Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.

To keep the patient comfortable was all now I could do.
The diagnosis was terminal and he obviously knew.
I was with him through his surgery that was thelast gasp chance,
and now he looked death in the face with an unflinching glance.

He said “Dear, if you’ll humor me and if there’s any chance,
There are three things on my bucket list before I leave this dance.”
“I’m craving one last cigarette; perhaps a glass of wine;.
“and, If you can arrange it, to see the Sun a final time.”

On the top floor of this hospital there’s an open balcony.
I grubbed a cigarette for him out of sympathy.
I could not get a cabernet; he’d settle for Chablis.
I got him on a gurney and called for an orderly.

That afternoon was splendid and Fall was in the air.
The Sun was setting in the West as he watched it from his chair.
The patient puffed his Marlboro and blew smoke rings for me
He didn’t give me too much grief for my choice of Chablis.

“They say the Lord on Calvary was thirsty for a drink,
A sponge soaking in vinegar they offered Him, I think.”
“So who am I to criticize my nurse’s choice of wine;
Its chilled and it is drinkable so it will serve me fine.”

By evening he was comatose; his pulse was weak and fast
His children said there last goodbyes; grateful for the chance.
They’d arranged it with the Doctors; DNR was on his slip.
I sat and held the old man’s hand as the good god, Morphine, dripped.

I knew a man, who had "no name:,
Neznamy he was called.
Though He had his father’s looks and charm
The two had never met at all.
Personable and engaging, Pleasant Company;
I think I learned an awful lot from the man called Neznamy.
I remember once he got laid off from the telephone company.
I remember thinking I’d be crushed if that happened to me
Neznamy was an optimist and the epitome of calm.
Misfortune to any other man was no cause for alarm,
He was sure there soon would come new opportunity.
I asked how he remained so calm amidst uncertainty.
I still recall his brief reply; its perfect clarity:

“ I don’t believe the work I do defines the worth of me.”

The thing about losing one’s mind Is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
No, the loss is a creeping gradual thing, never occurring in a *****.
It starts with some forgotten names; some dear, some famous but, to you, not.
Next you’re at a loss for words you’ve often used but now cannot.
You find yourself on an oft trod trail which suddenly is strange and new.
Its getting dark, its growing cold and the police have to be sent for you.
There is a fear that chills the soul that only knows that it knows not.
Hanging on that precipice fearing you will be forgot
Yet when that last forgetting comes your fear will be forgotten too.
And you’ll greet Death like an old friend whose name will surely come to you.
.

My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a  City of the dammed.

How proud King Carlos must have been
as the Armada fleet set sail
He could not know that those brave men
would drown, and the invasion fail.

Charles Stuart thought his word was law
and swore the Puritans would feel regret.
Charles, who was  already short,
would wind up getting shorter yet.


Consider, too,the Bourbon King;
who married Marie Antoinette;
The guillotine loves royal blood too.
The Deluge came and he got wet.

Banksters lusting for their bonus
who really ought to be in jail
made us make good all their losses
because they were too big to fail.

Our nation teeters at the top
of a twenty trillion dollar debt
If interest rates creep too much higher
I think you know what happens next.

Since she was young she had dreamed of the day
When she would be dressed in white lace
With a bouquet of roses held in her gloved hands
and the sheerest of veils on her face.

You know how time flies
In this work a day world
In business she was a success.
The men in her life seemed mere boys, nothing serious,-
Then she noticed a lump on her breast.

A dread diagnosis, a virulent Cancer,
This surgeon said terminal C.
She had little time left for romantic love
She thought that her dream could not be.

Her friend, a photographer, encouraged her then
to put on her loveliest dress.
She posed for her close-ups
In a flower decked chapel
And they say even Death was impressed

Every young woman possesses a beauty
No matter their complexion or size.
In this difficult life they are angels among us;
Truth and Beauty reside in their eyes.