A man on the cusp of One Hundred
found letters that proved beyond doubt
that Rosa, his bride since his twenties,
in the 40’s had “catted” about.
Some German had tickled her fancy
and perhaps a bit more its believed.
The statute of limitations doesn’t apply
when an Italian husband’s aggrieved.
Did he stop to think of the children?
They’re at such an impressionable age.
They may go and spend
their whole pension on drugs,
join a gang, or go out and get laid.
Antonio’s mad at his Rosa
He’s just about called her a *****.
It matters not to him that her transgression
dates back to the second world war.
We don’t know what he read in the letters-
Perhaps his whole life’s been a lie-
but as he is on the cusp of one hundred
why not wait for the children to die?




In Italy, a 99 year old man has divorced his wife aged 96  for a affair she had with a German officer in 1942
He found their letters in a drawer.  No he not longer has to wonder why his oldest boy was named " Fritz"

What is this taste
of Honey on my tongue
but a distillation of
a flowers’ sweetness from
a forgotten summer’s day

Shall I awake you with a gentle kiss?
Or with warm lips caress
a milk white breast?
Perhaps I'll  just  lay back
in our  four poster bed,
and watch your every sleeping breath.
That might be best.
Then, in the warmth of our remembered love
drift off to sleep myself
and dream my dream of you.

What is it with the Americans-?
With their endless cups of “Joe”
Starbucks on every corner
At least it seems that’s so.

Those who overdose on coffee
Are always on the “go”
With palpitating heart beats
And hands that shake like so.

Billions of cups consumed yearly,
The landfills awash with debris
If only my Dad had a Styrofoam mine
Imagine how rich we would be.

Chocolate is much more civilized;
antioxidant rich and sweet.
They say it’s a mild aphrodisiac
and a laxative for the effete.

Those people addicted to coffee
Wake up “Grumpy and groaning”
While those folks addicted to chocolate
can be sure they’ll be coming and going..

Young Liam loved Orange
and liked to wear ties.
To his firehouse friends
He was one of the guys.

He had his own locker
a slicker and hat.
He also had cancer,
and a bad one at that.

From early on in his life
he fought neuroblastoma ;
An invasive tumor
a metastatic carcinoma.

His family who loved him
labored to save
their dear little child
Prince Liam the Brave.

He faced surgery bravely,
engaged in his fight..
He endured radiation
Chemo and knife.

When many a New Yorker
complains about stress,
Prince Liam was stoic
When put to the test.

Then just before Christmas
he suffered a relapse
He became neutrapenic-
His immune system collapsed.

With blood in his *****
And a spot on his lung
Liam grew weak.
his defenses undone.




An Amethyst stone
he received from a friend
was his talisman of hope
that he held to the end.

The worst part of the journey
was when hope was gone.
Then Liam lay, still and silent
in his mother's arms.


There are brave fire fighters
Who’ll be fighting back tears
Brave Prince Liam has died,
He lived only six years

There are many old people
still avoiding the grave
Who know less about love
Than did Liam the brave

We will gather together
In St Francis’ nave
To remember the life of
Prince Liam the brave


i

The call went out
It meant one thing.
Death in the line of duty

Women keen
and Grown men weep
at the loss of youth and beauty.

The empty locker,
The owner-less gear,
silence that is a presence.

Brave Liam lies dead.
The fireman’s friend
Pity the parents their loss

The owner less toys,
The master less pets,
How to make sense of it all?

A Comet passed too near the sun,
and was filmed  disintegrating..
Perhaps its G.P.S. was off
or just recalculating.
The solar skimming comet
surely melted in the heat.
Old King Sol, our yellow dwarf
Enjoyed his slurpee treat.
Astronomers were quite tight lipped
When asked to speak upon it
All I got from one stargazer
Was a terse” No Comet!”

Does it matter how the flames began
to creep about and up the stairs?
A mansion on the Waterfront
with seven people sleeping there.
A scaffold on the Second floor
signified that restoration had begun.
An Ember carelessly discarded
burst forth to threaten both old and young.
When firefighters approached the scene
They saw the mother attempt to save
her children on the second floor.
but tongues of fire drove her away.
Her contractor had likewise tried
to save the girls who slept upstairs.
He had two nearly in his grasp
when they both panicked and ran away.
The girls’ grandfather came the closest
to saving one granddaughter dear
He brought her to a window seat
and tried to get her in the clear
but choking smoke and his  weakened heart
brought his attempt to end in tears.

A mother weeps, uncomprehending,
as water hoses douse the flames.
Both her parents and her children dead,
and her home a smoking, ruined frame..

Sophocles, the attic poet
called man a thing of “breath and shadow “.
Too long a life can be a curse
A life too short, a cause for sorrow

This sherry trifle with clotted cream,
that tray of sugar cookies there.
My best laid plans to lose some weight
are thwarted by this time of year.
I shouldn’t go for my arteries’ sake
to Holiday parties with frosted cakes
As it is, I can inhale
chocolates quicker that I can Kale.
Each holiday brings treats and beers
and another roll of fat appears.
Perhaps before I’m too far gone
I ought to switch to Ramadan.
While not convinced about the rest
Self abnegation should be stressed.

We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite, alive.

Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.

A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee stung lips.

Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.

There, of course, are impediments
I won't try to hide.
The ring on my finger,
my bride at my side.

Plus there's the issue
of fifty years gone.
My Romeo days
have packed up  and moved on.

Now our friends have arrived
and, chaste kisses exchanged,
We feast on our entrees
as wine glasses are drained.

As dessert time approaches
I sadly observe
she’'s not on the menu
Pumpkin Cheese cake will serve.

Every woman has one in her closet,
Although some are loathe to confess.
It’s perfect for many occasions.
It is known as the little black dress..

For Women who seek to entice,
or have men they want to impress.,
There is nothing terribly virginal
concerning that little black dress.

Its of Spidery inspiration and,
oh, what a web they can weave.
They use it, some say, ensnaring their prey.
It comes out again when they grieve.

In Wedding, our Ladies wear white.,
A Little black dress when they keen.
They dress in subtler shades of gray
on all the days in between.

Some time had passed already
since we’d come down from the trees.
We still walked with an awkward gait
Sore backs and aching knees.
Lar still might be alive, old mother,
if he hadn’t pawed my mate.
When I saw him mount her
in the brush
All I felt was rage and hate.
The jawbone of an *** was near
I took it in my hands.
I brought it down upon his skull
I killed with these two hands.
I wouldn’t let the Jackals have
the body of my friend.
I covered up his corpse with stones.
this is where it ends.
As a tribe we are too small, too few.
to let the blood lust linger.
We must keep moving further north
until we are out of danger.
Old mother nodded sagely.
Lars clansman did the same.
I promised I would share the catch
with the children of his name.
Some book may talk of Abel-
that at Cain’s hand he died.
but it was the tribe of Lucy
that first committed Hominidicide

For ninety years or more
Zelda’s family owned her home.
Generations born and died there,
She never felt alone.
The spirits of her parents
She always felt close by
And sometimes she would talk to them-
to gossip on the sly.
Most ghosts are rather lonely.
Regard it from their point of view-
To wait unseen, unbidden,
with no one to talk to.
It makes the loneliness we feel
While incarnate seem a sham.
We need only to make a call
to reach our fellow man.
But ghosts can not dial telephones
And rarely get attention.
Few master apparition
hardly any I can mention.
So take your cue from Zelda
and the next time you’re at home
have a spirited discussion
with any ghosts who chance to roam.
(To avoid two years in therapy
Make **** sure that you’re alone.)

Plastic really, actually,
It pumps and Hemo flows.
The doctors placed it
beneath my breast
How long will it beat?
None knows.

I’m undersized for seventeen,
Brown eyes and auburn tresses
A year behind to graduate
with my friends in their prom dresses

Back when my heart was still my own
before my failed bypasses.
I was like many High school girls,
I slept through history classes.

.Back then there was a boy I loved
We’d spend hours on the phone.
His smile made my heart skip a beat
when it didn’t on its own.

Then I fainted in my science class,
my complexion turning blue
Mister Sullivan saved my life
by knowing what to do.

Now can I give my heart away,
a heart that’s not my own?
Can I feel as I used to feel
when its just us two alone?

Was my soul within the heart
that died when we untwined?
Is that spirit an illusion,
just a construct of the mind?

Will this heart race in your embrace?
Will your kisses taste divine?
Or am I just the Tin girl
feeling hollow all the time?

In Brooklyn, in these hectic times,
if Mom-hood gets you down
you need a little pick me up
so you won't fret and frown.

When we boomers were just babies
Mom might have a glass of wine.
Just enough to take the edge off
and leave her feeling fine.

But Generation X and Y
are more like Cheech and Chong
when baby gets your dander up
It's time to light a ****.

A little **** of Mary Jane
gives Moms a pause to sigh.
"Good night Moon" is a gripping read
when Mom is flying high.

Put the little Prince to bed
before Mom has a fit.
Motherhood is stressful
she just needs to take a "hit"

When the" little terrors" get you down
Just think - "this too will pass"
sneak off and roll yourself a joint
We know you have a stash.

I woke up that Christmas morning,
that year that I turned five.
Everything was blurry
due to an infection in my eyes.
The Christmas tree with colored lights
cast an aura in the room.
A half warm teabag on my eye
gave some relief from haze and gloom.
My brother set up his Lionel trains
on a wood board on the floor.
Any other brother might have resented
that I had so much more
than he did when he was little
growing up in times of war.
We all heard Mass at nine o’clock
at Saint Ann’s on the Hill.
Then back home to break the fast
Presents would have to wait until.
Simple gifts were cherished then,
not all bought in a store.
My parents were the working class
we had enough, not more.
The gifts may have been simple
but love came brightly wrapped.
Before sleep my father told me stories
as I nestled on his lap.
I’m thankful for the memories
which remain  undimmed by time.
but my eyes still get a little blurry
when I think back on Fifty Nine

The simplest word is hard to say
once blood has leaked within the brain.
The internal fires of life have died,
though the exterior seems the same.
He struggles saying yes or no,
He suffers visibly with pain.
His family, sadly, watches on
As the patriarch plays his endgame
Its like a cosmic jeweler tried,
To make a brilliant diamond cut;
If successful, it would have shone-
But he missed his mark and
  marred the stone

It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.

Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in ******’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.

My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****.
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.

I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..

We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******.
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.

He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.

She started out some years ago

the wife of a friend of mine.

The lady’s name was Lisa,

and she was a Florentine.

Through all of my commissions

She followed me through time.

Lisa Gherardini

had a shy and secret grin.

I remember when she sat for me,

the light was perfect then,

But something less than perfect

Was the aspect of her eyes.

She had a stigmatism

That my art could not disguise.

Last night, lying there with Salai

my apprentice and my love.

I looked into his eyes

and was inspired from above..



I hurried to my studio

And burned the midnight oil

This time Salai sat for me

in the same pose as the girl.

.

The result I deem perfection,

I will keep her till I die..

I’ll never sell this mystery girl

That has my lovers’ eyes.

My thirty year old nephew
is down at Zuccotti Park.
He chants and waves his placards
from dawn to nearly dark.

He's furious the man has got
much more than he has got.
The man works eighty hour weeks,
my nephew? Probably not.

Today he went back to his tent
as it was getting dark
He found his clothing had been robbed
by thieves who work the park.

Imagine his displeasure
Consider his dismay
that someone went and did to him
what he clamored for all day.

Now where were we, Wolfie
before the woodsman intervened?
Your hot fetid breath upon my neck
suggesting things obscene.
I was eager and no innocent
to try new things, I’m Keen.
That woodsman fellow was such a bore
thinking that he could keep me pure.
I knocked him out, then I made sure
he won’t disturb us anymore
So paw my scarlet robes aside
and see the treat that waits inside.
For one night only with no repeat
find out if I am good to eat.

I’ll sleep within these woods tonight,
That much, at least, is plain.
I’d hiked for several hours
And not much day remained.
The shadows on the ground grow long
As it’s that time of year
when leaves on branches are few or none
and shadows sinister appear.
There is a clearing up ahead;
A friendly glow is seen
A solitary camper sits
beneath an Evergreen..
His smile is warm and friendly
He bades me to remain
with gestures warm and welcoming
Speech lyrical and strange..
I share with him a simple meal
Of pan fried fish and beer.
The meal seems like a miracle
As I know of no lake near.
Dark night has come and both are glad
To spread our bedrolls down
I sleep the night like one who’s dead.
I wake, and no one’s near.
No sign of my host or his tent
No sign that he was here.
I shake my head in wonder
And pack my roll to go.
What the Evergreen has witnessed
is not for me to know.

The box is fine mohogany,
the beads not used in prayer.
You kneel before my effigy,
as I'm no longer there.
I'm embracing my loved darling.
on a vast and astral plain.
Death has reunited us and we are young again.
I see the tears your grief compels you to shed.
I weep as you don't understand
the freedom of the dead.
While I still lived in nursing homes.
I was frightened and alone.
But now set free of all constraints, -
I have been welcomed home.

A Penny for my thoughts
doesn’t seem a princely sum.
It doesn’t buy much else
when all is said and done.
It might be that, In days gone by,
A penny bought a meal.
It was sufficient for the boatman’s fare
Across the Styx to steal
But now the humble copper
Is derided or forgot.-
When it comes to purchase power,
The penny has it not.
So if you would my thoughts peruse
there’s been a raise in rents.
You must come up with a dollar
I’m no longer taking cent$.

This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
God’s Son, nurtured by a girl,
this child of Bethlehem.

This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
like the star, in darkness, shines.

Into an uncertain twilight
I fled from the upper room.
That bit with the bread and the chalice-
He all but accused me-
How did he know?
This thing must be done
and soon.

Caiaphas has provided
the silver to seal His fate.
I know where Rabbi
prays in the gardens.
This has nothing to do
with hate.

I have the strong rope
that will bind him.
The Priest’s men with the torches appear
With a kiss I will signal our quarry.
It begins. There is no stopping here.

Our fingers never touched.
Our lips have never joined.
What might have been, forgotten.
What could have been, ignored.

A moment in your presence
is worth a mound of gold.
A hunger left unsated,
as time and chance unfold.

Here in the cold and damp
Of our, sadly, separate lives
Here we have never joined,
thus we have never died

She reigns above the grimy thoroughfare
where Gun Hill Meets Jerome.
A school house made of yellow brick
serves as her earthly home

It was built by Italian immigrants
with plaster Brick and stone.
It comforted the Irish Micks
when they felt all alone.

A sculptor found the beauty
contained in a block of stone
and carved an inspiration
for her people far from home.

The faces at her table change
They hail from different climes
The words and accents differ
in the liturgy of time.

Our lady stands as guardian
where the human meets Divine
Her school, a testament to faith,
in difficult turbulent times

When and where does the mind wander
When it‘s trapped within its’ loom?
When plaque obstructs the passageways
Through which her thoughts would zoom?

When she was young the Universe
was all hers to explore.
Little did she realize then
What horrors lay in store.

She encountered the excitement
of new concepts and ideas.
But those memories grow distant
Then, in some dark corner, disappear.

When young, she was a fashion plate;
Vibrant colors every night.
Now she’s dressed in shades of grey
as she stumbles through twilight.

True, she sometimes can recall
a place, a name, a slight.
Yet she forgets to take her medicines
And she isn’t eating right.

When young her nimble mind could play
whole symphonies by rote.
But now all she remembers
is a single plaintive note.

Why is it that drinkers of wine

All fancy themselves connoisseurs;

As they sniff, swirl, sip and spit-

They’re all Robert Parkers I’m sure.


They talk about bouquet and fragrance,

hints of chocolate they find in the wine.

I sip on the wine and I’m puzzled

as I never find chocolate in mine.



My brother’s a beer connoisseur

Pour ten different beers in good light.

Though he may drink them all to be sure,

He distinguishes each upon sight



“There are different shadings of gold

and some give you more head than others.”

-Who would ever imagine that beer

would have something in common with lovers.



So go have your new Beaujolais

You Francophile drinkers of wine

I’m sure Orson Welles would have told you

They’re selling it way before time.



Back at the bar named McCullagh’s

They’re playing pool in the back room

Uncle Jimmy is schooling some suckers

It happens once in a blue moon.

The preying Mantis
said to her mate
“You think too much!”
and bit off his head


The *** was great

The people regrettably frown
on Congress men with their pants down.
Poor ****** was caught in a lie
concerning unzipping his fly.
Despite having just wed his bride
****** wanted some on the side.
Now both sides of the aisle are atwitter
that his twee-tie was a babysitter.
He gave poor Ms Pelosi a fright
when she saw that he hangs to the right.
He looks in your eyes when he lies
but I doubt anyone is surprised
He was known as a distinguished member
now a registered ****** offender

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary….

When books are replaced with Kindles and Nooks,
and content resides on the cloud.
It is relatively easy to delete certain works
at the whim of the haughty and proud.

If libraries falter, wither and die
The poor will lose access to the printed word.
Ten percent of the market will quickly dry up
and the price of a book gets absurd.

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.

The pleasure we had in turning each page
as our minds raced ahead to the end.
Short battery life never hindered our quest
when ****, Jane and Spot were our friends.

A storm on the Sun bringing ionized rays
and digital files are undone.
and force us to search yellow crumbling pages
for rumors of Kipling and Donne.

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.

Was Bradbury right? Should we all memorize
the words born of our favorite pen?
Imagine reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet by heart
so that silence won’t win in the end.

The bird outside my window
woke me up all summer long
Every day, like clockwork,
with the same repetitious song.
When I’d rather be sleeping
he would rather I awake.
(Once or twice I thought
of drastic actions I might take.)
These days my mornings quiet,
I no longer hear his song.
My avian tormentor
is ,like the summer, gone

Five thousand Pounds of steel,
rising from the ground,
in a rusted, twisted state
at the center of our town.
The names of us who died
are inscribed around the base.
Our names are spoken yearly
and have been given pride of place.
Yet please don’t call us victims-
People taken unawares-
Recall us rather heroes
for we chose to climb those stairs.
We were fire and policemen
first responders, one and all,
In the war waged against terror
we were just the first to fall.

It's not the number of his days
that makes a man a man.
How quickly do our moments pass
like swiftly running sand.
Such qualities as we possess
to love and to atone
are ultimately more important
than what dates get carved on stone.
To stand steadfast within the storm
To keep a solemn vow.
Men like that are timeless
and live forever in the now.

Sitting Shiva in a Yarmulke
is not, for me, routine.
Still it was right that I should
grieve
for a man I’d never seen.

A man who loved his children
and was devoted to his wife.
A man who worked long hours
and was happy in his life.

A man active in his temple,
One who coached the little league.
A man like any other-
If you pricked him he would bleed.

He wore his nation’s uniform
when called in time of war.
And when the guns were set aside
He ran his little store.

There may be some million like him
Yet not so many as before
Men who truly loved this country
and were respecting of its laws.

A strong and vibrant middle class
is what our country needs
Not Parks filled with rootless losers
and boardrooms manned by thieves.

When you’re hanging by the neck
until your life is nearly done.,
It might almost seem a blessing
when the hangman lets you down.
They then spread you on a table
Then the real torture began.
They cut away the man parts
from their sacrificial lamb.
Then your core is cruelly opened
and your ****** entrails rise
in the hands of he, your butcher
displayed before your dying eyes.
Your brain supplies an image
of back when you were a child
and you greeted good Queen Mary
in fine ornate Latin style.
Mercifully shock set in
as death transfixed your eyes.
Sweet Jesus’ name was on his lips
as the recusant dies.

The Race


An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.


I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean  a scholarship for me.


Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.

A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.


I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.

A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.

I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..

I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.

I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.


Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me


I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.

The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains


“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.

“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm  in his brain.”


Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost

He ,wounded, lay in no man's land
fearful to crawl fro or back.
He'd wait for darkness to try his luck
and hoped the Huns would not attack.
Something was needed to pass the time
He reached his hand into his sack
Aeschylus, in the original Greek,
He read with pleasure
until night turned black
In the Attic tongue he was well honed
and so he never felt alone.

My gleaming white constellation class Starship
(My ***** white Chrysler K car)
was out on patrol near the neutral zone
(I was driving back home from the bar)
It was then I received a distress call
(I urgently needed to ***)
Some Klingons decloaked in proximity

(I sped past a cop car or three)

I called for more speed from the engine room!

(My transmission started to shake)

Klingons pursued in the neutral zone

(They motioned to me HIT THE BRAKE!)

“What seems to be the Tribble, Officer?”

I said to the humorless Gorn.

That Klingon impounded my vehicle

(They caught me exceeding Warp Nine)

If Kirk faced this “no Win” situation

He’d probably get off with a fine.


Dam Klingons!

The nation's Capitol rattled and shook.
Washington's monument cracked.
The Nation's Cathedral is minus a spire.
The people Cried out for Barrack.
A previously unknown fault line had shifted
causing a crack in basalt
The President paused from his golf game to chat
with his geologist, a man named Walt.
After a lengthy Analysis
down in the Smithsonian's vault
The commander in chief is relieved to report
that this too was Bush's Fault.

Soaring on the updrafts
From the canyon far below
My silhouette is made a shadow
by the evening sun’s red glow.

Between heaven and earth suspended
I hover in the sky
My eyes searching intently
as my dinner scurries by.

I pitch myself into a dive
My talons slash and ****
Hunting from the evening sky
Has never lost its thrill

It’s the bottom of your Liter
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.

We started out with Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
A jackrabbit raced past to the rear,
no dumb bunny was he

The heat rose up to meet us
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.

The flower of Virginia here
displayed upon Parade
We must have looked magnificent
Just before the cannonade

They piled on Double Cannister
and tore holes in our line
We staggered from the weight of shot
that fearful hissing whine..

Then enfilading fire came
From the Yanks behind stone walls
Just then post fences six feet high
briefly caused our charge to stall

Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot


We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
"Turn those guns!" I'm told.

But at that very Moment
General Armistead was downed
The attack lost its momentum
Our wave crested on high ground..


The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.


The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with our dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing


Matthew Brady took my photograph
before I was led away
My face a study in defiance
A true man of the gray.

My naked skin glistens
with strenuous sweat.
My name on your lips
urges me faster yet.
The Whip in your hand
is applied to my back.
I jump in my tracers
to the head of the pack.
As we round the last turn
To hollers and cheers,
I look forward to oats,
My Jockey , to beers

It was quiet in the park,
after lunch, the crowds are few.
Here the statures live in terror
because of what we pigeons do..
We’re adept at carpet bombing.
pets and people feel our wrath.
Our bowels are like loose cannons-
Don’t dare venture in our path.

Now, below, I see a poet
with pen in hand composing.
Intent upon the songbird’s tune
or perchance he’s merely dozing

His senses lulled by cricket’s song,
He perspires in the heat.
My calling card left on his suit.
says chose a different seat.

I used to have the names and facts
right quick at my disposal.
It helped in settling arguments
and in drafting work proposals.
Now names and dates elude me.
Appointments just slide by.
Were it not for my Blackberry
you might see a grown man cry.
Yet deep in the recesses
of my bicameral mind
my neural Librarian,Norman
strives not to fall behind.
He's peering into synapses
and looking into lobes
He's hoping I can temporize
till the name he can disclose.
If I relax it comes to me
though too late to save face
Long after she has left my bed
I recall her name was "Grace"

The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.

GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
IHe bought a yacht, not me.

Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.

I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.

He took the chartt, he threw the dart
And picked a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.

He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee.

They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
the discount Chimpanzee.

The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.

They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.

Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.

Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.

Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..

Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.

The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..


They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.

The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire

Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.