They invade us from our hospitals,
They come in ones or twos.
They’re cute but they’re unruly,
a most uncivilized crew.
They speak no human language
Yet demand that they be fed.
Their pitiful screams at 2 A.M.
Leave their parents feeling dead.
They need to be taught manners;
To say “Thank You” and “Please”.
We need them to be immunized
against childhood disease.
In time they’ll become civilized;
Young Ladies and Gentlemen.
Until that time they must be confined
In their strollers and playpens.

We cannot, must not, judge your act.
We didn’t share your pain.
You’ve left this life on your own terms-
How many wish the same?
We weep for that which might have been;
a happy heart and home.
When that proved to be impossible,
the choice was yours alone.
For those of us who linger here
In doubt and groundless fears,
We respect your heart’s decision
and the life within your years.

  
    x

In the shadow of Ben Bulben
off the road from Mullaghmore
in the parish yard of Drumcliffe
you will find me there for sure.
It is a fair spot where I lie
Here in my native loam.
This was my heart’s desire
This was my mother’s family home.
How beautiful is Sligo
that I nevermore will see.
I’ve now become a part of that
which was a part of me.

Most days of the year a visit here
would involve a rinse blow and trim,
but on Halloween it’s a whole different scene
As the Queens of the night wander in.
Our regular staff has this day off-
It helps keep their heads in the zone.
To help “Jason” and “Freddie” get themselves ready
We’ve beauticians from good funeral homes,
If you wish to appear as a zombie or Ghoul
These girls will help get your “Freak “on
By the time you stagger up out of your chair
You’ll look like you’re long dead and gone.
With a wicked gleam they will paint your *** green-
You may fear it won’t ever come off.
Some bolts on your neck and, oh what the heck,
You can tell folks you’re Boris Karloff.
If a ghost is your quest you will be most impressed
You will look just like Lizzie the Queen
It’s quite the parade as they head out our door
To march in the West village scene.
“You look Boo-tiful dears”, I say to all here
As we all celebrate Halloween.



    x

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

Two college students, strangers really,
locked eyes across a crowded room.
She was there with someone else
But he knew it was meant to be.

Another place, another time,
The two met while on line at school.
The stopped for coffees, exchanged shy glances,
And knew that it was meant to be,

They shared their Love, they built a life,
They earned honors and degrees.
They had a home and three fine children.
They knew that it was meant to be.

He came back to their darkened house,
sitting Shiva with dark despair.
He drowns in words that fail to comfort.
He knew this too was meant to be.

Hands joined around the table on the roof of the hotel.
Ten years ago this night he passed on to where spirits dwell.
A single candle, burning bright, illuminates our band.
Will Houdini deign to appear to any mortal man?
There is a whisper on the wind, how ill the taper burns.
Is it Harry come back from the dead to tell us what he’s learned?
Bess Houdini called his name and kissed his photograph.
Alas the chains of death are strong and hold her hero fast.
She, at length, blows the candle out and bids us to disband.
She said “Ten years is long enough to wait for any man!”