There are no banana groves on Yonge Street,
Nor grapefruit on Finch Avenue nor oranges sweet,
I checked to see, and there are no papayas either,
Not imperial nor in metric (that’s kilogram / liter),
For god’s sake, it is Toronto after all it is Canada,
We are on top, just above the USA, North America,
We have cherries, apples, peaches and nectarines too,
Apricots, pears and plums a plenty, of course berries blue,
What I cannot grow in my backyard or on my front door,
I go shopping once a week and get bananas at the store


I Am Not Normal, Thank You

If being normal, is buying guns that kill,
If being normal, is shooting people at will,
If being normal, is driving over people shopping,
If fun for you, is doing some head chopping,
If you kill in the name of your god and religion,
If you shoot children, as you would a clay pigeon,
If you enslave an eight year old girl as your wife,
If you explode in a crowd, for virgin filled eternal life,
Then I’m not normal I’m happy to say, not even a smidgen,
Spare me your gods, your beliefs and spare me religion.

Winter Toast

When the weather again getting chilly and cold,
And makes you feel you are useless and tired and old,
That is the time to get out the Rum from the cupboard,
(Where hidden it was since last winter, safely stored),
Glass to the rim you fill, careful not to miss a drop,
Desperately trying to get warm, freezing bottom to top,
Winter ahead seven months of snow, wind, and frost,
A legitimate excuse to have another drink and toast.


There is a full cacophony, out in the woods,
A million birds each presenting its sound and goods,
A salad of calls, noises, and multiple loud chirpy song,
Short tune, long tune, chirp and another moody long,
They must have lots to discuss those birds of feather,
Do not seem to hold back chirping, regardless of weather,
Yet the old Canadian Geese no matter the season,
Keep the decibels high for no apparent reason,

Two Butterflies

Sitting in Connecticut, next to a brook,
In three hours, I can finish writing a book,
Only the birds are busy making a sound,
Black flies fly, their heads held high proud,
Two butterflies are making out in the sun,
The two are busy making a new little one,
It seems my presence bothers them not,
A bird approaching from their blind spot.
Oops, there were two butterflies making love,
A lesson learned:
When making love, look what’s hovering above,

Looking For Peace

Give me peace and quiet so that I might,
listen to the music made by bees in flight,
I want to smell, want to see the flowers Bloom,
slowly watch the paint dry, on the wall in the room,
I want to see the water vapors, going up towards the sky,

To see my SUV’s wheels, just for once with the right PSI,

In the meanwhile, I shall wait for that elusive peace,

With a glass of wine, nuts and some Kashkaval cheese,



My Friend the Flying Monkey

I have a friend – I had him many years,

We meet often and together go for beers,

He is a flying monkey, a nice kind of a guy,

From all people that I know, only we see eye to eye,

You see, my flying monkey has no religion he peddles,

He does not give a shit, nor prizes or medals,

It turns out monkeys are really very smart,

Been here longer – been here since the start,

They do not claim to have ownership of god,

(I know most of you do find this very odd),

This is why I rather spend my time over a beer,

With my friend, with my hairy flying ape peer,

That is not even by a long shot an observer,

Nor does he burn in some religious fervor.