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they came
together to celebrate his life

how he made it this long,
he wondered; he saw them poking endless candles
into the white cake in front of him

behind him, his daughter
hand on his shoulder, insisting he have all ninety
instead of two fat wax digits "90" wedded,
a lone wick on top

ninety on June 6, 2016
he gave little thought to past birthdays
he forgot most, except one burned clear
in memory--his eighteenth, when
he landed on that beach

the sands and surf of his dreams for
three score and a dozen years since, eyes open,
or shut tight in deep sleep, he recalled that shore: someplace
between light and dark, between breath and air;
he saw the blood, he heard the cries,
he remembered his heart thumping

more than that he recalled jumping
over bodies on the beach, now beyond his reach
he could see only vague shapes of them--men
with whom he spent months sharing meals,
smokes and secrets

in all these long years,
he never understood why he received
not a scratch, while those only feet, even inches
from him were eviscerated

now, as ninety lightning years
flashed then flickered before him, he closed his eyes,
to ensure this waking dream was real

and those around him, singing, were not the angels
of death he eluded so long ago
so much to talk about. the news is all

debate this morning.



yet.



those words will not help folk in aleppo.



you who watched live, was it even



mentioned?



aleppo blasted.  ****** ******.



sbm.
Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.

I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.

I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.
 Sep 2016 David Patrick O'C
r
Tonight the fog settles
on the water reflecting

a dark mood, and the moon
is genuflecting to the blues

resting one knee on the cold
silent sea taking off his hat

as if to say *May I rise now
and take my leave and leave

you be, for tomorrow will
surely be a brighter day?
oh no, do not worry.



they do not cremate

people

until

they are dead.



sbm.
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