When I was young there were great songs played on the radio.
We had fine librettists then that made the lyrics flow.
Now their pens seem out of ink and when they stage a show
They only play the songs you know from forty years ago.
I guess being young and hungry is essential now as then;
But, being fat and happy, they cannot begin again.
Here and there I catch a tune I haven’t heard before.
But the business is disrupted and they’ve closed the Record Store
True, Adele lends her voice to grief, loss and depression.
Otherwise its Taylor Swift and her musical confessions.
The boomer bards grow silent and what does this portend?
I begin to wonder if I’ll ever hear their like again.

The season is a marathon and that one, more than most.
The travel was exhausting with two trips out to the coast.
Mickey was the favored son to wear Ruth’s home run Crown
But a ****** abscess in his thigh had taken Mantle down.

Roger Maris was exhausted if the truth were to be told.
He raced Ruth’s ghost all summer; now the air was turning cold.
With the **** down with an injury, the tension only grew,
as the calendar turned another page and at bats dwindled too.

No pitcher wished to be the one to yield that needed hit,
even if it would be marked down with an asterisk.
The count ran two and “OH’ with Barber in the catbird seat
Tracy Stallard toed the rubber as the catcher called for heat.

Some moments are forever, though, sadly, far too few.
Roger turned upon the ball; towards right field it flew.
It landed in the lower deck as Roger rounded third
It proved to be the winning run as the Yankees blanked the Birds.

I have the photo on my wall as Roger dropped the bat;
the consummate professional, no showboating or act.
He defined grace under pressure; he showed what must be done.

The shadows reach out towards the mound when you hit Sixty-One.

The Bells of Notre Dame called out “Come fill my Center Hall”
“Come Catholic, Muslim, Hindu and Jew; Come with no faith at all”
The Mothers of the Murdered came, united in their grief.
For bullets and I.E.D’s cannot sort us by belief.
One woman in a hijab had come here from Verdun.
Like the Protestant beside her, She had lost her only son.
Both were strangers to this place, Unfamiliar with the prayers
But, having no place else to go; They found some comfort there.
The Highborn and the famous came with those of low estate
Some came here to find peace of Soul; to put an end to hate.
Some sought shelter from the world; to find sanctuary.
But the figure on the Cross proclaims we all face Calvary.
We all face the same sentence; all perish in the end.
We know this evil must be stopped but know not how or when.
The Bells of Notre Dame call out
“Let us begin again.”

Il est VALIDATION dans la Ville des Lumières
Alors que le bilan de ces attaques sont évaluées.
Au ****, je l'entends encore sons rudes des sirènes
Comme notre corps d'ambulanciers est aux abois
Ils vont me hanter dans le sommeil, tous ces jeunes visages morts,
que je chasse ceux qui ont commis ces crimes.
Il est trois heures du matin et ma tête crie pour le café;
La caféine me aide quand je suis privé de sommeil.

La puanteur de -fer sang ne peut pas être échappé
Il est trempé dans les chaises à cushioned-
Je prends en bas de la déclaration de celui qui survived-
Ce soir, cette bonne fortune était rare.
Il fait le mort et a vécu, avec la mort tout autour,
dans ce théâtre de la mort et le désespoir.
"Ils ont massacré les otages, un à la fois,
leur but était de tuer tout le monde ".
"Ils ont assassiné mon amant, ils ont assassiné mon ami,
Je regardais mort, gisant dans leur sang trempé ".

Some say the opposite of Love is Hate;
That blazing hot antipathy is true Love’s stablemate.
Yet I cannot suppose that true for both Love and Hate
Give significance to the object of their passion or their scorn.
Thus they are more alike than we suppose;
In visage they are cousins, just wearing different robes.
No. Indifference is the opposite of Love.
Love warms Love’s object and holds it near and dear.
Indifference is an icy death that anyone would fear.
No touch , no glance, no loving words; This signifies Love is done.
Like a comet outward bound, banished by the Sun.
Banished from your light and warmth, I am become no one.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Our City teetered on collapse as pimps and prostitutes worked Times Square.
That long hot summer of Seventy five, ere Disneyfication happened there.
When fear ruled these streets and crime rode the subway trains.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Fun City’s last mayor had packed and left, the sad faced accountant now held the reins.
Along the Bowery vacant eyed drunks panhandled passersby for change
And squeegee men collected tolls on all the bridges.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Working and Middle class New Yorkers fled the mounting crime and social strain
Open enrollment disrupted schools as educational standards went down the drain
And FALN placed a bomb in Fraunces Tavern.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Then real estate sold for a song; there were so many vacant lots.
Fires up in the Bronx had consumed whole City blocks.
That year the Yankees played their games in Queens.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Gerald Ford told the City to drop dead when Beame went to him hat in hand.
Midnight cowboys plied their trade, strangers in a stranger land.
In Yonkers, a deranged young man was taking cues from a black dog.

Let Appraisers be consulted; Let the sages have their say-
Surely somebody can tell me the true value of one day.
I’m asking for the value of one spinning of this globe;
What’s the cash surrender value of the hours that unfold?
Is it worth its weight in sunshine, in deep breaths and loving glances;
This treasure trove of hours, all disguised as second chances?
The seconds are fine grains of gold; the minutes slip away,
Our memories the only store of value for one day.
We are like ruined millionaires, who, idle in our play,
were possessors of a fortune, but then ****** it all away.
I ask the value of one day; pleased don’t think me glib or clever,
But it appreciates tremendously –when you do not have forever.