I have loved this time of year since the moment of my birth;
Its panoply of colored leaves that flutter down to earth.
I’ve loved the cool and bracing breeze, the fruits of harvest grown,
the sight of geese in Vee formation winging their way home.
My treks out to the cider mill for a warm mug or glass.
The times I’ve spent reflecting upon this year just passed.
I raise the collar of my coat against a sudden chill.
I feel cold winter’s icy breath drawing nearer still.
Please delay the Christmas tunes another week or two.
Oktoberfest is barely done, so sit and have a brew.
****** me not with chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Winter just means shoveling, the snow piled ever higher.
Its days: short, dark, and dreary. Its nights are long and cold.
So I mourn Autumn’s passing with its gifts of red and gold.

As darkness falls the shelling stopped and the Earth grew ever colder.
It’s taking far too long to die for one badly wounded soldier.
Abandoned by his comrades for the safety of their trench,
He’s dying out in no man’s land amidst the gore and stench,
too late for prayer, too late for Love Too late even for repentance.
He hears the cries for “Mother” from those under the same sentence.
With labored breath he, too, gives voice to the dark forbidding sky.
The last word from his dying lips is the simple question: “Why?”

This Queen Anne was built long ago,
in a progressive age.
The man who built her passed away
before ****** took the stage.
His aged granddaughter had it last.
until it was her time.
A conservator has sold the estate
to a builder with designs.

The house is a time capsule
of America before the Wars.
The craftsmanship exquisite;
You can’t find this anymore.
Generations lived and loved
within these sturdy walls.
But now this house is empty
and awaits the wrecking ball.

I’ve been asked by some historians
of our society in Queens.
To photograph this lovely home
before it passes from the scene.
They’ll build a row, with common brick,
of attached two families.
They’ll destroy this house without a trace
And cut down all the trees.
The plan is surely profitable
but, to my mind, obscene.

When we erase our treasured past,
Naught remains to call to mind
The greatness that we once possessed
and might reclaim in time.

Padded paws prance on the living room floor.
“Chip” sports a red bow and is playful for sure.
He greets his new mistress with a lick of his tongue
This chocolate Lab puppy can wait to have fun.
He’s a little Mischievous but nobody minds
-His arrivals been longed for a very long time.
Someone tell Uncle Robert to get down off his chair
Its only a puppy, there’s nothing to fear.

“I’ll see you later.” My Father said as they wheeled him off on the gurney.
“Good Luck, Pops.” my heart in my throat, as he went on his last journey.
He left us in that hot July, when the heat waves’ course had run.
I wandered in shock and disbelief like a world without a Sun.
For a long time after Pops had passed I struggled with depression.
Life went on for others; at least that was my impression.
Yet even in my darkest night I had my memories.
Sometimes, in the deepest sleep, Pops would return to me.
In his deep rich Irish Brogue he’d speak from beyond the vale.
My Memories of unconditional Love can never fade or pale.
To have been loved as we two loved; there is but one Love greater.
As I woke and rejoined the work-day world I whispered “I’ll see You Later.”

She paints her lips in earthy tones.
Her dress whispers seduction.
Her curves give promise of earthly bliss
while mine need liposuction.

A fleeting glimpse, all she allows,
must serve for inspiration.
The other ninety nine percent?
You guessed it- perspiration.

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed