The Crossing:
Once a place,
Where whistle, rail,
And road converged,
Now a home of
Last farewells,
Where two striped
Gate Keepers,
Sadly bid farewell,
To souls who thought
They might live yet
Another day or two,
Until a crush of steel
Decided otherwise.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
We pay homage
To you,
Dear Bob,
Not as misguided,
But as pure evil.
A man brilliant
Enough,
To realize he was
Wrong,
But lie,
While trying to
Understand
Why
His numbers,
Inexplicably,
Did not
Work out,
While boys died.
Not everyone
Can use teenagers
To keep time,
But you did.
Couldn't you tell,
That your data
Were
Junk?
You could command
People to
Collect,
They laughed while
They presented
You crap.
If your models
Could have talked,
They would have
Laughed,
At you.
Reporters,
For whom
Everything is new,
Were sure
That you brought
Systems analysis,
To the
Puzzle Palace.
I guess they missed
World War Two.
You did ensure
It was used,
To build
Many,
Bad,
Weapons.
You get 'A'
For effort,
Professor.
Those dead soldiers' Moms
Applaud you.
They hope to
Meet you in hell,
For another go round.
You somehow thought,
That all of life,
Could be reduced
Numerically.
How bizarre.
In the end,
Your failure
Was not numerical,
But
Philosophical,
Your calibrated responses,
Moved
Not one enemy heart,
As for yours,
You had none.
Those attempting to
Tell you that
You were
Mistaken,
Were helpless,
They might as well,
Have been speaking
Sanskrit to you.
For they spoke in terms of
Morality,
of which
You had none.
When you passed,
No one
mourned,
And
As hard as you
Had tried to buy it,
No one,
Gave you,
Forgiveness.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Scaffolding climbs everywhere,
To help keep the canyons of stone
In repair,
Ancient patricians,
Are now made small,
By newer creatures
Of glass and steel,
Look off in the distance,
See how small we really are,
The avenues run-
Forever,
Broad,
Steep to.
I stare down my chest,
To the pavement,
Hard,
Hard as the hearts of the faceless,
But not like the balding,
Smiling,
Red headed dad,
Who got his son last week,
The same day,
That he got his
AARP card.
I'm off to a dinner
A dinner unlike any
In Syria,
Either Syria.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
My love
She rests so quiet,
Where she speaks to me
In silence,
She rests beside
Her favorite place,
She rests in peace,
We put her there,
My other love and I,
We set her down,
Upon her final bed,
And covered her
With softness,
That we might
Remember,
Where she lay.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Will you marry me?
Plus six.
I finally belong
To the dark girl,
With long hair,
On Beacon Street.
And she is mine.
May our hearts beat
As one,
And love define
Our days.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
Nature makes a peach,
But man decides just how
That peach will be,
Feel free to graze,
In the supermarket
Of your choice,
But,
If you insist
On the best,
Wait 'til all the others,
Have been finally consumed,
Then proceed,
To a singular and magic place,
Where a special man,
Sells a special peach,
A peach so special
That it ripens on the tree,
Ripens to perfection,
But you must consume it
Straight away.
It's never with us
Longer than two weeks,
But it's a treat
That you'll not want
To miss.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
There is an empty world
It sits above our own,
Its silent souls
Reflect to us
A silent warning,
Like a lighthouse on a rock,
Their message,
Barely heard,
Is clear,
“This world,
It loves you not,
Our killers,
They still walk.”
Let their message
Never be forgot.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
26 December 2011
Cover me with darkness,
Hold me on the edge,
Let me drift where
I must be,
'Til I can land,
Where e'er I need,
My heart is fully
Broken,
My body aches
From
Stem to stern,
My soul cries out
To let it be,
And bears what sadness
There might be,
Alone,
Within its core.
Some silent
Force,
Must come to me,
To heal me
From within;
I've lost my faith,
In all there is,
Even in
What I can see.
So let me go,
And let me be,
To live life out
In peace,
While free
To breathe
Upon despair,
Until the end
Is clearly seen.
2 January 2012
I cannot find
The end.
Is it somewhere here
On earth?
Could it be a refuge
In this life?
A place of calm
And hope?
A place where love
Might safe exist,
Where hope might shelter
From despair,
How would I know
When I am there,
Could I arrive
While unaware,
And yet enjoy
Its fruits?
We'll see.
Might not hope
Exist alone,
Within there,
Without form,
Intangible,
Upon its own accord?
But holden to
Us all?
To be continued;
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
I never saw Teddy,
Rudy York was just a coach,
But Fenway was my Mecca
Back when Boston was a
Sad sack team.
I have to laugh,
I traded Yogi,
Traded him,
And Roger Maris
Too,
Traded them for
Tracy Stallard!
What New Englander
Would want a Yank?
Yes Fenway folks
Were not the brightest,
Back before the Sox
Were good.
Now Red Sox nation's
Nation wide,
The Sox are always
In the mix,
After all,
To love a winner,
Isn't strenuous,
I guess.
But,
There was a time,
A half century,
Or so,
Ago,
When,
That legendary jewel,
It didn't seem so small,
At all,
To me,
A kid,
Of only ten.
She was a great,
And green colossus,
Astride Van Ness,
And Brookline Ave.
To get inside,
You'd need your Dad,
And once inside,
She was a mighty
Castle of concrete
And steel,
With boxes for the
Jimmy fund,
Everywhere the eye
Could see,
She was a dark
And dingy cavern,
***** too,
Not much to see,
But when you walked
Into the sunshine,
There was magic
Everywhere.
The famous sign
In center field,
"Hey Bosox, sock one here,"
And just the color of the grass,
That field was perfect,
Everywhere.
Back then
You could get a ticket,
Any time you wanted,
Just drive right up,
What section,
Please?
But now,
She's a celebrity,
She's all sold out,
The whole year through,
But those of us,
With memories,
Don't need a
Reservation,
For we all recall
The ghosts of Fenway Park.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
April is their month.
They've sat,
Patient,
Throughout the winter,
Those sturdy oval buds,
Sometimes cased in ice,
They don't seem
To mind.
Are they awaiting,
Tax time?
These jewels
Keep company with
Their pretty pink
Cousins,
The Redbud.
Why does the dogwood
Ask
For our attention
So?
Perhaps because it
Blooms so early,
When
There is so little else
To see.
Perhaps it is the legend that,
From the poor dogwood,
Came the wood,
From which was fashioned,
The true cross.
More likely it's just,
The timeless beauty,
Born-in beauty,
From long ago,
Needing no
Adornment,
And not a bit
Of pruning.
Touch it with a knife,
You'll invite disease.
Let it grow ***** nilly,
It will give you,
Perfect beauty,
On its own.
Wild,
It sits beneath
The forest cover,
Like a craggy,
Wasted twig,
Dwarfed,
By its bigger cousins.
And then,
Before any others,
That slim and subtle
Beauty
First appears,
As an
Exquisite miniature,
Creamy yellow flowers,
That open,
To bleach themselves white,
And show the
Blood red crosses
At their center.
They are
Gems,
That change,
Day by day,
So leave your camera
Home.
You cannot catch
Their beauty.
Instead,
Imprint the view
Upon your mind.
They'll be back
Next year,
More beautiful
Than ever.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC