It was a time of slush, snow and icy precipitate
when you and I first ventured out on what may be called a date.
A group of us went bowling, then repaired to the local bar.
Later you dispelled the chill as we snuggled in my car.
It's true that ice was on the ground and it was getting late.
I fell for you, you felt it too. It is a blissful state.
True, it was not a "forever" love; such is granted to but few.
We had love for a brief season in a time of cold and flu.

To prosper is not merely to accumulate more things.
It is more properly understood as the wisdom suffering brings.
A long life is a blessing to those who use each day
To perfect their love of others for we are brothers in a way.
Spock traveled the known quadrant in search of other worlds like ours;
planets at a proper distance from an ordinary star.
Mister Spock now rests in peace, it is logical he would say
That the old yield place to the young, for that is nature’s way.
Still I could wish he’d linger longer in this world of ours
He who first taught me to look up in wonder at the stars.

Too young! Well, yes, isn’t that the way
It seems to us when we hear a friend is gone.
The scythe swept close yet we ourselves remain
to drink our coffee and put on mourning clothes.
We’ll gather in a place we loathe to go.
We will see familiar faces in those folding chairs.
We’ll kneel before a casket made of bronze
And offer an inadequate childhood prayer.
In time, we all come to terms with our grief.
Experience has taught us nature’s way-
Our memories are like sand the tides subsume.
Not gone, exactly, submerged, hid from the light.
to surface like a dream in the dead of night.
Our friend was our companion on this journey,
Good company, a source of strength and humor.
Our paths diverged in a dark stretch of woods.
Our friend has reached the destination sooner.

The Point of no Return



From a thousand applications, they selected just us few.
The launch window fast approaching, this seemed like a dream come true.
First they launched an orbiter, our link to Earth, our mother,
Then Robots built the base camp, I’ll be sharing with three others.
We face a lengthy trip through Space; I hope someone brings cards,
confined within a shielded space, fighting boredom and the odds.
Solar panels give us light, hydroponics food to eat
Where the drinking water is coming from I prefer not to think.
This is a one way mission, there’s no plan to bring us back.
Just new colonists now and then to bring us all we lack.
I’d hoped to have three girls along that I could judge like Paris.
Instead I’m with two lesbians and a hairy guy named Boris!

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

That day was brutally hot, and the cannon incessantly roared
It was the twenty eighth of June in the third year of the war.
Mary Hays was with her soldier, John, as he fought against the King.
Men would call out “Molly Pitcher” and she brought water from a spring.

The action began badly; Cornwallis pushing back Charles Lee.
Who’d have bet a continental that this would be a victory?
Then Washington brought up fresh troops and held Cornwallis back
Rebel cannon from Hays’ battery stalled Cornwallis’ attack.

John Hays , at his cannon, had succumbed to wounds and heat.
But his gun must not go silent or we would go down to defeat.
That was when Mary Hays decided she would take her husband’s place.
She ran to serve his cannon and kept up the firing pace.
She narrowly avoided death when the Redcoats returned fire
But bravely stood her ground and fought, and a legend was inspired.

Mary Hays survived the war and lived a ripe old age.
She was honored for her service and a State pension was paid.
That day at Monmouth Court House, we proved we could stand and fight.
The British army left the field in the darkness of that night.

My parents passed away last spring. Two weeks apart, it was hard to bear.
She was a cellist, he played violin. Their instruments were old and rare.
Growing up, I’d hear them practice. For practice is the only way
to make effort appear effortless in the first chairs on concert day.
Our house resounded with their music. As I grew, I’d also play.
Our family spoke with strings, not voices.
Then there was silence, when they passed away.

Her Cello was made by Testore; His violin was by Lupot,
both treasures of the Luthier’s art.
I wept to see them gathering dust.
Mute witnesses as Death played his part.

It’s hard for artists nowadays to afford such quality.
hard, as well, for me to sell, to send their instruments away
A friend suggested a better way; to keep my loved ones’ legacy
My colleagues play with them on loan; their borrowed voices speak to me.