He raised his kids in a house like mine,
in a neighborhood like yours.
He believed what we believe
and obeyed our nation’s laws.

When this war came, he signed his name
and served three tours in Iraq.
When we sent him to Afghanistan
that was when our soldier cracked.

Cash was tight, and his mate took flight.
His emotions were rubbed raw.
Like many other, lesser, men,
he indulged in alcohol.

Then one night, in a drunken rage,
He held a private war.
In the village he went house to house,
killing all he saw.
He torched their homes with gasoline,
only then his rage grew still.
Only blood could satisfy
his sudden thirst to ****.

Our soldier lay his weapons down
and put his hands behind his head
He will be tried on American soil
for the attrocities he did.
When he pays for his crimes (Our Crimes)
the ultimate penalty,
will the horror and the pity fade?
Will our hands then bloodless be?

Somewhere our soldier lost his way;
He somehow betrayed the cause
He’ll never return to his house like mine
in a neighborhood like yours.

The prowler entered wordlessly
into our back yard.
On padded feet he crept along,
finding an open door.
Like a thief in the dark of night.
silent , unobserved.
Up the stairs the intruder came,
I was taken unawares.
The prowler pushed the bedroom door
open just a crack.
He saw me snoring peacefully and
plotted his attack.
The prowler leapt upon my chest
A little ball of fur.
I'd wondered where our cat had been-
You never know for sure.

The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.

To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.

In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They’ll dress the house in Black tomorrow.

His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he’d be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion

He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war’s last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..

There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of  shore.

The years pass us more quickly now;
The days and moments flee.
The constant in this sea of change
is the love you share with me.
It is the constant Northern light
that guides this sailor home.
It is the Pearl of greatest price
for which I’d sell all I own.
In exchange for all your gifts of Love,
your poor poet offers this:
A simple Anniversary poem,
warmed with a tender kiss.

How beautiful is the voice of my Beloved!
She makes music of words the most mundane.
When we need milk, its like the Siren's song:
She bids me to go and how can I refrain?
If perchance, the trash o'er flows the pail,
she commands I take it out and I comply.
Like Circe, her voice bewitches still,
and to resist her, I no longer try.
Some fools gainsay the power of her voice,
but I so love to hear her lyric line;
" Honey, will you wash the dishes, please?"
in tones so sweet how could a man decline?

Gaukroger’s war was over.
Gaukroger, too, was through.
A piece of him here,
a piece over there.
Not the Peace that he wanted
in his last forlorn prayer

Gaukroger was a fellow second lieutenant
and survival was not his forte.
For days after death he lay there unburied
Nor could I make my eyes turn away.

We’d been sent to this place
to be forward observers.
enemy guns found the range.
Gaukroger died quickly,
without even a goodbye.
Sometimes, after,
I wished for the same.

When I looked for Boche,
Gaukroger stared back
A steady and reproving stare
At night the rats came,
larger than cats,
by next morning
my friend wasn’t there.

Four bold gypsy warriors
bonded when very young.
Neither darkness nor the roaring wind
could make them come undone.

The four became like sisters,
like mothers to the young.
to outsiders they were terrors
and they vowed to be as one..

From the time that they were children
They sang, they played, they prayed.
They claimed each others friendship
in ways  time can’t blot or fade.

The winds of change could separate,
-but only physically.
Each bold brave gypsy warrior
retained true empathy.

Life gave both tears and laugher;
happy times and desperate days.
At times they felt like wanderers
trapped within a maze.

Then, when the days were darkest
one would pick up the phone
and summon a companion
for things you shouldn’t face alone.

Once more now they’re together.
Shared dreams and kindred hearts
Four bold brave gypsy warriors
against the wind and dark.

It’s unique in jurisprudence,
this case I must decide.
Child custody is disputed
between a woman and her bride.
One spouse supplied a fertile egg,
The other gave it womb.
Deciding custody is a challenge
in the absence of a groom.
Was one woman just a donor?-
having no parental rights.
Was the birth mother just a surrogate?
It’s keeping me up nights.
To which mother should I give the child?
Which one will I turn away?
I cannot cut the child in half
to let each have their way.
Its tragedy when Love had died,
leaving children in its wake.
I gave birth mother custody-
Have I made a bad mistake?

There are, in truth, few beauties can compare
to you, my lady, when you care to smile.
Even now, you, with downcast eyes,
are self possessed with grace and matchless style.
Your Father’s disgrace and untimely fall
has dimmed your light into a shade of blue.
No look or touch of mine can ease your pain;
my words, inadequate, to comfort you.
If there is, in beauty, truth, I can’t recall
I am experienced, Love, in most things-
but not all.

Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!

In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.

Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.

Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.

In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.

A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.

One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.

We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.

We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.

The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.

Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.

I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.

We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.

Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!

Sad birthday for a little boy,
that day that he turned three.
His father dead, a nation mourned
for John F. Kennedy.

Sad birthday for a little boy,
who stood at Mama’s side
Could one so little comprehend
why his father died?

Sad birthday for a little lad,
before the flag draped form,
his salute forever frozen
in a frame of Kodachrome.

Do not label me impure
for being, somewhat,a ******.
Who, among you, would skip the chance
to take a peek, to steal a glance?
Her bodyguard of Lies dismissed,
her robes discarded, herself revealed.
She stripped and naked-
of course I looked.
She was comely, but aloof,
this maiden known
as the naked truth.

As she held the ring box in her hand,
she felt a trace of fear-
Would the answer to her question
be the word she longed to hear?
They'd lived some time together,
wrapped their bodies in a kiss,
but would satisfied desires
translate into wedded bliss?
This was the time, this leap year day
to end her long suspense
she'd ask her love to marry her
and hope she would say yes!

When we had first crash landed,
The island was a Godsend.
a refuge from the maelstrom
with fish and fruits to eat..

When a rogue wave swamped Electra
our lives were forfeit., I’d have swore
We latched onto a piece of driftwood
We paddled towards the shore

Past endurance and exhausted
We wound up in an inlet.
We blest the waves that pushed us
Up upon that foreign shore

We learned to live like primitives
with water sweet not brackish,
the island helped sustain us
while we sought help from the sea.

Some months now I’ve been stranded
With my hope of rescue fading
I’ve had no need of language
since I prayed before your grave.

I am lonely past enduring
With no hope of rescue coming
With Noonan’s knife I slit my wrists
I will not see the morning.

****** Smily Face by billyraines08



This one, to her, seemed different.
She seldom met artistic Huns..
She thought his little mustache cute,
his smile, a winning one.
With charcoal he made sketches
when his duties were all done.

A man, she thought, of courage.
He wore the iron cross.
It was a time of hell on earth-
so many young lives lost


Perhaps her judgment was impaired
by the alcohol that she consumed.
The sixteen year old French girl
took Adolf ****** to her room.

In time she gave birth to a child,
a ******* if ever was one.
A boy they named Jean Marie Loret-
The Devil’s only son

His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.

Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.

Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.

At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.


A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.

Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.

Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.

Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.

If India and Pakistan
disagree to disagree
and the missiles begin flying
is there anyplace to flee?
Whole divisions of their armies
will be vanished, vaporized.
It is not only combatants that
will face death from the sky.
Ten million souls will met their end
within a half an hour.
Some twenty millions more
will be sickened by its power.
A cloud of ash will rise above
and block the sun from shining.
Winter will be premature
and soon the crops are dying.
A quarter of the human race
dead of famine and disease.
Please fellows, put your toys away
I beg you from my knees.

In the middle of the Milky Way,
darkness overwhelms.
A dark Star grows so powerful
no light escapes its realm .
Gas, in ribbons, flows towards it
in undulating streams.
then vanishes eternally-
at least that’s how it seems.
There, in that sleep of death,
where no dream would intrude.
The matter that comprises Earth
would make one sugar cube.

Perhaps one day, some eons hence,
the dark star will explode
and give this universe new birth
when all the stars grow cold.

Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.

Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.

Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.

Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.

Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***.

She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.

She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.

So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.

I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as  the stroke of midnight fell.

Her fingers deeply  in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.

She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.

In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.

As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.


She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.

I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.

“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”

Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town  Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.



It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"

The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.

Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."

I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.

I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.  










.

Prince Pierre of Monaco
and several of his friends
are nursing sores
and broken jaws
They won’t party
here again

Adam Hock, a footballer,
was drinking with three friends
who looked like “Charlie’s angels”
with designer made rear ends.

The Prince, perhaps a little juiced,
and fond of  lovely things,
got over friendly with the girls.
(another sport of kings)

When Adam gave the Prince a Pop
Pierre will long recall,
His three friends assaulted Mr. Hoch
and each one took the fall.

Mr. Hoch is middle aged,
but all American.
Four French were not his equal.-
He could have handled ten.

Default on your debt,
Yet not rue the day.
why worry-
The bundesbank
will save the day.

German taxpayers
grumble and moan
At the cost of supporting
the whole Euro zone.

Next the Italians
neck deep in debt,
then Ireland and Spain,
both financial train wrecks.

Massive inflation-
The price all will pay.
So that rioting Greeks
Can live the Greek way

A flower that last saw the Sun
when Neanderthal was on the run,
scientists have carbon dated
and ,now, successfully cultivated.

No shrinking violet, this plant, I know
bloomed thirty millennium ago.
Just a tick in cosmic time
Its fate with man’s was intertwined.

It was found beneath the permafrost,
a treasure in a squirrels lair.
In cryostorage it remained.
The squirrel forgot that it was there.

Ten Thousand years beneath the plain,
then came the centuries of ice and rain.
The game died out. That same fate befalls
the tribe of the Neanderthal.

Now the flower blooms again-
An ancient beauty born anew-
In those seeds, a living spark,
just don’t expect Jurassic Park.

Why on Earth is Oblivion Black
instead of a more gracious hue?
After all, once you’re done decomposing
there’s nothing to see or to do.
The dastardly Demons of death
have decreed this dismal décor.
I think it’s high time we revolt,
not take it lying down  as before.
Interior designers of note
must give Styx a thorough redo.
We’d enjoy a more fab non existence
if everything faded to blue.


( I fell asleep while my wife was watching “Design Stars" on HBTV)

It’s the bottom of your Litre
And you’re feeling little pain.
You stopped with friends on Baker Street
to get out of the rain.

London has a winter chill
That seeps into your bones.
So many people live here
Yet you feel so all alone.

The bottle lies beside you
And you fairly reek of Gin.
You muse is tugging on your sleeve
impatient to begin.

You long to live a simpler life-
perhaps a piece of land.
A place out in the country
with your woman close at hand.

But that’s not going to happen
There’s the trouble with the band.
Lawsuits flying back and forth
with unreasonable demands.

The alcohol helps dull the pain
of a lifetime of regret.
No one said it would be easy
And life’s not finished with you yet.

So you try to get two hours sleep
And you need a shower bad.
You’re heading back to Glasgow
For the best Sax you ever had.

The dikasts had cast their votes,
and their votes had sealed my fate.
I serve as scapegoat for my city,
which has been in decline of late.

Banishment would have been death,
a lingering one for me.
So I managed to persuade them
to vote for the death penalty.

So now friends I become
a Hemlock connoisseur.
Others favor wines and liquors
but my poison is more sure .

To be sure, the juice was bitter,
and I drained it down in haste.
It is not the sort of beverage
for which one acquires taste.

I am, in truth, no Democrat
and My gods were not their gods.
My constant questioning annoyed them
which is why we were at odds.

The chill has reached my *****
and soon now I will sleep.
but one thing on my mind
requires that I speak:.

“Crito, we owe a ****,
to Asclepius,.
Make sure it is paid
please do not neglect it.”

I cover my face over
as my heart slows and stops.
A mystic fog envelopes me
as the boatman’s ship departs.

I imagine you in profile,
sitting in the artist’s chair.
Your coiffure, so elegant, yet
wind is blowing through your hair.
Did you feel self conscious
in the crown of Liberty you wore?
Those lips, moist, pink and parted,
That noble nose and chin,
You stare into eternity
as the artist then begins.

Teresa De Francisci
was the face of Liberty
from the roaring twenties’ boom
to the Depressions’ maladies .
Then she disappeared
and was minted just once more:
It was at the Denver Mint,
in the summer of Sixty four.


They coined your youthful face
when you, yourself, were old and gray.
Then politicians changed their minds,
and consigned them to the flames.
Did it break your husband’s heart
that his work met such an end?
what joy it would have been
to see you made young again.
Whatever was the cause,
your husband died that very year:
the year his lovely Liberty
had been set to reappear.

He had just sat down to dinner
at the Heart Attack Grill.
The fab Las Vegas nightspot
where the fatties eat their fill

A place where the morbidly obese
and Summo wannabees
can chow down to their heart’s content
cause Fatties eat for free.

Nurse Bridgette brought his burger
and he started feeling ill.
As he slurped his triple milkshake
did he feel a sudden chill?

Was it the unfiltered cigarettes
He went through by the pack?
Or the triple bypass burger
that brought on his heart attack?

He started turning purple
and was rolling on the floor.
He was regretting his decision
to bypass that health food store.

Nurse Bridgette practiced CPR
and dialed emergency.
Thanks to her ministrations
He'll make a full recovery.

A kind word and an autograph
were the sort of things he did..
He always had a winning smile
The man we called “the kid”.

In Victory; magnanimous,.
In defeat: A stand up guy.
He was the newsman’s hero
with deadlines looming nigh.

With his Mets down two games to nil
and a must win game to play.
He drove the ball to Lansdowne Street
and showed his team the way.

He hated making the “last out”-
In game six he never did.
His single brought us to our feet
The man we called “the kid.”

Now the opposing pitcher, Death,
has slipped a changeup by.
That Gary went down swinging
will cause grown men to cry.

But somewhere, in some little league,
There’s a kid with curly hair.
Who loves the game like Gary did,
He’s the answer to our prayer.

He’ll play the game the right way,
just like Gary always did.
Then, when he smiles, we’ll think about
The man we called “the Kid”.

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was jolly company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was jolly company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.

Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.

Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
Never to see home once more.

Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The ***** that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.

Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From ******’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide

My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The campaign ribbons on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.

A thoroughbred voice.
A stellar career.
A beautiful woman
singing songs sweet and clear.

Must I mention the millions
that flowed to her coffers.
Whitney could have enjoyed
what this world has to offer.

Then she married a punk,
not the least bit refined.
She drank a bit much
she did a few “lines”

A broken down voice;
missed notes and miss dates.
A fate like Monroe’s-
Cut off young by the fates.

At first she thought it cute
that he would call a dozen times:
His dating style was quite attentive,
gentlemanly, and refined.

It got a bit annoying when
he’d question her at length;
but she wasn’t getting younger
so she agreed to set the date.

At work it was disrupting
that he called so many times
thankfully, both her employers
were of the understanding kind.

After their first child was born
she thought he would behave;
Instead he acted helpless
and abused her like a slave.

In the darkest moments of her life,
he’d seem to disappear;
She buried parents, by herself,
A time he should be there.

His jealous was crushing.
His conversation was inane.
He took the air out of the room
with his selfish, childish games.

So, while at a cocktail party,
a handsome stranger asked her name.
She wanted to dance slow with him,
The moth approached the flames.

She felt far removed
from life’s maddening pace,
whenever she would come
to this quiet place.

Here, the air was hushed
with barely a sound.
A blanket of snow
lay on the ground.

A blanket of snow
undisturbed by feet-
save the tracks
of a squirrel
in search of a treat.

In that field of stones,
in that place of peace,
she sought one name,
one dear deceased.

One lost to war
in freedom’s name:
One life lost,
hers’ forever changed.

Never to be
in tune with time
ere she joined
her forever Valentine.

Truth is the daughter of time.
Lies are at best her half brothers.
Truth longs for a lover to come;
her milky whiteness uncovered.
She does not wish to be ruled
by the Crown or by Papal decree.
She is not Agenda's handmaiden,
she simply longs to be free.
Had I but the skills of a Goya
I could make Truth's beauty well known.
Michaelangelo, too, could portray her
for truth's often captured in stone.
Some will tell you that
Truth is quite beautiful,
as the last of her veils hits the floor.
I agree that her figure's impeccable;
She always leaves me wanting more

She was just a teen;
pretty ,blonde - and dying.
In a town in the Southeast
where she was born.

Cancer was her foe,
then in remission.
She’d been told
she would be sterile
even so.

A neighbor’s boy
escorted her to prom.
A special friend
within a
threatened life..

Could they be blamed
for trying to
steal pleasure?
Pain was her
companion all her life.

They joined their flesh
to share a moments pleasure.
Soon afterwards
her cancer had
returned.

A sick girl, thought sterile,
found to be with child.
She would not take
their poison in her veins.

The Doctor didn’t know
her heart and will.
She vowed her child
by cancer won’t be claimed..

She willed herself to
bring her babe to term.
Just barely lived to hold
him in her arms.

Like Simeon in the temple
she had lingered
Until, at last,
the torch of life passed on.

Her lover wept and held
her as she died.
Though she was then blind
she heard her newborn cry.

Red and long stemmed,
beautiful, true.
They were sent to her office
with no card and no clue.
A secret Admirer, or an
FTD stalker?
The long stems were lovely-
but none was a talker.

She made a few calls to find out
who had sent them.
It seemed obvious there must
be a romantic intention.
I was surprised by her call,
but not at all sad.
We’d broken up last spring
but nothing too bad..
I said I hadn’t sent them,
but I wished that I had.

Those words led to coffee
and coffee to drinks..
Those words led to vows
and connubial links.
Our life and our home and
two kids in the yard;
all the result of that unsigned gift card.
Swept up in the currents
of time, past recall-
Our lives would be poorer
with no roses at all.

All seems quiet, peaceful,
as I flit across the meadow.
Yet, even now, the sun upon my wings
is overtook by shadow .

The wind grows strong and menacing,
and the day turns dark and odd.
Raindrops fall from heaven
like the weeping of some god.

I am a frail but living thing
determined to remain.
I must find shelter from the storm-
that much, at least, is plain.

Some say the flapping of my wings
gave birth to this mighty storm..
I’m no instrument of Chaos,
surely those who say it must be wrong.

Its far more likely that the storm
will cause my being to cease
than that the flapping of my wings
would ever mar the peace.

Was my end in my beginning?
Such thoughts are far beyond my ken.
But if my wings can cause such things
in my beginning was my end.

I used to have a dollar and a dream-
The dream still lives, but now it costs me two.
I have to ante up, though times are lean,-
my only chance to make my dream come true.
I’m not adept at picking combinations
of numbers that can produce a win
I think my ship is named “Costa Concordia”-
which may explain why its not coming in.
I agonize over number combinations-
while angry people wait on line behind.
I settle on my anniversary date;
Its never paid off yet, but give it time.
My friends all say I pay the “stupid tax”
I wait for that last laugh that will be mine:
A lump sum of a hundred million bucks,
or twenty smaller payments over time.

There are songs that I no longer play,
even when I’m at practice alone.
The lyrics are too painful to sing
now that I’ve reaped what I’ve sown.

There are places that we used to go,
where I haven’t gone in a year.
The barkeep must think that I’ve died,
As I no longer stop for a beer.

There are friends that I no longer see-
They would only remind me of you.
Phantom pains to an old amputee
Bitter leaves from my garden of rue.

There are songs that I no longer play,
Whose lyrics would stab at my heart.
These days, I’ve been drinking for two.
It’s my solace since we’ve been apart.

How is it acquaintances
Choose to be friends?
Born in the same year,
but at opposite ends.
How do separate lives
form poetic book- ends?

I bore you with history,
You gallantly try
To grasp why the past
Fascinates this old guy
There are, certainly,
more prolific pens.
I view the great world
Through a limited lens.

We’ve dealt with our losses
We’ve buried dear dead.
We’re maudlin at times
When dusk signals days end
That's when we tend to dwell
on those dear to our heart.
We’re on the same wavelength
Just an ocean apart

Here there be Giants,
wearing red and white and blue.
See them raise the trophy;
Eli's Lombardi number two!.
Tom Brady had a final chance
to make the winning score.
A Giant knocked the ball away
as time ran out our spirits soared!

The hats and shirts they hoped
to sell, up in Patriot nation,
now are Nicaragua bound,
to Tommy's consternation.
those perfect season T shirts
were worn threadbare after four.
Now that  you've provided new ones-
they're not needed anymore.

So Mister Brady, please don't cry
by most measures, you've done well.
Eli's off to Disneyland-
Go home and sack Gisele.

Here’s the story of a guy named Eli,
Who is captain of the G men and well known.
He had a ring of gold, from the desert,
but it was all alone.

Here’s the story of a man named Brady
who was living large with three rings of his own.
He’s a hero, up in New England,
and has Gisele at home.

Till the one night when this Eli met this Brady
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch.
that Cruz would dance and Gronk would come up limping.
That’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.
Tom Brady’s lunch, I played my hunch
that’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.

When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.

For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.

Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.

Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.

Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.

In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.

From long time friends to bitter foes;
From boon companions to friends estranged.
The cute little redhead accomplished that.
but it was nothing she'd prearranged .
So delicate, so beautiful,
with eyes a deep Aegean blue.
Of course I made a play for her.
She wasn't going home with you.
Yes, her kisses were as sweet
as you imagined they must be.
The reality was better still
warming an autumn evenings chill.
I was the first to take the risk,
that’s why I was the one she kissed.
My actions weren’t the least bit shady,
but faint hearts never win fair Ladies.

The man in the casket
was beloved in this town.
To us kids he’d been “Doc”-
Its hard believing  he’s gone.

A long time ago,
on a field far away,
He had been a young Giant
waiting his chance to play.

“Doc” Graham had played baseball
in many minor league parks,
in an age before lights,
in an age before darks.

An elegant fielder
with a strong rifle arm
“Doc” had one “cup of coffee”
and then he was gone.

He played in right field
on a warm Brooklyn day
you could look it up
the old professor would say,.

He played in the field
but was denied an at bat.
He was waiting on deck
when Claude Elliott flied out.

Though quick as the moonlight
through shadowy leaves,
“Doc” never again played
in the National League.

He hit  the books instead
and became a physician
In our small town of Chisholm,
he found a position.

A lifetime of love
yields a lifetime of care:
He tended our needs
and shared in our prayers

No trace of self-pity-
having missed that at bat.
Being “Doc” to us all
meant far more to him  than that.

Now Moonlight is elusive
never grasped in your hands.
But on nights short of heroes
I remember this man.

On my fingers, on my tongue-
Your taste a sweet and pleasing one.
I unwrap you greedily
And nibble on you speedily.

Milk chocolate, I can't resist-
in miniatures or in a kiss.
Three musketeers are worth the fee-
all for one and one for me.

In a pudding or a bar
I enjoy you in my home or car.
In drink, you warm my winter day
once my shovels been put away.

Intoxicating like fine wine,
Your antioxidants are all mine.
I sneak away with you, my treasure,
an old fat man's one guilty pleasure.

The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the  wounded men.

A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.

Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.

The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women *****, crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.

The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’





For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.