How can beauty
Be so fleeting?
Her petals begin
To fall,
Drifting in
The wind,
Before the last
Has even bloomed.
Perhaps she wish'd
She might have been,
Fully dressed.

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.

Bear hunting is done,
Silence reigns in the mountains,
Case that three-oh-eight.

Snow meanders down,
Winter smiles in its late bloom,
Our first white blanket.

The catamount,
It does appear,
From our fair commonwealth
Has disappeared,
It's just as gone
As gone can be.
Just as the state
Environment folk,
They'll tell you
It's extinct in our fair land.
As is the Nittany Lion,
From its home
Of Pennsylvania.
They say the only Nittany Lion left
Is frozen in perpetual leap
Outside the Penn State football field.
And as a proof,
Her moaning call
Is heard no more
Throughout the Pennsylvania mounts.
We've slain those big cats
One and all
From the Allegheny
To the Blue Ridge.
So when a giant cat
Stretched herself full out
Before our car
Just to cross the street
At the time of her desire,
Not one moment sooner,
Nor one moment later,
We might have almost hit a ghost
But she didn't stick around
To tell us who she was.
The great cat speaks not,
But goes about her business,
If she's there,
And if she's not,
What the heck was that
That crossed the road?

(No, I'm not apologizing to Thomas Hardy)

The more he thought of it
The more it seemed,
He shouldn't even be here,
Sitting in a chair,
Beside a lamp,
Enjoying food
That tasted
Nearly home cooked,
Well,
Eating it,
If not enjoying it,
Musing on his last encounter
Ever
With fear.
Why am I  here?
Why is he not?
He wasn't old enough
To shave,
Was he?
Had time and opportunity
Been different by a bit,
It might be me,
Cold and forgotten
In a pool of blood,
Never hearing that
My son had walked,
And he'd have been back home
With his Mom,
Safe and snug,
All ready to **** again.
Perhaps that boy
Was old enough to shave,
After all.

Let us render clear,
The vital items
Of our lives,
Not the things of pleasure,
But those things without which
We may find ourselves expired,
Or at least severe impaired,
Beyond
Those things that are
The sustenance of life,
There is a list that can be made,
Food,
Water,
Air,
The last is mostly critical for its
Oxygen,
What if we were to lose
An equally critical component,
The oxygen of our life,
Not the O2,
That mixes with the nitrogen
We breathe,
But that very something that
Sustains our soul,
That very life line
That many of us must have.
True,
Some are more tightly
Interwoven with it than others,
For some it is
Like unto the umbilical cord,
As critical as that to which we cleaved
Within the womb,
Without it we wither.
What is it?
For some it is a place,
For some a drug,
For others
A person,
For all,
A vital element,
Defined only by us
As individuals - involuntarily,
The level of criticality unknown,
Until it is lost,
Whereby we are,
Perhaps for the first time,
Truly working without a net,
Or a sense of direction,
And we begin slow suffocation,
Not of the lungs,
But of a different kind,
A drowning of the mind and soul,
For,
Without that special oxygen,
Whatever,
Or whoever it may be,
That beacon,
Like unto a horizon reference,
We are slowly,
But surely,
Unmade.

On we drone,
Another day,
Another death,
We fly on high,
All day,
All night,
We never tire.
We've got the time,
Until we fire,
And we're assured,
It's not a crime.
It's more or less
A righteous act,
Our work,
That is.
We're told in fact,
That when we ****,
It's been approved,
Approved on high,
It couldn't be a
A crime of war.
Death comes right from
A **** List,
Like a – Fatwa,
If you will.
And should you happen
In the way,
It was just your time,
Not a crime,
Just your time.

Comes the time
When work must end,
When games expire,
And the boundaries
Of social *******
Are set firm,
When shades are drawn,
Our heads can no longer
Remain upright,
We can at last retire
From all the sad
And unfulfilled
Anticipation of the day,
***** out the light,
At last be in
Firm equilibrium
With nature,
And lie alone,
In the ether,
With our thoughts unseen,
And there commune
With death,
Fence with sadness,
Joust with heartache,
Lay upon
That silent field of play,
All that we dare not
Set forth in daily life,
Hoping that before the dawn,
We may divest ourselves,
Of all the cares,
Impossible to take back
To the light.
For if we fail,
We'll carry this great burden
Back to the light,
The truth is that,
The darker forces,
Aren't beholden to us,
It's us beholden rather
To them,
And so they are to be
Respected,
Kept at arms length,
In the dark,
Not permitted out,
Lest our demons
Cross that boundary,
Where their presence
Will engender,
Fear and loathing,
Take control,
And drag us into
Endless grief.
And so,
It's in the dark,
Upon that silent,
Sightless grid,
We struggle with
Our demons,
Each and every one,
And never cry for help,
Lest we be forced to share
Our darkest parts with others.

If you could train a train,
To travel at the speed of light,
Would it not arrive,
Before
It had even left?
It would put
The passengers,
Into an awful fright,
They wouldn't want,
To ride the rails
For another night  :)

We occupied The Willard,
Yes we did,
So over the top,
We might have fed Djibouti
For a week.
The guest of honor
Deserved it,
But,
We might have fed
Somalia
For a month,
Don't get me wrong,
If you've got it,
You deserve it,
But,
Give it away,
And it becomes
More valuable,
Try it,
It tastes better.

Red sky at dusk
A beauty sublime,
Rests on our mountains
For moments in time,
Gone all too soon,
Close your eyes,
Imagine the clouds,
Hanging like blood,
Before your eyes.

We all looked for peace,
But peace was never where we were,
Peace was at home,
Better there
Than where we were,
Funny how
The fellows with the least use
For a peace
Were those who'd never put
The uniform on,
A golden bunch of
Chicken hawks,
Too smart,
And too important,
To risk their lives,
They oughta send their daughters,
Said
A man of few words,
Him with only half a face,
Well,
We didn't join
For the money,
Did we?
Can there really be peace,
In the place we left
To go to war?
I thank God my son is
Back there,
I'll ask him,
When I see him,
Next.

Their lives left us,
Not in their own time,
But in a storm
Of others' choosing,
A storm that left a stain,
But not a trace of them.
When we mourn them,
We might wonder
Who their children
Might have been.
Do not pray for them,
Pray for remembrance
Of the deed,
Forgiveness is not
Ours to give,
Let the dead speak,
If they wish.