Where were you in eighty two on some hot summer day?
We hear that you had had a few and were in the mood to play.
Where and when was this exactly? Your accuser can’t recall,
But we have to believe her so you have to take the fall.

The presumption of your innocence we will dispense with first.
Teen age boys are predators, they all suffer Adam’s curse.
She’s a female, therefore honest, believed as a matter of course.
Like the woman who accused the boys who played for Duke Lacrosse.

A woman three years older has emerged to add the charge
That you organized her gang **** and you should not remain at large.
Yet she kept attending  parties even after this occurred.
She drank the punch she saw you spike until her speech was slurred.

Brett Kavanagh your past is littered with beer cans, this is true.
The phrase “as sober as a Judge” must not apply to you.
In prep school and in college you were drunk out of your mind.
Is that why you were still a ****** at the age of thirty nine?

The waves, like a heartbeat,slap upon the shore.
The good clean smell of salt, sunlight warms my core.
With difficulty I kneel down before Pacific's roar.
I commit your ashes to the sea, to mingle evermore.

You always liked this stretch of beach; the dunes beneath the cliffs.
to feel the sun upon your face while sailing on our skiff.
You feared the coldness of the grave; a desolate destination.
You made me promise, long ago, that it would be cremation.

I cast you forth upon the waters glinting in sunlight
A much more peaceful denouement  than your final night.
Lord give her peace, free of all pain,adrift upon the sea.
The waves crash down upon the shore; the soundtrack of eternity.

The Russian master hunched over the board,distressed by what he saw.
This Fischer fellow had smoked his gambit  out,
and now he was contending with a fierce counterattack.
A stalemate would be preferable to  defeat and resignation.
It seems  that there was no way out from this unpalatable situation.
The endgame had commenced and the outcome seemed assured.
His last bishop the latest casualty in this miniature  of war

She attracted his attention on the bleak deserted street.
Her skit was short ,revealing; three inch heels upon her feet.
She reminded him of someone with her  long lush auburn hair.
Someone he'd killed and buried, but he'll never tell you where.

As she became aware of him, she quickened up her pace.
This was the part he'd always loved; the challenge of the chase.
He fingered the silk scarf he wore and would use as a garrotte.
He would steal the poor girl's breath away- unmourned and soon forgot.

As he closed within ten feet of her, his pulse began to race.
A migraine pounded in his head and blood rushed to his face.
He started seeing double, his body slumped down on the street.
His prey escaped his clutches; he acknowledged his defeat.

Behind a two way mirror the observers were ecstatic.
The implants in the killers brain had caused his pulse to go erratic.
Their  experiment was a success, the first one of its kind.
No need for bars and concrete when the prison is the mind.

It was wrapped in tissue paper, a simple golden ring.
It had belonged to my grand-aunt, it was a treasured thing.
She herself had bought it; that itself was extraordinary.
As was everything about that night and the man she was to marry.

Joseph Plunkett was condemned to die at dawn, that rebel with a cause.
The night before they two were wed in accordance with the Laws.
They never had a wedding feast; theirs was no bower of bliss.
Just a hurried ceremony sealed with a simple kiss.

In the chapel at Kilmainham jail, the two exchanged their vows,
knowing death would part them in a few short hours now.
Could you blame him if he held her tight in an extremity like this?
They put the meaning of their lives into a single kiss.

Grace stood outside the prison walls and heard the fatal shot.
The dear sweet man whom she so loved was gone but not forgot.
Grace lived on for many years in a faith that would not fail.
She knew her Love awaited her at the old Kilmainham jail.

Desire, must you trouble me?
For I am old and would be free
Of your base needs and idiocy.

Yes, she is beautiful and kind
with sculpted curves and laughing eyes.
Still, why should I be a fool, again, for love?
Surely I’ve left all that behind.

Ok, I yield, I see your need to live outweigh my need to die.
Like old Don Quixote, I mount my Rocinante
Shoulder my lance


And go tilting at windmills.

The young resent us oldsters, we seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.