Sometimes, in dreams, Paul sees his band mate, John.
Of course, John Lennon hasn't aged a day.
Paul, himself, has felt the touch of time.
His skin is paper-thin; his hair gone grey.

Paul reaches for an instrument to play
but alas, his dream guitar hasn't any strings.
John provides a softly lyric line
so Paul must be content to hear him sing.

Paul wakes up from his pleasant dream
hoping to recall the words that he heard sung.
Somehow he cannot recall the lyrics;
It's not easy as Paul's no longer young.

Sometimes in dreams, we see beloved dead;
projections, perhaps, of our hopes and fears.
We imagine stringed instruments that gently weep
And, doing so, mock our bootless tears.

The unexamined life
passes quickly
like grains of sand
through the hourglass

Just as quickly
as the future
becomes the past or
so it seems

We slept last night on satin sheets.
Reluctantly we rise.
In air-conditioned luxury
we wipe the sleep from bloodshot eyes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Upon exiting from the shower
we don our matching silken robes.
The Bloomberg totes our rising wealth
and tells of Donald's latest woes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Eggs over easy and crusty french bread,
consumed with dark roast coffee seems
a perfect way to start our day.
We live better than Kings and Queens.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

We dress in fine designer clothes.
You should see the shoes she wears.
They cost two thousand dollars each
and she owns two dozen pairs.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Below our penthouse in the sky,
anger simmers on City streets.
An angel with a flaming sword
approaches even as we speak.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
    —Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
    Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
  Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
  Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
  And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

My words will live forever;
I know this for a truth
because of a poem I  once wrote
as an anthem for doomed youth.

I, alas, will nevermore
set foot upon my native shore.
I 've been  mortally wounded in France, you see,
on the very cusp of victory.

My poor parents will receive the news
that my soul among the shades now dwells-
Even as every patriot's heart
swells with pride at the peal of victory bells

When I was first brought here,
There was some doubt that I’d survive.
Confined by Fate to this wheelchair;
barely half alive.

The accident that shattered me
had also brought a darkening mood.
Some kind soul had suggested
Nature’s embrace would do me good.

So now on every day, that’s’ clear
I sojourn here among the trees
Whose faithful stolid company
Is medicine to my disease.

I cannot climb or pick the fruit,
I’ve two dead legs and one good arm.
Instead, I sketch and paint from Life
until the morning light is gone.

We understand each other now.
I almost hear the arbor speak
They gift me with a purpose now
And lend me strength when I am weak.

With pen and paper, paint and ink
I learn a healthier way to live
And though I can no longer run,
I accept I still have much to give.

The earth eclipsed the moon tonight
and turned that orb blood red.
The Sox just swept the Cardinals
and Bambino's curse lies dead.

Old Da had rooted Eighty years
but never saw them win.
Of Buckner, back in Eighty Six,
he never spoke again.

So first I went and bought us beers,
I got Sam Adams best.
Then I crept into the graveyard
where old Da takes his rest.

I poured his drink upon the grave
and raised my bottle high.
We beat the hated Yankees, Da!
Next year our banner flies!

All around me here and there
were Red Sox fans, my peers-
All celebrating with their Dads
and wiping back the tears.