O’ let us lay together love
when this World’s cares are past.
My Queen I have had locked away
She was treacherous to the last.
Accept this rose I’ve named for you,
A heirloom hybrid bloom.
I’ll have them carve its like in stone
Upon our honored tomb
So that, my Love, in years to come,
Our children’s children see
How I loved my Rosamund,
How much you’ve meant to me

In Atlanta Victoria is red faced, her secret a secret no more.
A shoplifter made off with her *******, merchandise worth an eye catching score.
How one shopper could nab all those garments- it simply beggars belief!
Her “Angels” will now go “commando” Unless someone fingers the thief.
The crook was observed on surveillance with stuffed shopping bags leaving the store.
She didn’t get Victoria’s miracle bras so police think she’ll come back for more.
This sort of heist has happened before, although, thankfully, it is still rare.
The shoplifter may be a black woman, but its certain that she has a pair.

As the Rose is the flower of flowers,
Exalted above all the rest,
Their color denoting desire
Which words alone cannot express.
Some shades are symbols of friendship.
Some others connote happiness.
Some buds are a byword for passion,
and the reddest of blooms says it best.
A first love is never forgotten-
unless you forget yourself first.
It lingers in mind like the taste of your lips.
It is either a blessing or curse.
We were little more than adolescents
That day we embraced by the shore.
Though the tides haven’t changed
It has been many years
And now I will see you no more.
My tears are my heart’s lamentations
For a Love that was too long repressed.
I place my red rose on your casket.
The reddest of blooms says it best.

First we heard the distant drone
of their oncoming planes.
We raced towards the shelters
but could not out run the flames.
A package of incendiaries
Freed from a Bomb bay door
Melted Martin Luther’s
bronze statue in the mall.
The city center is ablaze;
thousands maimed or dead.
This was our first night of fear
But they would come again.




Zuerst das ferne Dröhnen hören wir
ihrer entgegenkommenden Flugzeuge.
Wir rasten in Richtung der Unterstände
konnte aber nicht aufgebraucht, die Flammen.
Ein Paket von Brandstifter
Von einer Bombe Bucht Tür befreit
Geschmolzene Martin Luthers
Bronzestatue in der Mall.
Das Stadtzentrum ist in Brand;
Tausende verstümmelt oder tot.
Dies war unsere erste Nacht der Angst
Aber sie wiederkommen würden.

Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”

She was fished out of the river just beneath the mighty span.
Her clothes suggested affluence. Her death bespoke despair.
I sent two men to search the spot from whence she took to air.
Her dead face poses the challenge; can you find out who I am?

Her prints? Not in our database. No purse and no I.D.
She wrote no note that we can find before she took her leave.
Was this some broken love affair? Is there no one to grieve?
The witnesses to her leap are few and contradictory.

Her hair is blonde and shoulder length, neatly coiffed and trimmed.
I notice that she bit her nails, but never will again.
She should be off in college; a new beginning not an end.
The M.E. bags the body. Soon the autopsy will begin.

I look through missing person files, to match a face and name.
I dread the call I’ll have to make to drain some parents’ hope.
To lose a child by her own hand- how can a parent cope?
The tox screen shows no drugs present. I had thought the same.

Female Caucasian, about nineteen, no birth marks and no scars.
Our Janet Doe was pregnant. Was that motive for her leap?
Did her condition make her desperate for this forever sleep?
Surveillance footage yields a clue. To pursue I’ll need my car.

The Tap room reeks of Guinness; the night is near its end.
I show her picture to the barkeep- This girl was here tonight.
There’s a glint of recognition and new facts brought to light.
He doesn’t know her name, but he surely knows her Friends.

They are sitting at a table, looking somewhat worse for drink.
I get her name and address. She is “Janet Doe” no more.
Celene attended N.Y.U. she had been majoring in law.
I left them deeply grieving and not knowing what to think.

This morning I will make the call, the saddest one of all.
“Can you come in to identify the wreck of your hopes and dreams?”
“We think your daughter took her life, at least that’s how it seems.”
To hear her mother’s sobbing is the hardest thing of all.

For thirty years I’ve worked this beat, but today I cried.
I’m not inured to suffering or indifferent to pain.
I’ve seen the broken bodies and think it such a shame
whenever wingless angels try to fly.

These are not the flowers I thought I would be buying,
These are not roses for the girl I wed.
These flowers bear a message of condolence
Who knew I would be buying these instead?

The time was short from your first diagnosis
until the morning when you met your end.
Now comes the tears of selfishness and mourning;
the pain that comes with losing a true friend.

Februaries in New York are bleak
when winter lingers on without an end.
“It’s a great life if you never weaken.”
I recall that’s what you always said.

We stand on frozen ground at Calvary
after three days spent on folding chairs.
Each of us drop a flower of remembrance
as the Padre mutters solemn prayers.

You never had a child of your own body
or devoted spouse to mourn your final breath.
Your nieces and your nephews now surround you.
Of your generation now none are left.