The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.

When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.

A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.

Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.


Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.

The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.

A candle in the window is a warm and welcome sign
of an accommodating spirit with a thirst for the Divine.
Our ancestors lit candles in the Ireland of our past
To let a persecuted Padre know that there he could say Mass.
Our native tongue was under siege and in time was nearly lost
as the Crown tried to grind Ireland down no matter what the cost.
We are a charming people, sweet and witty are our ways,
stubborn in our faith that man is most uncommon clay.
So on this coming Christmas Eve before the feast begins
Put a candle in the window and welcome Jesus in.

“My crown is hollow without a son. My kingdom cannot bide uncertainty.
My Lady Anne would be my wife, but never will my mistress be.
The papal legate on my case is a master of delay..
Wolsey wants to be a Prince but Rome is very far away.
I can’t depend upon the Cardinal to accomplish what I pray..
I need a quick and legal way to disavow my Spanish Queen,
Then wed and bed my Lady Anne and sire sons of lordly mien.
I am convinced by Holy Writ that marriage to Catherine was a sin.
My gentleman of the Privy chamber; Please show Thomas Cromwell in.”

That night was cold and dry as we gathered in the park.
Someone, I don’t know who, lit the first candle in the dark.
The dark mass of the Dakota was ever in our view,
as we joined to mourn John Lennon in small groups of ones and twos.

They kept us from the crime scene where John’s blood still stained the stones.
He was gunned down by some lunatic who’d acted all alone.
John was groaning, barely conscious, when Cops got him in their car
He died there in the back seat before they’d gone too far.

I heard somebody singing, in a strong clear baritone,
the lyrics of “Imagine”; John’s song that’s so well known.
Other voices swelled the chorus, singing loud and long.
What prayer could not accomplish we would try to do with song.

I went back to visit recently to show my children where
Their Dad stood vigil in the park back when he had long hair.
Strawberry Fields forever, the name they call this green,
where greying fans still gather to sing, to mourn, to dream.

In fear of saboteurs, we parked planes wing to wing
which made them easy targets from the air.
While relations were uneasy with Imperial Japan
up to this point war had not been declared.
Peace ended when we heard the drone of their incoming planes
and saw a row of Hawks go up in flames.
Wheeler field was target rich and their pilots were well trained,
They bombed and strafed, destroying all they found.

In the lull between the waves of the onslaught of their planes,
We got a dozen war hawks off the ground.
We twelve angry would be heroes
had little chance against their Zeros
but we struck a blow and shot some bombers down.

Ford Island was half hidden by the smoke and flames that rose
from the stricken battle-wagons on the row.
It was dangerous to remain flying any sort of plane
as the sailors there would shoot at friend or foe.


The attacking fleet made sail and returned back to Japan.
They had hurt us but they left their job half done.
Our fuel farms were still here and facilities for repair;
We’d raise our ships to fight the rising Sun.

The farmer stooped and took a scoop of soil into his hands.
It was dry and lifeless, less like topsoil than like sand.
On the far horizon a darkling cloud of dust was seen.
Another year without a crop, the times were worse than lean.
Human beings are full of pride, the sin that caused our fall,
sure that, as populations grew, that we could feed them all.
The forests shrank, the deserts grew, and erosion claimed the soil.
Then the crops began to fail all across the world.
Hunger stalks this once rich land, so many lives erased
So many children dead and gone the shovels can’t keep pace.
Is this the end once prophesied, the apocalypse indeed.
Once the seed corn’s been consumed, hope is a slender reed.

Once, on a Sunday morning, we were 1500 strong.
Then the bombs began to fall and the world we knew was gone.
Our ship, the Arizona, was among the first to sink.
A thousand men, our brothers and friends, perished in a wink.
The war years took too many more, old age has claimed its due.
Now, at this last reunion, we are seven surviving crew.
Old and weak and wheelchair bound, nevertheless we come
to raise a toast to fallen friends long hidden from the Sun.
Our ship became a graveyard on that day in Forty one.
One day we’ll be interred here too when our enlistments done.
With tear filled eyes we drink a toast with vintage dry champagne.
Then pour out a libation so our dead may do the same.

Science tells us that natural selection
plays no small role in our complexion.
Environment too must play its role
in making us white, brown or gold.
Southern whites, whose genes spend time
In hot and sunny southern climes,
may, in the course of generations,
start looking brown to Scandinavians.
While Blacks who live in the Northwest
see dark tones fade, go unexpressed.
In time all hatred based on race
perhaps will prove to  be misplaced.
If whites turn brown and blacks turn pale
for whom would Reverend Sharpton rail?
When mostly Mocha men and women
Drop clothes and prejudice and get to sinning
Our census forms will need fine tuning
when the only box for race is human.

It was back in the winter of Ninety –nine,
the day before Paddy’s on Chicago’s south side,
when a routine traffic stop turned deadly for one;
James Camp was shot in the face with his own gun.
Kevin Dean was the killer, his victim wore blue.
Dean did what he’d previously threatened he’d do.
He was out on probation for attempting such a deed.
On this day he struck and he made a “pig” bleed.
It’s a very fine line we police have to toe;
Act too fast- you’re a bully- Be a corpse if too slow.
There was a fierce struggle and one shot was fired;
Fold a flag for the widow whose Love has expired.
Kevin Dean is in custody, charged with the crime.
This time there’s no bail and he’ll surely do time.
In a Cop bar we sat, nursing grievances and beers.
We’re alone on the streets and we have been for years.
The smell of turned earth and a young widow’s tears,
were fresh in our memory as the next roll call neared.

I came home from your funeral dressed all in my Sunday best.
The shock of losing you is past and now I feel depressed.
Our house is large and empty now and silence roams the halls.
I remember the happier times before I lost it all.

Some weeks have passed and I’ve resolved to sell this place and leave.
I’ll get a small apartment with just space enough to grieve.
Of course that means I’ll have to pack and cast some things away.
That’s how I came across the box saved from our wedding day.

How beautiful was the dress your wore on the night that we were wed
I still can hear the music played when you pretended that I led.
The hand sewn pearls, the lavish lace, your falling auburn curls.
How rich a man this pauper was when you were in my world.

There is a house that haunts my days, a house that infiltrates my dreams.
It is seven stories tall and was not made by human hands.
In this house are many rooms and I can’t catalog them all.
Its chambers reach out to eternity and back towards the fall.
That which the mind can’t comprehend yet can be known by heart;
The sum of all the stars at night would only be a start.

In the last year of Trujillo’s reign, the Dictator decided
to eliminate three sisters and then plausibly deny it.
Patria, Maria and Minerva were the victims of the plot.
Once the three were dead and gone, He‘d make sure folks forgot.
On a lonely country road, they were ambushed by his men.
They forced the sisters off the road. That’s how it began.
The girls must not seem martyrs; Trujillo had made it plain-
nothing quick and merciful, like a bullet to the brain.
The men used bats to knock them down and smashed their faces in
so they could not be recognized by their own next of kin.
They placed the bodies in the car and pushed it off the road.
“The butterflies are free!” they mocked; “Those girls reaped what they sowed.”
In the Dominican Republic, the wheel, if slowly, turned.
Trujillo met a ****** end and freedom was regained.
The truth was slowly brought to light, the murderers were named.
The Maribels were honored and their martyrdom proclaimed.





   h

Svelte and Pettite, just five foot three,
My Geminoid does it all for me.
My made to order Robotic mistress
with her luscious made to order kisses.
What flesh and blood girl can compare
with her Barbie curves and her platinum hair?
Tired and sore at the end of the day?
She skillfully rubs my cares away.
When I am in an amorous vein.
My Geminoid is always game.
She’s merely average as a cook,
-a minor defect in my book.
My Geminoid treats me like a King
and never nags me for a ring.
Single since the court’s decree
I know love bears no guarantee.
With a Geminoid, no need to chance
The vagaries of true romance.
Yet I would still set my Barbie free
If my Zelda would come back to me.

I met a man the other day who proclaimed he was right
in his smug assured way.
As I listened I wondered " How can this be?"
when all he held sacred seemed profane to me.
I conducted a survey, I asked all around;
opinions, like assh*les, were thick on the ground.
Some followed a Prophet, others swore by a book.
Some would **** you to save you if that's what it took.
In a pantheon of idols, theirs was the true God.
All the others are fakes- which I found rather odd.
I admired their certainty; their faith seemed so strong.
Yet doubt tempts me to wonder if everyone's wrong.
We all think we're right which can lead to disaster,
both  here and now and then  in the hereafter.

I've soiled my sacred garments. I fear I've fallen far. I have a pounding headache and just woke up in a bar. My clothes reek of tobacco. My heart races from caffeine. As I was born and raised a Mormon this is not my normal scene.


I was prospecting for new converts , going door to door, when I ran into a sort of girl I'd never met before. Her hair was fire engine red, at least the drapes I 'd say. Her blouse was silk and tightly stuffed in a most intriguing way.

She said that she was off to "church", would I care to come along? She said the spirit moved her there, a place of cheer and song. I sensed a soul that I could save and so I went along.


Soon I was drrinking  Jameson. I bought the house a round. It's amazing stuff, this alcohol, this new friend I have found. I was singing karaoke and was dancing on the bar. I guess I had a bit too much, oh, I have fallen far.

I woke up from my stupor- cotton mouthed, dazed and confused. I'd been overcome by demon ***, a thing I shouldn't use. There was somebody laying next to me, I feared it might be "Red".  Imagine my profound relief that it was a man instead. He said his name was Khalid and he'd come here from afar. He, too, had a Prophet who forbade drinks from the bar. It turns out he also met the girl, this "Red" of whom I speak. He 's been trying to convert her and he's been here since last week.

From long time friends to bitter foes
From boon companions to friends estranged
The cute little redhead accomplished that
but it was nothing she'd prearranged
So delicate, so beautiful
with eyes a deep Aegean blue
Of course I made a play for her
She wasn't going home with you
Yes, her kisses were as sweet
as you imagined they must be
The reality was better still
warming an autumn evenings chill
I was the first to take the risk
that’s why I was the one she kissed
My actions weren’t the least bit shady
but faint hearts never win fair Ladies

Do you recall where you were that day, that November Friday afternoon?
The moment that you heard the news that someone had murdered J.F.K?
Some were just children at the time who now have grown so old and grey.
Half those Americans are gone who heard what Cronkite had to say.
That day that Camelot came to grief, and power passed to L.B.J.
Yes, I am a child of then, that day lives still in memory.

He lived in a far distant land, surrounded by the sea,
far away from the masses of his fellow humanity.
He’d venture out upon that sea to fish or ride the waves.
He lived at peace with nature and with eternity.
His favorite time of every day was to see the glorious Sun
setting red beneath the waves on the far horizon.
I heard today that he is gone, departed out of time.
He has closed his book of verse and written his last line.
I promise to remember, friend, for you were good and kind.
Every sunset I have left will recall you to my mind.

I’ve been an Oceanographer for forty years or more
But what’s happening here in our north west I’d never seen before
From Santa Barbara to Alaska, all along the shore,
The sea stars are all dying, melting into gore.
We’ve noted small white lesions and weirdly twisted arms.
We’ve seen whole populations die and we’re sounding the alarm.
The ecosystem’s dying, there’s a virus on the loose.
I’ve brought up buckets of remains to help search for the truth.
There’s a killer lurking off our shores, one, as yet, without a name.
If there’s any consolation- dying sea stars feel no pain.
Our oceans are in trouble from pollution from the shore.
Vast swathes gone anaerobic can’t support life anymore.
When all the stars are gone then barnacles will spread unchecked
We’ll race with time to find a cure before the shore is wrecked...

I have loved this time of year since the moment of my birth;
Its panoply of colored leaves that flutter down to earth.
I’ve loved the cool and bracing breeze, the fruits of harvest grown,
the sight of geese in Vee formation winging their way home.
My treks out to the cider mill for a warm mug or glass.
The times I’ve spent reflecting upon this year just passed.
I raise the collar of my coat against a sudden chill.
I feel cold winter’s icy breath drawing nearer still.
Please delay the Christmas tunes another week or two.
Oktoberfest is barely done, so sit and have a brew.
****** me not with chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Winter just means shoveling, the snow piled ever higher.
Its days: short, dark, and dreary. Its nights are long and cold.
So I mourn Autumn’s passing with its gifts of red and gold.

As darkness falls the shelling stopped and the Earth grew ever colder.
It’s taking far too long to die for one badly wounded soldier.
Abandoned by his comrades for the safety of their trench,
He’s dying out in no man’s land amidst the gore and stench,
too late for prayer, too late for Love Too late even for repentance.
He hears the cries for “Mother” from those under the same sentence.
With labored breath he, too, gives voice to the dark forbidding sky.
The last word from his dying lips is the simple question: “Why?”

This Queen Anne was built long ago,
in a progressive age.
The man who built her passed away
before ****** took the stage.
His aged granddaughter had it last.
until it was her time.
A conservator has sold the estate
to a builder with designs.

The house is a time capsule
of America before the Wars.
The craftsmanship exquisite;
You can’t find this anymore.
Generations lived and loved
within these sturdy walls.
But now this house is empty
and awaits the wrecking ball.

I’ve been asked by some historians
of our society in Queens.
To photograph this lovely home
before it passes from the scene.
They’ll build a row, with common brick,
of attached two families.
They’ll destroy this house without a trace
And cut down all the trees.
The plan is surely profitable
but, to my mind, obscene.

When we erase our treasured past,
Naught remains to call to mind
The greatness that we once possessed
and might reclaim in time.

Padded paws prance on the living room floor.
“Chip” sports a red bow and is playful for sure.
He greets his new mistress with a lick of his tongue
This chocolate Lab puppy can wait to have fun.
He’s a little Mischievous but nobody minds
-His arrivals been longed for a very long time.
Someone tell Uncle Robert to get down off his chair
Its only a puppy, there’s nothing to fear.

“I’ll see you later.” My Father said as they wheeled him off on the gurney.
“Good Luck, Pops.” my heart in my throat, as he went on his last journey.
He left us in that hot July, when the heat waves’ course had run.
I wandered in shock and disbelief like a world without a Sun.
For a long time after Pops had passed I struggled with depression.
Life went on for others; at least that was my impression.
Yet even in my darkest night I had my memories.
Sometimes, in the deepest sleep, Pops would return to me.
In his deep rich Irish Brogue he’d speak from beyond the vale.
My Memories of unconditional Love can never fade or pale.
To have been loved as we two loved; there is but one Love greater.
As I woke and rejoined the work-day world I whispered “I’ll see You Later.”

She paints her lips in earthy tones.
Her dress whispers seduction.
Her curves give promise of earthly bliss
while mine need liposuction.

A fleeting glimpse, all she allows,
must serve for inspiration.
The other ninety nine percent?
You guessed it- perspiration.

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed

They invade us from our hospitals,
They come in ones or twos.
They’re cute but they’re unruly,
a most uncivilized crew.
They speak no human language
Yet demand that they be fed.
Their pitiful screams at 2 A.M.
Leave their parents feeling dead.
They need to be taught manners;
To say “Thank You” and “Please”.
We need them to be immunized
against childhood disease.
In time they’ll become civilized;
Young Ladies and Gentlemen.
Until that time they must be confined
In their strollers and playpens.

We cannot, must not, judge your act.
We didn’t share your pain.
You’ve left this life on your own terms-
How many wish the same?
We weep for that which might have been;
a happy heart and home.
When that proved to be impossible,
the choice was yours alone.
For those of us who linger here
In doubt and groundless fears,
We respect your heart’s decision
and the life within your years.

  
    x

In the shadow of Ben Bulben
off the road from Mullaghmore
in the parish yard of Drumcliffe
you will find me there for sure.
It is a fair spot where I lie
Here in my native loam.
This was my heart’s desire
This was my mother’s family home.
How beautiful is Sligo
that I nevermore will see.
I’ve now become a part of that
which was a part of me.

Most days of the year a visit here
would involve a rinse blow and trim,
but on Halloween it’s a whole different scene
As the Queens of the night wander in.
Our regular staff has this day off-
It helps keep their heads in the zone.
To help “Jason” and “Freddie” get themselves ready
We’ve beauticians from good funeral homes,
If you wish to appear as a zombie or Ghoul
These girls will help get your “Freak “on
By the time you stagger up out of your chair
You’ll look like you’re long dead and gone.
With a wicked gleam they will paint your *** green-
You may fear it won’t ever come off.
Some bolts on your neck and, oh what the heck,
You can tell folks you’re Boris Karloff.
If a ghost is your quest you will be most impressed
You will look just like Lizzie the Queen
It’s quite the parade as they head out our door
To march in the West village scene.
“You look Boo-tiful dears”, I say to all here
As we all celebrate Halloween.



    x

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

Two college students, strangers really,
locked eyes across a crowded room.
She was there with someone else
But he knew it was meant to be.

Another place, another time,
The two met while on line at school.
The stopped for coffees, exchanged shy glances,
And knew that it was meant to be,

They shared their Love, they built a life,
They earned honors and degrees.
They had a home and three fine children.
They knew that it was meant to be.

He came back to their darkened house,
sitting Shiva with dark despair.
He drowns in words that fail to comfort.
He knew this too was meant to be.

Hands joined around the table on the roof of the hotel.
Ten years ago this night he passed on to where spirits dwell.
A single candle, burning bright, illuminates our band.
Will Houdini deign to appear to any mortal man?
There is a whisper on the wind, how ill the taper burns.
Is it Harry come back from the dead to tell us what he’s learned?
Bess Houdini called his name and kissed his photograph.
Alas the chains of death are strong and hold her hero fast.
She, at length, blows the candle out and bids us to disband.
She said “Ten years is long enough to wait for any man!”

She is there and you are there,
The mood and time seem right.
Be sure your heart is healthy enough!
Know what Science brings to light.
Kissing someone like you mean it
makes hearts race as passion soars.
The work hearts do in minutes
can be multiplied by four.
They say that life is shortened
by each amatory kiss.
We work our tickers overtime
When we osculate like this.
Note I’m not urging abstinence
As that would be a crime.
Just, when kissing like you mean it,
Make sure she’s worth your time.

The Judge decreed that I must die
for my “crime” of self-defense.
I’ve spent five years in prison since
abused in every sense.
When I have done my final dance
And the hangman cuts me down.
Please donate my organs.,
Don’t consign them to the ground.
Let one blind see with my eyes.
Let my young heart beat free.
Give others a new lease on life
Don’t say the gift is me.
Better that than to become dust
as you wear black and mourn.
Death is not the end of Life
So do not be forlorn .
Don’t consign me to the ground
That would be a waste and sin.
Consume with fire what is left
and give me to the wind

We all come to our final play,
our last Touchdown, our last score.
When we reach the realization
We can’t do it anymore.
For most, our age will dictate
when we leave the field or floor,
but to one athlete dying young
one last game means much more.
Lauren Hill loves basketball.
She was a High School Star.
Her cancer is inoperable.
She stumbles now and falls.
She knows how little time’ she’s left,
before the last leaves fall
On Sunday next she’ll take the court
to feel the Love once more
.
She’ll hear Our Anthem one last time
Ten Thousand throats will roar.
Lauren Hill, for all of us,
will make her final score.

When his heart stopped on the table, and the nurse pronounced the time,
Graham was surprised as any that his consciousness survived.
He was a lifelong bureaucrat; venial, unrefined,
with all of the complexity of a soured table wine.
He was not meet for Heaven. He wasn’t good or kind.
He thought he’d join the Devils, but his option was declined.
So he wandered as a lonely ghost in a world gone monochrome.
Surely there were others like him but they did not make themselves known.
He grew envious of his ashes, resting silent in their urn.
His mortal flesh, consumed by flames, was at no risk of return.
One time he tried to say a prayer, to stir the mystic Chords,
But no one heard a syllable; he had forgotten all his words.
He wandered like this countless years until he lost his mind.
It had been his choice to live like this when he still had world and time.

For Five long years he fought a war
against the mighty English crown.
At times, it seemed, by will alone
He kept our army in the field.
At Valley Forge our ill clad troops
suffered greatly from the cold.
In New York harbor thousands died,
held as prisoners in foul ships’ holds.
The reverses were many, the victories few
until the world turned upside down.
That day at Yorktown when Lord Cornwallis
And all his troops were brought to ground.
Yet, with our independence won,
the victor would not wear a crown.
Like Cincinnatus, the hero of old,
He lay down his arms and went back home.
Washington was that paragon
He refused all kingly robes.
Liberty lives only because
A free man refused to be a Lord.
Remember, if you would stay free,
the price they paid for Liberty.
Remember George who wore no crown.
His sacred honor deserves renown.

She posed for ******* magazine
In nineteen Fifty Four.
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.
Her freckled skin was milky white,
her hair a burnished flame.
Her ******* were real and firm and high.
Dolores was her name.
She married shortly after that
And loved the child she bore.
She had both family and career
And she cared not who saw.
They called her a few weeks ago
To pose for them again
For once one is a playmate,
A playmate they remain.
Her skin is mottled, wrinkled now.
She sports a silver mane.
They used a gentle softer light
And a shawl embraced her frame.
She posed for ******* magazine
Like she had once before
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.

Some think it cute when young girls twerk,
Or use cosmetics like Tammy Faye.
Isn’t it cute to hear them curse?
Childhood?- Oh, that’s so passé.
Dress them like their older sisters;
in clothing barely more than slips.
Put ****** heels upon their feet
to roll those prepubescent hips.
I pity those who think this progress.
I put the ball back in their court.
The taking of innocence, I find appalling.
It makes childhood nasty brutish and short.

I was happy in our home and she answered all my needs
So the day that my first person died, I was sorely grieved.
I plucked out all my feathers as a sign of my distress.
My silences spoke volumes about how I was depressed.
My first persons’ other family didn’t want a cockatoo,
So they took me to the shelter on the day that I found you.
Now I sing and speak and play. I’m happy once again,
But I will never once forget her; my first person and my friend.

“Did I hesitate a moment? Did I stop and wonder why?
We were ordered to attack from some blunderer up high.
We were all, I think, afraid. Who wouldn’t be right then?
Those Russians were entrenched and had artillery with them.
We must have looked magnificent on our chargers riding high
As we rode for God and Country, we knew Death was standing by.
I saw my brother Henry die and more brave lads besides.
We dressed the line and galloped on, We who were about to die.
My horse was shot from under me and that threw me to the sod.
The battle sounded distant and my left arm felt quite odd.
Some Shrapnel cut my face and thigh, but I saw many worse.
Some men called for their mothers, others raged and cursed.
Our gallant charge was broken by effective cannon fire.
There were many horses riderless like the one that I acquired.
When I got back behind our lines, I thanked my equine friend.
Then I realized he’d been Henry’s mount when this travesty began.
I’m sure there will be an inquiry into how this was misplayed.
It is then I’ll tell my tale about our murdered light brigade.”

Dead leaves smoking on an open fire,
Tricksters dressed up in odd clothes.
Ghouls and Goblins sneaking up on our porch-
Give them chocolate and maybe then they’ll go.

Everybody knows the jack-o- lanterns wick-ed light
Means it’s a pagan sort of Gourd.
Tiny tykes, munching sugar all night,
will wind up bouncing off the walls.

They know Brunhilda’s on her way
trying out her new broom on her special day.
And every little goblin’s gonna try
To see if chubby Witches still can fly.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase
Since trick or treat I think is overused.
Although it’s been said it’s the day of the dead;
Happy Halloween to you.

In Noah Webster’s lexicon of 1828
this word meant one who walks about
in an aimless mindless state.
(He did not of course mean to describe
our present head of state.
Still I didn’t make it up-
I don’t prevaricate!)
He seems irresolute to deal
with Isis’ militancy.
His only firm direction is
towards the Eighteenth tee.
In the chill of an autumn afternoon,
as the light begins to fade,
it appears his major goal in life
is the par shot he just made.
Now that his term is winding down
I get the strange impression
that all this golfing is prelude
to a planned change of profession.
He’ll join the tour, he’ll make the cut
He’ll finally have it all.
when the only lie concerning him
Is the lie of his golf ball.

On Spring Street in SOHO I worked in a bar
The Manhattan Bistro, since closed down, I hear.
In its basement what remains of a well can be seen;
the scene of a ****** that still haunts my dreams.

The Winter solstice was, once again, drawing near,
its night, cold and dreary, the longest of the year.
What brought me downstairs, I cannot now tell.
It was there that I saw her, the woman from the well.

Her long tresses hung down; limp, lifeless and dead,
and an old fashioned hair comb she wore on her head.
Her muslin dress was archaic, with bustle and lace.
She seemed lonely and listless, a sad look on her face.

In life she’d been lovely, a pert Twenty two.
Yes, Elma Sands, I’d heard all about you.
As I stood in stunned silence, another appeared.
A malevolent Specter of a man passed me near.

He throttled the girl till, unconscious, she fell.
He tossed her, still living, down the depths of the well.
Then like vapors they vanished- to Heaven or Hell?
Someone called from the Bar and it shattered the spell.

Few heard her pleas on the night that she died.
When she first was discovered it was thought suicide.
Rumors spread quickly back in Old Dutch New York.
Surely that girl was murdered, such was the talk.

No doubt killed by a Lover who wanted no Bride.
Levi Weeks was arrested. The charge- Homicide.
Rumors were spread that he’d promised they’d wed,
That they planned to elope- but he’d killed her instead.

The Lawyers he hired were both men of renown;
Hamilton and Burr were both heroes in town.
The mob wanted blood; they screamed Levi’s name.
The jury declined to convict, just the same.

The facts of the ****** may never be known.
What man followed Elma, and found her alone,
In a meadow deserted on the outskirts of town?
What man took her life, which was not his to take,
when she bravely refused to consent to her ****?

In the heart of our city, her ghost finds no peace;
Two centuries later and still no release.
Venture down to the cellar on Spring Street if you dare;
On the Solstice her ghost will appear to you there

One hundred and fifty travelers each day
Arrive from West African climes.
While its clearly insane to let them board planes
They can travel on scheduled airlines.
If they’re asymptomatic, they enter our ports.
Is the government out of its mind?
With dishwashers and Laundries our first line of defense
Ebola will spread over time.
Airline and hotel stocks are selling off big
Pharmaceuticals ought to do fine.

A nurse who watched Duncan as he sickened and died
Flies to Cleveland and back to big D
Her temperature was merely ninety nine point five.
“.Oh, you’re fine.” said the C-D-C.

On a cold winter’s night with the streets dark and still,
We converged at the Pillar with a plan and a will.
We placed sticks of dynamite Around and inside-
enough to send Lord Nelson upon his last ride.
In the wee hours of morning The fuses were lit.
We ran like mad devils so we wouldn’t get hit.
The concussive explosion made Lord Nelson fly.
Many windows were shattered, But nobody died.
It was fifty years on since our brothers in arms
Had proclaimed the Republic For which so many died.
The skyline’s been altered To reflect Erin’s pride.
The might Brit hero Will never again
Lord it over our Dublin Or free Irish men.

There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.

It was protracted suicide
Poe, dead before his time.
At the end he sold his clothes for drink
He was found the worse for wine.
A horror, like the tales he'd spun,
mad visions stalked his days.
This master of the Macabre
this day found a common grave.
No Raven croaked as he lost hope
of an earthly parole.
His doctor heard his final words:
"Lord, please save my poor soul."

In Mystic they have built a park in honor of the memory
of Grace McDonnell who was killed at Sandy Hook Elementary.
Elsewhere in Connecticut are playgrounds built to honor them;
the children and the teachers slain, so that we will remember when.
These innocents we could not save have playgrounds where they never played.
These bittersweet memorial parks are a sad remembrance of that day.
We saw their pictures, heard their names, our hearts brimmed full with sad remorse.
For twenty six children who were killed before their lives could run their course.

There are so many others dead, lost lives that we don’t celebrate;
56 million at last count- not one playground in any State.
There are few pictures, they have no names, their humanity; denied of course.
Inconvenient little lives put down like dogs with no remorse.
How different would our nation be? Perhaps a touch less old and gray?
Instead we have built playgrounds where far fewer children get to play.