I stand before the wrack of it;
The home where I first learned to read.
The humble house of all our hopes.
Our refuge in our hour of need.

Surrounded by a plywood fence,
she lies in splinters on the ground.
The debris field of my yesterdays
is spread about me all around.

I find a piece of painted wood
with our house numbers nailed upon.
I rescue it for Closure's sake
One last look, then I am gone.

On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
She was dressed in the clothes
She had worn when she died.
A bullet hole in her temple,
a handgun by her side.
A beautiful Stranger
at the foot of my bed.
A faint smell of lilac
from a specter long dead.
The Ghost didn’t speak,
At least not that I heard,
Nor could I, gripped by terror,
Utter one word.
World weary and sad
said her ****** expression.
A Love gone all wrong
was my honest impression.
Then she was gone;
Not a glimmer remained.
The warm summer evening
My stateroom reclaimed.
It was cold where she died
On the steps to the beach;
Her spirit is restless
and seems never to sleep.

Oh beautiful stranger
None can say why you died
But the coroner ruled
That it was suicide.

In a long happy marriage
Sometimes bedtime grows stale
Once toe curling *** fades
As libidos doth fail.

We both have tough jobs
And two kids of our own.
Sad, we both want to sleep
When we’re finally alone

The man at the store
Said “I have just the thing.
You really should try it-
makes your *** life take wing!”

It wasn’t a **** flick
Or a blue pill to swallow,
Just a tiny transmitter
to hide in her pillow.

At night, as she slept,
The salesman explained
My subliminal message
would be fed to her brain.

With her passions inflamed
She would turn to her mate
Like the once nubile bride-
Leave the rest up to fate.

So I made a recording
With a saucy suggestion
Then looked forward to bedtime
hoping for the res-errection.

My bride’s a deep sleeper,
(A good thing since I snore)
The tape’s played two weeks now
And I still haven’t scored.

I completely was baffled
That salesman assured
That no “wood” would go wasted
No ***** ignored.

Instead every night
About two thirty nine
I’d slip off to the bath
Where the “beat” would go on



I resolved to return
The unhelpful device
Before the guarantee ended
And I’d be out the price

Imagine my shock,
imagine my dread
When I found the transmitter
in my pillow instead!

Seems my wife had decided
To play with my head:
“Honey, go f8ck yourself,
If you wake me, you’re dead.”

We had quite a run old girl,
nearly all of it was fun.
A rose is my final gift to you.
I, too, am nearly done.

For sixty years we played the songs,
the stuff of memories.
Our audience has greyed or strayed,
now you've abandoned me.

Our house is like a record store-
Ten thousand old L.P's
Each song labelled and cataloged
-memories in melody.

I did our show that one last time
for those fans who still care.
The truth is I cannot go on
because you are not there.

Beside my bed, your photograph,
You're ever on my mind;
a single rose named Dorothy
whose melodies were mine.

The enemy of my enemy
Is not, necessarily, a friend to me.
Sectarian based enmity
In Syria abounds.
Cruise missile strikes certainly
Will be followed by the I.E.D.’s
As surely as boots on the ground
Will result in stone topped
Grassy mounds.

A Roman, noble and Patrician,
moved his Legions into position.
The morning Sun was in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
The Day was hot, they lacked hydration
as they fought this battle of annihilation.
The hot winds swept dust in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
Hannibal troops seemed to retreat,
The Legions were in hot pursuit.
The Carthaginians moved to surround
the Romans on the killing ground.
Eighty thousand Roman dead,
Mars’ thirst quenched by the blood they shed
Their arms and armor cast aside
upon the fields around Cannae.
Fortuna always smiled on Rome
before this battle at Cannae
Rome’s Senators refused to yield
though their Sons lay dead upon the field.
In the Pantheon of gods
echo prayers from the devout
to a new god born of that rout.
Some say it is the god of doubt.

A weak and vacillating man,
one vain and narcissistic ,
once drew a line upon the sand
with consequences cataclysmic.

Now some will say
the line’s been crossed,
while others say not yet.
Intervening in a civil war
won’t end without regret.

Relentlessly his minions beat
the drums and call for war.
Propagandists lionize
Their would be king once more.

In Austria, Franz Ferdinand
is stirring in his crypt.
Entangling alliances-
It seems I’ve read this script.

Now if the lights go out again
as they have dimmed before
We will not see them lit again
If we blunder into war.

You hear people talk
about the "Great Beyond",
but it's all speculation
as they've never gone.
Except perhaps Hindus
who chance to recall
that back in the day
they were Queen of us all.
What amazes me most
about past life regression
is none claim to have practised
the "oldest profession".
They claim to be Caesar
or Henry the Eighth,
Never some drab
who was just a "good date"

The President drew a line in the sand
And said” Don’t you cross this, Assad.”
“If you do, you will be like the souls of the dammed,
In the hands of an Angry god.”
Despite consequence dire (brimstone and hell fire)
Bashar Al-Assad risked the President’s ire.
Will Obama stand down or put boots on the ground?
Oh Valerie, what should he do?
Will the matter be pressed- or the Emperor undressed?
Ms. Jarrett, he’s waiting on you.

What is one death out of Fifty eight thousand?
One house full of weeping in a divided land?
Examine, minutely, the loss of one solider,
one single example of so many last stands.
His sisters hair, now streaked with grey,
She lights a candle in a church
in memory of that fatal day
when her brother's airplane fell to earth.
Freedom's sacrifice paid in blood
by lance Corporal Ronald Powell.
It was an August day like this,
but far away and long ago.

Remember.

A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?

I'm really quite not busy
with all the things
that I'm not doing.
I barely have much
time to wake.
with the things
that I'm eschewing.
Once again I won't be climbing
up the Matterhorn my dear
Its really not a challenge
Why that is remains unclear..
I'm not preparing gourmet meals
for folks who aren't coming
Instead I'm eating taco belle
and messing up my plumbing.
I should rotate my tires
but surely there's no fun in that.
I can just call the Triple A
when i chance to get a flat.
You won't catch me at Pilates
or my yoga class this year.
I just achieved a state of bliss
by sitting on my rear.
So you go do triathlons
and do work up a sweat
Can't you see I'm busy sitting here
composing my regrets?

The drummers play a muffled beat
As I climb the scaffold stairs.
A long faced priest awaits me there
to say my final prayers.
Maternal blood has been my curse;
I ‘m Edmund De La Pole.
A Yorkist and Plantagenet
By the emperor bought and sold.
My head will never wear the crown
To which it was entitled.
The headsman whets his cold French steel
And fat Henry is delighted.
I kneel before a block of wood
A heart fit for a throne.
Now and at the hour meet:
For ambition I atone.

No terms of endearment, no shy wistful glance,
No overt affection, no hint of Romance,
Can either remember when was their last dance?
Like two sled dogs running Iditarod races-
Each day starts the same and the view never changes.

No terms of endearment, no frank lustful glances,
He ponders his Journal, she devours Romances.
Can either recall when they last took a chance?
Their everyday lives are no walk in the park;
Bound by inertia and missing the spark.

There are so many dentists
that the market's getting tight.
One must differentiate
to draw trade to one's site.

Being new kid on the block
especially was scary
Until, in a flash of brilliance,
he called his:"The Tooth Fairy"

With gloves and masks
and dental dams
He served his clientele-
leaving their other cavities
to those who knew them well.

His clientele were handsome
and all exercised a bit.
Some were macho, some were fey
it mattered not a whit.

What mattered were the smiles he saved,
that gave him satisfaction,
and he earned a decent living.
from the fine are of extraction.

So if you, too, seek success
it pays to find your niche.
Serve the Sado- masochists
and make them all your b*tch.

Christina Quinn
has made Quality condoms
a focal point of her campaign.

That Anthony ******,
he of modest demeanor,
would be happy to model t'is plain.

As a Lesbian, Quinn
doesn't care for what's in
The condoms she touts on campaign.

If abstinence matters
put her face on the wrappers
and no one will be glad that they came.

" Daughter, it is almost time,
the day is drawing near,
where circumstance takes you from me
for six months of the year."

''IT'S TRUE THE NIGHT COMES QUICKER NOW
THAT IN THE DAYS OF JUNE,
BUT I CAN STILL FEEL SUMMER'S HEAT
OH PRAY IT WON'T BE SOON.!"

The goddess of the harvest wept,
this was her only child.
Persephone joined her half the year,
spent the rest as Hades bride.

"THE TURQUOISE SEA IS SALT AND WARM,
THE SKY A LAPIS BLUE.
OH SURELY IT WERE EVER THUS
IF I COULD BIDE WITH YOU."

"The humans know four seasons now,
The grey and threatening storm,
The Months where nature seems to die,
when I am left forlorn."

" So let us cherish every breath
and every song of dawn.
We have at least a month or more
before my dear one's gone."

She danced for Herod shamelessly;
She smiled and flashed her *******.
Herod looked on, helpless not to,
as each veil dropped to join the rest.
The look of lust was in his eyes.
He wanted her in bed.
Salome wanted something else-
she wished the Baptist dead.
He was helpless to refuse her wish
so was the order given-
The Baptist's head upon a plate
as proof he'd left the living.

As she shared her trophy with her mom
I overheard what Salome said.
" You can say what you want about Herod,
but he always gives good head."

Today is National left handers day-
Only Southpaws are pitching tonight,
I suspect its all part of a sinister plot,
a coup against all that is right.

Eating with Lefties is always a risk
when Lefties your starboard assay.
but seated to port they're a jolly good sort-
if you get them to offer to pay.

If Life gives you lemons,
Do not be dismayed.
It’s the hand you were dealt
You’ve a say how it’s played.

Some entrepreneurs might
start lemonade stands .
-or lighten dark age spots
on the back of your hands.
You can use them to clean
or to brighten a ***.
You can use it to cook.
You can do quite a lot.

Far too many people
Are a sour faced lot
Because life gave them Lemons
And they all took a bite.

The decedent was in perfect health
As all our tox screens show.
No visible wounds,
No blunt force trauma,
Believe me, We would know.
A “Dear John” letter
Found near the corpse
revealed that she would go.
The coroner ruled
that loss of Love
had proved the fatal blow.

I went and bought a "Smart" house
in a stylish part of town.
It cost me a cool million
but its features did astound.
I can control the lights and locks
with apps on my smartphone.
I can view cam every room
to make sure no ones home.
The shutters and the blinds will rise
or drop at my command.
I can start the fireplace
while flying from Milan.
The automated kitchen
can prepare a gourmet meal.
and place my grocery order
making sure I get good deals.
In my den a giant wall
is a high res LCD
It shows me sports
and other sorts
of lovely greenery.
You'd think this place is perfect
and you're nearly right of course.
I'd still like to lose the talking scale
that says "Get off, You Horse!"

I went and bought a "Smart" house
in a stylish part of town.
It cost me a cool million
but its features did astound.
I can control the lights and locks
with apps on my smartphone.
I can view cam every room
to make sure no ones home.
The shutters and the blinds will rise
or drop at my command.
I can start the fireplace
while flying from Milan.
The automated kitchen
can prepare a gourmet meal.
and place my grocery order
making sure I get good deals.
In my den a giant wall
is a high res LCD
It shows me sports
and other sorts
of lovely greenery.
You'd think this place is perfect
and you're nearly right of course.
I'd still like to lose the talking scale
that says "Get off, You Horse!"

He was her only Rose,
and you might think it unkind
for Rose to have left Libby
so close to Valentine’s.
Still, Libby couldn’t hold him.
He felt that it was time,
for he knew in Libby’s cold embrace
So many men had died.
For Libby was a prison,
drafty, crowded and a hole.
A hundred Union men escaped
in a break daring and bold.
Under cover of the darkness
They broke for Union lines.
Like blacks escaping slavery
Polaris was their guide

For years they'd tried and failed
in their conjunctions to conceive.
The wife prone to miscarriages
so a surrogate was decreed.

Her closest friend from college
took pity on their plight,
and volunteered to help them
by bringing forth their child to life.

It would be their bun, her oven.
Their tenant in her rented womb.
The pregnancy was uneventful
and their son was born last June.

It's a miracle of science.
to some couples it's a boon.
but the procedure is expensive
so don't expect a baby boom

The prognosis was distressing.
The outlook was the same.
My aging mother could not eat,
we were playing her endgame.
Bereft of speech and cogent thought,
sitting in her chair with wheels.
Her fate placed firmly in our hands,
in the court of no appeals.
A feeding tube could well extend
her life for twenty years.
A life in limbo that way leads
where none can care or feel.
Pain management and hospice care
was the choice we had to make.
Years later some still argue
we had made a vile mistake.
Yet if my fate should be like hers
be kind and let me die.
A gentle exit into night
once life become a lie.

When he returned from Vietnam
it was in part, not whole.
Something akin to jungle rot
has seeped into his soul.

He was not fit for steady work
or the company of man, and
in his dreams lurked demons
only liquor could withstand.

The streets of San Diego
are more hospitable as most.
You'll find him sleeping on the grass
in the Corps of the lost hopes.

His final battle rages here,
more desperate than in Nam.
this veteran fights for dignity
in a cold, uncaring land.

It was a semi- private room,
and my bed was closest to the door.
Beyond the screen my neighbor lay
by the window and told me what he saw.

For days I lay in constant pain-
in traction from the surgeon's blade.
My neighbor helped to pass the time
as he described life's grand parade.

Across the street there was a park
and a little pond where children played.
He told me of the ducks and geese,
Of dappled sunlight the trees displayed.

My fellow patient was quite old,
and his race was nearly run.
The intervals of silence grew
where no words issued from his tongue.

I so enjoyed the moments when
he'd wake and tell me what he saw.
One time he saw a bird of prey
****** up a mousling in its claw.

Then one day alarms rang out
His E.K.G. went monotone.
they came and pounded on his chest
but I knew I would be alone.

The next day his nurse came to me
and told me that my friend was gone;
Hopefully to a better place
Free from pain and safe from harm.

I asked if it were possible
to move my bed where his had been
to let me have the window spot.
to see the outside world again.

"It will not do you good or ill
to sit beside that window sill
there's little light and, after all,
it's only facing a brick wall"

But I protest- "how could that be?"
What of the park he described to me?"
"I think he was just being kind,
for you see the man who died was blind."

“Till death do us part.”
Is a comforting phrase
To all those who repent
their impetuous days.
Those whose “I do’s” were followed
By a question mark,
Or who subsequently experienced
a quick change of heart.
It’s a comfort to them,
on their terminal day,
that their sentence is over
and they can get away.
When the last breath is expelled
Then their marriage is through.
They are free then to love
Anybody but you

In Detroit, the "motor city".
The wheels are off the cart.
Auto coverage? unaffordable-
four thousand just to park!
So many buy no coverage
or pretend they live elsewhere.
The apathy is palpable
Local government doesn't care.

There is a high court precedent
handed down from Robert's chair
The President must get involved
to save them from despair.
He will assess the situation
and appoint an auto czar.
to force all to buy insurance
It will be called "Obama-Car"

Some Asian folk revere the Tao
the way of Yang and Ying.
Others worship ancestors
and of Confucius sing.
Buddhists seek a one way trip
with no wish to return.
Hindus think we're born again
just not in Christian terms.
Some follow in the steps of Christ,
this life, their cross to bear.
Others say Carpe Diem
and just don't give a D*mm.
Islamiscists eschew alcohol
and never lunch on ham.
This place has many faiths and creeds
to suit our every mood.
The voodoo that you do so well
is with suspicion viewed.
The foodists are the latest cult-
a blight upon the land
like Joey chestnut at buffets
consuming all they can.
To them no cow is sacred
and wine just slakes their thirst
They walk among us and they breed
and I don''t know which is worse!

A child this day was born in Britain
but no camera men record this birth.
He's not the child of Kate and William.
He's common clay of humble earth.
He'll soldier on four score and seven
He'll fight and win your senseless war.
He'll never claim noblesse oblige
as he shoulders debt from those before.
One is born Royal, the other common.
One wears Purple, the other, dust.
One shall be the king of England.
One's blood is blue, the other, rust.
One shall head the church of England
The other lad will own a pub.
Which one in time will prove right noble?
to quote the bard "Aye, there's the rub."

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there in his new clothes.

George Zimmerman
desperately
sought some way
To silence those
who call for blood.
He’d be defenseless,
Once released,
As Eric Holder has his gun.
In such a desperate situation
The answer came
Like sweet salvation.
To keep his name
off the public tongue,
where he’s reviled
as if a ****,
George filed a name change
with the courts-
And henceforth will be called
Ben Ghazi

He knew the secrets of this wood
He knew it should be shaped for good.
He was not sure that he approved
when the Centurion came
seeking a rood.

The grain was heavy and unforgiving
It was surely meant to serve the living.
Now a means of torture it must be
for some rebel rabbi from Galilee.

Whipped and scourged like a beaten dog,
a poor excuse for a son of God.
He staggered through the streets of the City
Cursed and reviled for few showed pity.

His grieving mother, one courageous friend,
and his woman stayed until the end.
Nicodemus helped to take him down
with my ladder he had brought from town.

Those who died with him fed the dogs
but the Rabbi did not share their fate.
His body was lain in a Hillside tomb
on Nicodemus' own estate.

What happened next depends on Grace
What transpired there on the third day?
Did the body rise or was it just misplaced?
Some will scoff while others pray.

I contemplate the rough hewn rood
Now to me it seems a stranger.
Was it used for good or ill?
The secret is held
in the hands of the Maker.

Now past the days of shock and awe
In a war that just drones on.
The martial spirit has been suppressed,
Save a taste for martial law.
Surgical strikes on Taliban types
**** wives and children too.
Drones lack the flexible response
To distinguish twixt the two
Half measures never win a war
And gradual escalation
Just gets soldiers’ names on walls
And the thanks of a “grateful Nation”

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

When I was young,
and bedtime loomed,
my Father used to read to me;
stories from a wondrous book.
A Book that he alone could see.

From memory he'd recite poems
or tell of heroes doughty deeds.
Those stories shaped my mind and heart
as much as any faith or creed.

They were, of course,
the tales he'd heard
when mother had
sung him to sleep.
Stories run deep in our blood
the only treasures we can keep.

Heaven Sutton was a little girl
of Chicago’s poor west side.
There turf wars rage
where rival gangs
Use bullets to decide.

A child of seven shouldn’t
Have to fear to walk the streets.
A poor mother shouldn’t
Have to buy a dress
for her forever sleep.

Heaven Sutton was gunned down
by a bullet gone astray.
Now mother’s keep their kids close by
afraid to let them play.

Should lawmen sweep the streets of
Guns?
Society must decide.
But on these streets no child is safe
Since the night that Heaven died.

Heaven Sutton, aged 7, was victim #251 of Chicago's "tough" anti Gun laws since the beginning of the year.

Whether Indian or Asian
Whether yellow black or white
The very thing that makes you “you”
is hidden out of sight.

Skin differences are but skin deep,
The roots of love and hate
Are in the wrinkled Universe
That lives inside each pate.

Everything you ever knew
And all you've ever loved
Are self-contained within your brain
That’s how it ever was.

Our Angels and our demons
Live inside our frontal lobes
Since time is short and fate is sure
I’d rather love than loathe.

( inspired by a comment made by Dr. Ben Carson, an American)

Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.

No, you will not hear him anymore.
belting out a Broadway score.
You would wait forever
before he walks through that door.
Cory’s golden voice is silenced,
because he was tempted and succumbed.
That often is the price one pays
to be forever young.

Cory Monteith, R.I.P

The verdict has been rendered
And George Zimmerman goes free.
(I still would not bet money
On his life expectancy)
There is anger in the streets this night
in our divided land.
One mother’s son was shot and killed
by this George Zimmerman.
The Jurymen have heard the facts
and ruled it self-defense.
Far too many in the streets
Take acquittal as offense.

Long ago, in Boston town,
were British redcoats tried
for the ****** of six colonists-
“A massacre!” folks cried.
John Adams got the soldiers off
with a plea of self-defense.
He must have had great courage
and, in Justice, confidence.
How difficult it must have been
To face his neighbors’ angry cries
The principles he fought for live
Unless we let them die.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he scurried up to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we endeavor to  hide."

""We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."

"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."

"With our Graduate course in lying
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and must learn to prevaricate."

"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some Coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
telling lies in an endless loop.

There were quotes from
the Koran and Bible
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, barely moving my lips.

Astronomers today announced
They’ve found an Urth-like world.
It’s orbiting a star called Sol,
Like Urth, a water world.
What has them most excited?
It’s just twelve light years from here.
Spectral analysis declares
It has an atmosphere..

When I am far from city lights
And the air is crisp and clear
I’ve seen Sol with the naked eye
In late summer, it appears.
It has eight planets
(We have five)
And one is just like Urth.
Encircling its native Star
at just the proper berth.

Some speculate that beings like us
Look up in wonder nightly.
But Scientists have all declared-
Intelligent life? - Unlikely!.

( In this poem the inhabitants of Tau Ceti are hearing of a planet like their home world orbiting a yellow dwarf star)

It’s a beast on the Potomac
That should inspire fear.
It respects nobody’s privacy.
That much has been made clear.
It’s appetite- voracious.
It’s goal- total control.
It feasts upon the people.
It’s coming for your guns and gold.
Concern for its’ own power
is its all-consuming goal.
It cares nothing for the little guy
Forget the lies you’re told.
What is the food that feeds the beast?
Why is it growing still?
It loves other people’s money
And it always gets its fill.

Five minutes together
before the bell rings.
What can I say
to make her heart sing.
Here are blondes and brunettes,
short ones and tall.
All of us single-
seeking dates for the ball.
Speed dating's a challenge,
the whole thing a blur
Does she root for my team?
Do I play on hers?
the little ones cute
and I do like her smile.
Some minutes are shorter
when your dating speed style.
I look back in longing
she catches my eye.
Now I'm stuck with a Red head
who looks like a guy.
It's all musical chairs
matching circles with squares.
Just who is the maiden
who can answer all prayers?

October’s storm was brutal,
drenching rain and heavy wind.
Our little tavern by the beach
started taking water in.
Then, when the storm surge
breeched the wall,
the place lacked all defense.
Waves swept away our little bar
leaving us just the front steps.

The “Pour House” now a memory
for its scattered congregation.
Mostly Irish Catholics who enjoyed
its liberal dispensations.

Some people prefer brews to pews
for fighting off dammnation.
So many demons haunt our souls
and these demand libations.

The juke box played sad Irish songs,
the only sort it knew,
while disorderly Hibernians
enjoyed their favorite brew.

Here the patrons much preferred
Draft Guinness in a glass
while stealing furtive glances
at my waitress’ shapely ***.
Here the women started homely
but were beautiful by close-
at least to those poor drunken sots
Who’d relieve them of their clothes,


By Christmas it was apparent
that the “Pour House” had to go.
There just wasn’t FEMA money
For an old man’s bar you know.
So word swept through the beach blocks
And it reached the subway station.
Gather at the Pour House Steps
for the New Year’s celebration.

Party favors must be had
So I bought some horns and hats.
Dry eyes and throats were disallowed
So I had free beer on tap.
That New Year’s Eve was cold and drear
When we held our celebration
Our dear old timers all appeared
for our “free beer” dispensation..
At midnight we stood on the steps
And had our photo taken.
We all hugged and went our separate ways
While inside our hearts were breaking.

The Pour house is a memory now.
I’ll miss those guys and girls.
It was a sort of Paradise,
a refuge from the world.

I really like my muse, I do,
despite her incessant chatter.
It's just, at times, her timing *****,
when sleep, I'd much, much, rather.
It's true I love the verse that she
compels me to compose.
It's ever so much nicer than
my forays into prose.
It just that when it's four A.M.
and I would rather sleep-
She pops in with a word or phrase
that's just to good to keep.
So, obedient to my muse.
I reach for pen and paper.
I dare not lie about in bed
or make plans to betray her.
For so prolific is my muse
who comes to me each waking.
I dare not tick the Lady off
or even keep her waiting.

It was a warm summer night like this,
the night they came for Mister Marindino.
The ambulance stopped in front of his house
as the neighbors gathered in the shadows
"t must be his heart." one muttered.
"Too many of those good Cuban cigars."

I was just a kid, standing at the edges.
I loved those kind old people;
They husband with his stories,
Mrs. M with her Anisette cookies.
Now poor Mrs. Marindino
stood silent , in shock,
as the EMT's carried him out on the stretcher
His face as blue
as the evening summer sky,