First, you cry.
Cry until you cannot anymore.
Once more the grim prognosis will be read,
But no hope will be found there, I am sure.
No bargain can be made, no moments bought.
The cancer has moved quicker than we thought.

Even now, a bony spectral hand
Points across the Styx to the far shore.
Does sweet salvation wait?
Or do the Fates await to seek their vengeance?
I fear that we will all know before long.
I’ve read the Bill of Attainder :
We all face the same sentence.

It seems the Universe has made
all the stars it can.
Black holes gobble up
ribbons of gas
to frustrate any star making plans.

So, Not today and not tomorrow,
but someday, bye and bye,
we will look up at  the cosmos
and see a nearly empty sky.

For, like us, stars are mortal;
They are born they live, then die.
Their nurseries are  nearly empty.
Only God could tell you why.

He’s an old man in a wheelchair, who sometimes hobbles with a cane.
His handgrip is amazingly strong; He has a wiry frame.
On his lap he holds an artifact; it’s a precious relic too.
It’s the flag from the Missouri, her old red white and blue.
He still recalls, quite vividly, that cool September day
When his battleship dropped anchor, right in Tokyo Bay.

“We accepted their surrender, They, our victory.
I still can hear MacArthur's voice. It was all surreal to me.”
We spoke on for a little while, he seemed glad that I came.
He spoke about his comrades and wept about how few remain.

We spoke about war’s folly, its death destruction and its pain.
We spoke no word of glory, that’s a politician’s game.
When his nurse came to get him, he knew it was time to rest.
No longer the scared young man who saw the world, but never at its best.

I later heard on that same night; Death came to stake his claim.
A day slips off into history, just ”Old Glory” still remains.

“We will never forget!”  I heard them all say.
“The eleventh of September was a very dark day.”
How united we were! How our flag proudly waved
O’er the trade center ruins that smelled of the grave.

Then each year thereafter we gathered at the site
To recall those sad moments when day became night
Their widows and children spoke the names of the lost,
And we all vowed to remember, whatever the cost.

This year we have nothing; no gathering planned.
We’re united no longer. This is a sick land.
No words will console us; no beams light the sky.
So soon we’ve forgotten how Two thousand died.

Now people can riot amidst a pandemic
Its surely their right say the proud academics.
“But we can’t light the beacons- someone might get sick!”
We are weak and pathetic and our Mayor’s a *****.

The stadium is empty now; just cardboard fans sit in those seats.
Old Bob Sheppard sits at the mike, clears his throat, and begins to speak.
One by one, He calls their names: Larsen, DiMaggio, Rizzuto, and Berra.
One by one they doff their caps; these heroes of the golden era.
The vacant ball-yard in the Bronx that the current Yankees call their home
Is silent on this sacred day, save for that rich baritone.
The specters gather on the diamond; these fabled heroes of yesteryear.
It would have been old Timer’s day today
These sights? these Sounds?
Only I , alone, can hear.

It's my near constant companion;
sometimes short and sometimes tall.
At dusk's approach it seems to grow,
At midnight not at all.

Peter Pan once lost his,
until Wendy sewed it back.
He was really lost without it
and was glad to have it back.

It figures oft in mysteries
and in film noir I suppose.
Those ***** deeds done in the dark?
Just ask- the shadow knows.

One shadow often haunts my thoughts
It's been frozen on a wall
at ground zero in Hiroshima,
Its owner?  gone beyond recall.

Hatred left a shadow
of one  human life  it seems
Where shadows became substance.
Where nightmares ******* his  dreams.

I sit in Dad’s old Adirondack chair
And observe the setting Sun.
Upon the lake the ducklings glide
Alive with the joy of the young.
It is peaceful here at this time of year
Before all the tourists come.

The gentle wind is just enough
To urge the water to kiss the shore.
A yellow cardinal is perched nearby;
Something I’d never seen before.
I breath in deep clean mountain air
and I make to myself a vow:
To Keep Dad’s cabin here at the lake.
It’s Heaven enough for now.