The little skiff drifted at the mercy of the tides.
Out beyond the breakers, just off the shore.
It sole occupant, unconscious, curled in a fetal pose.
How long had she been like that? Perhaps Heaven knows.

The sail was torn and tattered so it could not catch the wind.
No chance, then, of reversing course. Going back to where she’d been.
Her sunburned skin, her parched cracked lips, her worn and threadbare wear
Gave mute witness to her suffering and her unanswered prayers.

I think it was a kindly moon that made her voyage end.
For sure  a strong insistent tide had brought that wrecked bark in.
That’s when we saw it on the beach; Saw the body, felt alarm.
I went to her, checked for a pulse, then told my mate “She’s gone.”

“Come on, Boy.” I rattle Bo’s leash.
My little spaniel heads for the door.
This November morning is crisp clear and cold.
We wander alone, enjoying the peace,
An old man and his dog joined by this leash.

It just seems to happen, more often than not,
That Bo and I wind up at the very same spot.
I swear we don’t plan it, but it’s always the same
We wind up in the town square near the Metro North train.

We watch and we listen as the southbound train leaves.
The slow mournful whistle echoes forth on the wind.
The train I rode for decades from here to the end.
The train I took to work but will never take again.

My former co-workers; the drinks at weeks end.
My boon companions dare I call them my friends.
They have still their careers, they still have each other
I have a small pension. I yearn for a lover.

At length and at last Bo and I turn for home.
They’ll be coffee for me; Bo will play in the yard.
I never imagined that retirement
Would ever be this hard.

They are living, here, among us,
These fine celestial beings.
These children with Downes syndrome;
These angels without wings.

In the care of aging parents,
Or together in group homes,
These angels without wings possess
47 chromosomes.

You will recognize the gentleness
Of their kind, defective, hearts.
Yet you may discount their usefulness
In a world that values “smart”.

If you do so, at your peril,
Discount these gentle souls,
You will never learn that wisdom
Is what makes a person whole.

We’ve seen intelligence abused
And been victims of its lies.
Innocence has been refused
When unborn angels die.

At a distance they resemble us;
These angels without wings.
Yet they have an openness to Love,
That speaks of higher things.

She was not your typical everyday giant
she was neither jolly or green.
Instead she was a many faceted diamond
hard because she needed to be hard
Brilliant, just because she was brilliant
Her keen intellect had a laser focus.
She gave life to many a little girl's dreams.


She was our five foot giant
and somehow it doesn't seem right
that she'll be replaced by a pygmy.

Don't think me unusual, it isn't  what it seems.
I don't see dead people, not even in my dreams.
Yet deep within  the Winter's chill.
when all is drear, grey  and dread.
I reach up to the topmost shelf
and take a book to bed.
Sometimes I visit with Robert Frost,
or Edgar Allan Poe.
Sometimes it's Caesar ravaging Gaul
or high tea with Arthur Clough.
They all are windows to the past,
now freed from their fleshy prison.
I always let them have their say,
while I just sit and listen.

For men of a certain age,
who recall when  Emma Peel
was all the rage.
No one can  ever take her place;
those dangerous curves, her beautiful face.
Who could forget
the scent of  her perfume and leather?

I listened in the darkness as” the Franchise” took the hill.
Tom Seaver, perfect, through eight innings, had retired Cubs at will.
I could barely hear Bob Murphy’s voice; Shea was packed that night.
Santo, Banks and Spangler, all went down without a fight.
Randy Hundley led off the ninth, he was victim Twenty-Five.
The stands were like a roaring sea, electric and alive.
Jimmy Qualls came up to bat, a rookie, little known.
Every Mets fan felt for sure that Tom would bring it home.
Seaver looked in for the sign; Grote called for heat.
Qualls lined a clean single and a hushed quiet filled the seats.
Seaver felt deflated as the crowd stood in ovation.
As well as he had pitched that night was it wrong to seek perfection?
Seaver finished off the Cubs that night; Qualls' was the only hit.
That night would have been perfect if that ball had found a mitt.