They found her, blue and lifeless, a red scarf around her neck.
She was , in life, a designer; head and shoulders above the rest.
Women loved all her creations; her faultless sense of style.
Her Life seemed charmed and perfect, at least for a little while.

She tied the scarf around her throat when she decided it was time.
Medication for depression may have placed these thoughts in mind.
Her vision blurred, her heart beat raced until it came full stop.
Her housekeeper found the body- the poor woman's still in shock.

The police came to investigate and photograph the scene.
In death there is no dignity, the process is obscene.
They found the note, devoid of hope, that Kate had left behind.
People who know nothing spoke about her state of mind.

Her estranged spouse sits in silence with the little girl she left.
He struggles to make sense of it. He's sad, perhaps depressed.
He wonders what to do with the red scarf in which she died.
It is a hated, despised thing, this accessory to suicide.

All men are created equal, if we take Thomas at his word.
Yet we all have different talents, at least that’s what I’ve observed.
Some are smarter, some are faster, some are foolish, others wise.
Yet we are all worth many sparrows in our Creator’s eyes.
I have witnessed great performances involving winds and strings,
Although I too love music there’s a mystery to those things.
I love to watch ice dancing; to view artisans on ice.
Yet when I’ve strapped my own skates on I‘ve fallen once ( or twice).
I love the game of baseball; it’s by far my favorite game
But once more the draft is over and they didn’t call my name.
It is good that we’re unequal; that only few can pass the test,
But let not that excuse anyone from trying for their best.

The last few customers looked, but bought nothing.
At this rate I can’t pay the rent on this place.
It’s Time to turn out the lights, maybe give up my dream.
Sales are only at half last year’s pace.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They stare at their cellphones.
They chill with Netflix

If I lose the store what will become of my treasures?
These are magical portals to all time and space.
The words of the Prophets the poets and dreamers
will wind up in a dumpster, their memory effaced.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They drink Mocha lattes
They live for WIFI

Today I received in the mail the dread notice.
I will be evicted; the Marshall will come.
Shakespeare and Freud will be tossed to the gutter.
The tribe of the verb is forever undone.

He only lives three hours at a time,
most often in a dark and crowded room.
He is haunted by a sense of deja-vue-,
As if he knows he’s racing towards his doom.
He rests, between incarnations, like the rest
in dots of ink upon a printed page.
Three hours at a time he lives, not more,
within the walls of Castle Elsinore.
If only like a crab he could go backwards
Perhaps Polonius could evade the tomb
But, no, alas, its all predestination;
A poisoned foil will lead him to damnation.

We will live and die and be forgotten;
That is the fate of all us common clay.
But Prince Hamlet with outlive this generation;
He lives in every moment of his play.

Il faisait froid pour début juin; une pause entre deux tempêtes.
Le surf -rough, l'eau froide, mais la réception serait chaude.
Notre bateau de Higgins a fait une vitesse constante nous emmenant au rivage.
Pour certains, c'était le jour le plus long, pour beaucoup d'autres le dernier jour.

La scène qui nous attendait était surréaliste; une boue comme le pire.
Les Allemands ont occupé les corpsmen s'ils ne les ont pas d'abord tués.
La pluie de plomb était constante pendant que nous nous sommes battus vers la rive.
Notre peloton a été décimé. beaucoup ont vu la fin de la guerre.

Il y avait des actes d'héroïsme. Nos dirigeants ont prouvé leur valeur.
Nous avons pris le mur de l'Atlantique de ******; pensée imprenable au premier abord.
J'ai regardé depuis le haut bluff à l'Armada grise juste au large de la côte.
J'ai perdu une bande de copains aujourd'hui, mais nous allons même marquer des points.

Nous sommes une bande de frères campés au-dessus de cette rive normande.
Je ne dirai jamais à mes parents les horreurs que j'ai vues.
L'air pue la sueur et le fer, et la puanteur de la cordite des rondes passées.
Les aumôniers recueillent les étiquettes de chien des formes immobiles sur le sol.

It was cold for early June; a pause between two storms.
The surf –rough, the water-cold, but the reception would be warm.
Our Higgins boat made steady speed taking us to shore.
For some it was the Longest Day, for many others the last they saw.

The scene awaiting us was surreal; a muck up like the worst.
The Germans kept the corpsmen busy- if they didn’t **** them first.
The leaden rain was constant as we struggled towards the shore.
Our platoon was decimated; many saw the end of war.

There were acts of heroism. Our leaders proved their worth.
We took ******’s Atlantic wall; thought impregnable at first.
I looked from the high bluff at the grey Armada just off shore.
I lost a bunch of pals today, but we’ll even the score.

We are a band of brothers encamped above this Norman shore.
I will never tell my parents of the horrors that I saw.
The air stinks of sweat and iron, and the stench of cordite from spent rounds.
The chaplains collect the dog tags from the still forms on the ground.

Saint Hilary's day, the coldest of our year,
when snow and ice enshrouded London town,
was the day the Prince of Poets died.

His home in Ireland had been pillaged and torched.
His wife and young son murdered that same day.
The Irish were hot for English blood;
some said the O'Neil accepted Spanish pay.

He was not young, yet not particularly old,
when death arrived to place him under arrest.
His hostess found him lying on the ground.
His body cold; no sign of pulse nor breath.

His friend, the Earl of Essex, had decreed
The Prince of Poets be mourned by all his kind.
Edmund Spencer beside Chaucer would lie down.
and be eulogized by poets of renown.


Ben Jonson came ; the young John Donne as well.
Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman and sweet Will,
followed his hearse, then bore him to his tomb.

There in the nave, the poets did him homage.
Reciting there their hastily written lines.
Each man than dropped his poem into the grave
Each poet's pen dropped in the grave besides.