Three Klicks from the ruins we found him: face down.
Thirsty sand drank his blood which had darkened the ground.
He may once have been handsome, but now there’s no trace-
A large caliber slug exited through his face.
He had been an interpreter in the second Gulf war.
When the Americans left he was needed no more.
There were signs he’d been tortured; burns on his bare chest.
His arms tied behind him; that’s how he'd been left.
He’d been tortured and murdered to settle some score.
Only the dead see the end of this war.

In Brussels the announcement came
to add to their everlasting pain.
Sunday's "March against Fear" has been Postponed
and folks have been told to stay at home.
The reason for this I just learned;
they cancelled due to security concerns.

Let the curse be invoked, let ghosts gibber and moan!
It appears the Bard’s skull is out and on loan.
Although long protected by a malediction dread,
It turns out Shakespeare’s body is missing his head.
Some Victorian fans thought it quite the lark
to make off with his skull; a deed done in the dark.
Alas poor Shakespeare whose works I know well
Your skull now a paperweight where miscreants dwell.
Like Crassus the Roman, you serve as a prop
And your moldering bones are missing their top.
If Poor Yorick had heirs they are under suspicion;
Subject them to torture to obtain their confession.

Seated, secured, awaiting our ride;
Brave on the outside, frightened inside.
The old wooden coaster cranks and it creaks..
It lifts us towards heaven, pushed back in our seats.
The first drop, deceptive, elicits few cries
Then, at a gallop, we’re hurled down from the sky.
Over and under we’re shaken and stirred.
We regret having lunch but we don’t say a word.
I’m glad you’re beside me, my most faithful friend
The ride comes to a stop and we both say “Again!”

For its joys and terrors few rides can compete.
The Rye Dragon Coaster has seldom been beat.
Some are newer; some faster; if you wish you can try
Still, first Loves are special and must not be denied

Her face is the face of an angel, if angels, as such, there be.
Her hair is a crown of platinum gold and she sang her words softly to me.
Her eyes are twin pools of cerulean blue; her lips wear a pink coral hue.
She offered her hand; we embraced in a dance as timeless as Heaven must be.
To possess such a treasure you would sell all you owned, for she is the pearl of great price.
Her Love is a treasure that never will rust; I’ve no need for another’s advice.
My heart’s own desire I held in my arms; we embraced in a passionate kiss.
The power and glory of all the world else is as nothing compared to this.

“Clear the way, boys, clear the way” said Meagher astride his steed.
The fighting sixty- ninth stepped forth, they were not afraid to bleed.
Upon St Marye’s heights Cobb’s Georgians waited, behind a low stone wall.
The lads attacked that stout defense – how senseless was it all.
There were Irish too up on the hill and they saw the Emerald flag.
“Oh God, what a pity! Here come Meagher’s fellows” one Irish rebel said,
But all obeyed the order given; to fill the air with lead.
The sixty-ninth could not reply, they all carried antique stock.
Muskets are no match for rifles at the distance they attacked.
They climbed that rise into a storm of canister and shot
They got as close as 40 yards before their surge was stopped.
Sixteen hundred had started out from the little town below,
They took the fight as far as any of mortal flesh could go.
As darkness fell upon the field there were wounded men and dying.
Some muttered prayers in their foreign tongue, how pitiful their crying.
It was a dark December for the army Burnside led.
Fourteen assaults in all repulsed with eight Thousand Union dead.
With eighty percent casualties Meagher’s boys had it worst of all:
Fewer than three hundred  were left to answer the roll call.

Immediately the oyster felt it, a piece of grit, a source of pain.
The little creature could not expel it; every attempt was in vain.
How to endure this rank discomfort? How to bear it and survive?
The Oyster had but one solution, one thing left for it to try.
Each day the oyster’s own secretions coated that tiny piece of grit
And in the end, when all was done, the oyster made a pearl of it.

When, like me, you lose a parent while still young.
There is this pain you bear inside.
Each day it haunts your waking thoughts
However you might try to hide.
Day by day you seek to cope, though it seems helpless at the first.
A year or more might pass before you feel that you’ve survived the worst.

Time, like that oyster, seeks to heal; to encapsulate loss and regret;.
Tim to heal, Time to grieve, just accept you can’t forget.
So you keep your public face and show that bravely to the World
Until the lacuna in your soul, with Time’s mercy, becomes a pearl.