With downcast eyes
They headed down,
a mother and her son.
Tears now seemed
in short supply,
both emotionally numb.
John looked back
At the vacant cross
where brother Jesus died.
Low grey clouds
obscured the sun
where He was crucified.
At times like this
it’s hard to hope.
And most forget to pray.
“It is finished.” Jesus said
Of this, our Passion Play.

In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.

When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.

With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.

Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.

Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease


Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.

When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?

Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.

Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

Who can stand against the wind
That Tornado Ally blows?
What is within a people,
Who naught but hardship knows?
A force like an atomic bomb
Has visited again-
The great Plains own apocalypse
in the roaring of the wind?

Moore is, more or less, destroyed.
No stone upon a stone.
Amidst the wreckage, children’s toys,
That none will claim to own.

I have witnessed as the fires burn
among the fallen walls.
as first responders sift through stones
in search of living souls.
A playground, where no children laugh,
Now a bleeding open sore..
Mothers, weeping for their children,
Because they are no more..

Ray Lewis, your spokesman
is ripped and he's lean.
He's built like Adonis
and, by rep, very mean.
If I use "old Spice" body wash
as per his advice.
The ladies will swoon
as I'll smell so **** nice.

I'm short fat and Jewish-
a Nebbish at heart.
In intimate settings
I'm quite prone to ****.
So I bought "Old Spice" body wash
and lathered it on.
Then I entered the bedroom
and said "Babe, bring it on!"

Olive, my lover of many a year
was less than impressed
when I deigned to appear.
A giggle, a chuckle and then a guffaw
My confidence sagged
like my double chinned jaw.
"Darling, it may be you smell like Ray Lewis
but when my eyes open
You're short fat and Jewish."

The ad was misleading
and I feel like a fool
Not a mensch, more a reject
from a shallow gene pool.
Bad enough that the store
on my refund is reneging.
foreplay now requires
two hours of begging.

He's paid his dues for far too long,
singing other people's songs.
For so long that he's forgotten
the voice that was his own.

Now in crowded bars
and seedy cafes
he plays the tunes
He thinks will pay.
His big break wasn't yesterday
nor will it come tomorrow.

Now he drinks alone, in silence,
of the waters of regret.
His old six stringed companion
is the one true friend still left.

He Had a gift they used to say,
and so he traveled to L.A.
Here he's still singing "Yesterday"
with a genuine dash of sorrow.

At Hagen -Daz it's free cone day
and you should see the line.
It stretches for two blocks or more
in fashion Serpentine.

Those in the loop
will get a scoop
of premium ice cream.
Though payments not required-
it does cost them their time.

For the store it's not a total loss
to give free cones one time.
Its advertising you can't buy
to see those folks in Line.

The sun is bright, the air is cool
most pleasant by degree.
So many people wait on line,
but there you won't catch me.

Its not that I don't like ice cream-
My girth show that's a lie.
It's just there are much better things
a poets hands can try.

I'd write a song, record a score
If I am so inclined
or steal a kiss from my lady fair
since I am not on line.

The years are ever shorter now
and shorter still my time.
Let others waste this precious gift,
whilst i enjoy this wine.

Mars restaurant closed!
The food was good, however
place lacked atmosphere.

The dusty plains
of Mars, our neighbor planet,
may be our future.

When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
Just an ornate box, covered in dust.

Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks

The box was rather gaudy
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.

We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..

Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.

Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.

My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..


A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.



Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote

I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
****** wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.

Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?

For many years he'd traveled far,
a merchantman by trade.
His Mom passed on while he was gone-
she sleeps there in the glade.
Now he is home with tales to tell
of his trek on the Ocean Blue
but the one face he longed most to see
is not there to tell them to.
So he sat down on his duffel bag
beside her well tended grave,
and spoke his stories of the sea
when others might have prayed.
He left a white carnation there
upon her bed of clay.
It was well watered by the tears
he shed for her that day.
He said his last good byes to us
and turned back for the sea and the shore;
He'd search for peace on Neptune's deep
for Home wasn't home anymore.

A single Bloom, unblemished,
it's skin as red as wine,
I lay here at your headstone
to mark a year of time.

Perhaps you cannot hear my voice
in the silence of the plot.
I have stopped here just to show
you have not been forgot.

There will be gifts for Mothers
Jewels and tulips too.
Here I leave a perfect rose
in memory of you.

It was seen from a distance,
the oncoming beast.
Surely faith's fragile Armour
would shield you at least?
If, in the encounter,
it's no help at all-
The problem, my dear,
is your god is too small.

The cosmos is a vast
and curious place
Our comings and goings-
machinations of fate.
He who is , He the master,
The soul of it all
He is past comprehension
and your god is too small.

There' a man on a cross
on the hospital wall.
Crucifixions take place
every day in it's halls.
Life's last little drama
in which ripeness is all..
Faith can move mountains
if your god's not too small.

I've seen good men suffer
with His name on their lips.
Their cups didn't pass
as the nurses changed shifts.
I wouldn't conclude
faith has no place at all.
Just sometimes, in extremis,
our god is too small

This is the Anniversary,
of a gentle night in May.
The call came from the nursing home.
to say you'd passed away.

You lay there still and silent
already growing cold.
The Priest already come and gone
to tend to other souls.

We whispered sweet endearments
to our mother good and kind
Released from her infirmities
marked with the Savior's sign.

I wonder did she linger there
to her our sad amens
like she listened to our prayers
said at our childhood beds.

Voices cast upon the wind
beside her final bed.
I'd like to think she heard the tears
and the prayer my sister said.

Some are Platinum,
Some pale yellow,
Some are Gold and fair of face.
Sometimes their choice is questionable
and the tint seems out of place.
Some are babes and some are ******.
It must be in the DNA.
Some use preference by L’Oreal.
Some are straight, others are gay.
Some are called Strawberry Blondes
Some have hair like golden sands.
What each one has in common
Is they dyed at their own hands.

Bonn Prostitutes working the streets
now pay twice for displaying their treats.
Not content with the tax they extort,
for plying the world's oldest profession.
Now Politicians, ****** of a sort,
want more money despite the recession.
Now to make the sin tax yield sweeter
Certain streets now have ******* meters.
Six Euros a night is the rate
for these girls who have more than one “date”
So if your “dame des abends” says “Antreiben! ”
as the clocks ticking down on the evening.
She has a legitimate worry
in telling her"boyfriend" to hurry.
In Bonn, the meter is running
and only the meter maid’s coming!

Time passes, Things change.
Nothing, it seems, remains the same.
Except, of course,
your stone hard heart-
The unmoved mover,
Alone, apart.
For so it has been-
and so it remains-
as things pass
as Times change.

Their names will not be on the Wall.
It’s of the ghost patrol I sing.
Veterans of an unloved war.
Men from the age of Kennedy and King.
They’re dying now by their own hand,
by opioids or shotgun shell.
Some are dying by the glass-
As alcohol kills just as well.
They are victims of their memories,
deprived of sleep that will not come.
Post-traumatic stress some claim
Is the reason they have come undone.
See them sleeping on the streets-
a half drunk bottle in their hand.
The members of the ghost Patrol,
the pitiable legion of the dammed.

For twenty years
they loved and bickered
She was smarter,
he was quicker.
They then divorced
In acrimony
He got freedom
She got alimony.
For ten years then
They lived apart.
But hunger grew
within each heart.
So they remarried
Made a new start
And this time only
Death did part.
What did he tell friends?
What was his take?
“We got divorced
But it was a mistake.”

The American Cremation society
Is offering 'hot deals'” this week.
We get pitches for Pfizer's ******
by snail mail, on Facebook, by Tweet.

Brochures for an all senior residence
litter our nightstand these days.
There silver haired ladies and gentlemen
pop pills for their nightly forays.

There are bankruptcy ads on the radio
to help manage credit card debt.
There are pill ads to help me remember
what drink used to help me forget.

The cars that they hawk to us seniors
Are designed to just putter around
Not for me Candy apple red Corvettes
To race about with the top down..

I’m stuck in the prune demographic
Where ensure and ex lax abound.
I still have my own teeth, and don’t need drugs to sleep,
But my Glasses have yet to be found…..

The moon shone full that fatal night
When Stonewall and his men
were returning from a scout
around their former friends.
The brightness of the risen moon
Put them in silhouette.
The pickets rose and fired;
an action they would soon regret.
Stonewall Jackson was unhorsed,
a Minnie ball in his arm.
The surgeons had to amputate.
One week later he was gone.
It marred a famous victory,
A masterpiece of Lee’s,
when Jackson crossed over the river
to rest in the shade of the trees.

Two poets, Oxford men, both of them,
met by chance on the field of woe.
They were prepared to charge the Boche
when they heard the whistle blow.
For King and Country, to gain a yard,
to bleed and suffer like some god.
One would be taken, the other left

A mortar Shell made its quick work.
The lad had scarcely time to scream.
His fellow stared, in shock, to see.
A pink mist where Clive used to be.
The charge soon faltered in fading light
The survivors lay low in Niemanns land.
A line from Matthew dogged each breath:
One was taken, the other left.

If the music of the spheres is noise
And randomness is all.
Our Spiral is a roulette wheel-
By chance is where we fall.
Carre, Cheval, Column bet,
En Plein, Voisins du zero.
Gather round and place your bets
if Pascale is your hero.
A lovely maid may bring us drinks
As we wager round the table.
Spin the Wheel again, Mon Cher,
My weakness, you enable.
The orphans may be in the chips-
Or I may drown in wine.
Step up darlings, place your bets:
Random or Design?

At five foot two in her heels
and being decidedly round
Lori didn't turn many masculine heads
Yet she turned one poor boy's life around.

Forty or more years its been
since we were both seventeen.
I recall it as a difficult year,
Like so many others between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner-
She worked on the paper with me.
She rolled up her skirt like the others
to show off her catholic girl knees.

With Greg as her steady companion
she was the heart of our group.
They provided a fair bit of drama
in the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, built close to the ground.
It was Lori who made social circles
large enough to include me in bounds

We always were friends, never lovers,
never shared one passionate kiss
She taught me that mercy trumps justice
She made circles just like God must  make his.

Let other Bards praise the great beauties
They're easy to spot in this town.
My muse was a girl short and homely.
Such  a beauty is rare to be found.

I found a place where we could talk
undisturbed, an hour or two.
A verdant grove, a treasure trove
of colors green and blue..

It's been so long since we had shared
some time like this alone.
I cannot blame you, Mother Dear,
-it was I who chose to roam.

It's true that I'm kept busy-
what with school, my job, my home.
Still that is a poor excuse
to leave one's Mom alone.

I see the changes time has wrought,
Those times that saw me stray.
The Spring is missing from your step
Your visage has grown gray.

You have been patient, loving, kind,
through the Autumn of my years.
I've heard your cries in winter winds
In April storms, your tears.

I hope there's time to make amends
for all the wrongs I've done
To dance once more beneath the Moon
as radiant as the Sun.

She was on a crowded Uptown "A",
with one hand holding on.
In her other hand, a paperback,
dog eared, its cover gone.

Hamlet and Polonius
were with the player King
Bed-Sty might well be Elsinore-
when the plays the thing.

There were plots and counter plots-
to do young Hamlet harm.
"My money is on Fortinbras-
I said, then I was gone.

Two folded sheets of paper
were secreted in his stovepipe hat.
He rehearsed the phrases in his mind
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The smell 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 sad and grey.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet away.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the death.
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.
His words will live forever
Like the deeds of Blue and Gray.

They married in secret,
perhaps in some haste.
They longed to be one
having tired of the chaste.

Donne's employer was furious
and he threw them both out.
Donne did his niece
but neglected accounts.

The two lovers suffered ,
due to tightness of purse.
When you marry a poet-
plan on better or verse.

The old man at the hospice
was in a world of pain.
His sight was gone,
his heart grew weak
and not much time remained.

I don't recall who asked the question,
but I was struck by his reply.
It contained a world of wisdom
from a soul about to die.

Someone had asked the dying man
"If wishes were for free-
and I could grant you one last wish
what would that last wish be?"

He didn't wish for fortune
He didn't lust for fame
He cared not a whit for money
or to escape his gnawing pain.

" I think, if I had one last wish
before my times gone by-
I'd be a babe in my mother's arms
and hear a lullaby."

" That would be a good way to pass
- not soaked in urined sheets-
but comfortably in Mother's arms
and gently rocked to sleep."

That very night the old man died,
He passed on in his sleep.
I hope he's in his mother's arms
with no more cause to weep.

Come to bed, darling, for sure the hour is late.
Most certainly, your conference call can wait.
The children are asleep and I’m abed,
So work must wait, come play with me instead.
Don’t waste these hours with fitful sleep tonight
when you and I could fill them with delight.
Unlace that camisole and let it drop,
A goodly start. I didn’t say to stop!
Then, turning towards me with an impish smile
Lose the slacks and add them to the pile.
Then, taking sight of my most firm intention
Remove your hose, the devil’s own invention.
When we are wearing just our birthday suits
Arch your back like a feline in pursuit.
Keep the heels, they’re red and bold I swear
They spur me to enjoy my favorite pair.
Those orbs of night won’t ignored my dear
As we effect conjunction of the spheres
We stifle cries as we make our cradle rock.
We'll tell the kids it was an aftershock.
Some nights are cold but this one needn’t be,
If you fall asleep held safe and warm by me.

I ran my race,I did my best.
I'm not the champion,I'm among the rest.
After twenty six miles I'm scant of breath.
I push myself but there's not much left.
I search the crowds on Boyleston Street.
for the friends That I'm supposed to meet.
I see an upraised friendly sign
that marks my race's finish line.
Then thunder, fire, billowing smoke.
The air is acrid and I am choked.
The starter clock reads Four oh Nine
as I fall across the finish line.
I think of him from ancient times
who ran a race as long as mine
To Athens he sped from Marathon
to bring good news in a troubled time.
My news is evil, I scarce can speak
of what I saw there in the street
A loud report, a second bomb,
A portion of the grandstand gone
A blur of color, the flag brought down
I see the picture but there's no sound.

When first we met, I thought it cute
that I was sought, you in pursuit.
Your wide eyed look once seemed Divine
Till you told the Western world you’re mine
and then you sang, a bit off key,
That girls should keep their hands off me.
Plus I find it a tad obsessive
When you sewed my name in all your dresses.
As first dates go, ours wasn’t great
So what makes me your lifelong mate?
What once was flattering, I confess
has turned into an awful mess.
When I went Wendy’s for a burger
You heard the name and threatened ******.
We must break it off, I think it wise
that we both start seeing other guys.

I was working the suicide hotline
that Friday night her call came in.
She sounded hyped up, frantic,
toying with the ultimate sin.

Her boyfriend had just left her
and she had no cash for the rent.
In the background a baby was crying,
The last of her patience long spent.

She rambled about her existence
as I passed a note to an aide.
When she told me how much she had taken
It was the first time in years that I prayed.

Blue angels with sirens were coming
for the girl with the tracks on her arms.
She increasingly grew incoherent,
Then, silence, I knew she was gone.

That weekend, I read in the paper
How an “Accident” claimed her young life.
A pretty brunette, about twenty,
all done with life’s struggle and strife.


That Tuesday, I stood in the distance
as the hearse brought that girl to her grave.
I wept then, overcome with sorrow,
for the young life that I failed to save.
.

He was not your average hermit,
he was not unkempt or *****.
He camped out in the woods of Maine
for years, now, nearly thirty.

He burgled food and propane tanks
when folks were not at home.
His carbon footprint was quite small
He didn’t even have a phone.

With a high school education,
He liked living off the land
He oft” shopped” at a summer camp
but was caught on security cam.

Finally they captured him
and put him in a cell.
Now with murderers and rapists
The hermit’s forced to dwell.

His distinctive “Woodsy” odor
Keeps them at bay, I swear.
This fugitive from Walden Pond is
smarter than the average bear.

In the grove of Isla Negra,
his beloved by his side,
lies Pablo Neruda-
Does his grave conceal a lie?

Forty years since he departed,
Four decades in the clay,
A Judge in Santiago
calls him forth to light of day.

This poet was a mortal soul
whose love illumed his lines.
Was he murdered in the hospital,
or did cancer end his time?

He said Love’s time is brief
and is much longer forgotten-
But he could extend its lease
With Love sonnets he’d begotten.

Did Pinochet eliminate
The poet left alone.
He was lying in the hospital,
Defenseless, it was known.

Did a needle give that lover’s pinch
That hurts, but is desired?
Or did Cancer gnaw his bones
relentless like wildfire?

The bones will tell, They always do
Though mortal flesh decays
So we disturb the poets’ sleep
This resurrection day.

Some will dance while others mourn
The "Iron Lady" who can't atone
for the deaths of the blanket men-
read her crimes on their headstones.

Some will dance while others weep
For a great conservative gone to sleep
but if you are a union man
you'll wish to god that she is dammed.

A flood of blood engulfed her brain,
such memories as did remain
were quickly in the torrent lost.
Do sins leave an indelible stain?

A lake of fire or a heavenly home?
Her ultimate fate remains unknown
No lone piper for her will play
unless there's one she has to pay.

Her face and form intrigued him
She had such classic lines.
"I must get her in my studio,
I have just the piece in mind."
He hired her right then and there.
He paid her well to pose.
His artist heart beat fastest
at the moment she disrobed.
Her hair cut short, much like a boys,
small breasted and so trim.
Her features first in plaster cast
formed perfectly by him.
Later he would cast, in Bronze,
"The huntress" **** and bold.
In truth her arrows struck his heart
and Love poured forth, I'm told.
A happy life together shared-
alas, they both are dust.
In statue form she's ever young
for Bronze will never rust.

The target of bullies
in his tender years.
They made his existence
one of misery and fear.
His mother embarrassed him
when she visited class
to discourage his classmates
from kicking his a*s.
He suffered in silence
He never fought back.
His mind became twisted,
He laid plans to attack.
He harbored resentments
for most of ten years.
He was silent and moody
and aloof from his peers.
He spent much of his life
alone in his room
playing first person shooter
and plotting their doom.
His teacher and Principal
had failed to protect him.
And he gave no forewarning
that they should expect him.
His victims were small
and defenseless its said.
They were not who he saw
as he made the room red.
He saw bullies and villains
Who had caused him despair
He saw the girls who had laughed
Or, worse, didn’t care.
There was likely one victim
In a class of that size
Who was, like Adam;
withdrawn, undersized.
The target of bullies
In his tender years
who found his existence
one of misery and fear.
Cut down by a bullet
by one of like mind.
He’ll be no second Adam-
Lanza ended his line.

The businessman was on the prowl
that soft night in September.
He was looking for a bit of strange
and a night he would remember.
She need not be a ****** queen
but he didn't like them jaded.
A rose bud opened, deeply blushed,
surpasses one that's faded.
Caveat emptor stills applies
He'd do well to remember-
Curvy vendors lay and lie
to those who seek illegal tender

She moves slowly in her parlor
in the fading light of day.
In her time she was a beauty,
celebrated on the stage.
From ingénue to has-been
was a short eventful trip.
A cup from which a never-was
Perhaps would like to sip.
Even in her eighties
Her pose is ramrod straight
As when she was a lovely teen
pursued by the rich and great.
She loved the man her husband killed,
She never loved her mate.
When Harry Thaw killed Stanford White
Karma chose the place and date.

My Liberal pal, named Sunny,
And I were quite the pair.
He was redistributionist
while I was laissez faire.
We always argued politics-
about welfare or day care.
Each was convinced the other
was deluded past repair.

“We are our brother’s keeper!
On poverty, make war!”
I said poverty was winning
if he’d bother to keep score.
And so it went, as time was spent
Until one night in Queens
When I espied a beggar
looking frail, quite pale and lean.
“Sunny, quick, give me a buck.”
as our car approached the light
I quickly rolled my window down-
I think it made her night.
“It’s sure fun being liberal!”
I said to my pal, Sunny.
“It’s pleasant being generous
with other people’s money.”
Published today 11.03

I brought you roses in the Spring
The evening of our senior prom;
A rose corsage upon your dress
and you, a vision, on my arm.

I brought you roses, then, in June,
the day that was our wedding day.
How lovely did you look in White
and in your arms a rose bouquet.

I brought you roses then in Fall,
A day remembered well and best;
A celebration of a birth,
our newborn baby at your breast.

I bring you roses one last time,
my spirit caught in Winter’s grasp.
You lie there still as if you slept.
I brought you roses, dearest Love,
For a promise made is a promise kept

Against the sands of Clontarf
You can hear the Ocean roar;
And, within the waves, a whisper,
of men in battle and in lore.

Brian led the men of Munster
that Good Friday, Ten Fourteen.
His opponent was the brother
of his good for nothing queen.

The men of Leinster were allied
with Vikings from abroad.
Mael Morda, king of Leinster
Was the leader of their horde.

Five thousand men of Munster
were arrayed upon the heights.
The foeman came in Dragon ships
And here began the fight.

Brian prayed for victory
as his six sons led his side.
The slaughter was tremendous
And blood red ran the tide.

The Viking, Bodir, found Brian
Kneeling, praying, in his tent .
His battle axe laid Brian low
And soon his life was spent.

The Viking ships were scattered
By the angry, raging sea.
Thus many of their men were drowned
in their attempt to flee.

It was a famous victory
retold in verse and song.
Both sides were decimated
So many brave sons gone.

Our national identity
Was born of this shared past.
Nine centuries were still to come
ere Ireland would be free at last.

I was minding my own business
on my way from here to there.
(I was not one of his disciples,
stack the bibles and I'll swear.)
Yet when I was accosted
by a Roman with a sword,
I was forced to bear the Cross-
as certain "points" can't be ignored.
The way was steep and rocky
and the cross beam hard to bear.
On our way up He was silent,
perhaps lost in silent prayer.
There were sounds of women weeping
and jeering Jews who came from town.
I was glad to reach to summit-
relieved to lay my burden down.
It was only then I saw His face,
beneath its thorny crown.
He thanked me for my labor
with a kindly look and word.
I said a blessing in return,
but I wonder if he heard.

Yes, I recall the day quite well
when our paths crossed, then diverged.

His eyes burned in my memory
as I stumbled on my way.
I did not stay to watch Him die
but I was there that day.

Through Summers ' heat
and icy rain
The stone faced guardians
remain.

They stand fast
when the snow lies deep.
They stand their guard
where the heroes
sleep.

Long Summers past
there was a war
and boys in butternut
charged gloriously.

Then broke upon
the blue clad wall
as cliffs repel
the storm tossed sea.

Now of that host
not one remains
to sound the charge
or scale a wall.

The stone faced guardians
remain
long past the bugles'
dying call.

The desert sands, oft dark and drear,
show signs of life this time of year.
Rain, that most infrequent guest,
supplies the means, seeds do the rest.
What once appeared as barren ground
with desert lilies now abounds.
Their flesh so pale and delicate
exploding from the silicate.
So if you come to Joshua Tree
there's more than cactus here to see.
You'll see the lilies bloom at dawn
so welcome come, so quickly gone.
We've much in common , it seems to me,
these flowers and humanity.
We, too, quickly bloom and fade,
then spend forever as a shade.

The day they knocked the Towers down
He thought he heard his nation's call
He signed his name on the dotted line.
Off he went to train for war.

Just five days into his first tour
insurgents, in a fire fight,
put a bullet in his spine
in a war commenced by George's spite.

He never after walked again.
He felt a burden to his wife.
Time and time again
he lay beneath a surgeons knife.

Until at last he said "enough"
I've had enough of this half life.
No food or drink would he accept,
his only path to that good night.

Before the soldier's "final tour"
Before he joined our honored dead.
He wrote a letter to George Bush
and this is what the soldier said:

Ten years have passed now since the day
a bullet left me half a man.
A victim of an unjust war.
Your vendetta I can't understand.

I hope someday you can accept
some blame and guilt for all your crimes.
For spending young Americans
on bootless wars in foreign climes.

The time is now upon us
where I, once more, see your face.
Yet of your wit and wisdom
I cannot detect a trace.
You makeup, carefully applied,
your lipstick, fever red,
but all of the embalmers art
can’t disguise the fact you’re dead.
Your mother who had nurtured you
And cared for you at birth
Was still alive to cradle you
the day you left this earth.
I take your husband’s hand in mine
but have no words to speak.
The handkerchief concession
will do very well this week.
For tears will flow in rivulets;
Unbidden, still they come.
Yet the sea we cannot fill.
There’s nothing new beneath the Sun.

The Seamstresses of Baltimore
had done their Country proud.
Their Flag, upon a staff of wood,
Defied The British rounds.
Fort McHenry and her men
alone stood in the way
of a squadron of the British fleet
in good King George's pay.
All through the warm September night
We saw red rockets glare.
And when the morning sun arose
our banner was still there.
The tale might have been different
One of death, despair and blood-
One shell had hit the magazine
but it proved to be a dud.


A lawyer and a poet
on a truce ship in the Bay
gave voice to the emotions
that filled his heart that day.
So when you stand and doff your cap
and sing his song I say,
let history become memory
in a simple, subtle way.

In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.

Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.

A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.

What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.

In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.

If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.

Their leader was incompetent,
well-meaning but untried.
He lead his men into a trap
Then fled and let them die.

The Indian and British troops
Were outnumbered by Khan’s men
When their artillery was silenced
It was clear how it would end.

The soldiers of the Sixty Sixth
fought gallantly to the death.
When they turned to make their final stand
There were eleven left.

With sword and lance and cartridge
They battled hopeless odds.
On the dusty plain of Maiwand
They would, shortly, meet their God.

When their ammo was exhausted
They decided steel would do.
They charged then, in the face of death.
those men, so proud, too few.

When the last of them lay in the dust
having fought to their last breath.
The Khan himself paid them respect
For they had earned their rest..