Her blood alcohol level was point thirty three
when the trooper pulled over her car.
She had a flat tire and her speaking was slurred
As if she had just drunk a whole Bar.
She was over the limit and half in the bag
So they charged her with a D.U.I.
Yet her case got dismissed and the D.A. was miffed
When she proved she was naturally high.
In seems that some people who munch on French fries
Are host to yeast that is causing them grief, making sure that they never run dry.
For Stella’ own body was churning out brew thus explaining her bloodshot red eyes
(and her sad reputation as a cheap date as well as her poor taste in guys.)
Her babes that she nursed never fussed or complained
For her ******* they were naturally keen.
Kids back in High School all thought Stella was cool
(She was drunk off her *** as a teen.)
She now must watch carefully what she consumes
when she’s out for a night on the town.
She produces Grey Goose with her own gastric juice
So Pasta remains out of bounds.

It came in the mail the other day;
Another rejection! No big deal!.
I have lots of company;
Fellow poets know how I feel.

The dead poets’ society
is filled with those who have known fame.
We scribble in obscurity –
while every schoolkid knows their names.

Typing madly on our notebooks,
Those of us still in the game,
Are longing for some validation:
assurance that our work is not in vain.

Like a dog who’s been mistreated;
kicked to the curb and struck with a cane-
I snarl and snap from my safe corner
and hate the mailman much the same.

My eyes, unblinking, are raised towards the sky.
I’m just a man in an ordinary suit.
Thirteen stairs for me to climb,
Thirteen steps till I wear the noose.
I’ve been condemned for the crimes of others.
This is my sacrificial feast.
My emperor lives and reigns in splendor.
This war ends in a bitter peace.
My loving wife had predeceased me.
I am resigned now to my fate.
As the hemp rope chokes my life out
I hope, my Love, to see your face.
Thirteen steps, I must not trip.
A stumble here would be disgrace.
I face my death with calm and courage.
This day will bring no loss of face.
I was just a man in an ordinary suit
In the wrong seat, at the wrong time,
in the wrong place.

fifty years to the day since she walked down this aisle;
The aisle of this church where he stood with a smile.
The ***** swells now as the ***** swelled then
but the music is played now by a different hand.
The Saints and the angels; they still look the same.
They've been cleaned and restored, each one,frame by frame.

Her matron of honor this time can't attend.
She moved down to Florida when Sandy blew in
The best man back then was her brother in law
but he died in the desert in the first Iraq war.
As she moves to the altar, her grown son has her arm
He is tall like her Father was, but Dad is long gone.

Her love waits at the Altar, dressed in his best clothes
in a bronze colored casket, in eternal repose.
On this anniversary of the day they were wed
this day she will hear a requiem instead.
Then later, instead of the bouquet, she knows
she's going to be tossing a single red rose.

What images swirl through the dying mind
of a man who’s been peppered with shot?
Does life pass in review, as some have claimed true?
Is he judged and found wanting? Then what?


Or does he embrace and take leave of this place
as life’s’ blood empties out of his veins.
Is the thought of her face the one instance of Grace
When only a moment remains.

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

Holy Child Parish had seen better days
in the century recently closed.
The passage of time and societal change
had emptied out each wooden row.
The caretaker moved, a little bit slow;
The empty church echoed each step.
There! From the manger; a weak little cry:
A sound he would not soon forget.
A babe in the manager, a live baby boy;
A towel was his swaddling clothes.
His mother had left him, believing him safe.
Safe as anyplace else she supposed.
The school nurse was sent for, to care for the child
who was otherwise healthy, just cold.
Parishioners called him a miracle baby;
found asleep in the crib of the Lord.
The Press soon descended, the media Magi,
to give homage like Pilgrims of old.
On tape and in print the good news went out.
The story was told and retold




It made people smile, for the times now are grim
and good news has been in short supply.
They’ve named the boy John, for the prophet of old;
In the wilderness hear one voice cry.