She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair.
Her prized violin was in its case by her side.
She was just come from her Julliard audition,
with the world on a string in her talented hands.

Richard Rojas was high as a kite, his blood on fire with ***
His Honda Accord he drove into a crowd.
The voices in his head made him do the deed
There were curses and screams, then weeping.

A lovely young tourist lay dead on the street.
Several others, severely injured, might never rise again.
The beautiful violinist was thought one of the lucky ones;
Her left hand merely mangled, her violin shattered in its case.

Richard Rojas was quickly apprehended.
He’ll go on trial for this thing he’s done.
Parents weep for the dead and injured,
And feel their souls dead in New York.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair
Her prized violin, which she would never play again,
left  in splinters on a street in New York,
in the gutter where her dreams lay shattered.

On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.

His sin sits heavy on his soul, an illicit lust the source of shame.
He’s registered offender now with no means to redeem his name.
Now as he walks the streets of town he studiously avoids all eyes;
those harsh accusing glances from the men and women passing by.
His work is menial and part time. He often moves from place to place.
He had once been a Catholic priest before he fell into disgrace.
I’ve seen him waiting there outside; his collar turned against the cold.
I’d often wondered what had caused his blue grey eyes to look so old.
People whisper; women talk.  A yellowed newspaper explains.
Invisible to all but him; his forehead bears the mark of Cain.


Some say the past does not exist. We cannot go there. It can’t be changed.
What would he say, I wonder, if he were asked?
He, whose life is burdened with regrets.
Does he still pray to the Carpenter’s Son,
whose sacrifice repays all debts?

It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.

The time machine, itself, was old,
compact, yet seemingly vast.
It prepared now for the journey
The traveler thought would be his last.

Like a ghost in the machine
Lights glimmered, dimmed, then flared.
The time traveler breathed deeply,
nodded that he was prepared.

Back in his distant past he roamed,
back, to his childhood home.
A vanished place now only seen
in creased photos with sepia tones.

But no, the sky a remembered blue,
The white clapboarded home
The lawn, a rich lush emerald hue
and he was not alone.

For at the door his mother stood
as she was in her prime.
To see her once again was worth
all the world and time.

She beckoned him to join her
and she hugged her welcomed guest.
The traveler whispered “Mother”.
as so many have said at their last.

Back in the sterile I.C.U.
There were no vital signs.
The traveler had a D.N.R.
The nurse noted the time.

The bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'd understand.

I'll never hear his voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

You cannot see my wings and my true visage would cause sorrow;
In my hands I hold the key that would destroy all your tomorrows.
I stand nearby the President; I’m at his beck and call.
In Life I’m a nonentity, in Death, the Lord of all.
Some think of me as “friend”; my existence your protection.
In Truth I’m just the agent of your mutual destruction.
I am but one of many who carry this dread weight;
the codes for Armageddon that may spell your planet’s fate.
As I keep my silent vigil, the clock ticks towards midnight.
Ignorance and arrogance define your awful plight
I am the fearful Seraphim at the gate of Paradise;
That place from which you were expelled and cannot enter twice.