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Love is a choice, not a feeling,
At least that Love which will endure.
Feelings are transient, really,
and feelings,  like sand, are unsure.
Love which endures will be patient,
Love works to improve every day.
Love is a choice, please remember this,
should the stars in her eyes fade away.
based on an article I read recently about marriage and divorce
The old black man had CA in his bones.
His pain by opiates barely concealed.
His nurses at the hospice were frankly amazed
that his proud heart, so far , refused to yield.

Within the lattice of his brain, he saw
his young self on the baseball field.
He'd been an all-star, twice MVP.
A threat to homer  or to steal.

Thad Tillotson was on the mound.
Paul Blair took his lead off second base.
His Orioles were the  leagues elite.
The once proud Yankees were in fifth place.

Frank Robinson stepped in the box
The distant black walls were his goal.
This time he did just enough
he drove a single through the hole.

As he reached first and Paul Blair scored
Reuben Amaro took Joe Pepitone's throw.
The first base coach ; a winged Seraphim,
welcomed Frank Robinson to the Show.
Frank Robinson winner of the triple crown and MVP in both the NL and AL died yesterday. He was a giant in the game, the first African American manager and he cast a giant shadow. He will be missed

The imaginary baseball action takes place in 1968 in old Yankee Stadium
Someone has cut off my hands, not that it caused any pain.
Look upon me, a proud man’s daughter, enjoy then what remains.
My eyes will stare into your soul. My lips bear the trace of smile.
My portrait has lent immortality to this woman who never had child..
I was both a wife and a lover, this painting was made for my swain,
But he had both a wife and a mistress. In Florence he couldn’t remain.
In me you will see light and darkness. Sadness is there in my eyes.
My family has made me an older man’s bride; my circumstance breeds my disguise.
Her portrait hangs in the national gallery in Washington D.C. Her portrait painter made quite the name for himself when, thirty years later, he gave us the Mona Lisa
It’s a sad, sad scene on a Saturday night;
a lady sits  at the bar with no lover  in sight.
Stirring her drink with the straw in their hand,
bemoaning the lack of a suitable man.
She’s long since been abandoned by her ”Mister Right”,
Now the magic never lasts for more than one night.
She’s a leftover lover on the wrong side of thirty.
Feeling sad for herself; not the least bit flirty.
She has a good job and a place here downtown
But a true mate and friend is nowhere to be found.
No one to go home to, except for her kitty,
A sad denouement for one once thought to be pretty.
“Either they’re momma’s boys or they’re ***”
She thinks of the “talent” she sees on display.
She knows all too well that, in a drink or two,
She’ll be stumbling home with Mister He’ll do.
Inspired by an article that posits that singles over the age of thirty are mostly damaged goods being picked over like items in a thrift store
A House divided cannot stand,
though we try to preserve it no one can.
Uncivil discourse leads to civil unrest.
Both sides dig their heels in
But no one is impressed.
I recall this all happened once before
when rancor escalated into civil war.
Six hundred thousand died by the end
and the weapons they used were inferior then.
What will the butcher’s bill cost us this time?
The hate of disunion-
It Approaches

It’s time.
A play on words about the State of the Union address which will not be delievered
Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.
During the government shutdown, a homeless Vet is maintaining the Vietnam War memorial known as the Wall- he's a one man volunteer force.
Sam Adams beer masters see there’s trouble brewing:
This governmental shutdown is nothing of their doing.
Still, their beer is piling up in barrels on the floor.
For without Federal approval beer cannot be sold, by law.
They crafted a delicious brew for bottles and for cans,
But, due to the political climate change, they must make other plans.
They’re stuck with vats of golden brew, the nectar of the gods
But this shutdowns ending no time soon, per the bookies who quote odds
To prevent their beers from going stale while the politicians clash
They’re paying the workers by the ounce in lieu of paying cash.
Beer is piling up in the warehouses of Samuel Adam's Boston beer company. Apparently the Federal government beer inspectors are on hiatus.

How do I get that job?
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