Mariano is a humble man
In an ego crowded sport.
The greatest closer of his age-
of all time, by some reports.

He never liked the music
That played when he appeared.
None can match the saves he made
as the stadium rocked with cheers.

He wore the number forty two,
In honor of a man
Who in his day took more abuse
than most of us could stand.

When that last batter is retired
When his last pitch has been thrown
When Girardi cannot summon him
by picking up the phone.

Then next winter will seem longer
And next Spring devoid of cheer.
Mariano is retiring,
This is to be his final year.

I remember his great moments
and recall his failures too.
The later are made easy
by the fact they were so few.

The tourists mill about on weary feet,
seeming clueless of their final destination.
It appears, at least, they've had enough to eat,
as their clothes can barely cope with new inflation.
I wait, impatient, for the street to clear.
I resist the urge to honk my horn or more.
These beefy bon- vivants from foreign shores
move like the sacred cows of Bangalore!

My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.

In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.

Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.

At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.

As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.

Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.

When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.

I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.

A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.

Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.

These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.

I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.

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

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

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

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

When I was young and needed wheels
my father helped me buy my first.
He worked then in a funeral home
and got a great deal on a hearse.
When first he handed me the keys
I thought there must be some mistake;
A Station Wagon for the dead-
Most dates would do a double take.

True, it had low mileage,
but a ghastly MPG.
It was very roomy in the back
where the coffins used to be.
I thought it would be hard to park,
and in that, I wasn't wrong.
Dad said the horn was customized-
when pressed it played "the Munsters" song.

Its capacious bay proved useful
when transporting beer and wine.
It even helped me to get "lucky".
a "Goth" girl thought it fine.
Pale white skin with tats and piercings'
those memories still can thrill.
Though I found it disconcerting
that she liked to lie so still.

These days I drive a Prius
in an effort to be "Green"
I work out and eat "healthy"
as I'm no longer quite so keen
to be caught lying in the back
of a flatbed limousine .

My cohort is shattered, the regiment reels,
from the lead of the merciless foe.
I'm wearing the blue, Fredericksburg,62'.
I''m a conscript from County Tyrone.
Saint Mary's Heights is a most fearful sight:
****** acres of men who won't fight again,
Our wounded are dying alone.
The devout say a prayer, others blaspheme and swear.
I just wish I was back in Tyrone.
Up on that hill wearing Butternut grey
are Irish like me from back home.
Sure they gave out a cheer when Meagher first appeared,
with our banner of green, on his Roan.
What mortal flesh can, we did in the end
Some died just in sight of the wall.
In the cold dark of night we survivors take flight;
Rappahannock, protect us I pray.
I'll never forget the screams of that night
or the butcher's bill we had to pay.

I foresee at day, not distant,
when armed drones patrol our skies.
Where people labelled dissidents
will be killed without a trial.

In the cities of the future
walls and ceilings will be glass.
Big brother will be watching
like George Orwell once forecast.

In the future called panopticon
You never will feel free.
You will never know whose watching
and you won't know what they see.

If equality of outcomes
is your wish and fervent prayer-
go and lie down in some graveyard
You'll be sure to find it there.

Otherwise, arouse yourselves
before it is too late.
Don't be a useful idiot
to an overreaching State.

Go ask the Pakistanis
about the war that never ends
Ask how they've been treated
( and we label them our "friends")

The drones we use in Pakistan
will soon be loosed on you.
Will you enjoy a tyranny
of the many by the few?

He sang a tenor’s part-

No more a tenor really

Though aging cords may gamely try

It was disaster- nearly.



He lost the lyric line.

Poor fellow –must be blasted

Too much North Fork wine

Or maybe he’s just past it.



A singer lost for words

is clearly up against it.

A staircase that’s collapsing

can only be descended.



Some forty years or more have past

Since he sang at their Wedding

A rose cheeked boy with strong clear tones

He was, then, worth the hearing.



With time his talent vanishes

He cannot compensate

For lyrics he’s forgotten

And notes he cannot make.



His hopes to leave on a better note

Then disappeared completely,

Only a swan- at its last-

can be sure to sing more sweetly.

Wallace Hartley nodded
and the band played on.
The lifeboats and collapsibles
by then were launched and gone.

Futile flares lit up the sky
A chill borne of despair.
What was the last song that you played ?
A waltz? a Hymn? a prayer?

The violin I hold in my hand
was Wallace's all right.
What will be bid for this memento
of that remembered night?

Some survivors after claimed
you played a hymn of praise.
The wireless man McBride recalled
a mournful waltz was played.

You were the gift of Wallace's love
A girl who never wed.
The last memento of these Lovers
who rest now with the dead.

Now all Titanic's complement
are muted dead and gone.
Yet all survivors testified
that the band, indeed, played on.

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

He still is strong and handsome
as he was in his playing days.
He can enjoy a game of golf
on challenging fairways.
Still he knows that somethings gaining
and he dare not look behind.
Even Michael Jordan knows
you cannot outscore time.
It doesn't seem that long ago
he wore a champion's ring.
Now Lebron is all the rage
and commercials are his thing.
No longer can he rise above
the rim, or run and hide.
Time just posted 50 up
and it isn't on his side.

When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched, regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
around hearths in Dixie Land.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his broken heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished in that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

How bitter it was to be bereft
of Crown and life
in self  same breath.
Bitter it was  to fall and die
while disloyal Stanley stood idly by.
The arrow lodged close by my spine
as I was pole axed from behind.
A King of England, doubly dead,
stripped naked ,on an *** was led.
In Leicester's graveyard I was lain-
The anointed monarch they had slain.
To lie forever in this hole
while Henry wore the crown he stole.
My Queen, my son, both predeceased,
were nobly interred and rest in Peace.
While I, Richard,  ignobly lie
near Bosworth field with Greyfriars by.

You are Dark, my Dove and sweet.
Like Eve, you tempt me, and I eat.
Oh! Dark Deliciousness!
Oh! Bittersweet!
Your taste- like heaven!

but I shouldn't cry out
here in Seven-Eleven

She wasn't precisely a criminal,
nor innocent of sin.
An Asymmetrical warrior
and a Republican to the end.
To Londoners, she was a terrorist
To the Irish, a voice from the past.
She wound up, old and embittered,
Determined that Peace should not last.
She 's survived by her sons and her sister
and some tapes that Sinn Fein brands lies.
She was known as the "Old Bailey bomber"
in the time of the Troubles gone by
Her coffin was draped in the colors.
Her comrades in arms standing by.
The living now are greybeards
and the rising moon is  not nigh.

Taps

The smell of cordite fades
as the day declines to dusk.
the reek of iron rises
From brave men who'll soon be dust.

A solitary bugler,
Plays a mournful song;
Serenades the fallen
Two short notes, then one long.

The sinking Sun is fiery red,
Like Mars, the god of war.
The honored dead?
Not one of them
Recalls what they died for.

She 'll be dressed and ready
right on time
My funny little Valentine.
We'll have pancakes for dinner
but no red wine-
My funny Little Valentine
Her gift didn't come
from a diamond mine
My funny little Valentine
More Precious than gold
is this girl of mine
My Funny Little Valentine...

Happy Valentine's Day,
Daughter

I wonder how they dug the graves
and shoveled in their young.
When grass was your last supper
your reserves are clearly done.
My forebears wouldn't" take the soup",
they wouldn't sell their souls.
So perhaps determination, then,
gave them strength to dig those holes.
To starve in the midst of plenty
was the saddest sight on earth,
but to their London Landlords
Irish serfs held little worth.
It's known that a potato blight
was the famines primal cause,
but I still blame beef eating men
and the cold uncaring laws.

They do not hold out hope of a cure,
Just a short extended time.
A decent quality of life- however that's defined.
There will be bouts of nausea,
They promise joints will tame.
My husband promised me a wig
in just my favorite shade.
Just time enough to say goodbye
ere the reaper claims the stage.
I know the limit of my days
are numbered in my bones.
Until I'm in a crowded room
resting silent and alone.

He works, tis said,
one day a year.
With bated breath
we linger here
for our Ground hog to appear.

Will he see shadow or will he no?
Only Staten Island Chuck can know.
Will Winter linger around these parts
or will my Crocus have early starts.

A little chubby and weak of eye,
Our resident Groundhog's rather shy.
Dragged unwilling from his warm burrow-
Shall we shovel snow or furrow?

He is well fed for his exertions,
and brief enough are these excursions.
Best of all when he appears
He oft will tell us Spring is near.

Corruption ruled the County
And the rich man owned the town.
The citizens were desperate
for a solution to be found.
The Sheriff seized the ballot box
And shot a black man down.

Mister Cantrell and his minions
Wouldn’t pay the people heed.
They would stuff those ballot boxes
With the numbers they would need.
In Athens there were veterans
just returned from foreign war.
What went on in McMinn County
Wasn’t what they had bled for.

They got weapons from the armory
And they faced the sheriff down.
They blew the jail doors from outside
Bringing justice to the town.
No longer would the Cantrells
Hold the county in their fist.
The right to bear arms had prevailed
May it be ever thus.

Between the life I had
and the death I owe
lies the valley of the shadow,
A place of woe.

First, numb, from hearing
the dread prognosis:
A blockage portending of
thrombosis.

Another episode like I just had
might end my life
like it did my Dad's.

Time seems most precious
does it not?
teetering on the abyss-
Cold,now when the day is hot.

Edema swells and fluids drown,
Each stolen breath is bought with pain.
Where once my river was at flood,
now bare trickles of time remain.

Time enough to say" Goodbye."
To reminisce or be forgot.
To say I love you one more time
even should you love me not.

Between the life I had
and the death I owe
lies the valley of the shadow,
A place of woe.

Perhaps this is the afterlife,
A way stop in this vale of tears.
A pause before the journey's end-
Can I say ,like a child, "Again!"

In the clearing stands the garden,
one made beautiful by you.
There is laurel, here is Holly,
and scents of lavender and rue.
In the center of the garden;
a rock that was your Poet's chair.
Sadly it is empty,
Paddy, you've been gone two years.
Your refuge and your metaphor
both in this secret bower.
Here you shared your wisdom
about Love's redemptive power.
This beauty were impossible
without your patient toil.
Your mind knew well which plants would
grow in this type of soil.
In your absence can your garden thrive
without the Gardener's care?
Perhaps within this place of peace
your shade yet lingers there?
Though we still grieve your passing
we mustn't seek you in the dust.
You are present in your flowers;
in your verse you bide with us

It is a lonely life we chose;
a keeper and his mate.
We live on Execution rocks
saving sailors from sad fates.
The tower light protects the Sound
from Sand’s Point to ‘Rochelle.
The rocks are cruel, the lives they claim
Doubtless with Neptune dwell.

One day, exploring our domain,
I chanced upon a man.
Unusual, to say the least,
to stray so far from land.
His hair was white, his eyes steel blue,
blue as Ocean deep.
A sudden chill passed over me
Like a terror born in sleep.
He asked me if I knew this spot,
And how it got its name.
How, during the Colonial times,
Condemned men here were chained.
At low tide it was no matter
But imagine their distress
As the tide grew ever higher
until it strangled their last breath.
How horrible a fate they faced;
abandoned and alone.
Their screams were mad and guttural
as they drowned in Ocean foam.
There, down at the waterline
I saw a brace of chains.
When I turned back to look at him-
Only I remained.


It is a lonely life we chose;
a keeper and his mate.
We live on Execution rocks
saving sailors from sad fates.
I spend my off time reading
in our little house of stone.
I seldom venture to that place-
and I never go alone.
But sometimes, when the moon is full
And the tide is running high.
I imagine that I hear the screams
of a man about to die.
Published January 28, 2013
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The learn-ed scientist declared;
" The time has come that I,
by virtue of my own brilliance
will never have to die!"
"I engineered my own Genome
to keep me young and spry."

Indeed, by all appearances
the Doctor's boast seemed true.
His skin was supple like a child's
Though he was eighty two.
His pulse was firm and regular,
His body ripped and lean.
If not for his celebrity
you might think him eighteen.

" I am like the gods themselves-
Immortal is my glory"

The Fates laughed at his insolence
and chose to end his story.
Their Machina Ex Deus
was a drunk who drove a lorry.

Man may match Methuselah
if Science lights his way.
Still irony comes from above
and only Donkeys bray.

It seems a scant few weeks ago,
as the leaves turned red and gold,
You left us for retirement;
at the Jersey shore I'm told.

Envious co-workers wished you well,
with cards and gifts besides.
We did not know, nor did you know
that a tumor lured inside.

Inoperable, the Doctors say,
radiation will be tried.
When cancer has metastasized
time isn't on your side.

I'm grateful that you had the chance
to see your girl a bride.
Your doting husband doubtless hoped
to spend years by your side.

We're still hoping for some miracle;
some treatment yet untried-
To counter a prognosis grim
so Death may be denied.

When golden years are leaden days,
where morphine spells relief
The game of Life in Sudden Death
will likely come to grief.

Outside it feels like ten below,
so I bask in the warmth and light
of the Fireplace's glow.
No better spot on a bitter night.
A cup of Cocoa to warm my hands
and suddenly the world seems right.
Then Chip, my Chocolate Lab, makes demands;
with leash in mouth he nudged my hands.

Out in the utter dark of night.
We walk together , man and beast,
Chip loves to frolic in the snow,
(and cares not if its ten below.)
Whereas I, on the other end of the leash,
do not enjoy it in the least.
He has fur and four paw drive.
I, old and portly, slip and slide.
I'd much rather be back, warm, inside.
I think it's time for chocolate!

Most never heard the killing shot,
From Bismarck, rend the air.
It landed in Hood’s magazine
and vaporized all there.
H.M.S. Hood rose in the air
The bow and stern were parted.
In ninety seconds she went down-
With her complement, she departed.
The Men aboard the Bismarck cheered,
Though their victory proved hollow:
They could not know, within three days,
The Bismarck was to follow.
The Prince of Wales made smoke and turned
to fight another day.
Torpedo planes from the Ark Royal
made Bismarck lose her way.
Three years of war had hardened hearts
But Hood’s loss caused dismay.
The tragedy in Denmark’s strait
Would make agnostics pray.

Politicians (Hacks and ******),
with their drawn out fiscal wars,
wreak havoc in our lives
without regret.
Few of them have gone to war-
Fewer seem to know the score;
You can't raise the ceiling
on a soldier's debt.

When a Soldier volunteers
despite his mother's tears
He signs a check;
Uncle Sam is the payee.
His life is on account
but the check bears no amount.
His safe return from tour, no certainty.

At the risk of Life or Limb
He soldiers on and ventures in.
The price he pays
has oft been paid before.
If Dover is his fate,
He earns his place on Lee's estate-
At least he knows
they can't ask any more.

We imagine Life sequential-
from birth until we go.
Yet, being fraught with memory,
I protest it is not so.
Our hates, our loves, our prejudice,
all build up over years.
Before we face the precipice,
we face our sum of fears.
My passionate kiss upon your neck
was learned with other lovers.
Even in the here and now
I'll speak some phrase of mother's.
Even when all my cutaneous cells
have shed and been replaced.
I continue to show the world,
what appears the selfsame face.
Every moment of my "Now"
betrays this underpinning
Only in my final breath
can I put paid to my sinning.

Marian Brown and Vivian Brown
were photographed oft on the street.
Their identical faces and identical smiles
City visitors found quite a treat.
They dressed for effect
In identical garb:
indistinguishable from Heads to feet.
They started their day
Once the sun had gone down;
when most people their age were asleep.
But Vivian suffered a fall in July
And her memories faded away.
Marian mourns the loss of her twin
along with the folks by the Bay.
If Marian paused by a window of glass
That Sunshine strikes just the right way-
It might seem, for a moment, that Marian stands
once again, with her twin by the Bay.

Somewhere in the mist of time
Upon a rain swept street,
I first walked you to your door.
Our goodnight kiss was sweet.

Magnolia blossom perfumed air,
the petals on the street.
A young man in the throes of love
-Or was it Love’s deceit?

Your kiss was like a butterfly
Alighting on a flower.
Delicate like gossamer,
Was that what gave it power?

No Carnal passion then or since
Affected me that way
As those kisses from my honeybee
at the closing of the day.

The water of life can’t warm my heart
The way you did your prey-.
Somewhere in the mist of Time
Ere all was swept away.

The taxman owned a share of him,
To another he owed rent.
His ex-wife and her attorneys
Had a say in how he spent.
When food got more expensive
He switched from Steak to bread.
The rising cost of health insurance
left him prostrate, nearly dead.
He worked all week at several jobs
In an attempt to make ends meet.
The reward for all his efforts
was to be taxed like the Elite.
He was star in his own tragedy;
a tortured leading man.
Today he is a Free man.
He died at his own hand.

Over many years he built it-
One Panel at a time.
A model of transparency,
A marvel of its kind.
Its terracotta flooring
gave it passive solar heat.
It's placement on a hillside
was a vantage hard to beat.
When he glanced up to the rafters
there Orion, splendid, shone.
With the Hunter as companion,
He would never feel alone.
He took pride in self sufficiency-
wood barrels caught the rain
Solar panels met his modest needs-
off the grid, against the grain .

He always had an open door
as he placed no faith in Locks.
-but sometimes, every now and then-
He wished he had a rock.

In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore

Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word

In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.

With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames

But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near

Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I  hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?

They're your uncles or your brothers;
They're the ones who fought and bled.
Theirs are the names upon this wall,
the legion of our dead.
They didn't run to Canada
when they heard their country call.
They ran toward the sound of guns;
All through the Sixties did they fall.
So spare a moment at the wall,
Peruse their names incused.
Long Summers past, they were like us,
with so much more to lose.

Spyer and Windsor
Often stayed late.
Out on the dance floor
enjoying their date.
Their love was their secret
concealed for some years
From nosy co-workers
and curious ears.
No ring could she give
To her love of all time,
Same *** love was condemned
in Societies mind.
For richer, for poorer,
for better or worse.
Four decades they waited,
their vows to say first.
Then Death intervened
and put them apart.
Windsor barely survived
What they call “Broken Heart”
Now her day in court beckons
The Judgment day nears.
Were their vows a true marriage,
or not what it appears?
Will she owe Estate Tax-
Some three hundred grand-
Because she wed a woman
Instead of a man?

The Wealthy must pay their fair share
Here in the “Golden State”
Fifty three percent or so
Here by the golden Gate.
They will likely move to Utah
where the skiing’s just as great.
We rule by Proposition,
It’s Democratic and it’s fair!
But when we have to pay for Pensions
It seems the money isn’t there.

California pays its workforce
with Golden I.O.U’s.
We hope Obama bails us out
Before they all come due.
Our growing Mexican population
plans for la Reconquista.
They smile as each old ****** dies
They mutter “Hasta La vista”
Governor Moonbeam’s back in charge,
The Terminator’s gone
Pelosi’s back in Washington
What could possibly go wrong?

The piece of paper in my hand
meant everything to me;
The end of twenty years of "bliss",
the ultimate decree.
Strange, I thought,
how tears now flow
to fill a void
that no one
could foresee.

In widowhood, Mom lived alone
in the house that was her pride.
Though a faded glory to others 'eyes
it still held her dreams inside.
Still, Mom was growing feeble
in terms of strength and mind.
Assisted living loomed ahead,
just past that Christmastide.
So all us children reconvened
to bide our home farewell.
We decked her halls with garlands,
Her doors with Christmas bells.
For years she'd had a tiny tree
placed on a table stand.
This Christmas saw a Douglas fir
which made her home look grand.
We gathered round the Christmas Tree
and raised our voice in song
After a cup (or two) of cheer
not a single note seemed wrong.
Evening came and that tree shone bright-
lights twinkling in the dim.
There were hugs and kisses all around
to Margaret, Clare and Jim.
That was our last Christmas in her home
The last that we would share.
In Memory it is evergreen-
so let me linger there.

We two were born on the same day
An Ocean apart, a world away.
My Dad dug graves,
His Dad owned stores
We both looked forward
to one day more.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
Both off to university.
I went to Queens
He attended Cologne
He partied with Models
I sat home alone.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
He became a captain
of industry.
With a Manse in the Mountains
and one by the shore.
I rented a place
for one day more.

The world then changed
unexpectedly
it was he who succumbed
to infirmity
When all his wealth
his billions, his stores,
failed to purchase
him one day more.

The World has changed
Just I go on
My wealthy twin
is dead and gone.
No wealthier that I was before
Yet enriched by the gift
of one day more.

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mondays are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

Rights are inconvenient things,
I’m sure you must agree.
Why guns remain in private hands
is quite the mystery.
Felons will turn in their guns
I’m sure, without a peep.
(Tyrants always take the guns
Before they slaughter sheep)
Once you cannot defend your rights
Who cares what you think or say?
Harry Bellefonte thinks
You should be locked away.
Wouldn’t trials be quicker,
Would not be justice served,
If truth serum was administered
Instead of oaths with words?
Your guns and your religion
are quaint relics of the past.
Sharia law is coming,
Beheadings ought to be a blast.
You clamor to give up your rights.
The leftists are amused.
The ****** of the innocents
For their purpose will be used.
Quite soon you will be powerless
before the Almighty State.
When you fall ill some bureaucrat
will sign off on your fate.
A land without the Bill of Rights-
It ought to give you chills!
Your birthright gone, your children slaves
of the Marxists on the Hill.

I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.

I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race

I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.

By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.

I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.

I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.

The sides are drawn and chosen,
Neutrality has been lost.
Dread war is coming upon us,
Caring not if we can bear its cost,
For the Strong will work their will,
And the weak suffer as they must.
The weapons we’ve forged will be used
The red on the blade is not rust.
The losers are put to the sword.
Their women and children enslaved.
Only there will they find what they sought-
The peace that awaits in the grave.
Of Justice we no longer speak.
Might, naked, commands the stage
Melos fought bravely, alone,
Not a stone of their city was saved.

She was not born to be a bride,
She had no child of her own.
When she faced evil face to face,
some will say she died alone.
But to the children whom she helped hide
when terror roamed those halls.
She didn't die for nothing
She died to save them all.

Some learn their purpose early,
Others at the final turn.
Many blunder blind through life.
There are those who never learn.

Someday past suffering and grief
may her family feel some pride.
She was Victoria Soto,
Not for nothing did she die.

The trees outside their classroom door
so recently were green.
Now they all are bare and brown;
great evil they have seen.

I cannot, will not, speculate
what drove that youth insane:
or why he murdered children
then put a bullet in his brain.

The Season now is dreary;
Christmas greetings go unsaid;
Presents never to be opened
and even Hope seems dead.

A grateful Father hugs his girl,
Her classmates all are dead.
Their classroom is an abattoir:
Finger-painted Red.

He itemized his medical bills,
Maxed retirement deductions.
He's given cash to charities
and Democratic functions.
This scion of the one percent
knows its his cash they're after.
Manipulating tax returns
will keep him the last laugher.
A death this year is profitable
before tax cuts expire.
While he'll probably miss his parents
Still he set their house on fire.
He hates to see the old place go
but still he watched it burn
while thinking of deductions
for the Estate tax return.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
The youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters song
and that star that shone like gold.