In Atlanta Victoria is red faced, her secret a secret no more.
A shoplifter made off with her *******, merchandise worth an eye catching score.
How one shopper could nab all those garments- it simply beggars belief!
Her “Angels” will now go “commando” Unless someone fingers the thief.
The crook was observed on surveillance with stuffed shopping bags leaving the store.
She didn’t get Victoria’s miracle bras so police think she’ll come back for more.
This sort of heist has happened before, although, thankfully, it is still rare.
The shoplifter may be a black woman, but its certain that she has a pair.

As the Rose is the flower of flowers,
Exalted above all the rest,
Their color denoting desire
Which words alone cannot express.
Some shades are symbols of friendship.
Some others connote happiness.
Some buds are a byword for passion,
and the reddest of blooms says it best.
A first love is never forgotten-
unless you forget yourself first.
It lingers in mind like the taste of your lips.
It is either a blessing or curse.
We were little more than adolescents
That day we embraced by the shore.
Though the tides haven’t changed
It has been many years
And now I will see you no more.
My tears are my heart’s lamentations
For a Love that was too long repressed.
I place my red rose on your casket.
The reddest of blooms says it best.

First we heard the distant drone
of their oncoming planes.
We raced towards the shelters
but could not out run the flames.
A package of incendiaries
Freed from a Bomb bay door
Melted Martin Luther’s
bronze statue in the mall.
The city center is ablaze;
thousands maimed or dead.
This was our first night of fear
But they would come again.




Zuerst das ferne Dröhnen hören wir
ihrer entgegenkommenden Flugzeuge.
Wir rasten in Richtung der Unterstände
konnte aber nicht aufgebraucht, die Flammen.
Ein Paket von Brandstifter
Von einer Bombe Bucht Tür befreit
Geschmolzene Martin Luthers
Bronzestatue in der Mall.
Das Stadtzentrum ist in Brand;
Tausende verstümmelt oder tot.
Dies war unsere erste Nacht der Angst
Aber sie wiederkommen würden.

Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”

She was fished out of the river just beneath the mighty span.
Her clothes suggested affluence. Her death bespoke despair.
I sent two men to search the spot from whence she took to air.
Her dead face poses the challenge; can you find out who I am?

Her prints? Not in our database. No purse and no I.D.
She wrote no note that we can find before she took her leave.
Was this some broken love affair? Is there no one to grieve?
The witnesses to her leap are few and contradictory.

Her hair is blonde and shoulder length, neatly coiffed and trimmed.
I notice that she bit her nails, but never will again.
She should be off in college; a new beginning not an end.
The M.E. bags the body. Soon the autopsy will begin.

I look through missing person files, to match a face and name.
I dread the call I’ll have to make to drain some parents’ hope.
To lose a child by her own hand- how can a parent cope?
The tox screen shows no drugs present. I had thought the same.

Female Caucasian, about nineteen, no birth marks and no scars.
Our Janet Doe was pregnant. Was that motive for her leap?
Did her condition make her desperate for this forever sleep?
Surveillance footage yields a clue. To pursue I’ll need my car.

The Tap room reeks of Guinness; the night is near its end.
I show her picture to the barkeep- This girl was here tonight.
There’s a glint of recognition and new facts brought to light.
He doesn’t know her name, but he surely knows her Friends.

They are sitting at a table, looking somewhat worse for drink.
I get her name and address. She is “Janet Doe” no more.
Celene attended N.Y.U. she had been majoring in law.
I left them deeply grieving and not knowing what to think.

This morning I will make the call, the saddest one of all.
“Can you come in to identify the wreck of your hopes and dreams?”
“We think your daughter took her life, at least that’s how it seems.”
To hear her mother’s sobbing is the hardest thing of all.

For thirty years I’ve worked this beat, but today I cried.
I’m not inured to suffering or indifferent to pain.
I’ve seen the broken bodies and think it such a shame
whenever wingless angels try to fly.

These are not the flowers I thought I would be buying,
These are not roses for the girl I wed.
These flowers bear a message of condolence
Who knew I would be buying these instead?

The time was short from your first diagnosis
until the morning when you met your end.
Now comes the tears of selfishness and mourning;
the pain that comes with losing a true friend.

Februaries in New York are bleak
when winter lingers on without an end.
“It’s a great life if you never weaken.”
I recall that’s what you always said.

We stand on frozen ground at Calvary
after three days spent on folding chairs.
Each of us drop a flower of remembrance
as the Padre mutters solemn prayers.

You never had a child of your own body
or devoted spouse to mourn your final breath.
Your nieces and your nephews now surround you.
Of your generation now none are left.

She starred with Bogart, Douglas, and Victor Mature.
The Smokey voiced blonde whose motives weren’t all pure,
Lisabeth Scott was the last of her line;
Femme Fatales of film Noir, you know her kind.
In the forties and fifties she was in her prime.
She was the subject of scandal of a ****** nature
When the tabloids discovered that no man would date her.
Like Garbo and Stanwyck, stars in their own stead
Lisabeth preferred a brunette in her bed.
For her men had their uses, Men had their places
But she found herself drawn to soft feminine faces.

I would listen, in the dark, as the L.P. circled round.
A big fan, I’ll admit it, of this petite brunette’s sound.
I was shocked the day I heard you’d starved yourself to death.
Talent, beauty, youth all gone; the recordings all you left.
I hear you still at the holidays like a ghost of Christmas past.
Occasionally on the radio for your hits were built to last.
Most often when your C.D. plays as I drift off to sleep
So long ago, so long ago, but still your voice sounds so sweet.
Those who touch lips with fame die twice I’ve heard it told:
Once when we’ve forgotten them, then again when they grow cold.

It’s too delicate to touch, but beautiful to behold.
An Illuminated prayer book, from Bruges, I’ve been told.
The unknown artist carbonized vellum taken from a sheep,
Into a thing of beauty that is not mine to keep.
The images are beautiful, a celebration of the Divine,
a testament of faith from another place and time.

Time has traded in his wing-ed chariot;
He donated it to the obnoxious Kars for Kids.
Still, I wouldn’t worry about Time.
It’s not like the old boy has hit the skids.
I saw him, just today, down by the station
He was styling in his Porsche nine forty-four.
Whatever is his final destination-
He’ll be getting there much faster, that’s for sure!

It’s almost as if Time had a midlife crisis;
Realized he’s no stud muffin anymore.
His grey and grizzled beard could use a trim.
He should buy a suit and ditch the robes.
He needs a woman to help him spend his money;
With the miracle of compound interest he has loads.
Thus, while I may drive a Fourteen year old Chevy
and eat my lunch out of a paper bag.
Time is styling in his Porsche nine forty-four;
I guess, for him, the economy’s not that bad.

You know my face yet forget my name,
but then, it’s for my roles I’m known.
I’ve spend a lifetime in the game.
Now, in the shadows, I am alone
I’ve lived perhaps a hundred lives-
on film, yet failed to live my own.
A stranger to my flesh and blood
whose children won’t pick up the phone.
I remember that it used to ring
Back when my acting won acclaim.
For years the star was on my door,
I slept with starlets, drank Champagne.
Now my Cancer bites within
and I take pills to mask the pain.
There will be no more roles for me
Though I could make a passable Lear;
Hear me raving in the storm
but it’s a waste with no Fool near.
For me there will be no happy ending.
Each painful breath is such a chore.
I won praise for my “authenticity”
But Love wound up on the cutting room floor.

I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?

Today three hundred gather recalling to the World its’ shame.
They’ve come once more to Auschwitz on a more comfortable train.
The youngest, in their Seventies, were children at the time,
when Russians overran the camp and exposed the Nazis’ crimes.
If you were gypsy Gay or Jew incarcerated there
They starved and worked you unto death-
Your grave was in the air.
The walks were paved with bits of bone from those who died before.
These lives and deaths were cataloged for the ***** Chancellor.
All who remain now gather for this last and final time,
to testify to their suffering and rebuke those who deny.

Dennis Doyle, a barrister,
gave up his job upon a whim.
Now what to do? A quest!
A quest he would begin.
A lifelong fan of the New York Knicks
He'd follow them home and away!
Tickets were a big expense
=Twenty five thousand he would pay.
Then there would be planes to catch,
food and hotels along the way.
He'd sit and cheer his heroes on!
Each night he'd watch Carmelo play.
Too soon, the losses began to mount;
he watched the season slip away.
It takes a special sort of soul
to sit and watch this team at play;
to seize defeat from victory ,
the Knicks would surely find a way.
To qualify for a high pick
they traded half the team away.

Each night He'd sit and glumly watch
This team that will not win a ring.
Is it all worth it? Who can say?
For the true fan, the play's the thing!

He’s number Fourteen in your program,
“Mr. Cub” to long suffering fans.
Ernie Banks was a soft spoken guy
who launched many ***** in the stands.
A true hero who led by example;
the face of the franchise, in fact.
He never did play in the Series
and there is some sadness in that.
Yet today is a great day for baseball
in the heavenly precincts above.
I’m sure, just like you,
That they’re bound to play two
Once Ernie has tossed down his glove

It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
where the Patriots and Sea hawks will meet,
and all that folks are talking about
is Bill and Tom’s softball deceit.

It’s cold up North this time of year
when the Patriots made their playoff run.
Snow and ice require gloves;
If footballs slip, they’d be undone.

“Taking the air out of the ball”
Once referred to the running game.
Deflated ***** are easy to grip
But it’s cheating, that much is plain.

It seems the ***** that Brady used
spiraled nicely through the rain.
When you ***** are small and soft,
Like Brady’s, it’s a different game.

When Tom was asked about the scheme
He laughed at first and wouldn’t tell.
The truth about Tom Brady’s *****
is closely guarded by Gisele.

When the bees are all silenced
By Glyphosate laced grains.
When our waste and our garbage
Are choking sea lanes.
When the stocks are fished out
and the oceans then die.
When the struggle for life
Is once more eye for eye.
Is it too late to ask
Why we’re consumed with hate?
Why, for sake of a buck,
A planet was *****?
It’s three minutes to midnight
on the doomsday clock.
We’ve not much time left folks

TICK TOCK< TICK TOCK

We are different, you and I.
You are so focused and contained.
I am loud and unrestrained.
You are never not on time
while I’ve been known to trail behind.
You are practically fashion’s slave
while I am grunge and barely shave.
How did we stick, what is the glue,
That inseparably binds me to you?
It is Love that stakes its claim
for two friends cannot remain
Two friends and still stay sane
If they are not accepting of
The failings of the one they love.

At Eighteen degrees with a wind chill of three,
Beneath several blankets is where you’ll find me!
With a scotch on my nightstand (to ward off the chill)
Old Man Winter can blow but he’ll do me no ill.
When the forecast is lousy and grey snow clouds threaten
My lamb’s wool lined comforter I won’t be forgetting.
In my all flannel onesies (with the flap in the rear)
I’m sure I can hold out until Spring is near.

It started with Adam, the father of all
He and Eve had no last names that I can recall.
While the man tribe stayed small there was really no need
One name was sufficient to distinguish indeed.
Yet, as we expanded, this soon came undone
As every man Jack was some father’s son.
Cicero, Caesar and Pompey, those Romans
Were known as just that; nick-names, patrynomens
Rembrandt and Picasso those giants of art
probably had two names when they got their start.
Elvis and Dion were stars in the fifties.
Liberace was too with his style none too thrifty.
From Cher to Madonna Fame’s admission fee
was becoming Mononymous to the bourgeoisie.
So Adele and Miley revel in this;
Fame’s a fabulous ride and it’s not to be missed.
There’s money involved and a lot of acclaim
And best of all people remember your name.

We must have picked up the call at the same time
I heard my wife answer the phone.
The voice was a friend but the words that he said
were intended for her ears alone.

I stood in stunned silence and feeling betrayed
at the words  I heard over the phone.
There was worse yet ahead, those three words she said;
“I love you.” made me feel so alone.

Things hadn’t been good, this much I understood.
Passions can fade over time.
Daily life’s dull routine never matches the dream,
But I’d thought it no cause for alarm.

“I Love You. She said, but not for my ears.
I had not heard them for some time.
How could I miss the perfunctory kiss?
cold leftovers at dinner time.

I hung up the receiver, did they hear a click?
I wondered how long she'd have lied?
My only thought then was which one I’d **** first
And could it look like suicide.

“There will be no second Newtown here!”
Our principal decreed.
“Forget armed guards on campus,
Cans of soup are all we need.”
“When murderous villains roam our halls
And the shots are growing louder,
We’ll take them down with well-placed throws
of canned New England Chowder!”
“With a giant rubber slingshot,
we will make the villain pay.
Why, with adequate supplies of soup
We could hold out for days!”


This policy of “Soup to ****”
Is not like concealed carry.
It seems like an idea straight out
of Curly, Moe and Larry.

An old and tattered Bible Is the crux of a dispute.
Bernice King has possession of what her brothers see as loot.
The book was dear to Doctor King thru trials and tribulations
And with him on the Selma march in the days that changed the nation.
To her; a priceless heirloom of King’s Dream to equalize.
To her brothers it’s an asset that they hope to monetize.
This book, signed by the President, is not a ****** prize
to be bought by some collector and hid from others eyes.
So now there is a lawsuit and I hope the judge is wise
Wise as a modern Solomon in how he will decide.
This Bible  is a legacy, inspired word  and proof
Of what one man can accomplish when addicted to the Truth.

Karma finds you eventually,
Sometimes while drinking a fine Chablis.
George Zimmerman is back in the news,
with sour grapes that left a bruise.
His girlfriend wouldn’t kneel to play
so he bopped her with un Beaujolais!
His poor girlfriend, clad in a slip,
He christened like a navy ship.
Aggrieved assault is the charge he’ll face
since cops were called out to his place.
He can’t resort to “Stand your Ground”
His prints were on the bottle found.
Off to jail, George, where, they say,
You’ll meet your true love every day.

Registrations are way down at Clown Colleges today.
No one wants to scare small kids for the peanuts that they pay.
Older Bozos are alarmed that no one is enthused
to follow their profession and try to fill their shoes.
Sales of makeup are way down, ditto for funny clothes.
And vendors can’t remember when they sold their last red nose.
When the one ring circus comes to town clowns will be hard to spot
The clown cars that they used to drive are rusting on the lot.
The reason for the scarcity is obvious to me;
All those with clown potential serve in Washington D.C.

I was then but middle-aged, established in my world.
She was a young ingenue, a lithe and lovely girl.
she knew about the ring I wore, the promise it contained,
but we were both the worse for drink and passions were inflamed.
I should have left here at her door, my lusts I should have tamed.

Her perfume was enticing, unlike what my Lucy wore.
I stepped back to admire when her chemise hit the floor.
To hold a warm girl in my arms; to kiss those lips of flame.
I felt my youth restored to me when she whispered my name.

Her mystic rose was delicate; its subtle nectar sweet.
She raised her hips to meet my lips, the conquest was complete.
We both were lost in pleasure, her fingers urged me on.
We surrendered to our yearnings, all inhibitions gone.

Some say that Hell is a fiery pit with fierce unquenchable flames.
Others say its lined with ice and the cold drives you insane.
For me Hell was a woman scorned and a co-respondent named.
I was crucified in the press; such is the cost of fame.

I am older, wiser now. I never touch a drop.
See, if you never drink the first no one need tell you stop.
I have been a fool for Love but I will not pretend
that I don't miss her passionate kiss I'll never have again.

Living on a minor planet near a very average star,
There arose a type of primate, the most inquisitive by far.
Not the strongest or the fastest of the animals on earth,
but blessed with an intelligence that quickly proved its worth.
Long before they had the means to travel very far,
They raised their eyes in wonder at the glory of the stars.
thus embarking on a quest that has yet to reach its end.
as they parse the light of distant stars in their thirst to comprehend.

There are those who prefer to live on their knees when others would die on their feet,
Chabu is dead, but his words still resound, like the echo of shots on the street.
He was a free man with no child and no wife. No attachments can be a mercy.
A man who has paid for his thoughts with his life is a martyr who sets others free.
Vengeance is natural and there are those who will spit on these gunmen and curse.
In the showdown between “faith” and ideas, the artist will always draw first.



Il ya ceux qui préfèrent vivre sur leurs genoux quand les autres mourraient sur leurs pieds,
Chabu est mort, mais ses paroles résonnent encore, comme l'écho de coups de feu dans la rue.
Il était un homme libre sans enfants et pas de femme. Pas de pièces jointes peuvent être une miséricorde.
Un homme qui a payé pour ses pensées de sa vie est un martyr qui met les autres libres.
Vengeance est naturel et il ya ceux qui vont cracher sur ces hommes armés et malédiction.
Dans la confrontation entre «foi» et des idées, l'artiste puisera toujours en premier.

Apparently Shakespeare got it all wrong
when he threatened the lawyers in verse.
The carnage in Paris proves he should have written:
"Let's **** all the cartoonists first!"

I have seen them in their majesty, in ultraviolet light.
They stretch across five light years’ space there in the dark of night.
They are the womb of newborn stars, the cradle and the nave.
The elements are present there, in aquamarine shade.
Within the Pillars there is light, the light of proto-stars,
Surrounded by the swirling dust which will be what we are.
Then, sometime in the yet to be, on such a starry night,
They may note the death of Sol, the star that gave us light.
As they see our old star swell then shrink as fuels run out.
They too may pause and think, in wonder at the sight.

He lies unconscious on the bed; his breathing raspy and uneven.
She is ever at his side, always there, still believing.
The monitor is the only sound; irregularly it counts the beat.
He has battled long and hard, only now he’ll face defeat.
The morphine drip is merciful; this man’s proud heart begins to slow.
This year he’d had dementia, what he feels we cannot know.
She holds his hand in both of hers and whispers there a silent prayer.
When she looks up at his face again his spirit is no longer there.
In private, she allows a tear, she had stayed strong; she was his rock.
No matter how prepared one is, this final moment is a shock,

Is hate too strong a word for what remains when Love has died?
They were for twenty years estranged before his suicide.
There he rests in his fine blue suit and his patriotic tie.
There she sits in her fine black dress ; her tears have long since dried.
Their marriage had been childless, then joyless towards the end,
Still she felt an obligation as he had no next of kin,
She handled his arrangements but his  few friends  thought it strange
Though he requested an internment, she consigned him to the flames.

My Daughter has a fitbit that records her every move.
She wears it daily on her wrist in her efforts to improve.
Her every step, lap and jump thus are duly noted.
To self-improvement and fitness, she surely is devoted.

Me? I can get tired watching football on T.V.
The treadmill in my basement is piled high with clean laundry.
I can’t resist a chocolate bar, my diet isn’t great.
Does rising from my easy chair still count as lifting weights?

Still, there should be a wearable for the chubby hubby set.
To monitor the quality of the sitting time we get.
To count each doughnut we consume, to list each chocolate bar.
To note the steps avoided when we choose to take the car.

Channel four of the BBC thinks An Gorta MOR fit comedy:
genocide of the Irish nation with laughter as the expectation?
A million dead, two million more forever vanished from Ireland’s shores.
What degenerate would be amused? This programing should be refused.
A starving race, the potato failed, their agony has been well detailed.
The land was rich and still they died as help was grudgingly supplied.
Those whom the reaper failed to grip escaped upon the coffin ships;
never again to see these shores, of kith and kin forever shorn.
How anyone finds this amusing I find to be a bit confusing.
Such a person, I surmise, would tear the wings off butterflies.
I presume a laugh track will be supplied….


as our dead don’t laugh but only smile.

You know your alphabet, yes you do, all twenty six letters you say by rote.
Few know there once was Twenty- seven, one more of which you should take note.
It is the humble Ampersand; the character you see today
Used mostly as a linkage between two corporate proper names.
It does mean “and” it always did; its shape from Latin is derived.
Its name is a type of Mondegreen, by pronouncement it is described.
Back in Elizabethan time when schoolboys said their alphabet
They did not end with “X.Y.Z” but with “and per se &”
The Roman “Et” was anglicized and its usage codified.

**** works all day at his factory job making I Pods for you and me.
The pay is low and his hours are long, but there’s job security.
The company boss is a suspicious sort of his minions on the job.
They must be searched before they leave for fear he might be robbed.
There is a safety net at work for **** and all his crew.
It’s not medical and dental like exists for me and you.
No, this net is a cargo net- to catch leapers, naturally.
for preventing suicides is key to profitability.

Happy New Year to my hello poetry friends and followers.

We speak of "truth" and "beauty"
with a savant , knowing air.
We are the keepers of the flame
who formulate the prayers.
We play with your emotions;
we heighten every sense.
We labor at this constantly
with little recompense.

...but...today... today I saw her,
and for words I'm at a loss.
Like Saul approaching Tarsus;
Like a second Pentecost.
Her beauty knows no simile
indeed , and it's a pity
Only George Gordon, at his height,
could , perhaps, describe her beauty.
I saw her but a moments time
and she's not mine to hold.
but from that brief encounter
I can now tell dross from Gold.

The branches are enrobed in ice and hang down to the ground.
The air is sharp, clear and fresh, no other soul around.
The winter wind chills to the bone despite your coat of down.
It whispers to the branches with a low and mournful sound.
I’ve loved the park on days like this, since when I was a youth
This photograph in black and white, betrays a simple truth.
Each color needs the other; there is no other way
to capture, in this image a timeless winter’s day.
Each hue defines the other, in stark relief they play.
I am one accustomed to see in shades of grey.
As I was born color blind, I know no other way.
Earth’s greens and blues are beautiful; I’ve heard but never seen.
The doctor says that I was born with a defective gene.
Somehow I have adapted, I deal with it you’d say
To see the world in sunlight like you see at break of day.

It has come to our attention and you need to be aware
That there’s a home invader out tonight and you must be prepared.
On the street he’s known as “Nick” and self-described as merry,
He’s five foot six , three hundred pounds and his cheeks are red as cherries.
His modus operandi is to enter via flue
And there are unconfirmed reports he’s bearing gifts for you.
He’s fond of blended whiskey so you’re wise to leave a drop
and some carrots for his caribou who wait on your rooftop.
If your kids find it hard to sleep tonight I well can understand
It’s said this creep is keeping book on every lass and lad
If you catch him near your Christmas tree, you’d best stay out of sight
Or he’ll wish you “Merry Christmas” and to all a good night

The air was chill and darkness fell as bells rang and the rabble gathered.
A British sentry had struck a lad; some said his jaw was shattered.
Some four hundred Bostonians were milling about his station.
Eight Redcoats, each with rifle cocked, tried to defuse the situation.
The crowd was in an ugly mood; they would not let this slide.
The soldiers were pelted with rocks and snow, but as yet no one had died.
Private Montgomery was knocked down And muttered “**** you, Fire.”
He discharged his weapon into the ground, and that shot provoked their ire.
Captain Preston never issued the command, but a ragged volley was fired.
Eleven colonists were hit, three of them expired.
The crowd in panic then dispersed, and the troop of men retired.
A black man, Crispus Atticus, was among those who had died.
The mood was tense in Boston and those troops were charged and tried.
John Adams won acquittal, he was brilliant in defense.
But the crowd still felt injustice, and there's been no peace since.

At midnight’s stroke we raised our voices to greet the brand new year.
The lyrics and the music both are meant to draw a tear.
For there are those, who we loved well, that sang these words and tune.
Who are no more among us as we look about the room.
Dear Mom and Dad, I think on you as another year slips by..
As long as I have tears to weep this cup will not run dry.
Soon others will take up the song to greet the year anew
And if the kindly fates allow I’ll sing along with you.
But if, by chance, fate is unkind and I’m no longer here
Raise a cup of kindness yet to the passing of the year.

On the first night of the Festivus All grievances were aired
But after a few cups of *** our feelings were repaired
The Festivus pole shone brightly, illumined by a single light.
The alcohol flowed freely, this would be no silent night.
Cousin Jerry in the corner was caught snogging with Elaine.
George’s girl was laughing as he struggled to explain
The cause of her disappointment (shrinkage was to blame).
Cosmo Kramer danced around the pole, making spirits bright.
Newman spilled the bowl of punch,( he never was too bright).
Frank and Estelle were doing well and feeling little pain.
She pinned him in the feat of strength, not that he complained.
When the meal was over and the holiday was done
They all made their donations to support the Human fund.

I write about history and current events,
very rarely of affairs of the heart.
A Republican in an Augustinian age
is not the most promising start.
If you're looking for passion
naked bodies and lust.
I'm afraid I will not do my part.
I'm not some ecdysiast performing for you-
Just as well, I'm a chubby old ****.

There is a day, and not far off,
when we will say goodbye.
I do not have the choice of when
Or where or how or why,
There is a day not too far off
when we must say goodbye.
I can’t pretend that it won’t hurt
And I suspect you’ll cry.
Please let me with my parents sleep
upon that nearby hill.
Remember that I loved you well
And I’ll be with you still.

No Judge, No Jury, No sentencing time,
No hurried last kisses, No final goodbyes,
Ramos and Liu were killed because they wore blue
by a black hearted coward named Brantley.

The Tompkins House off Myrtle was the scene of attack.
Two officers down; both were shot from the back.
There is blood on the pavement; there is fear on the streets,
as the fires of Ferguson are fanned by the Elites.

Lincoln forewarned us before Booth killed him
That America only could fall from within.
No great foreign power could conquer these shores.
No, we would decline from within, he was sure.

Our house is divided and, as such, cannot stand
as long as we hyphenate each woman and man.
We are not helpless victims oppressed by”the Man”
We are either free people or hopelessly dammed.

It has come to our attention that your License was suspended-
for failing to stop, within lines, for needed punctuation.
Your casual allusions to things and times of yore
Are confusing to the reader and frankly mark you as a bore.
Your long winded analogies sometimes beggar all belief,
though some here think that your intent is comical relief.
All attempts at alliteration have been something of a dud;
You fall in love with the technique and sound like Elmer Fudd.
Your recent “Ode to Flatulence” in its use of onomatopoeia
was but the latest instance of your verbal diarrhea.
Your metaphors are pitiful and this committee looks askance
at your evident confusion of mere lust with true romance.
Still, we are both kind and merciful (as bureaucrats tend to be),
So we’ll renew you for another year upon remittance of the fee.

Here, in the depths of winter, when the earth is bare and brown,
You will notice, if you look carefully, depressions in the ground.
My guide told me that here there are about one hundred men
who served beneath the Stars and Bars and gave their lives for them.

The Union line was well entrenched up there upon the hill.
Hard shot and double canister rained down on the Rebs at will.
If Ewell had thought it practical, on the first day of the fight,
results might have been different had his soldiers seized these heights.
When he forfeited his advantage, the Stars and Stripes held sway;
Union forces would repel his sorties the next day.

So, with careful measured steps, we walk above these men,
Who loved, not wisely but too well ,the cause for which they bled.
Do not disturb this hallowed ground; leave them at rest I pray.
Until they hear the trumpet’s call upon the Judgment Day.

I cannot see the man upstairs, but yet I know he’s there;
He plays his telly very loud, he must be deaf, I swear.
I hear him stomping to the loo several times each night.
He’s either back to drinking coffee, or his prostrate isn’t right.
He pays his rent on time each month; he puts it with my mail.
He leaves for work before I wake, and his trash is in my pail.
I know that he loves mallow mars and the beer he drinks is Schlitz.
So by these sure and certain signs I know that he exists.
I know some of my neighbors must harbor secret doubts.
The man upstairs is an introvert, you never see him out.
Every night at 6 P.M. when he plops into his chair,
His presence is revealed to me; He’s the man upstairs.

The fields were green; the sky clear blue, the land was fat and fair.
Prosperity was all we knew, and poverty was rare.
I looked with pride upon my fields, the ripening waves of grain,
unaware, that in scant days, so little would remain.

A desert locust, by itself, is not a fearsome thing.
A swarm of eighty million is pure terror taking wing.
The swarm came out of Africa and descended on my fields.
The sky was black with insects, the devastation was surreal.

The fields are black; the sky sad grey, the locusts’ feast complete.
Like teenagers with the munchies, these little beasts can eat.
The crops that we had counted on now simply aren’t there.
These now are hungry desperate times and happiness is rare.