She is there, I believe, behind those slate grey eyes.
Those eyes that once viewed me with Love
or with amusement.
Now, however, they see me without seeing.
She is held prisoner in a silk web of confusion.
She knows not who she is now.
She knows me not and has forgotten my name.
I visit though she forgets I ever came.
She is one who exists instead of lives.
A dear sweet girl with little left to give.
You ask me why I still come and I reply
“ I  promised my love until the day I die.”

From the first time I encountered AL, AL became my closest friend.
When my other buddies weren’t around on AL I could depend.
AL was always at my house or with me in my car;
a constant presence in my life, AL was  never very far.
When work or school caused me distress, AL would understand.
I always had the time for AL and AL was close at hand.
My other friends might disapprove, but what did they really know?
I was my best self when with AL, when I’d been feeling low.
Some tried to keep us two apart, but they could not succeed.
Having AL with me always was both a want and need.
Then came the day I crashed my car and cost my girl her life.
The police report blamed my friend AL for the death of my young wife.
I tried to rid my life of AL, but AL didn’t want to go.
My guilt, my grief, my misery made my dependence grow.
So now I sit on a wooden chair in the basement of a church.
For, you see, my “friend” named ALhas left me in the lurch.
I need to learn to love myself and deal with deep regret.
I rue the years I’ve wasted, AL; I wish we’d never met.

The battle is fought and our victory won,
My General has ordered me to run,
From Marathon’s plains to Athens Agora
to tell the elders of the battle’s outcome.
Oh gods on high grant us surcease
from threats of invasion if no true peace.
I have fought in the front line
and raced to and from Sparta in two days’ time.
Now fatigued and nearly done
I speed toward home from Marathon.
We will not suffer Eretria’s fate
Their city burned, their folk enslaved.
No! Thousands of Persians we have slain.
Our city on a hill is saved.
I’m short of breath and weak from wounds
Even as the walls of our city loom.
“Nike!” I cry! “Rejoice, we’ve won!”
As my proud heart breaks and I am done.

It began with the work.
He was the brilliant author; she his secretary.
They were racing against time
To pay a debt that must be paid.
Her nimble hands matched his nimble mind.
Her fingers flew to record his thoughts.
Four weeks, a mere four weeks,
to finish his novel; to rescue himself from debt.
Each night she worked, by feeble candlelight,
To transcribe his thoughts
While thoughts of love engendered in her breast.

At last the work was done, his time redeemed,
Yet he could not let go of one so dear.
Shyly, Dostoevsky proposed they wed.
She consented to become his wife, so dear.
She was not beautiful in the conventional sense
But became his muse, in fact his life and death.

Love is a choice, not a feeling,
At least that Love which will endure.
Feelings are transient, really,
and feelings,  like sand, are unsure.
Love which endures will be patient,
Love works to improve every day.
Love is a choice, please remember this,
should the stars in her eyes fade away.

The old black man had CA in his bones.
His pain by opiates barely concealed.
His nurses at the hospice were frankly amazed
that his proud heart, so far , refused to yield.

Within the lattice of his brain, he saw
his young self on the baseball field.
He'd been an all-star, twice MVP.
A threat to homer  or to steal.

Thad Tillotson was on the mound.
Paul Blair took his lead off second base.
His Orioles were the  leagues elite.
The once proud Yankees were in fifth place.

Frank Robinson stepped in the box
The distant black walls were his goal.
This time he did just enough
he drove a single through the hole.

As he reached first and Paul Blair scored
Reuben Amaro took Joe Pepitone's throw.
The first base coach ; a winged Seraphim,
welcomed Frank Robinson to the Show.

Someone has cut off my hands, not that it caused any pain.
Look upon me, a proud man’s daughter, enjoy then what remains.
My eyes will stare into your soul. My lips bear the trace of smile.
My portrait has lent immortality to this woman who never had child..
I was both a wife and a lover, this painting was made for my swain,
But he had both a wife and a mistress. In Florence he couldn’t remain.
In me you will see light and darkness. Sadness is there in my eyes.
My family has made me an older man’s bride; my circumstance breeds my disguise.