Sunday Poem: Council, Council On The Wall

January 13, 2019

320px-westmount_city_hall_3

Council, Council on the wall
Whose the fagarest of them all?
When you cut a fifty-percent raise
I move you move to another field to graze,
Watching you chew cud in this pasture
Gives me a belly full of distasture.

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Sunday Poem: Baker’s Logic

January 6, 2019

If you can’t bake a raisin pie

You don’t deserve a raise in pay.

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Abuse of Privilege in Westmount, QC.

January 1, 2019
Photo Christina Smith

Westmount Mayor Christina Smith may receive a 54.8% pay raise.

Does the Mayor of Westmount deserve a 54.8% increase in pay?

This is what Westmount City council is proposing. They want to raise the pay of the Mayor from $43,934 to $68,000. This is a whopping big increase, if you ask me.

Although the Mayor may deserve fair remuneration, one must ask why there have not been adequate increases in the past? Did no one on council ever consider the subject? Were they previously sleeping, or merely frugal?

This is why I humbly believe that a 54.8% increase in one broad stroke is NOT indicated. If the matter had not been considered by previous councils, in these times of tight budget allocations should this council unleash such a massive remuneration increase?

Largess and abuse of privilege have no place in local governance.

 

Sunday Poem: The Air Is Unfair

December 30, 2018

The air is unfair

The carbon is thick

Government health says

Shut your mouth. You won’t get sick,

As my lungs get coated

Old lungs tell the story

Each cough gets noted

As I continue to worry.

 

Air once was oxygen

But now is soup

Breathing capital C Carcinogen

Is worse than poop.

In the bus garage

I knew something was off

With diesel fume barrage

All I could do—cough.

 

But it is the brain

That needs fresh air

Yet the more I complain

It seems more become unaware.

 

Sunday Poem: Aquarium, Aquarium

December 23, 2018

by J.J. Lokshtanov

 

Aquarium, aquarium

That was the place

Where I am.

But now

In backward somersault

I swear I am.

Sunday Poem: Sung Wayside

December 18, 2018

Inspired by Governor-General’s award winning poet Cecily Nicholson’s spasmodic book, Wayside Sang, I present my Sunday poem, Sung Wayside:

     Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

     Never won a Governor-General’s award for poetry.

     I rest my case.

Sunday Poem: Should I Continue Reading Man’s Lame Law

December 9, 2018

The inspiration for this villanelle came from a recent Supreme Court of Canada decision, and from the Westmount Poetry Group.

Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?     /
Particularly when eyes suffer a shortage of time     /
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.     /

In most cases judges flip a coin, ya
I would do the same if I had a dime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Life’s lessons do not help preclude making flaw
I’ve discovered this often in my prime
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

When holy court slams Vice they rub me raw
Flexing one’s freedom should not be a crime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Most decisions are filled with fluff and guffaw
The worst part is: The fuckers don’t rhyme
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

Sitting in chambers supports the final straw
Talk, Talk, Talk. Dysfunction rules sublime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

Sunday Poem: Address to a Jelly Donut

December 2, 2018

Good morning to you my jelly friend

Upon your deliciousness I depend

Annual joy I yearly defend

On lips upon chin

You’ve begat fairest social trend

Where no belly goes thin.

 

Your birth unknown from a baker wise

Your filling fills up a child’s eyes

Your taste no honest man can despise

If racks run bare

Another batch of yeast will rise

To fight despair.

 

Upon your lifting out from oil

The aroma divine, texture royal

There’s never been a one to spoil

As all get et

No bag is needed just sheet of foil

For none’s grown old yet.

 

In the palm of my hungry hand

You leave a mark a fatty band

There is no worry small or grand

You disappear

Upon my gut’s command

O save me dear.

 

As stickiness descends on my bite

I catch a mouthful of sugar white

As my exploding buds ignite

As I devour

The sweetest gluten in my sight

I thank farmers for flour.

 

Surrounding jelly, soft dough sings

The combination in winter brings

The pleasurablest things

I need another

And though the dough has greasèd wings

No pastry I’d druther.

 

After six I fear I might puke

My partner offers stern rebuke

I smile, I burp like richest duke

As acids blow

And swirl, I catch long fretful look

Suffer no woe.

 

Pączki, sufganiyot, berliner

So good out but better when inner

For none can I wait to get in ‘er,

I know for fact

Who eats them’s a winner

Red fruit jam-packed.

 

In this world there can be only peace

If donut availability doth increase

For every tongue needs a little grease;

War will abate somewhat

When all human beings get their piece

Of blessèd jelly donut.

 

Sunday Poem: Democracy Kills

November 25, 2018

I’ve learned democracy kills. /

If you lay beneath all the Bills /

Government has enacted /

You’ll be mortally compacted.

 

Sunday Poem: The Only Amusing Encounter I’ve Ever Had

November 18, 2018

I once met a man named George Amusing
Did this actually transpire
Or was I snoozing?
Now that my head’s afire
I find the current occurrence confusing.