Clodius’ ashes rose above
The Curia in flames.
His supporters filled the streets
crying out his name.
In a city ruled by violence,
One wracked by rival mobs,
The rule of law grew as silent
as the altars of her gods.
Pompey the great, sole consul,
His ally, Milo, would betray...
The eloquent grew fearful
of themselves becoming prey.

I said my plans out loud
and heard a deep throated chuckle.
I felt so foolish and exposed
and in a muckle of trouble.
For there’s many a slip
Twixt the cup and the lip
For those who chance to dare
And though you flee from
City to City
Fate will find you there.
So keep your secrets to your self
and shelter your designs.
Don’t dare to whisper on the wind
The debts you owe to Time.

Thinking about the end of the World
should not keep you sleepless at night.
If predicted correctly, you’ll never get credit-
So what does it pay to be right?
To wrongly predict the end of the World
will make you the **** of derision.
As Harold Camping found out
To his shock and dismay
when reality triumphed his vision.
We know not the day or the hour my friends
when Gabriel’s trumpet might blast.
With kindness and patience so live this life
You will not be ashamed of your past.

Regulation time was up
and our team one goal behind.
At the referees sole discretion
Is the length of stoppage time.
How much time do we have left?
What difference can we make?
Already we’re shorthanded
And the playoffs are at stake.
We’re like a man whose heart has failed
a time or two before.
Each time nearly off with death
Until revived for more.
Or somebody whose lease is up
And headed for the door,
Waiting only for the truck
to take their past to store.
I heard my pulse race in my ears
As I penetrate their line.
I tuck the ball inside the post
And score in stoppage time.

Just ahead a shootout waits
which will decide our fate.
When playing games of sudden death
What a difference seconds make.

I think snow and I could become better friends
if Snow would confine itself to where the grass ends.
Snow should linger on ski slopes, packed powder preferred.
On my driveway and walks snow should not be observed.
For this white gift from heaven is not very nice.
Snow is cold and it's wet and it soon turns to ice.
Snow snarls my commute and makes parking a mess.
My back hates when I shovel, but I fear I digress.
Snow is beautiful, falling, driven by the wind,
but a pain in the ***** when the clean up begins.
Oh, I could wax poetic of snow's pristine beauty,
but my wife has assigned me to shoveling duty.
The lottery Genie could do me a big favor,
if my numbers all hit, she could well prove my savior.
On my beach, I'd recline, with a drink in my hand
and sing of "White Christmas" with my own back up band.

The night is still and cold and clear
As Christmas Day draws ever near.
I hear the church bells start to ring
And hear angelic Choirs sing:

“Peace on Earth, Good will to men,
This day a Savior is born for them.”
A child is born to be a King,
This is the essential thing.”

A tree adorned with lights and glitter
in two weeks’ time will just be litter,
Wrapping paper, ripped and torn,
will be in landfills before too long.

Concentrate upon the star,
The guiding light to who we are.
Never, Never condescend
To live in darkness
once again

I wore a gold Star.
I bear a tattoo.
When Six Million died
I was one of the few,
Through the mercy of God
or the missed chance of Fate,
I escaped from the boxcar
into winter’s dim light.

My parents and sister,
Long are dust on the wind.
Their faith and their race
were their only known sins
Now, though stooped and arthritic,
I still testify
To the bitter cup tasted
when the Six Million died.


(An elderly docent at the Shoah Center recalls his brush with death at the hands of the Gestapo)

If you seek to Kindle passion,
but your mate is always cold,
You should buy a Hoodie Footie
from Pajama- gram I'm told..

The Hoodie keeps her ears warm
While the feeties warm her toes.
Toss in some wine and music
as her mood for passion grows.

Then you pull down on the zipper
that covers groin to chin
the girl is now on fire
and the romance can begin.

Except there was a problem
that derailed my new found luck.
My seduction didn't figure
on the zipper getting stuck.

Now she's ***** and unsatisfied
and feeling like she's fried
and I'm here sleeping on the couch
( at least I'm not outside)

A Poet named Catullus
and Lesbia, his muse,
lived in a time of Civil War
when loyalties are confused.

Their field of battle was their bed
where Love and lust contend.
That place where all their passion
petered out and found an end.

It would seem Hades hath no fury
like a Latin poet scorned.
His Lesbia he would abuse
in prose, in Rhyme and song.

Where once he praised her beauty
and swore they'd never part,
he now condemns her deviousness
and damns her cheating heart.

The more things change
they stay the same
when Love decays to hate
They, who once coiled in adulterous sheets,
now despise each others name.

It used to be they’d be together
All around town;
Down at the beach or out on the sound
Now she’s broken hearted, he’s no longer around.

Please don’t ask her to explain,
Instead she tells it to the rain.

He used to tell his friends
He was sure she’s the one,
for no one was more beautiful
or could be more fun.
But she won’t wear his ring,
Now that Love's come undone.

Please don’t ask him to explain
Instead he tells it to the rain.

Their breakup causes problems
Beyond their private pain;
When friends start choosing sides
things just won’t be the same.
I heard that she got jealous of
Some girl named Lorraine-

But please don’t ask them to explain-
Just let them tell it to the rain.

If I had the world and time,
ample wine and leisure,
then I might be well content
to give myself to pleasure.
Oh what fun indolence is
with all the world my treasure.
But infinity is not the cloth
of which I'm cut and measured.
The Fates that cut say time is short,
I cannot bide forever.
I preserve my time
in bits of rhyme
so posterity thinks me clever.
A prophet in his own home town
appreciated never.

It was on this day in Thirty one,
That our City got this present;
A Douglas fir, nearly 20 feet,
in Rockefeller Center.
Just simple workmen giving thanks-
Not a single one percenter!

There was just a hint of tinsel
and no lights upon that tree.
Tiffany did not mold Glass stars
for common folks to see.
On that Inauguration day
No speeches certainly.

The stand was simply two by fours
Formed in a simple cross
The Evergreen a symbol
of Everlasting life, of course.
A tiny hint of sacred
amidst Secularity.

Those were dark days in our nation
with so many in distress.
Was it faith or Optimism
The workers were trying to express?
Perhaps they are one and the same
Just in a different dress.


Tonight we light a grander tree
And the mayor makes a speech.
These are days when a better life
seems just beyond our reach.
No longer called a Christmas tree,
Divorced now from that Faith
I feel like something precious died
And we’re left with just the Wraith.

The silent assassins came floating down,
Tiny but deadly they came.
Two thousand dead mice,
Stuffed full of Tylenol,
On the island of Guam they deplaned.

To **** off the snakes
That are killing Guam’s birds
Tylenol should do the trick
A mere 80 milligrams
Can **** a grown snake
Or at least make them terribly sick.


I hope this works better
Than the Mongoose Brigade
We deployed on Hawaii’s fair shores.
They were sent to **** rats
But instead took long naps
And the birds are more rare than before.

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

When, as a child, I thought about
a future to be planned,
I saw myself upon the mound
with a baseball in my hand.
I’d fantasize about the game
throwing at our garage door.
Fearlessly I toed the rubber
and reached down for something more.
I learned the basics of control,
a fastball and a slider.
If I could only get my curve to break
I’d really be on fire.
Through long summer afternoons
From sixty feet, six inches.
I’d shake off imaginary signs
and called my own dammed pitches.
There was a problem, I confess,
one troubling me greatly.
My fastball wasn’t all that fast-
It topped out about eighty.
I also stand at Five foot eight
and, even then, was hefty.
But I think I could have made “The Show”
if I had been born a Lefty.
Published today 09.12

For years the burdens had built up,
on rods and brace and wood,
as Mother purchased suits and shoes
for each sale seemed so good.
Her credit cards were overtaxed,
(But she loved those rewards),
So of Course Black Friday found her shopping,
adding to her hoard.
Her selves were packed with memories;
sales too good to ignore.
I heard her scream
As everything
Came crashing to the floor.
Her injuries were minor
For this I thank the Lord
But replacement closets aren't cheap-
My wallet will be gored.
I wish she would discard some stuff
She hasn't worn in years.
I fear I lack the fortitude
To dry so many tears..
She’s been a faithful friend it’s true
I love her for the world,
It just takes some getting used to-
living with a material girl.

Published December 01, 2013

If Father Mychal Judge gave you a hug, it was something you would not soon forget. It was not a burly bone crushing sort of bear hug that you could get from anybody. It was a delicate gentle hug as if he knew he was dealing with someone exquisitely fragile.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Mychal Judge had felt called to a Priestly vocation since his days as an altar boy. He was also a celibate gay man and a recovering alcoholic. He attended A.A. meetings in the basement of Good Sheppard Episcopal Church and was as an apostle to the gay community when elements of the mainstream church often turned their backs upon them. The Franciscan priest had a special care for the New York City fire department and was one of five Catholic Chaplains assigned to the Fire Department.
His frame was small but wiry. He had a shock of white hair that stood out in a room and a lovely tenor voice that would bust into a favorite Irish air at the drop of a hat. A member of the New York Irish diaspora, he loved to spend his spare time listening to Irish and Irish American folk music in the clubs and dives of Manhattan.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001, dawned as beautiful of a fall day in New York as any would ever see. Father Mychal was up early and went to vote in the primary, then briefly stopped back at the Franciscan friary for a morning cup of coffee with the brothers. There was a radio on in the background and that was when he first heard news of a commercial jet crashing into the North tower of the world trade center. Father Mychal knew that his boys would be going in harm’s way to fight those flames and he immediately rose from the table and set out to the scene.
Even before he arrived, a second commercial jetliner came crashing into to the south tower. The flames on the upper floors were so intense that many trapped office workers chose to leap to their deaths below rather than be consumed alive by the flames like some latter day heretics.
One of Father Mychal’s firemen had been mortally injured just outside North tower by one of the leapers. Oblivious to his own safety Father Mychal knelt down beside the dying man and gave him the last rites of the church. Father then got to his feet and, in the company of several firemen, entered the lobby of the North tower. They were heading for the emergency command center on the floor above the lobby when there was an unearthly roar as the stricken south tower collapse upon the streets of Manhattan. The world inside the North tower grew dark with smoke, soot and debris. Fearful that the North tower was coming down the men scrambled for shelter in a stairwell, all except for Father Mychal. A flying shard of metal stuck the Padre just after he had been heard by some to say “Sweet Jesus, make it end now!”
In the dark and flaming ruins of the North tower command center, it was difficult to breath and impossible to see clearly. The survivors of the group emerged from the stairwell where they had taken refuge and stumble across the beloved Padre’s body on the steps. Not wanting to abandon him in death, they placed him in a plastic chair and fire strong men lifted him up and carried him out of the dying North Tower, mere minutes before it too would collapse.
On the sidewalk of Church and Vesey streets, two catholic firemen said prayers over the body of their fallen companion, for no Priest was available to give Father Mychal the last rites of the church. Then he was brought to Old Saint Peter’s church and laid upon the Altar, his fireman’s helmet placed upon his chest.
They sent an ambulance into the devastated streets to retrieve the body of their fallen comrade. They bought him back to the house at Engine 1 Ladder 24 and placed his remains in the first of over two thousand body bags that would be used in the days and weeks that followed. That is how a humble priest who never put himself first in life came to be victim 0001 of the Twin towers disaster.
Hundreds of brave firemen and police gave their lives on that tragic day, the toll in the firehouse of lower Manhattan was especially heavy as you would expect. Time passes, lives end, and eventually there will only be the films the photos and the artifacts to remind the children of our children of that beautiful, terrible day in September.

Her love proved insufficient,
or , worse, illusory.
So you struggle bravely on alone
towards your Calvary.

Remember One who, too ,faced death
abandoned by his friends.
He, too, felt forsaken,
and cried out at the end.

We prisoners all face one fate.
It is our common link.
We all will share this cup of pain
that you are forced to drink.

Yet In this charnel house of Earth
another lies alone.
One, like you, that a
lack of Love has struck a fatal blow.

An evil illness stalks your days
but Love lives in your heart.
bring Love to an unloved one,
and you will have played your part.

John O’Sullivan was an electrical engineer for Consolidated Edison for Forty years. He drove himself and his staff hard, and took pride in the smooth operation of his substation on the lower East side of Manhattan.  When a man like John, who proudly self-identified as a type “A” personality, decides to take a break it so often proves to be a serious if not fatal mistake.

In the summer of 2007, my cousin John took his wife, Margaret, on a rare vacation out of the country to the sun swept beaches of Aruba.  While a beach vacation was perfect for Margaret, who loved nothing better than to lounge in the sun reading her book, it was a form of physical and mental torture for her husband.  He grew restless lying beside her in the hot midwinter sun as his pasty white skin turned a robust red despite his constant application of sunscreen.

I will never be sure what precipitated John’s near fatal stroke on that vacation trip. It may have been a combination of too much alcohol and too much sun. It is even possible that he had mixed up his daily medications.  All I know is that when my cousin was air lifted to a State side hospital, he was suffering the consequences of a severe brain damaging event.

When I saw John in the hospital, I could see that he had lost most of the use of the right side of his body and that he was going to be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. While he certainly recognized me and tried to smile and communicate as best he could with gestures and a wave of his hand he had lost nearly all his power of speech.

My college educated, urbane sophisticated cousin’s vocabulary was very much diminished by the cerebral accident and now consisted of one word: “Bang”. He made the most of his one word personal dictionary. He could, by variation in tone and inflection, make his one word sound like a greeting, a farewell, a warning, a curse or a need for intention.

The word “bang” could express a terrible wellspring of frustration.  John had spent most of his life in a position of command, first as a Marine noncom,, then as the chief Engineer who ran the substation that powered the lower part of Manhattan. Words, to him, were as vital as eyes were to an artist, ears to an artist or taste buds to a gourmoo.

Locked inside my cousin was the person we had formerly known. He was not like an Alzheimer’s victim whose mind had staged a gradual retreat from his body. Rather, I am convinced, he was being held prisoner within the folds of his damaged Parietal lobe.

From the first, there has been no question that he would never set foot in his old offices on E 14th Street again.  There could be no grand retirement party, just a quiet filing of his papers and the first payments from his retirement plan.  These were sufficient, along with his other investments, to provide him and his wife with a modest, comfortable retirement.  If not for the crash that swept the stock market in 2008, his stocks would have been sufficient to permit a healthy cousin John and his wife to tour the world. Now, in the shadow of the great recession, his remaining capital paid for the home health aides and medications that maintained his precarious existence.

Margaret passed on late in 2011, a problem with her heart, the attending physician said. I saw Cousin John at her wake, the chief mourner unable to express his grief.  I took his good hand and expressed my fellow feeling for his loss. My poor words of condolence were inadequate but he gave my hand a gentle squeeze and whispered “bang” which told me he understood. It was a gentle voice from somewhere out on the edge of sadness.

With Margaret gone, the primary responsibility for John’s care was taken over by his daughter Megan and her husband.  The family sold off the big old house in Yorkville and John moved in with Megan’s family in Pelham.  There his pension and savings paid for 24/7 nursing care and a physical therapist. It must have been a source of humiliation for this proud man, a Marine veteran of  the 26th Marine Battalion  who had  fought at Khe Sanh, to be laid upon a table and have his limbs moved by others to maintain their muscle tone in vain attempts  to retrain his surviving brain.

I last saw my cousin at the Fourth of July family picnic.  He had good color and displayed a healthy appetite. He really enjoyed the fireworks display on the East River. He said “Bang” repeatedly, with all the enthusiasm of a young child.

I got the sad news about John the day after Hurricane Sandy struck the New York area.  My cousin Megan was understandably upset and was blaming herself for allowing her father to watch the news on T.V.  He had become visibly agitated when Eyewitness news showed the Con Edison plant of E14th Street exploding and the lower half of Manhattan plunging into darkness. Megan said that Dad screamed “BANG” in a tortured voice, then slumped back into his chair and was gone.

I never did get to the services for Cousin John.  My own house was without power and heat and the gas in my tank was too dangerously low to risk the trip in those days immediately following the storm. I still think of my late cousin often, and when I do I toss a bootless prayer for him into the winds of Eternity. The substation on E. 14th has been repaired; The damaged homes ripped down or rebuilt and the reminders of the storm grow fewer and fewer like the surface of the sea grown calm in the wake of the storm.

When making arrangements for ending it all
be sure to consume the right pills,
for the medicine chest contains many things
They prescribe now to cure other ills.
He’d said his goodbyes and he’d written the note
On the day that he thought was his last.
When he saw he’d O.D’d on Cialis instead
he was taken back and aghast.
For Cupid, not Thanatos, had answered his call
leaving him hard as dried plaster!
Though his wife was impressed-
And gave it her best-
He still throbbed on the edge of disaster.
Two pros they then called
To give it their all
To deal with this “gift” that keeps giving.
Despite their best efforts
He rampant remained
And he thought to himself “This is living”.
His medical doctor had just the thing
to keep Priapism in check.
When he finally went slack
There was no turning back
They at least kept it out of the Press
Upon further reflection
the hope of resurrection
Made him rip up his note and go on
For Life is worth living
with a wife so forgiving
of a spouse with a four hour bone.

I saw her just the other day,
But, not knowing what to say, I turned away.
For she has lost her only son,
off fighting in the war.
A bootless war that lingers on
Like a chancre sore.
There are others like her;
Gold stars in windows shine-
For brave boys brought home in boxes
for “no one’s left behind. “
There’s no word that refers to her
Who has lost her only child.
A remnant who lingers here
the last one of her line.
I’ve seen her tend his graveside
like she once made his childhood bed.
She keeps the flowers watered,
trims the grass above his head.
In her Living room, a folded flag
A grateful nation’s gift
To remind her of one she loved so
Whose death left her bereft.

For those who view abortion different;
As the ****** of an unborn innocent,
There’s a Newtown massacre every day
with nameless victims for whom they pray.
Not wishing to gainsay the law
of privacy or woman’s right to choose.
Praying more for a change of heart,
for children not to be refused.
For there are songs that might have been
That never will be sung.
Blank Canvases, devoid of paint,
That never will be done.
In truth, a generation lost,
As one was lost before;
The first upon the fields of France,
the next on Clinic floors.
No firearms employed this time
but the carnage is the same;
Helpless bodies torn apart
Their blood poured down the drain.
I’ve seen the people up in arms
When Madmen use their right to choose,
But abortionists grow fat and rich
Please understand why I’m confused.

For Forty years he’d played and coached
and referred the game.
Now Alzheimer’s stolen
nearly all except his name.
With his past now dis-remembered
and all hope of a future gone
what else was there left to him
except to just play on.
The pickup game he’d played for years
Became his sole relief
He played with men he once knew well
before he met time’s thief.
You see him running on the pitch
with purpose, or with none.
And if he goes off sides at times
his friends say no harm done.
Like a child, he chases *****.
His scoring touch is gone.
Yet, in the moment, he finds joy
And so he just plays on.

It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.

For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!

Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.

Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.

So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.

Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.

Beneath a grey, forbidding sky,
as all the Saints looked on,
Kevin Barry climbed the scaffold,
by the order of the Crown.
He would not betray his fellows
to the agents of the State.
By Courts martial, they condemned him
to a common villains fate.
This morn at Mount joy jail
as the World looked on, aghast,
the hangman’s rope snapped Kevin’s neck
and Barry breathed his last.
Denied a soldier’s bullet,
Kevin hung upon a tree,
Just eighteen, but a martyr
for the cause of Liberty.
Let him never be forgotten;
As long as we have voice to sing.
He is past all trial and suffering
at the hands of Earthly Kings.

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 their 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.

The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.

The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.

In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.

I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”

The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.

We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.

He was certainly buzzed,
Drunk, a better word,
When his convertibles wheel
Struck a tree near the curb..
A woman’s scream;
then silence, shock.
He whispered her name
But no one answered back.

The artist was dying,
But still he observed:
The drip, drip, of his blood
Onto asphalt that’s cracked.
Death imitates art.
Now break, gentle heart.
Sirens sound in the distance
a bright light in the dark.
As all neurons fired
in search of a spark.

I remember, when I was young,
Gloria Lynne and this song she sung,
She sang with perfect pitch:
I wish you Love.”

It was a light Blues serenade,
A song my older sisters played.
As I would sip my Lemonade
She wished me love.

Now that heart of hers,
so full of Love
Has become one
with Him above.
So, with regrets,
As fate abets,
She’s been set free

Yet on a certain day in Spring
If I should chance to hear
a bluebird sing.
I may recall
That, after all,
She wished me Love.

The corn is crowned with flowers
as harvest's end draw near.
Men and Women, Lads and maids
all raise a rousing cheer.
Pile high the wagon with the fruits
of Ceres Golden Horn.
The fortune of the fields is ours
for now is Harvest Home.

If all my life was perfect,
and all right with the world.
My pen would suffer from disuse.
My parchment not unfurled.
For what fool indeed
would waste his time
scribbling down lines
When Dame Love beckons to the feast
and all the world was mine.

No, irritation is my muse
and I her slaving churl
who palpitates a bit of grit
until it is
a
Pearl.

The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.

The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)

It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.

Orion, mighty hunter,
is casting down his light.
He is my lone companion
On this frosty winter‘s night.

Not long ago, not far away
He shone upon us two.
Back when we were still in love,
Before you said we’re through.

I wonder what you’re doing tonight.-
Tucking in the children, turning out the light?
Do you toss and turn the same way
I do every night?
I wonder what you’re doing tonight.

It’s possible we’re laughing,
both, at the same comedy.
It will have a happy ending-
unlike the tale of you and me.


It could be that we’re wishing,
both, on the self-same star.
Those wishes cannot be the same
For wishes seldom are.

I wish you were remembering me
but you wish to forget.
Both wishes go unheeded
in a lifetime of regret.

I wonder what you’re doing tonight?
Tucking in the children, turning out the light?
Do you toss and turn the same way
I do every night?
I wonder what you’re doing tonight.

Here was age and here was beauty,
The nearly young and very old-
women standing ,stripped stark naked
there were forty in all told.
That cold Spring morn
In Sobior, the SS planned to test
Their newest means of ******
On these Jewesses undressed.
First robed of everything they’d owned,
Then compelled to disrobe-
Forced into the chamber
Where monoxide soon took hold.
First the banging on the door
That was securely locked
Screams and imprecations
Then silence borne of shock.
Ten minutes it was over
The last of them had passed
An open pit would be their grave
Their fortunes had been cast..

The path that led up from the camp
To where they breathed their last,
We Germans called the “Himmelstrasse”
For even villains need a laugh.
But on this day in Forty three
The sheep did more than mutter
They killed a dozen guards then fled.
They would not yield like the others.

The old man sat on a log near the road,
with his faithful dog right by his side.
They had been walking
on the trail through the woods
when he’d felt something different inside.
Perhaps if I rest
For a bit T’would be best.
It is a hot day after all.
He looked at the trees
In their splendor of green
But the heat made him wish for the Fall.
He thought of the Love of his life,
Mary, his wife,
And part of him let fall a tear.
For clearly he knew that this pain in his chest
Gave proof that his own end was near

They found the old man on the log near the road
His faithful pet still by his side.
Death had come quickly
And his face seemed composed
Like a poet who’s finished his lines.
They found in his hands
His poet’s notebook
And the EMT read his last words:

You’re my Eve and my Eden;
Please don’t mar with your weeping
the face that I loved most of all.
But take care of the Garden
We tended together
Until I again come to call.

Vile stubby fingers invading all my holes,
You take my body in your chubby hands.
You swing me in an arc along your side
And violently heave me in the air.
I crash down on a track of polished wood
And dizzily set off for parts unknown.
I smash into a bunch of wooden pins-
The seven and the ten I leave alone.
A spinning wheel prevents me from escape
And launches me back again to where you wait.
Though you will try your best I’d have to bet
The split I left is not one you can make.

What is a Slave? A slave is a human being who works but is not allowed to keep the fruits and profits of his labors. He is forced by his master to deliver up the fruits of his efforts under threat of punishment and receives back a bare minimum sustenance. Tax Freedom day is now approximately June 30th each year. When we were younger it occurred in April, then May. So I figure that we now are "Half Slave, and Half Free" No nation can endure, half slave and half free- or so somebody once said.

For years it was the seat of Love;
an all-consuming fire.
Eros was his guiding light
to which his thoughts aspired.
His words have touched so many hearts,
a master of his art.
But now his heart is silent
but not his Heart’s desire.
For, surely, one who loved so well
lives on an astral plane.
I cast my verses and my pen
With Shakespeare in the grave
And pray the Lord his soul to keep
While we his music save.

Like the ancient wanderers
This orb of gas and stone
Travels through the Universe
But this one is all alone.
It hasn’t a companion,
No star to circle round.
If it formed around a gaseous disk
The others are all gone.
It wanders lonely
Deep in space
Off to parts unknown,
Perhaps to find a willing star
and finally find a home

Once, upon the Salisbury plain,
the English Elms stood stately tall.
Sergent's paintings leave us memories
for there are now few left at all.

Perhaps when you were young you spent
Long summer days beneath their shade.
Then a fungus left them bare
and horticulturists were dismayed.

In Canada's far North remains
examples of the old Elm Trees
In Amsterdam they cultivate
Elms resistant to disease.

So in our children's children's time
I pray that we might live to see
once again on Salisbury plain
Elms such as live in memory.

The first taste of Fall
made the young sapling fret.
“My leaves, once were green,
Now the cold turns them red.”
“Now look, how they fall,
How they clutter the ground.
and now I’m bare naked
My leaves are all down!”


I sympathize tree, really, I do.
I once had a full head of hair
much like you.
First it went grey
when it used to be brown.
Then I, too, got denuded
And now sport a bare crown.
But you, by this Spring,
Will be back in your glory,
But the hair I once had?
That’s a much different story.

A distraught mother with her daughter
ventured too close to the flame.
Her erratic driving provoked panic;
The police reaction was insane.

What justification can there be
for gunning down an unarmed foe?
What cause for use of lethal force
When she had nowhere left to go?

By some miracle her child was spared
though 15 bullets pierced their Lexus.
She’s too young to recall this day
or her Mother’s final nexus.

Suicide by cop, most likely,
will be the Media’s diagnosis.
She was not some terrorist-
just a victim of psychosis.

The officer who gunned  her down-
And saw her body at his feet-
Might not like his mirror much,
Might need medicines to sleep

There is a bankrupt government
Down in Washington D.C
A petty despot is presiding
from sea to shining sea.

The Senate is dysfunctional
The House perhaps is worse-
Obsessed with banning *** acts
That they hadn't thought of first.

They furloughed the non- essentials-
Eight hundred thousand out the door.
Had they looked around the chamber
They could find five hundred more!

They’ll be no negotiations
As they fight over the purse
We’ll pay fines or buy insurance
Affordable care-my ***.

A President elected
Largely based upon his skin
Will be followed by a woman
With more baggage than an INN

A bigger group of hypocrites
I hope never to see
Than this Congress full of Baboons
Posturing on T.V.

On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
I will not hear those notes again
for Sandman’s gone away.

With one out still left in the ninth
Two men approached the mound.
Jeter said “It’s time to go.”
The ballpark roared with sound.

Was there a dry eye in the house
when even Hall of Famers weep?
That night, Mo’s opponents cheered,
for the man who spelled relief..

For when a game was on the line-
Foes threatening to score;
One man, one pitch was all it took
as Rivera barred the door.

On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
They will not play his song again
for Sandman’s gone away.

Long before my father's time
this oak had reached maturity,
and, baring flame or lightening strike,
she will outlast my dying day.
her children, all about her now,
were acorns when I learned to read, and,
long before I had my words,
she gave a home to migrant birds.
Biologists say some DNA
is shared in common by man and oak
but somewhere down life's own gnarled tree
we branched off to the forms you see.
The Oak, long Lived, gives thanks to God
while standing sentinel in our yard.
Restless short lived beings like me
sip merlot and write poetry.
Her leaves of gold and red
foretell the coming of the Fall
While fine vintages of Grape give me
cause to write about a tree.

My brother-in-law is the tightly wound sort.
Self contained in his miserable way.
Always quick with a quip or a nasty retort,
and, most likely, a miserable lay.

His job unfulfilling, his woman unwilling.
His co-workers thought he was gay.
He labored long hours for his indifferent masters
for infrequent raises in pay.


When he defenestrated his co worker Sally
and police asked me, what could I say?
" It's always the quiet ones
you have to watch out for-
I knew this would happen someday."

Perhaps they had tried to escape,
or else done some petty crime.
These three would not be gassed or shot-
The rope would serve just fine.

Two men, one boy with nooses fixed-
condemned but never tried.
The nooses tightened on their necks
as they kicked the air and died.

Except the boy, he was too light
He lingered when they died
“Where is God? ” one man muttered
“Where is He? ” others cried.

They made us all march past the place
Where those three in judgment fell
The boy in his slow agony
still endured his private Hell.

The path we walked was ash and bone
Of former inmates made
Those gassed and buried in the air
These were their sole remains.

“Where is God? Where is He now? ”
Some muttered as they passed.
I thought- if He’s not hanging here
More than likely He’s been gassed.

You cannot save time in a bottle,
that's not something a bottle can do.
Sure, time can be lost there
and loves are divorced there-
but saving time, bottles can't do.

For those who spend time in a bottle
will wonder where time has got to.
Time won't be found there,
perhaps a good wine there
is sufficient to compensate you.

And as for "the box made for wishes
and dreams that will never come true."
They will put you inside
and there you will bide
till Gabriel's playing for you.

You cannot keep time in a bottle
experience taught me that's true.
Perhaps whiskey or rye
and a slow way to die
but time will not stand still for you.

“Shots Fired.” “Officer Down”
The Navy Yard is a killing ground.
High above the Atrium floor,
The first person shooter
wants to run up his score.
I enter the atrium and dive for the wall
as singing death pays my partner a call.
“Officer down, building 197”
He’s a lucky one, his Kevlar vest saved him.
I crawl on my belly towards the stairs.
Will he add to his total ere I make it there?
I pass the corpse of a pretty girl,
with a puzzled look upon her face.
A red rose blooms from her white blouse.
Fear flees as anger takes its place.
The swat team enters and exchanges fire.
I make the stairwell and start creeping higher.
I remove my shoes and in stocking feet
I silently climb toward the deadly sounds
I stumble upon a security guard
Who nevermore will make his rounds.
What happened next, I’ll always remember
about this deadly dark September.
A deep breath to calm me,
I chambered a round.
Was it my shot that brought
the mad murderer down?
There were many shots fired
That terrible day
As hunter, become hunted,
was brought to bay.

I checked on my partner.
I called my wife.
I am more than happy to get on with life.
The shooter is on the coroner’s table.
I write up the incident as best as I’m able.
I left out the part about the girl
Who has gone, we hope, to a better world.
She gave me courage, she banished fear
She is probably the reason that I’m still here.