I remember the night we made camp
There on the Sands outside Giza.
The desert air turned cool beneath the stars
As we coupled before the
jealous eyes of the Sphinx.

The Great Pyramid fairly shone
bathed in moonlight.
We thought we were being discreet,
That only the stars saw our pleasure
But the cold eyes of the sphinx saw us too
And she must have sworn a vendetta.

In the valley of the Kings
There was rumor of a tomb.
A tomb untouched by robbers’ hands
My love, Selene, and I
Would enter and there behold.
The face of a pharaoh, a boy,
rendered forever in gold.

There must be some rational reason
For the cough Selene developed soon after.
Like some delicate flower she wilted.
Some virus had strangled her laughter

We didn’t know then of the curse
How could we; we hadn’t been told.
My darling Selene would soon die
And I ,too,  would never grow old.

No assassin, perched way up high,
lies in wait for the limousine this time.
There’s no crazed job seeker at a fair.
No killer lurks near a rocking chair.

No gun or knife is needed this time;
Innuendo will do just fine.
History, like a poet, rhymes.
They seek to win your hearts and minds

No blood is spilled but oceans of ink
to mold the way that people think.
An accusation born out of envy.
As to actual proof- they haven't any.

He is a narcissistic man
with a massive ego-and such tiny hands
He is coarse, uncouth and, if truth be known,
He tweets too much and he sleeps alone.

He’s hounded daily by the Press
And Senator Franken won’t let it rest.
As our national economy sags under debt
All the Democrats can say is “Nyet”

Disrespected both abroad and at home
No POTUS since Nixon has been this alone
The result of this political assassination?
We are left with a badly divided nation.

They stood together for a photograph; Aunt Bessie and Irene.
One the aging matriarch, the other still a teen.
Irene’s hair was a fiery red well matched with eyes of blue.
Bessie’s days are numbered now, life’s journey nearly through..
Bessie’s one hand held her cane, the other Irene’s arm.
Irene was a vision, heading off to senior prom.
One has all her life before her, for the other just a past.
Irene looks much as Bessie did,  when Bessie was a lass.
I have seen old photographs, creased and Sepia toned
When Bessie was  Belle of the ball and stood beside some crone.

They found him, slumped over, in his small writer's garret.
There were no obvious signs of foul play.
No wounds, no abrasions or ligature marks
and just the faint hint of decay.

Later, laid out on a cold metal table,
No cause for his death could they find.
His arteries clean as twenty year old.
No detectable poisons this time.

He didn't do drugs and he didn't drink beer.
His death was not self-inflicted.
His muse had abandoned him; took his will to live.
His demise could thus be predicted.

For a poet will have himself tied to a mast
To hear the sweet song of a Si-ren.
The loss of one's muse is a serious blow;
Look what it did to Lord Byron!

And now, my weigh-ins near;
Weight watchers makes a big production.
I've cheated, had a few beers
then gotten quotes for liposuction

I've eaten way past full
and then had one more for the highway
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way!

Baguettes, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention
I love my salty snacks
but that's what gave me hypertension

I planned each 3 course meal
at greasy spoons along the highway
Ive gotten old
I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

Yes there were times when I was blue
Ice cream in quarts, I would go through
but through it all, despite the gout
I'd eat it in, or take it out
I ate it all, - and I'm not tall
don't diet my way

I've lunched, I've wined and dined
I've had my failed attempts at losing
but now my jeans just split
and it no longer seems amusing.

To think I ate it all
and may I say not in a shy way
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

For what is a meal without cake for desert
and JOGGING IS DANGEROUS - a guy could get hurt
I ate the foods I truly craved
and never once was fashion's slave
The weight-in shows, I need new clothes
don't diet my way!

The bar was nearly empty as the barman cleaned a glass.
This establishment is closing. Its glory days long passed.
The jukebox sat in silence; A regular nursed his beer.
Before too long they’ll put another drugstore chain in here.
My Uncle and my father both worked here and tended bar.
Its heyday was in the 50’s when the boys came home from war.
A friendly local tavern; an essential spot in life
Where you came to drink with buddies and escape your scolding wife.
This place of refugee now succumbs. We all know that its true.
Cold beers are in less demand when opioids get you through.
With the cost of the insurance, the wages and the rent,
It’s been run as a nonprofit for so long that all’s been spent.
The awnings lights extinguished. One last toast for old times’ sake.
Let there be tears of joy and sorrow; This is an Irish wake.

Saint Andrews cross on a Crimson field
was borne by Pickett’s men that  day.
When Union canister, like a scythe,
swept Proud Virginia’s men away.

A handful reached the “High water Mark”
Armistead was one of those who gained the Copse.
Their heroism was beyond question
But here the gray line broke and stopped.

Ordinary men in extraordinary times
are called to do extraordinary things.
Mortal flesh becomes translated
into legends that a Bard might sing.

I stand where Cushing’s battery stood
On that third day so long ago
Here Stars and Bars met Stars and Stripes
Flags fly forever; friends now, not foes.