The Sun in Sudan is unkind.
There beauty withers into dust.
The people there are primitive,
Their ways are alien to us.

A Christian woman, eight months pregnant,
Has been condemned to lash and rope.
convicted by Sharia law.
Our outrage is her earthly hope.

For Meriam refused to yield,
In Jesus she maintains her trust.
She would not convert by force
To a cult that seeks control of us.

A modern day Antigone,
condemned to death because of faith.
A prisoner of Conscience, she,
Like the Lamb, endures their hate.

She is not clothed as with the Sun.
The child she bears, no Savior King.
She’s labelled an adulteress
though she wears her husband’s ring.

Her faith provides no easy path,
that often is the way of things.
Like all those Martyrs who came before her,
She puts her trust in Christ the King.

Rain, heavy at times,
concealed my own tears,
and obscured the grief
of  my loneliness.

So long she was disconsolate,
her only son was gone.
Years had passed and still she mourned,
while everyone else moved on.
Pictures in an album
brought pain as she recalled,
still, gradually she took solace
from the fact he'd lived at all.
We all bear psychic scars
from those we've loved, then lost.
It's the burden of existence
and we all must pay the cost.
She hopes, upon an astral plain,
to meet him face to face.
A place where sorrow turns to joy
and all tears are erased.

The Puritans among us,
Like their kin of yesterdays.
Think they know what’s good for us
Oh, if only we would obey,

They hate it when they see us smoking
They despise our thirst for beer.
They long for a world where all are thin-
a world devoid of cheer.

What tortures modern Puritans?
-and leaves them quite undone-
Is the thought that someone, somewhere,
might still be getting some.

The time machine, itself, was old,
compact, yet seemingly vast.
It prepared now for the journey
The traveler thought would be his last.

Like a ghost in the machine
Lights glimmered, dimmed, then flared.
The time traveler breathed deeply,
nodded that he was prepared.

Back in his distant past he roamed,
back, to his childhood home.
A vanished place now only seen
in creased photos with sepia tones.

But no, the sky a remembered blue,
The white clapboarded home
The lawn, a rich lush emerald hue
and he was not alone.

For at the door his mother stood
as she was in her prime.
To see her once again was worth
all the world and time.

She beckoned him to join her
and she hugged her welcomed guest.
The traveler whispered “Mother”.
as so many have said at their last.

Back in the sterile I.C.U.
There were no vital signs.
The traveler had a D.N.R.
The nurse noted the time.

Our bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'd understand.

I'll never hear his voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

A lovely Latina caught Don Sterling’s eye

And, for sure, there’s no fool like an old one.

It helped he has Billions, You know I don’t lie-

because you must  give sums to get some.



His wife got upset, (you know how they get)

As she saw their cash flow out the door.

“Two cars and a condo! I’ll make him regret

the day he encountered that *****.”



The wife sued the mistress for her “ill gotten” gains,

half of it hers by the law.

Then they caught Don, on tape,

Spewing sound bites of hate-

Now he can’t run his team anymore.



A little blue pill can do old men ill-

It deceives them to think they’re a Stallion.

The next time you reach for an eighteen year old, Don,

I suggest that you pour a MacCallan.

Dark draped the Ferry in confusion
on its final, fatal night.
Survivors spoke of a collision.
They knew that something wasn’t right.
A class of students on a trip
Bound for Jeju from Incheon
The Ferryman said to stay below
but he debarked and they’re all gone.
The ferry Sewol began to list
and water poured in through her ports.
Will anyone present forget the screams?
Souls in torment fill their thoughts.
Search and rescue soon became
a sad and grim recovery.
Their final moments were caught on cellphones
recovered from the silted sea.
The Ferryman has much to answer
About those students left behind
Perhaps in dreams he will be haunted
as young  drowned faces flood his mind.

Born to Run




I’ve seen him play a dozen times,
watched him strike that familiar chord.
He’s never lost the joy of youth
as he starts, again, his song.
Others might go through the motions,
bored to death with the hits they play
Springsteen lives within the moment
until the last notes fade away.
Like Derek Jeter on the base paths
Or, if I might steal DiMaggio’s line,
Springsteen plays on for the fan
who’s seeing him for the first time.

The old man sat in his motorized chair
in a room filled with shadow and light.
His bored health attendant cared for him there
as he made his descent into night.
He longed to remember the smell of her hair,
the woman who had brought him such pleasure.
To escape, for a moment, the dull aching pain
Of the cancer that was taking his measure.
He longed to return to that day long ago,,
They made love in the warm summer rain.
Yet how could he summon the muse of his youth
When he couldn’t remember her name?
Would his kindly Physician take pity on him-,
the old man in his motorized chair?
Would he increase the drip until his heart stilled?
When he died would she be with him there?
He had failed to appreciate, when young and strong,
the pitiless tempo of Time.
He couldn’t remember the words of their song,
to descant at the end of the line.

Taunt, firm, ***** and pleasing fair
and warm amidst the cool night air.
A drop of breast milk is expressed
to please the one who loves it best.
He who waits with undisguised pleasure
to **** upon it at his leisure.
Relax, this is no **** spawned prattle
Just baby Rob and his Two A.M. bottle.

I think you will find
That dating a poet
Is no waste of time.
An ardent poet
will transport you-
with flights of fancy
he will court you.
His catalogue of
All your graces
wll put fond smiles
on knowing faces.
And, if you are
Not so inclined,
Who better
to forlornly pine?
A poet on a string
Who’ll send you verse?
You might do better-
But you could do worse.

I don’t drink any more,
This I freely confess.
Drinking too much
makes ones whole life a mess.

For when I drink too much
I’m a maudlin bore,
and as often as not
I wind up on the floor.

It’s hard to make waves
Or make a big score
When one for the road
means two or three more.

I don’t drink any more
But I think you can guess
My not drinking more
Means I’m not drinking less.

I was waiting on the platform,

waiting for a westbound train.

I was thinking about you

but I didn’t know your name.

I had seen you at the wedding-

You were playing bass guitar.

I didn’t at the time yet know

How wonderful you are.

Amazingly the train was late,

delayed because of rain.

You came with that umbrella.

I forgot about my plane.

I somehow found my courage

to finally ask your name.

In time we would share sorrow

But first we’d share romance.

I’ve no regrets that we two loved-

just grateful for the chance.

Someday I’ll tell our children

How we met there in the rain

How a shared umbrella

brought us close

While waiting for a train.

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll call it a day when I die.
I’m the boss, I don’t plan to retire..
As long as there’s breathe in these lungs
I’ll sing till my body’s past tired.
For music’s a sweet occupation.
and mine is a lyrical line.

I want to see ol’ Warren’s face
When I claim the Billion prize.
When my perfect bracket
takes the cash,
Buffett’s sure to be surprised.
The odds were set against me
much higher than  surmised.
Like making sixty free throws
in only fifty tries.
I’d have a better chance,
They said, to date a super model.
The sort of girl I never get
And google just to ogle.
I bet with Buffet’s cash on hand
I’ll attract their sighs,
Kate and Emmy will cat fight
to be first in my eyes.

It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.

It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins the ultimate game

It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.

It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.

Unless you happen to root for the Mets...

Although we were told
that casualties would be high,
still we rose up,
answering the officer's whistle-
moving our legs through the muck-
cutting our way through
the barbed wire of doubt-

We charged across Love's minefield
driving the foe before us
at this, Love's Passchendaele.

Private Henry Tandey,
in the service of his King.
had his chance to make a difference
at the battle of Marcoing.

A wounded German corporal
came into his line of sight,
Henry raised his rifle
and would have had him dead to rights.

But Henry was war weary
From his time in No man’s land
Who was it Henry didn’t ****?
Adolf ****** was that man’s name.

The Corporal gave his head a nod
And hurried on his way,
Henry Tandey spared his life
to the entire world’s dismay

Abandoned by my former love,
behind these iron bars I wait.
Boredom may overtake me,
Or some other, far worse, fate.
My only hope, a second love,
to redeem me from this place.
Adopt me from this puppy mill
And I’ll gladly lick your face.

The fierce urgency of now
Was never more apparent
than when I took the moviprep
And someone hogged the toilet.

He’d offered her his hand to dance
Politely, she’d declined.
“I have promised many others,
-perhaps another time.”

He accepted this with all good grace-
“Perhaps another time,
When your dance card is nearly full,
The last dance shall be mine.”

The night was young and she was fair,
Men clamored for their chance.
In some eyes she saw routine lust,
In others- true romance.

Her card was signed by many
There remained a single line.
She stopped back at her table
for a final cup of wine.

The dark and handsome stranger
was waiting for her there.
She took his hand without protest
as he rose up from his chair.

He led her to the dance floor
as the band played one last time.
The music was a stately waltz
done in three quarter time.

His arms were strong and masterful
as he led her in the dance
Her will seemed to desert her
as she fell into a trance.

In the half light she looked up
And searched his face and eyes
The eyes of Death looked back at her,
In lust for her demise..

Swept up in her dance with Death,
She uttered not a sound
for she was in his power now.
and destined for the ground.

Sixty Seven years they were together,
until only death did part.
It is difficult for Him to deal with:
Death rends asunder human hearts.
Until this happened his mind seemed clear
in spite of his advancing years.
Then his daughter got the call
That nearly broke her grieving heart
Her Father asking for her mother’s number-
He’s lost Gemma’s number and needs to talk.
He needs to hear her voice again.
To tell her  that his love is true.
Through tears his daughter answers back;
“ I ‘d give you  the number if  I knew.”

The poetry of longing
is but the bright side of despair.
The expression of a yearning
for a love no longer there.
The embodiment of our parting
that cold dark Winter’s night,
brutal in its finality
beneath the stars unblinking light.
We turned there from each other
as two halves, now unpaired,
Each knowing in our hearts
the bitter tasting fare.

James Bond was a dissolute youth
who spent his nights drinking Vermouth
I was shaken, not stirred
when they gave me the word
that his blood test came back  ninety proof.

Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.

Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.

Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.

“Did you see the High Priest’s face,
When Judas came back through the door?
When he threw down the price we paid,
Thirty Pieces, on the floor?”

“He was wild eyed, a bit insane,
as he tossed blood money at the Priest.
He’d been the Galilean’s friend
up until the Pesach feast.”

“They found him later on a tree,
with bulging eyes and blackened tongue.
The High Priest’s servants cut him down
But Judas was already done.”

“So now I’m charged to take his fee
and buy a modest piece of ground-
Where those like Judas can be interred
Who die unloved by anyone.”

I sit in the bottom of a Well,
Its walls worn smooth by time.
Above, a solitary star,
One of seven sisters, shines.
Neutrinos in abundance,
like angels on a pin,
of minute mass, invisible
are forever pouring in.
All about me they dash by
Without an outward sign..
Even in these hidden depths
They’re an elusive find.
They speed on through to other fates
And leave me to my climb.

Ambition is the fatal flame
That consumes the world entire.
The dying emperor well knew that
as his last day expired.
The sight of his own funeral urn
Lead him to exclaim.
“Soon you will contain the man
The world could not contain.”
That same ambition killed one son-
dead at his brother’s hand.
In time it brought that other down
But first it made him mad.

For years we've consumed
far more than we grow-
preferring to reap
what we disdained to sow.
Our savings outstriped
by the sums that we owe.
Sooner or later
we ride to our fall
the banquet of consequences
awaits for us all.

Published today 10.01

There’s safety in numbers
I’ve oft heard it said-
Unless there are ninety cows
stuck in a shed.
Those numerous ruminants
Munching on hay
Produce mucho methane
in the course of a day.
Ninety odd bovines
Snacking on grass
Take in the fuel
And produce moos and gas.
Those flatulent heifers
Many cow pies produced
Until a stray spark
blew a hole in the roof.
It was shocking to the farmer
And a blow to the farm,
But at least we take comfort
That not one cow was harmed.

I came with the wind,
with the wind I will go.
It has always been thus
And will ever be so.
For the wind is his breath
And the Rain is her tears
The sunlight, their glory,
And the darkness, their fears.
More worship the Sunrise,
It seems so to me,
than the fiery Sunset
As it sinks in the sea.
Yet, in truth, both are equal
In pure majesty.

There are guys who wed girls
There are straight folks and gays.
There are those who like single life too.
A fellow in England once wed his T.V.
I’ve known women in love with their shoes.
But the strangest relationship
I ever heard tell
Was the woman who married herself.
She’d waited for years
For “Mister Right” to appear
and was tired up there on the shelf.
So she strolled down the Aisle
With a confident smile
(There was no need to give her away)
She composed her own vows
which drew much raves and wows.
While Justin Timberlake’s “Mirrors” song played.
She thought” who needs a spouse,
They just mess up your house.
So she bought a ******* instead
She vacationed in France
Where no one looks askance
And took “Battery Bob’ to her bed”

Love is Love. I have heard
But this bond is absurd.
You know very well how this ends.
An expensive divorce in a year I forecast
But the Bride and the “Groom” will stay friends.

Not on your lips,
No, not anytime soon.
Your mind has become
Like the dark side of the moon.
Full of holes and lacunae
and dark shadowy walls.
Sometimes words fail you,
More often, recall.
I show you a picture
Of when you were young
I can see it’s a struggle,
on the tip of your tongue.
I wish you could help me
Match names and faces
Caught here in print
In silvery traces
If only a synapse could snap into place
Give you back the dignity
That time has erased.
Then you could name these comrades
headed off to the war.
Maybe then could you tell me
where past years are.

The tourists will be packing bags
eager to make the trip.
Not to go and see the Broncos.
Not to go and see the Mint.
They will flood the mile high city
hoping to get higher still.
Put that in your pipe and smoke,
Denver does the people’s will.
For folks who **** on Cannabis
Denver must seem like Heaven
Me I want a franchise there,
Selling munchies at seven Eleven.

There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking

much

For 40 years Joe waited
For the chance to buy a pair
Of Packer season tickets.
He was verging on despair.
That time had seen Joe
wed and Dumped,
his children grown and fled.
Joe had waited half a lifetime,
far too long for a cheese head.
Then came the notice in the mail
The ducats could be thine.
Joe jumped out of his rocking chair
in ecstasy sublime.
He danced and screamed
And shouted out
Like he would when
Green Bay Scored.
Just then Joe gasped and clutched his chest
And fell dead on the floor.
It’s sad Joe never got the chance
to cheer them from on high
To freeze his *** at Packer’s games
It’s so unfair Joe died
Still, tickets shouldn’t go to waste
So I stepped up and bought the pair.
The seats are up in “Heaven”
I’m certain Joe don’t care

Of poor old Joe, my dear late friend,
I cannot find a trace
I fear he found seats down below
in a far, far ,warmer place.

The moon in shadow lay
in solstice's midnight hour.
Distant stars gave off dim light
how feeble seemed their powers.
Dark cloaked Druids skulked about,
They moved from tree to tree
gathering the mistletoe
for their dread ceremony.
Primal terror filled my veins,
the blood borne juice of fear.
What should happen to you and I
if the Priests should find us here?

Father Time stood undefeated.
Bonds came close, but Barry Cheated.
Roger Clemens had a career for the ages
but oft fell prey to roid based rages.
Mariano Rivera was a more worthy foe
No pharmacological freak was Mo.
He threw one pitch, his control well learned,
and he chose to leave on his own terms.
I stood up and joined the cheers
the day Rivera last appeared
and, though I wept to see him go,
Time would never lay him low.
Mo Struck out Time, he had it cooking
A called third strike that left Time looking
like Beltran caught in the bright lights
good morning, good Evening and Good NIGHT!

On a lonely road they traveled,
Michael Collins and his friends.
Though the road led to
Cork City
He would never see its end.
For the I.R.A. was waiting
where they knew that he must pass.
O’Neil, an I.R.A. man,
T’was him who fired the fatal blast.
Kitty Kiernan made a widow
before she ever was a bride.
On an August day in Twenty two
Brave Michael Collins died.

“Mister Whitman, I am thankful that you have consented to give me some of your time so that  I can finished my article about you for the Gazette.”

“Please, Call me Walt. Everyone else does.”

The famous poet is just a little shorter than myself, his hair and beard grown quite Grey..  His study is modestly furnished. While he is certainly comfortable there is nothing about this room that speaks fo great wealth.

“Do you enjoy living here? It must be so calm compared to New York and Washington.”

“Camden is a good enough place to retire.  After all that I have witnessed, I am content to rest in my modest little house. The Widow Davis, my friend and housekeeper, keeps the place neat enough and permits me to keep on at my work. Sadly, the words no longer come easily to me. For you see, Son,  I had a mild stroke, some years ago, and afterwards the voice of my muse which used to sing loudly to me became a still tiny voice that I had to be very attentive to hear. Most of the time my muse is drowned out completely by the noises of human existence. Camden has grown considerably since the War Between the States. Even before Mother died, it was on its way to becoming a modern town, although not so grand as Philadelphia or Washington.”

“Walt, I’ve brought you and your guest some coffee and a Couple of those Butter cookies that you love.”.
“Thank you, Mary, that is most kind.”
“I’ll leave them here beside your desk on this little table. I am going out now to visit Anne Walker and I have to make a trip to the store for tonight’s dinner.”  I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“I probably don’t actually need the butter cookies, but I was brought up to be polite. At least with Mrs. Davis out and about this afternoon, it will give us quiet to finish up our interview. The light on these winter afternoons fades a little after Four O’clock and I find myself growing tired and sleepy along with the dying of the light. In my whole long life I have never been a man who loved winter. I have always been one to rejoice at the coming of spring.  I would make an exception only for the war years. During the War the killing slacked off a bit in the Winter, except in 62’ when that fool Burnside attacked St Mary’s Heights and ordered so many to their deaths.
Our hospital in Washington was busy after Fredericksburg. All those fine young men, boys really, some missing an eye, most a limb. The worse were the ones who were gut shot and a long time dying. For them there was nothing that we could do except to offer them some Morphine for the pain.”
“How did you get involved in the abolitionist movement?
“For several years after I left off teaching on Long Island, I edited and published newspapers. The work took me, for a time, to New Orleans before the war. The sight of the slave’s misery on the auction blocks and the way they were treated by their masters convinced me that Slavery had to end. I left that place and came back to Brooklyn to publish a Freeman’s Journal. That is what lead me to become a Republican and support Mr. Lincoln in 60’.”

“How did you become involved in the War effort as a volunteer Nurse?”

I was a abolitionist before and during the war. At first, I made it my mission to visit the wounded in the hospitals.  When it was my brother who was wounded, I travelled to Washington to nurse him back to health. It was there that I found my true calling; tending to the Union maimed and dying. I was not formally trained in the caring profession of Nursing but I learned by watching and then doing. I became proficient in tending to the sick and relieving the suffering of those about to die.   I have seldom been commercially successful with my writing, other than the one edition of Leaves of Grass which enjoyed strong sales after the war and earned me enough to buy and maintain this townhouse.  During the War and for several years afterward, I clerked in the Department of the interior.”
“How did it come about that you left the department?”

“It turned out that my immediate superior was not a fan of my poetry, and, once he found out that I was the same Walt Whitman who was the author of that scandalous book of verse; my employment was at an end.”   “It was all for the best, really. Mother was doing very poorly by then and my brother was not up to the task of caring for her.”  

“Do you think you will ever publish another book of verse?”

I will certainly try. It is just that as I told you previously, the words don’t come as easily as once they did.  For those ten years before during and after the war I was on fire with the pure bright flame of inspiration”. Now I don’t know if the world changed or I did. Both, I suspect.”

“The passions that excite us when we are young grow cool. They become replaced with tiredness and resignation.”
“Well Walt, for me your verse never grows old. It has been an honor to me you and I hope you enjoy my article when it appears in the Gazette.” “If I can successfully decipher my shorthand, I should have enough for a thousand words.”

Mister Whitman bade me farewell at the door.  As it turned out we would never meet again, unless it be on the streets of Heaven. His housekeeper found him the next morning.  He had passed in his sleep, perhaps from another stroke.  My editor helped me redraft my article and it became the obituary of a great American. The memory of our brief meeting remains seared in my memory.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

Drop by drop
the daily grid
fills my cup
and perks my mind.
it's heady aroma
thrills me still
as i hand the barista
a ten for the till.
A dash of cinnamon
just for the taste
as my mocha-latte
makes a trip to my face.
My steamed milk mustache
mirrors my smile
as my favorite chair beckons
me to stay for a while.
I nod to a friend
in the usual crew
and sit back to savor
my coffee-licious brew.

The walls of this place
have protected me
since the moment I
was first aware..
Here in the darkness
I float upside down
like a fruit bat
asleep in his lair.
Now I feel pressure
and pushing
Something’s draining
the fluid of life.
A dim glow growing
constantly brighter
at the end of a tunnel
there’s light
My heart beat
is marathon racing
as I’m dragged from
my sinecure dark.

This new place is large
and its freezing
Put me back in,
I beg you
I scream.
My protests are ignored
as I’m prodded some more
Then I’m slapped
on the ****
by some cur
I’m lain down
on a warm curvy belly
and this woman, called mom,
weakly smiles.
At least this part
doesn’t seem
frightening
Perhaps I will stay
for awhile

Of Celestial Beings
and omnipotent Kings,
the poets tend to
ramble.
Triune Godhead,
If explained,
Can leave your poor wits
scrambled.
Approach Him, rather,
In a cave
in service as a
stable.
Behold Him there, the guiltless Babe,
In that setting rather odd;.
The smiling baby Jesus,
the human face of God.

This is a Christmas time request
to join in a good deed.
I’m Giving a pint at Christmastime
To strangers who are in need.

So raise your sleeve and not your glass
Don’t let blood banks run dry!
The pint you give might help one live
Who otherwise might die.

Then afterwards we’ll raise a glass,
two heroes, you and I.
We must replenish after all
And not let the well run dry.

I have never been an advocate
Of “woman’s right to choose”
because I think an infant’s life
is too precious to lose.

In the case of Marie Fleming,
I might plead for an exception:
This brave Irish woman,
Her body wracked with mortal pain,
Sought surcease from suffering-.
a peaceful rest to gain.

She did not fear that final breath
as the young and healthy do.
She sought a death with dignity-
the same as me and you.

MS was her enemy-
She could not do the deed.
She asked the courts to let friends help
To be there in her need.

Denied of an assisted end,
Marie died yesterday.
I hope that she passed peacefully
and sleeps til Judgment day.

Her wicker casket was borne to church,
She rests there in the yard.
She bore pain unendurable
before she met her God.

We are more merciful to pets
When they face shorter odds
Than the courts were to Marie
Who‘d been dealt the thirteenth card.

I just want to wish a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow poets and poetesses  here on Hello Poetry.  this site has given me a forum that I appreciate, surrounded by so much talent and such good people.

Duck Dynasty has been replaced
by the folks at “A” & “E”.
we’re “GLAAD” to hear they lost their spot
to Zeus and company.
It’s felt the morals of Zeus ‘clan
Reflect the zeitgeist better.
Zeus is fond of little boys,
Swans, and shapely heifers.
Hera, his wife, of all her kids,
loves Artemis the most.
Apollo and Athena
Leave no room for the “Holy ghost”
Dionysus will do well
while hawking wine and beer.
Though Polyphemus freaks me out
Fans say he is a dear.
So tune in for the Sausage fest
And watch the hunt for ******.
The role of Ganymede has been cast-
He’s played by Justin Bieber.