Angels

My Angel

Feb. 2009

He's no angel, but the angel on the floor, I still have.

Here is an idea for the season!

We are grateful to those who look after us. Our newspaper man who delivers in the dark wee hours; the mail carriers who risk life and limb on a busy highway to pop the mail into our mailbox; the UPS dude, with the cool shades, who wends his way along our 100m driveway and backs up to get back onto the highway!

I couldn't sleep one night, and I was up at 5:30 when our newspaper man drove up to put the newspaper in the mailbox. I scared him terribly! He also drives a school bus in the daytime.

It is an icy day today, freezing rain last night, and the driveway is a skating rink.
I skated up the drive, then down the hill, sliding towards the highway, skidding to a stop.
The highway is cleared, thankfully.

We bought some grocery store gift cards for the people who give us service. I wrote a poem, then popped them in an envelope in the mailbox!

The snow has melted, but you get the idea!

Tax his work/Tax his pay/He works for peanuts anyway!

Is this not the dumbest thing you've read? The full poem is below.

Many, many people talk about the 'good old days'. Yikes. I think not.
This poem (below) was sent to me by a man in his later years. If you Google it, you'll find many iterations. Methinks he sees the world through rose-coloured bifocals. Gotta be that American Tea Party. Perhaps it is Hudak's Conservatives, who really don't have a viable platform.

Pre-taxes we also had poverty, low wages, no health benefits, average age of death one hundred years ago was age 40 or so.

White people murdered Native Peoples; we had many who had experienced slavery, many more who were feared because their skin didn't match the ruling classes, or they'd brought with them that European class system.

Small Pox, plague, bacterial infection, non-pasteurized milk, polio, killed many. There was no such thing as antibiotics.

Only the rich were able to be educated, brothers were sent off farms unable to sustain them. Farmers paid money to keep rural roads going, had to resurface them to help the community.
Girls were 'married off'. Women didn't have the vote; many died in childbirth. Women had no choices, nor did many men. Being homosexual was not only a sin, but against the law in man places. People were persecuted for being different.

Political corruption existed. Candidates bought votes with rum.

They weren't the good old days!
I'm glad my Canadian taxes help those who cannot help themselves. I'm glad for universal healthcare, women's shelters, food banks, police, firefighters and all those who ensure that our communities take care of its people!

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table,
At which he's fed.

Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.

Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for
peanuts anyway!

Tax his cow,
Tax his goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.

Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.

Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.

Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.

Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.

Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you won't be done
Till he has no dough.

When he screams and hollers;
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He's good and sore.

Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he's laid...

Put these words
Upon his tomb,
'Taxes drove me
to my doom...'

When he's gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax.    Attributed to James Jaeger, 2008

Who is that masked bandit?

After a restless night, painting in my sleep, nightmares about ladders, the caulking, and worrying about the work to be done...at 5:07 a.m. I heard something go bump in the night. If you look down into the can, under the white lid - there is a furry body! She didn't move at first, brother/sister took off when I threw the lights on!
Here is my story.


I arose before dawn
I heard such a clatter
Suppressing with a yawn
What could be the matter?

The moon it had shifted
A connection I made
My stupor was lifted
My shin the bed frayed


Stumbling on the deck
I flicked on the light
I said, "What the heck?"
Outdoor rustling not right

On the deck was the lid
In the photo you'll see
Bird seed no longer hid
Bandit hid well from me


She moved not a muscle
The can's lid a bonnet
She ate up: no hustle
I wrote her a sonnet

Slowly she departed
She admired my painting
Leaving scarcely a look
Fear not really feigning

My bed calls my body
Muscles sore from my work
The rock I must replace
My duties I won't shirk

Ergo this my lesson
As summer's departed
Remove the delicatessen
Before slumber's started