It’s a sad, sad scene on a Saturday night;
a lady sits  at the bar with no lover  in sight.
Stirring her drink with the straw in their hand,
bemoaning the lack of a suitable man.
She’s long since been abandoned by her ”Mister Right”,
Now the magic never lasts for more than one night.
She’s a leftover lover on the wrong side of thirty.
Feeling sad for herself; not the least bit flirty.
She has a good job and a place here downtown
But a true mate and friend is nowhere to be found.
No one to go home to, except for her kitty,
A sad denouement for one once thought to be pretty.
“Either they’re momma’s boys or they’re gay”
She thinks of the “talent” she sees on display.
She knows all too well that, in a drink or two,
She’ll be stumbling home with Mister He’ll do.

A House divided cannot stand,
though we try to preserve it no one can.
Uncivil discourse leads to civil unrest.
Both sides dig their heels in
But no one is impressed.
I recall this all happened once before
when rancor escalated into civil war.
Six hundred thousand died by the end
and the weapons they used were inferior then.
What will the butcher’s bill cost us this time?
The hate of disunion-
It Approaches

It’s time.

Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.

Sam Adams beer masters see there’s trouble brewing:
This governmental shutdown is nothing of their doing.
Still, their beer is piling up in barrels on the floor.
For without Federal approval beer cannot be sold, by law.
They crafted a delicious brew for bottles and for cans,
But, due to the political climate change, they must make other plans.
They’re stuck with vats of golden brew, the nectar of the gods
But this shutdowns ending no time soon, per the bookies who quote odds
To prevent their beers from going stale while the politicians clash
They’re paying the workers by the ounce in lieu of paying cash.

It was tough to be dumped by Lucille.
Ruby left when I was down on my luck,
but this? This I never suspected-
I’ve been left by my self- driving truck.

They had a good laugh at the Dealer
where I went to complain of my fate.
They said I forgot where I parked you.
But I’m sure that you drove out of State

I thought that a Ford was dependable.
Now I am stranded and stuck.
My F-150 ran off with my G.P.S.
I’ve been left by my self -driving Truck.

I’ve survived the blues caused by women,
who said my love wasn’t enough-
But, dogoneit!! - I’m still making payments
I’ve been left by my self-driving truck.

I awakened to a horror in which I couldn’t feel my feet.
In traction, in a hospital room, I drifted in and out of sleep.
I’d retain some feeling in my hands, yes, my fingers moved.
So I’d be a paraplegic if my condition won’t improve.

I can’t recall the accident.  Some call me fortunate.
Yes, I survived the crash; but I wouldn’t choose this fate.
For some weeks I was in a coma. The other driver’s dead.
Some days found me wishing that he was here instead.

They say I’ll never walk again. I’ll be sentenced to this chair.
I fight for my independence; the only remedy for despair.
I must cultivate new interests; I’ll no longer run and play.
Fate has cast long shadows upon the middle of my day.

You’ll find me in my garden now, when days are dry and fair.
I can still tend to my roses, even working from this chair.
They once were ornamental and seldom on my mind;
Now their careful cultivation is what gives meaning to my time.

They blossom in profusion in a riot of color here.
I have a little greenhouse and I work sheer magic there.
These petals, pink and delicate, are salve to my troubled mind.
They give me peace and an escape from all I left behind.

The battlefield was a moonscape; craters here and there.
They were grateful to find cover, what with snipers everywhere.
Jack and his buddies hunkered down despite the cold and wet .
Time to share a cigarette and give voice to their regrets.

Jimmy  left a girl back home he'd planned to make his wife.
Arthur came from money; once home he's set for life.
There was this one small problem; the foe still in the field.
Human flesh cannot resist the penetrating steel.

Jack imagined being home, once the war was through.
His girl was not some beauty Queen, but at least her heart was true.
All around their sinecure the guns, like thunder, roared.
Jack felt the terror clutch his throat, and he'd been scared before.

That was where we found them, in that cratered pit.
At least they all died quickly, slaughtered by a lucky hit.
Our Sarge would add their dog tags to others he had found.
Western Union made a nice  profit here upon this battleground.