I’m not considered “normal” by policemen on the force.
They apprehended me in public having an*l *******.
From early on I’ve always been attracted to a certain sort of man.
I’ve tried to be with women but that’s not just who I am.

Condemned as an “abnormal”, my security clearance lost,
considered an Enigma and somewhat an albatross.
In war I was a hero in the cryptanalytic game.
Now those doors are closed to me and others just the same.

So much I have accomplished, yet much remains undone.
Their chemicals have unmanned me so this capsule on my tongue
Once crushed with bring oblivion with its bitter almond taste.
The destruction of a once great man, will someone rue the waste?

The poor you will always have with you-
We incent them to make more besides.
Then too, there’s the risk of inbreeding
as collective I.Q. starts to slide.
It started when life got too easy
and so many made Lazy their way.
Why bust your ***** and hustle?-
Others sit on theirs home every day.
It’s been noted that Democracy’s shelf life
is limited from its first day.
It begins to collapse when the people
elect demagogues who give stuff away.
People who vote for a living
outbreeding those who work for pay?
The results aren’t going to be pretty,
This tragedy ends just one way.

Lord Elgin of Britain, that perfidious thief,
robbed Greece of its heritage, its marble reliefs.
The Parthenon stripped of its decorative stone,
a victim of rapine stands forlorn and alone.
Phidias’ statues, rendered so fine,
Are lifelike and glorious for now and all time.
The British museum houses the collection
Which Elgin purloined while avoiding detection.
Greece, more than most, has been robbed of its past
By ephemeral empires who thought they would last.
Now that the sun sets on the imperial throne
Isn’t it time that those Marbles went home?

Her fingers are good, she can sew, she can thread.
She has time on her hands, now that her husband is dead.
Lillian Weber is past ninety nine,
she’s on her last mission in a race against time.
She makes dresses for young girls that she’ll never meet;
colorful frocks for the African heat.
Her goal is one thousand dresses, so fine,
by the day that she’ll celebrate for the 100th time.

I write in praise of forgotten men
who died before life disappointed them.
They rose before dawn in June of the war
on the sixth day back in Forty four.
Packed like cattle, ferried cross water,
to a beach in France where so many were slaughtered.
These men, boys really, never fathered a child
or Loved or were loved in the usual style.
Was it for love of country? A misplaced sense of pride?
That encouraged their acts kin to suicide?
Omaha beach ran slick with their blood.
Each of the fallen was some mother's son.
The objectives were taken. The battle was won.
The beachhead secured by the set of the Sun.
Dog tags were retrieved from the necks of the dead.
but all of the focus was on the Generals who led.
For the rest there was space in the Green fields of France.
In rows of white crosses there's no second chance.
They rest here forever, the true heroes of war,
from Omaha Beach back in June Forty Four.

That August night, too hot for even a sheet,
the only light the red glow of
Your post ****** cigarette,
A strand of red hair strayed across your face..
The valley of your ******* was sweet with sweat.
This last time we would ever be together.
We would not make an occasion of regret
We were both more silent than usual that night.
Each knowing that to speak would break the spell.
In time we would forget each others flaws.
Choosing to remember just the Love
But this is where we kissed and said goodbye
And left for separate cities where we dwell
On nights like this I’ll muse what might have been
But wanting what you have is just as well.

Yes means Yes, and No means No
It has not been forever so.
Once Yes meant Yes and No meant Maybe
(But that oft resulted in a baby.)
If your fling was started in a bar
You’re judged a ****** by Cali law.
As guilty, per this legal muddle,
As if a struggle came before the snuggle.
If your date has had one glass
That’s an illegal forward pass!                                                                                                           Higher employment I foresee
At the bureau of Sexuality
Before you can couple legally,
File these forms and pay a fee.
Regulatory overkill
assumes young Women lack free will,
Young men are safer watching ****
and curse that Brown was ever born.

If they weren’t in the Polo grounds, the drive was a home run..
Don Liddle served a meatball and Wertz swung and thought it gone.
But Willie Mays thought otherwise and raced towards the wall.
Improbably, impossibly, he caught Vic Wertz’s ball.
He turned to throw; his cap flew off, as Doby raced for third.
When Grisson relieved Liddle, Liddle quipped:” I got my man.”
That the Indians were dispirited you well can understand.
That inning turned the series as Cleveland didn’t score.
The Giants won that game in ten and swept the Tribe in four.
Of all who played the game that day, a precious few remain.
The man who made “The Catch” still lives; forever will his fame.

“Number Two, Derek Jeter, Number two. “said the disembodied voice.
A man on second, one man out, It was Showalter’s choice.
He could walk Derek Jeter, choosing to pitch to McCann.
The choice would be unpopular, not that he gave a ****.
With no one warming in the pen, Buck chose to roll the dice.
Derek had two R.B.I., another would be nice.
Antoun danced off second base, Meek delivered fast and low.
Jeter punched it to right field, where else would it go?
Antoun raced around third base and dove headfirst for home.
The crowd roared at the signal “Safe “and they were not alone..
The Captain leapt up in the air, the moment we’ll remember,
our pleasure in an otherwise forgettable September.
He will not take the field again; his time at Short is done.
A handful of at bats remain before his race has run.
Bob Sheppard will go silent now, that voice beyond the grave,
The night that Robertson got the win, and Jeter got the save.

Your fire red lips should have caused me alarm-
or the smoldering look in your eyes.
You lured me away from the bar where we met,
I was having a beer with the guys.
There was the faint hint of smoke in your hair
But, in Vegas, that’s par for the course.
I shouldn’t have listened to your siren song
But I’m a free man, just divorced.
Besides, I’ve heard it said
That a redhead in bed
Is about the best lover you’ll find.
When her burning bush beckoned
Who was I to resist?
I’m not in the monogamous bind.
Now I’m bound and I’m gagged
and secured to her bed.
From this pyre I never will rise.
She’s just emptied the last of that
Five gallon can.
Her lit mtch will complete
my demise.
“I hope you don’t mind
That I leave you behind.”
She said as the flames start to roar.
“your Ex is a far better lover than you.”
She laughed as she walked through the door.

I camped out to be first on line at Apple’s flagship store.
Sleeping days on concrete had left me stiff and sore.
Now all was fine, I was first in line, They handed me the phone.
Envious glances all around, I am the first to own.
A local news reporter asked me if I would hold up my prize.
They broadcast live on New York One. My joy is undisguised.
But my joy turned to horror as the phone slipped from my hand
and smashed on Apple’s
smooth
tiled
floor.
I’m an unlucky man.
You’ve seen me on the internet,
the video went viral.
Don’t bother calling,
why interrupt me
in
my
downward
spiral.

Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look  tasty
Chocolate éclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, ******* with string
These are a few of my favorite things

When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

It started as a bit of grit stuck in an Oyster’s craw.
In time, through suffering, bit by bit it became the Pearl you saw.
Translucent pink, a perfect orb, no polishing required,
You alone possess this gem which many have desired.
It cost you dear, this perfect pearl, as the bid grew steadily higher.
You’d have gladly given all you had to possess its inner fire.
Time and suffering produced the Pearl, it is immutable law.
Forget that at your peril for the Pearl would be no more.
The Pearl is not a bauble meant to dazzle others’ eyes.
It, like wisdom borne of suffering, is its own reward and prize.

Two objects lying in a field; a plowshare and a sword.
“Which of these gifts will they select?” pondered Mazda the Lord.
Two brothers, sons of Adam both, were passing by that way.
They spied the glittering artifacts that waited in the clay.
Hevel saw the plowshare would be great for planting seed in sod.
Qayin, the sword blade in his hand, looked at his brother odd.
Hevel was a Sheppard who minded Rams and Ewes.
Qayin grew crops and farmed the land, the only life he knew.
For Hevel to possess that gift did not sit well with Qayin
In a jealous rage he used the sword and thus Hevel was slain.
Qayin could not face his mother’s eyes, with shame he bore his sin.
Of his free will he’d swung the blade that did his brother in.
Qayin buried Hevel in that field to keep wild dogs away.
Then with both glittering gifts in hand, Qayin wandered far away.
In time Man would perfect the objects first found in that field.
The weapon would proliferate, evolve from Bronze to steel.
The tears of Mother Eve still flow throughout recorded time
because we are the sons of Qayin and profit from his crime.

The Young resent us Oldsters, we Seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The Young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.

Scottish single malts are loved by fans here and abroad.
Some folks will pay a fortune for rare bottles they can hoard.
Whenever a commodity becomes as rare as gold,
there always will be criminals with profit as their goal.
They'll find an empty bottle and forge tax stamps for it too
and fill it up with Canadian Club, a far far lesser brew!
Then, when the fraud's discovered, Scotland Yard is called
to find the perpetrators and to hang them by the *****.
A detective of a certain sort can discern what bottles hold.
by looking at, in certain light, the subtle shades of gold.
He'll need to know which revenue stamps are fraudulent or true.
If the contents are suspicious he must taste them , wouldn't you?
" I'm thinking this is Jameson's, Not Macallan's malt so pure.
but I'll take another glass or two to be absolutely sure."

Elizabeth, the ****** Queen, left vacant the English throne.
Her Scottish Stuart cousin came and claimed it for his own.
Two nations with one monarchy joined in the Union Jack.
The Scottish lost their nationhood and now they want it back.
Saint Andrews’ Flag of Bonnie Blue will have to be unfurled
if Scotland votes to take its place among nations in the world.
Quebecois and Basques today are eagerly looking on
to see if Scots will vote to tell the English to be gone.
Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where their dominion ends.
Remove your subs from Scapa Flow; your lease is at an end.
There still remains a problem which, just now, occurs to me.
If the English take their Pound with them, what is our currency?
It’s true we’re rich with North Sea oil and better off than Spain.
Yet how do we do business if the Sterling won’t remain.
We need a new “Gold” standard based upon the single malt!
Who needs pounds when we have ounces stored in barrels and in vaults?
So pour me a “MacCallan” on the day the rent comes due.
Hand me a glenfiddich and I’ll purvey food to you..
Our creditors will be well pleased with hints of bog and peat.
We won’t dilute our currency as Scots men drink it neat.

Our Slave ship floundered on the rocks
in the teeth of a mighty storm.
We were cast out on a nameless Isle.
Half our cargo drowned.

Morning came and the seas becalmed
And we salvaged what we could.
The Captain was a broken man
The first mate did what he should.

We fashioned shelters of rock and mud.
And found a water source.
We had no doubts, then, we’d be saved
from this Isle off the African Coast.

The Isle was plentiful with game
And we had guns and swords.
The slaves would serve our wants and needs
So we were in accord

We rigged a lifeboat with a sail
And the first mate and three more
Cast their fortunes on the winds
for Madagascar’s shores.

They promised us that they’d return,
Their word they swore they’d keep.
But either the World ignored their pleas
or they sleep in the deep.

We learned, in time, acceptance,
of our lonely likely fate.
We taught the slaves to speak our French.
took their women as our mates.

Decimation was inevitable
Even in that tropic clime.
Many just lost hope and died.
Others lost their mind.

My best friend lost his life at sea
on a flimsy makeshift raft.
Of all the French who landed here
I, Jacques, am the last.

I hope my journal will be found
when I too, am dead and gone.
Please rescue what remains of me
And bear my body home.

Or else commit me to the sea
with prayers and honor due.
My woman and my child yet live
May God preserve those two.

He saw her only yesterday, this girl that he once knew.
She looked happy with her family as she passed before his view.
When he sought what most desire, relationships got in the way.
He still recalls her tear stained cheeks the day he threw her love away.
He's dressed in fine designer suits, his chauffeur is on call.
One day he'll make C.E.O. -will then he have it all?
Yes, the world thinks him a Titan, of most uncommon clay,
as he thirsts, like one in Hell, for the tears she shed that day.

The crystal face is missing from this witness to the deed.
It doesn’t have its’ seconds hand, there is no longer need.
The date displays “11”. That it always will
to remind us of the day on in which fanaticism killed.
I look upon Todd Beamer’s watch and experience a chill,
realizing that while Time truly flies, it also can stand still.

When young men take up football, they often come to grief.
Steroids often fuel the strength that they need to compete.
there is violence in the game and roid rage in the Elite.
Young men thirst for glory, getting paid to deal defeat.
So when they turn on women, am I surprised?- not in the least.
They are bred for strength and violence, it's the nature of the Beast.

Long and passionate or short and sweet./
Old Aunt Mabel’s peck on the cheek./
French or American, it matters not/
Long and languorous I find hot/
Experienced or ingénue/
Always enjoyable and new/
Given by mistresses or/
Bestowed by Misses./
In a pinch I’ve made do
With Hershey’s
kisses!

Every woman has one in her closet-
(although some are loathe to confess)
It’s perfect for many occasions.
It is known as the little black dress..

For Women who seek to entice,
or have men they want to impress.,
There is nothing terribly virginal
concerning that little black dress.

Its of Spidery inspiration and,
oh, what a web they can weave.
They use it, some say, ensnaring their prey.
It comes out again when they grieve.

In Wedding, our Ladies wear white.,
A Little black dress when they keen.
They dress in subtler shades of gray
on all the days in between.

My darling, sleep, and never wake.
though it may cause my heart to break,
The morphine drip is a kinder fate
than that which would befall you.

Swollen limbs, incessant pain,
The Doctors think just days remain.
When life is only life in name,
No joy remains before you.

So hold my hand in your tight grip
as when our youngest child was born.
I promise I won’t let it slip
Until it is no longer warm.

You gifted me with forty years.
In health and sickness, we were a team.
Now, at last, you are at peace,
Sleep my love, perchance, to dream

I am patient in my work. I take pride in what I do.
I have no room to make mistakes that would, forever, be on view.
I crouch before the stone with the dew still on the grass.
I record the names and dates which are their only epitaphs.
I’ve been at this work some time and I always work alone.
For lives written on water I record their term in stone.
Each gravestone holds a story of a life, once lived, now past.
These lives of joy and sorrow which, though precious, do not last.
Each one searching for their meaning, experienced alone,
from the moment of conception until the day that they’re called home.
Some here had lived a century, others just a day,
their entrances and exits incused for posterity.
Fate, which is inexorable, brings everyone this way.
to leave a stone upon a stone, to ponder and to pray

Mario Draghi is a stimulating guy,
To rouse a dead economy,
There’s nothing he won’t try.
He’ll lower rates and lower rates
then lower rates again.
Til the exchange rate for the Euro
reaches parity with the yen.
When he eases quantitatively
Then stocks you ought to buy.
Still, It won’t be pretty in the end
when money comes to die.

Michael Bloomberg was awakened in an unfamiliar bed.
Restraining bands were on his limbs and also on his head.

“our sales are down across the board, our latest soda bombed.”
“While our truckers want to rub you out, We insist you won’t be harmed.”
“We are trying to convert you, There's no need to be alarmed.”

For this most unwilling witness Coke's jingle was replayed,
I cannot say how often, it went on for many days.
He was forced to watch commercials, all in praise of soda pop.
Big gulps were his nourishment, though he longed to make it stop.

Then, when his brain was Cola washed
And we finally set him free,
Michael Bloomberg bought the world a Coke
and sang in harmony.

The groundlings gather close around
It’s an unruly crowd.
The gentry sit in her majesties box
decked in Purple and all looking proud.
The poet enters the wooden “O”
armed only with his pen.
Will it be thumbs up or down?
On this so much depends.
The crowd screams out for blood and gore
As much as they can stand
They lust to see your soul laid bare
And naked on the sand
You weave a tale of arms and a woman
About the Trojan war.
Three hours traffic of our stage
They leave still wanting more.

Hearts, it seems, are as fragile as dreams-
and quite as easily broken.
Frail as a paper valentine
Which is but true love’s token.
The widow maker kills the king
Before needed words are spoken.
Hearts, it seems, are fragile things
And quite as easily broken.

Barrack’s on vacation, playing golf by the sea,
but life keeps interrupting and wasting greens fees
Iraq is in flames and the country may fall,
Barrack steps calmly up and addresses his ball.
While ISIS is murdering Kurds by the bunch
Barrack’s on vacation and ordering lunch.
Israel is in trouble as Hamas wages war.
Barrack limits arms shipments and tallies his score.
Ferguson, Missouri suffers racial unrest,
while Barrack is debating which driver is best.
James Foley is dead, his throat has been cut.
Our President speaks, and then he makes a nice putt.
My colleagues rebuke me. “Don’t beat a dead horse!”
The President’s great, he’s staying the course.

To a family that had nothing a wondrous gift was given:
A free home with a garden!they moved in and started living.
Their new home had an orchard a stream and a modern well.
Their benefactor, name unknown, gave them  paradise to dwell.

It's sad to see that place today, the garden overgrown.
The water scarcely fit to drink, the structure falling down
They picked all the low lying fruit and they befouled their nest.
They thought they were entitled, they forgot they were but guests.

If the benefactor returns one day and sees his former home
He'll weep for Adam's children and be crying all alone.

Detroit is a mess, eighteen billion in debt
But you can’t stop a loser from a double down bet.
The transit she has runs deep in the red
Half her acreage is vacant and her tax base has fled.
So now they plan a streetcar, the M-1 light rail
They boldly go forward with a plan doomed to fail.
Detroit’s busted budget is out of control
Their schools are the worst, spending’s out of control.
But if we build a streetcar then all will be well?
More cash down the rat hole! Don’t ask and don’t tell.
Three billion dollars it’s projected to cost-
half for the rail line and half for the Boss.

X used to mark the spot
where two hearts intersected.
X used to mark the spot
On a map where  treasure was hidden
X used to be the variable
For which I sought the solution.
X turned out like all the rest
which explains why I’m disillusioned.


Nowadays X marks the spot
Where love found its conclusion.

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel,
the mayor of our fair Chicago town
The people here are stuck with you I fear,
Unless another candidate appears.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell



You came, so well connected from on high,
and never let a crises go to waste;
To us the path of knowledge show,
by closing schools and letting teachers go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel
the homicides are rising by the score.
Guardsmen called to enforce civil law
In places where police will go no more,
Rejoice Rejoice Emanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come Barrack Obama’s right hand man,
From prosperity you will deliver them
That trust your mighty pow'r to save;
They’ll re-elect you with votes from the grave
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell


Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
In Chicago folks stay home at night ,
for fear of death and that ain't right
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
don’t deviate from the party line
til all Chicagoans are left behind.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

We were west of the Azores,
Five days out of New York,
when we spotted the Mary Celeste.
She was listing to Leeward
But still under sail
with no obvious sign of distress.

Briggs, Her captain, I knew
as a man good and true
And his shipmates
were capable men.
We hailed, but no answer,
So I send men aboard
To find out what had become of them.

Her cargo intact, just one lifeboat gone
And a rope that trailed aft in the sea.
Something had caused them
To abandon their ship
but why was a mystery to me.

There are storms on the Ocean
As winter draws near;
A sea grave was his crew's likely fate
Or else they were drifting
Ever farther from shore
with nothing to eat on their plates.

I gave thanks to God’s grace
that cold, indifferent Fate’s
bony fingers had not touched on me
and I wept for my friends
of the Mary Celeste
who would never
come home from the sea.

Consider the plight
of the poor young black male
with only a mother at home.
He has no role model,
No Father to love,
Poverty darkens his home.
The school teachers care
for their pension and pay,
they let these kids slip through the cracks.
“ If their parents don’t care,
Then why should I care?”
Their attitude, I think, sadly lacks.
When you don’t have a job and you
Wander the streets
And the “dealers” won’t leave you alone
Is it any surprise when a young black male dies
or makes jail his permanent home?
We have more kids in jail than the rest of the world.
More die here than died in Iraq.
Wall Street is flying and young blacks are dying.
They’re not doing as well as Barrack.

Lonely are the brave on this night before the slaughter.
Santa Anna’s troops surround us and they promise us “no Quarter.”
We are buying time for Austin that’s what Colonel Travis  said.
I hope these thirteen days suffice, for tomorrow we’ll lie dead.
Colonel Bowie is with the infirm, our round shot is nearly gone.
The long guns of the Mexicans will be limbered up at dawn.
A mournful serenade is playing, just beyond the wall.
They play the music of the dead hoping  to unnerve us all..
When morning comes we’ll hear the cry of two thousand charging men
And when they finally breach the walls then will our struggle end.
Until then we stand ready before Texas and the world
to fight them for our Liberty beneath a lone star flag.
When the last of us has fallen all will have earned an honored grave.
For the Alamo we give our lives. So lonely are the brave.

Look into her eyes where kindness keeps
Or else a jealous dragon sleeps
Her eyes will tell if she’s true and fair.
Are you saved or dammed? The answer’s there.
Her words may dissemble and lips oft lie.
Those curves may distract as does her smile.
No, her eyes are where true beauty lies.
The sooner you learn this the sooner you’re wise.

It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.

She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?

A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..

If the killer was male- was he impotent too?

The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended  John Bowne, a high school nearby.


Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.

Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.

Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.

When evil intrudes into our day
So many are silent or turn away.
They back away, stare at the ground
Scarcely a hero can be found.
It was on the “L’ train yesterday;
A man was beating on his child
A woman had the nerve to say
“Stop what you’re doing
For it is vile.”
You’ve heard the tale-
You know the rest
He turned on her
He ripped her dress
He lashed out and knocked her down
Our heroine lay there on the ground.
A heroine bloodied but unbowed.
New York would be a better town
If more like her would stand their ground
For evil cannot stand the Sun.
We need more heroes, but here was one.

A good life is much like a good book.
It engages and enthralls
the mind and senses.
The Life, like the book, has a narrative and episodes
like the book has chapters.
Both are meant to be savored and enjoyed.
Too good in the telling to ever
tempt one to skip to the end,
even though one could.

A good life , like a good book
will long be remembered
and treasured by many.

enjoy each page.

Something there is that doesn’t love a rose;
The biting wind, the unrelenting rain,
The first hint of the coming winter’s chill
That will not suffer flowers to remain.

Something there was that did not love our Rose
The renegade cells whose blood destroying will
Seeped into the bones and her soft tissues
and on the warmest day left our Rose chilled.

Now our Rose lies still in her Sunday best
Her hands composed for prayer and ever sleep.
Something there was that didn’t let Rose live.
A circumstance that makes a grown man weep.

The great man lies dead in his bullet riddled clothes.
The ambush was more successful than De Valera dared suppose.
Michael Collins was a traitor to Republican ideals.
His treaty gave over to the Brits one fourth of our green fields.
Everyone thought me his friend. I was always by his side.
Yet I knew enough to stay away on this day he died.
When he fired on the Inns of Court I decided he’d go down..
Though some may say he was a Saint, once safely in the ground.
They say that he fought bravely, though surrounded with long odds.
A proper, fitting sacrifice to lay before our gods.
Nations must be born in blood if they are ever to be free.
Free of allegiance to a Crown and capped with Liberty

Nothing lasts forever without ceasing.
For every laugh, somewhere a tear drops down.
When you lose someone your steps feel so uncertain.
No longer do you trust the solid ground.
For so it chances in the lives of men
That day comes when their fathers go before.
The flesh and blood becomes a ghostly presence.
The veil has dropped between them ever more.
When dialogues become soliloquies,
The things you meant to say mean that much more
because they will forever stay unspoken
save to his stone in moments spend alone.

We knew only your laughter which won you renown.
We never observed the tears of our clown.

You entered our homes as the loveable Mork;
with Your razor sharp wit and lightning fast thought.

Your movies mixed laughter with serious turns;
Good Will earned you an Oscar For which many yearn.

There were personal demons that proved hard to hide.
A divorce, an affair, Drugs and rehab besides.

But, through it all, We heard only the laughter.
Not the tears of our Clown that brought on this disaster.

To us you were Robin, Like Peter Pan, just a kid.
May this sleep bring you peace that your days never did.

Imagine the outrage
If a band, all-male members,
Refuse to play tunes
for the opposite gender.

Imagine the uproar
The venue would face
For excluding a half
of their customer base.

“It’s rank discrimination!”
The ladies would moan.
If the males got to listen
while the girls  stayed at home.

Yet the Bulletproof Stockings,
That band that wears wigs,
Exclude guys from their concerts
Not just chauvinist pigs.

“It’s a matter of Faith!”
The girl band members say;
No guys at their gigs!
No men hear them play.


Yet I’ve heard pious Pastry chefs
Don’t get to choose.
If gay brides want a cake
It’s a crime to refuse.

An Orthodox authoress
who published a tome
would be most put out
if male buyers stayed home.

So if girl musicians
seek public expression
They ought to think twice
about gender oppression.

Its great that they’re keeping
an orthodox home.
But enough of these concerts
For women alone.

The crops are drooping in my fields.
No rain again today.
My precious topsoil, dry as dust,
threatens to blow away.
It makes a farmer feel like Job
to be afflicted in this way.
No rain dance I can do will help.
I lack the words to pray.
We’re victims of a climate change
which makes the land too dry.
Nor is hope on the horizon
from the high blue, empty, sky.

A widow took a stranger to her bed.
This woman was denounced before the law.
She numbly stood and heard her sentence read.
Though I suspect she knew her fate before.

She knelt, silent, in the center of the square.
No neighbor wished to be the first to stone.
At length, the foreign fighters of Isis
Grabbed the rocks and drove the lesson home.

The body, dressed in black, was dragged away.
a streak of red remained the only sign
of the price the law had made a woman pay
for the fleeting pleasure of a lovers arms.

But what of he who joined her in her sin?
He did not share her fate who shared her bed-
a “cooperating witness” for the law.
Strangely just the women wind up dead.

His old guitar is where he left it,
Still strung and tuned as on that day.
I remember he would play for hours.
Rock and roll he loved to play.

He never got to hold his grandson
or sit with him in his rocking chair
He's not a name that most remember
but fans of Joanie Jett still care.

For all you who love rock and roll
He wrote your anthem, he penned your prayer
I'll play a cover on my Fender
as the old man rocks up heaven's stair.

The Crust of the Earth Ruptured in a caldera.
The Sun blotted out by the ash and ejecta.
Dark lay the land in that perilous time.
way back before history had written a line.

The carnage terrific, there were deaths beyond count
When Starvation set in we saw casualties mount.
We came so close then to the end of our race.
There were ten thousand humans left on Earth's face.

These ten thousand survivors, the sad Remanent left
were fruitful and multiplied, at least that's a good guess.
At last count we numbered seven Billions or more.
We have plundered the land and polluted the shore.

I wonder when Yellowstone will rumble again.
It will blot out the stars and will threaten World's end.
But if some should survive and start over again
for the sake of Our Father please this time stay friends.