I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.

It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.

I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.

On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
Surprised I was when it gave way
I entered in the Bursars room
and heard your voice just down the hall.

For sure, twas you.
I'd know that voice
if all the world should pass away
I made my way towards your voice
anticipating ecstasy.

A joyful union there awaits
to hold you once more in my arms
life beyond death to be united
with you so many years since gone.

I entered then into the room
in hopes that she I loved was there.
This was the place where we first met
a place where, sadly, none appeared.

A wistful smile, a final glance
from your poor poet of Romance.
too much a dreamer, most would say,
as I closed the door to yesterday

Its Mother’s day today and flowers, in their bright array,
are popular gifts to give to Mom on this her special day.
While they still thrive the air is sweet; redolent of both rain and Sun.
Eventually their beauty fades though a Mother’s beauty never does.
They are a small enough return for the gift of a Mother’s love.
They are symbol and remembrance too, for those whose Mothers rest in peace.
In their petals, soft like her cheek, lurk remembered fragrances
Stirring memories which make us weep

When I was a child of five I bought a flower for my mom.
It was a fragile little thing but I was glad that she seemed charmed.
The years of our shared lives flew fast, like decades of her rosary.
She is resting now beside my Dad; for now and all eternity.
Some photographs and books are all I have of what she left to me.
Imagine how I felt today when I found this in her breviary-
Pressed petals of that long dead rose; a cherished gift from her young son.
It made a grown man weep for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down.
My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound.
A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey.
I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground.
“******” I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound.

Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe.
He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow.
I served in France in Forty –one; before   these Russians were our foes.
I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes.
I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there
my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man.

My soul is black for I’ve done some things;
  for which I once would have been ashamed.
I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe
as I placed them in a common grave.

This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command.
He is clever, this one, he waits his chance.
Either its him or me that’s dammed.
The drifting snowflakes hide his breath.
But He’s still out there this I know.

My Captain lies still upon the earth
and is slowly covered by the snow.

We are soldiers who risk our lives.
We sacrifice for the Fatherland.
We dream of a woman and a warm bed
Never of Death’s cold clammy hand

My men cry out, the fox is flushed
The ****** has at last been found.

It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you;
I never even heard the sound.

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



Only leave me with the memory

Of the day we kissed goodbye

Perhaps not much for me to live on

But please forgive me if I try.



This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were doomed to fail eventually.



I am not a poet,

I can barely hold a tune

Still, I vividly remember

Lying breathless in your room.

  

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



So leave me with a memory

Of the day we said goodbye

Maybe someday I’ll stop loving you

But it will be the day I die.

The water had risen to just below the brim and
cracks were observed along the poured concrete rim.
For days now such troubling signs had appeared;
The Dam Keeper had expressed concerns, then been told not to fear.
The Chief engineer had come up and opined
that the mighty Dam’s walls would stand all tests of time.

Down there in the valley with the last of the light
The ranchers and their families bedded down for the night.
Their ignorance was bliss for no one foresaw
That flood waters obey an immutable law.

The Saint Francis Dam in the San Francisquito Valley
Was about to give way. There’d be no time to dally.
At three minutes to midnight came an unearthly sound;
Twelve Billion gallons of water knocked the dam down.

Bodies and boulders, stone structures and trees
Formed a wave of destruction that raced for the sea
A mighty Tsunami; a hundred feet high
All those in its way were those destined to die.

Man, in his hubris, seems always to feel
That he is the master to whom Nature must yield.
Yet, in reality, we are helpless and small;
Overcome by flood waters we are nothing at all.

Mulholland, the department head shouldered the blame.
Bravely I think- Who today would do the same?
The ruins of Saint Francis Dam still stand to remind us
That our works are ephemeral; Nature reclaims our dust.

Our land’s infrastructure is in need of repair.
We must not wait for more cracks to appear.
The innocent suffer if we fail to heed this call.
Its three minutes to midnight for us one and all.

Sickles' corps had broken; the Rebels had them on the run.
Hancock foresaw disaster; perhaps a worse one than Bull Run
How could he plug the gap in the line and rally men to stand?
"What Regiment is this? " he asked of Colville, in command.
The First Minnesota volunteers- they were sorely undermanned.


They were Lincoln's first volunteers, staunch Union men in Blue
Hancock ordered them to charge; a death sentence, they knew.
With bayonets fixed they made their charge outnumbered twelve to Two.

The Rebel regiments were shocked, disbelieving what they saw;
The company sized regiment who'd come through three years of war.
Canister ripped through their lines; there was no time to weep.
Five minutes Hancock needed; for that long their grief would keep.


This field knows many heroes; so many fought and bled.
But let us pause and honor these brave Minnesota dead.
They bought time for the General; the Union held the Ridge.
We might not have a country had they not done what they did.

This day is cold and dry, more March than April.
The wind, from the North, howls mean and low.
I'm here to pay my last respects
to a teacher I knew long ago.

He taught with a passion for all things French
I was an indifferent student though
We both loved music, he could really play
I wonder now what became of his piano.

The school where he taught and I attended
was taken over many years ago.
Of all my teachers very few remain
Even some alums have been laid low.

His soul has taken ship for that distant shore.
That distant borne where all are truly equal.
There, in the Democracy of death, they wait
in the hope of being featured in a sequel.


All are actors in this existential drama
each performing our own lines and parts.
Our curtain drop may meet with scant applause,
Love, Perhaps,from other aging hearts.