks to the wall!

Or whatever other reason!

And Jimmy Kimmel

Puts a moustache on your face

& you

Grin and bear it!

On National Television

That is life!





The thing is we are orphans now of this world

Our parents perhaps so Royal

Left us at the doorstep of Fagin leaders!

We the people are fatherless now

Our Father who art an Idea

Born with Independence died with it.

Our Mother has been raped repeatedly

By thousands of thug stepfathers all the world over.

What mercy do we seek from carpetbaggers?

Perhaps we were loved by someone once? eh?

There is no hope in sight my friends, 

Seek asylum within, no country will grant you it, no way,

In brightest night or darkest day.

Toronto Subway Poem/Poet-TTC Rider


Toronto Poet of the Subway Train


I’m thinking double space it all

And send it to the Sun.

I’m  writing on an envelope shard

The perfect pensive bard

The wise-girl opposite in a skirt

Gives me a smirk.

Me that has seen the Hidden Onagri at Pearson,

Throwing fat metal darts at the sky. Pierce Sun,

That other gal opposite is reading Thomas Mann.

I am Lord Denizen of the Underground-

Toronto’s digestive tract or

The metro–Toronto’s womb disgorging people

Its Catacombs.


The swaying and the braking of the moving metro

Stirring our lives into existence

The common folk.

All inscrutable.

Eyeing surreptitiously.

Stations being called

The train brakes and takes off

A wild man’s wail.

Aooooooooooo!! Like

Someone sharpening a knife on a grinding wheel.

A babble of minds is here

Inaudible Babel.

It’s rude to stare I’m staring

Under cover at everyone

The man reading; a grin on his face


He’s missing his glasses and grimacing in

His effort to read.

The mp3 (Sorry,this was way back before the iPhone) players in

All shapes and sizes

Prized crystal balls

Consulted and reprogrammed by various listeners

The uninitiated

Wonder? The new immigrants and aliens ponder

This strange amulet with earplugs?

Classy bags,

Fancy pants and the Matrix coats.

Two school girls oblivious to this fashion parade

Eat huge burgers and talk loudly

About Jim’s new date.

It’s rush hour and the sardine packing begins.

The train is rollicking

And everyone hanging on to the top bar.

Some innocents are exposing laborers’ underarms

To the professors and dons.

“I’m sorry they mumble for working all day

It was hot and sweatshirt is all wet

There was no changing room

So if you want I can take it off here and now

And perhaps change my shoes. Caked with mud.

Don’t look affronted by my smells.”

Torontese, repartee near the door

‘Cool down man, Take a valium.!’

Look away; now those ads above your head

The map telling the stations’ fable

A modern Peutinger Table.


Labyrinthine exits go left or right?

Stairs for smoking, hot dog stands

Front Street.

Free newspapers, bouquets for your sweet.

Then again,

Turnstiles, tollbooths and tickets

Tokens, transfers and passes

Old men ladies and lasses.

Take a streetcar if you desire

Or a bus if it transpires.

The train brakes and then takes off.


Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen

Come climb down

And meet the world

In the TTC.

Some writers long ago said

And everyone scoffed

People shall live underground

On the moon, an entire nation.

This is Moon-Station.

Everyone a reader

Karl Shakespeare, Wells Pearl and Tan,

Proust, Salinger, Bradbury, Agatha, Wodehouse

Dan, Joyce and Wilde.

You name it reads like a guide.


An unsung poet I trudge

The railed corridors I judge

Canada beauties and mums

Coffee cups; chewing gum

Kids off to school, read their text

St. George is next.


I’m wondering why do they even not send a rejection slip now?

They just ignore it?

How does a writer get printed? How?

Poems, novels and stories?

(Aside–He was not yet a blogger, it seems.)


That lady there is busty in her crossy -word

Come on look up

Show us your beautiful eyes (shades of Paul Newman)

(And Paul said ‘Lady I know you have beautiful tits(breasts he must have said) but I am not asking you to show them.’)

Come on look up give us a look.

Alas grand ignore

Its music, paper or book.


Sometimes you search for that ultimate question

The primal pick-up line

Have I not met/seen/that book is great/

Ah the coffee; yes its very cold; no I’m not married.


It’s hard down there

To be an innocent observer.

How Lord O can I be a part of their lives

Forever riding these trains?


Turbans, toupees and Togas

Meet Fernandez, Tula and Degas

Bells, buckles and tongue pins

Going to Church or for your SINs?

Buskers, Chinese and Slav

Banjos, accordions and guitar

And yes once I did see the sitar.

Hues and dyes of hair

Tattooed legs stockinged and bare.


Could I please get the title?

Of official recorder of deeds, fashions and mores

In the year 2005 CE

The poet le? La TTC.