He flew with Doolittle against Japan
on the eighteenth of April in Forty two.
Eighty brave volunteers made that flight.
but their numbers dwindled down to you.

In postwar reunions these men would meet
And toast the fallen gone before
From silver goblets with their names inscribed,
these heroes of that distant war.

Then, when there were only two,
A vintage bottle was opened at last.
You gave the toast to vanished friends;
The faces and names from your storied past.

Now you, too, have been laid to rest
In old Marse Robert’s hallowed fields.
Once more you hold the bombers yoke
And lift off Hornet’s pitching deck.
You rise toward grey shrouded skies
upon a fearsome enterprise.

The only lottery where I took first prize
was the  one that determined who lived and who died.
I might have been sent to Nam with a gun
had my number come up in Seventy one.
Instead our older brothers all
had their names inscribed upon a wall,
in gold leafed letters, incused in black,
that said they weren't coming back.
I have no tales to offer of battles I won,
That's because I was the fortunate son.

My brother-in-law was a chauffeur.
He loved cars since he was a teen.
My sister Clare thought he looked handsome
at the wheel of a Lynch Limousine.
For years he drove town cars to airports.
He was courteous and impeccably dressed.
He loved New York’s bridges and byways,
And he rated among the best.
Later in Life, Tom drove Corporate.
A CEO rode in the back.
The job had appeal; Tom was still at the wheel.
And nothing was better than that.
Then, when Semi-retired, Tom drove school buses
shepherding Pre-Teens to class.
A task unappealing to many of us,
But Tom always had parents trust.
Even his hobby revolved around cars;
Tom owned vintage automobiles.
His black 40’ Chevy appeared in parades
with, as usual, Tom at the wheel.

This day, a sad day, Tom will take his last ride
In a Cadillac, polished and black.
This day another will be doing the driving;
This day Tom will be riding in back.

Today I came upon this word
which at first blush may sound absurd.
It means you're tookered, all worn out,
at the end of your tether without a doubt.

So if you're too tired to seek even pleasure.
Quanked is a word that takes your measure.
Exhaustion has a new adjective
If you care to comment- please, no invective!

Debt be not proud, though lenders label thee
useful and powerful, for thou art not so.
For those poor souls who take your ready dough
Pay not Principal, just interest and the fees.
Unlike cash wealth and true liquidity
Which, in sum, denote prosperity,
Your burden would enthrall them where they go
And collection agents nightly tell them so.
Your rates are slave to a data dependent Fed,
and you are a poison consigning men to Hell.
Cash wages are what we need to slumber well,
Free of this debt incurred with the stroke of a pen.
One more loan payment and we 'll eschew your fee.
Then Debt shall be no more. We’ll be debt Free.

Belfast is a bustling town where big muscled men make ships of steel.
Down on the Quay we come today to bid farewell and see you off.
You have your suit case in your hand. I see you wore your Sunday best.
If you were lying in your casket you could not be better dressed.
So kiss your Mum a sad goodbye and shake your Father’s hand.
You have your ticket in your pocket to take you to a distant land.
You siblings and your kin have come to wish you well and say goodbye.
To raise a parting glass with you; in truth nobody is dry eyed.
Off with you now to America, Where a young man has space to dream.
Your mother bravely waves good bye. Only in private will she keen.
*******************
M­any years later, when he’d grown old, my DA returned to his native land
To see the house where he was born now just ruins and in others hands.
We visited the parish church where he had been baptized long ago.
A Celtic cross marks his parent’s grave and on their plot the wild grass grows.
Every one he’d known and loved had passed before him as if a dream.
He wept before his sister’s grave and said a prayer for my  Aunt Kathleen.
His story yet had years to run before the day came he, too, would pass.
Then relatives would gather once again and raise to John the parting glass.

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.”