On beams of steel they Death defy,
while they're working way up high.
They are union brothers; Iron men.
The fraternity of the Sky Walker clan.

Two thousand feet up, they weld the steel
In heat and rain they labor on
until a new glass tower greets the morning sun
then the Sky Walker clan moves on.

Muscle and balance; skill and zeal
it takes to make those blue prints real.
They built this City; story by story
That is the Sky Walker's claim to glory

There’s a seat at the table if you’re so inclined.
Bitter herbs and fish are offered, served with bread and wine.
It’s an intimate Seder gathering, just twelve of his close friends.
He calls them Disciples. You know what this night portends.

There’s a seat at the table, for one man’s left early.
Judas seemed racked with guilt, by turns worried and surly.
Did our Host have foreknowledge, or did he merely suspect,
when he pointed out that traitor when they both dipped their bread?

Our Host is reflective; there is much on his mind
As he offers us bread and he blesses the wine.
This week has been a whirlwind of Halcyon days.
He entered by the Eastern gate to much acclaim and praise.

There was that trouble at the temple where the money changers lurk.
You never saw the Lord so angry when about his Father’s work.
Now our Seder is concluding and it has been a long day,
Will you join us at Gethsemane where the master’s gone to pray?

The Yankees took the field and we heard the anthem played.
The air was thick that August night.
Louisiana Lighting placed his cap upon his head.
The stadium lights were burning bright.
Ron Guidry turned to face home plate
With a feeling akin to  despair
He searched in vain for the Catcher’s sign
From the man who wasn’t there.

Eight Yankees took the field that night.
The Umpire stood alone.
Collectively we felt the pain
of Thurman Munson gone.
Jerry Narron caught that game
The Yankees rallied late.
Yet all felt the vacancy
That had happened at home plate
Upon this sad anniversary
I solicit your thoughts and prayers
For the Yankees fallen Captain;
the man who wasn’t there.

Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.

A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.

Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.

Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.


There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.

There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.

My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.

Dear Prince Hal has breathed his last.
He leaves behind a storied past.
Some Hits, some flops, but mostly glory,
Like” Company” and “West side Story”
He gave us” Phantom” at his height
with its sweet music of the night.
He worked with Sondheim; He mentored Weber,
How glorious was their work together.
Let the lights dim on every Broadway Marquee
To honor this, his timeless legacy.

The names of the suspects are covered in ink,
leaving us not knowing what we should  think.
Here we have Mueller, whose words were redacted,
saying sitting POTUSes cannot be indicted.
Despite spending Millions and  two years of time
No proof of Conspiracy was he able to find.
" No Collusion!!" Trump tweets time after time.
Ignoring Obstruction which may be his crime.
Imagine the scene at Biden's inauguration
when his opponent is dragged off for incarceration.
Unless he's impeached first for this offense
and we all have to suffer under President Pence.

It was already late when we approached my friend’s front gate.
The Sun was setting in the western sky.
“Our days grow imperceptibly shorter now.” He observed.
“Yes, we’re past the Solstice.” was my reply.
I put my weight upon my cane as I ascended his front steps,
And caught the sight of two old men reflected in a window’s glass.
“Our days grow shorter” I agreed.

I’m not sure if he noticed, but
I’d omitted “imperceptibly”.

Mel Stottlemyre walked out to the mound,
where Jim Bouton nervously kicked the rubber.
“Bulldog, the manager sent me to take you out,
You’re headed for the shower.”
“One more batter and I’d have earned the win.”
Jim Bouton said with sorrow.

“You’ll have another chance real soon”
Mel told him as they were departing,
“There’s a doubleheader tomorrow at Elysian Fields,”
“and I heard we’ll both be starting!”

There is puppy love and Eros,
There’s Agape, the love of God.
Then there is that sort of Love
That always struck me as odd.
They call it unrequited Love,
The saddest Love of all.
One whom passion has inflamed;
the other ,not at all.
Much better to have breakup ***
When Lust’s crude passions die,
Than wander, lonely as a cloud
and keep it all inside.
If my true Love would pine for me
I’d be more than delighted.
More likely, I will die, alone,
forever unrequited

Her first few steps
on the high wire frightened her.
(Don't look down! I mustn't look down.)
Her lithe body suspended in mid air
high above the killing ground.

Step by step she inched across
to a place where freedom was assured.
Her old life she now left behind her.
Those ties that bound her she abjured.

the Gentleman three stools down shot an admiring glance her way.
She brushed away a strand of hair, a lovely silver gray.
She slipped a ring off of her left hand and felt a warmth that flushed her face.
It's not like she was unaware of the quick courtships in this place.

"Compliments of the Gentleman" the barman brought her some champagne.
Though somewhat out of practice, she still knew how to play this game.
She turned towards the gentleman with a shy smile and confident
stare.
He moved in to claim his prize and sat in the adjoining chair.

She felt a momentary pang of guilt; this act of infidelity.
Then brushed away that traitorous thought; their love was but a memory.

She hailed from the port of Belfast;
The Night Ferry of the Sterna line.
She was not fast like the modern boats today,
In truth, her best days were behind her.

The Irish sea was rough and unforgiving
And the smell of diesel oil was ever present.
We were headed out to Cairnyan,
with Edinburgh our final destination.

First, we had to weather out the storm;
the worst in memory per my childish imagination.
My parents both stayed calm; they betrayed no sense of fear.
They lent me the courage I did not possess.

My seasick pills helped too,
Or I would have lost my dinner in that gale.
Finally, the ferry slipped into her berth
and was ******* to the dock.

It is a distant memory and, as such,
Half real and half imagined.

for Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF            
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.

Black ground crews kept them in the air;
black flight surgeons kept them alive;
the whole Group removed their headgear
when another pilot died.

They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?

If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.

In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.

They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.

It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.

            My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
            The funny thing about me and Starks
            was that my air mattress leaked,
            and Starks’ didn’t.
            Every time we went up,
            I gave my mattress to Starks
            and put his on my cot.

            One day we were strafing a train.
            Strafing’s bad news:
            you have to fly so low and slow
            you’re a pretty clear target.
            My other wing-man and I
            exhausted our ammunition and got out.
            I recognized Starks
            by his red tail
            and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
            He couldn’t pull up his nose.
            He dived into the train
            and bought the farm.

            I found his chocolate,
            three eggs, and a full fifth
            of his hoarded-up whiskey.
            I used his mattress
            for the rest of my tour.

            It still bothers me, sometimes:
            I was sleeping
            on his breath.

The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white.
Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays.
The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few;
Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed.
Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight,
enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight.
Each move she makes falls before the plan
of the specter’s outstretched bony hand.
As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise
Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise;
“it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said
in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead.
By now almost all ivory pieces are gone,
leaving her only her King and one pawn.
She moves to defend but no chance can be seen
in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen.
Once more her opponent assumes a new face;
Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place.
She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain.
Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame.
“Mom, it is time to resign without shame;
None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

“All Rise!”
In single file, we justices entered the court
and took our places on the bench,
before us sat the accused; these architects of death.
My eyes were drawn to just one of these men.
He looked faintly Chaplinesque.
He sat there, pale and palsied, along with Goering and the rest.
He had been captured in Bavaria. ****** had thought to flee
to his friends in South America, forsaking Germany.

Perhaps he thought the World would forget,
and thus absolve him of his crimes.
Now he faced the specter of the rope;
There was no thought of ****** serving time.
That was the likely fate of some of these men,
Men like Donitz, Speer and Hess.
Such men could age behind grey walls
And live out lifetimes of regret.

Not for ******, their Fuhrer, for him only death sufficed.
Though we would follow the forms of Justice,
Most would vote to **** him twice.
Perhaps his neck would be snapped by a rope
on some cold grey future date.
Perhaps a simple firing squad
would be Herr ******’s fate.
Perhaps he’d get a bar of soap
and a threadbare linen towel.
then hear the hiss of Zyklon B
in the chambers he had styled.

I wondered how it came to this.
He’d had the means and time.
To put a pistol in his mouth
And atone for all his crimes.
He’d been fleeing from the Russians
when he fell into allied hands.
Those soldiers had shown great restraint,
their sergeant great command.
Now the little corporal sits in the dock,
attentive to every word.
We each now have our part to play
in the theatre of the absurd.

“We have no need of “Heroes” from our “so-called” storied past.”
So they pulled their statues from their plinths, while we looked on aghast.
The generals and the Presidents; the finest men we’d known,
Consigned to History’s dustbin until one remained alone.

Grant’s tomb was desecrated; its plea for peace ignored.
His opponents’ visage shattered; Lee reduced to shards of stone.
“Thomas Jefferson was a ****** who had children by his slave.”
Despite some feeble protests, his statues weren’t saved.

“Churchill’s bust, be gone from us!” They tossed it on the heap.
“Consign him to the flames!” they roared. It was not his first defeat.
Paintings done by Trumbull joined busts made by Houdon
Until nearly all reminders of our country’s past were gone.

Once Washington and Jefferson had joined Lee and Longstreet;
Their Paintings and their statues gone; their names expunged from streets.
They pulled “Old Glory” from its pole and consigned it to the fire,
and danced like Satan’s children as the flames leaped ever higher.

At last, they came for Lincoln to unseat him from his throne.
Of our pantheon of heroes, he, till now, was left alone.
“His fine words and speeches shall not save him from this fate!”
“He was a white supremacist too; he wished blacks would emigrate.”

What he thought of these barbarians is known to him alone.
Like Athena of antiquity, when the “Christians’ razed her home.
They went to work with relish until Abe’s statue had atoned.
For all sins, real and imagined, they left no stone upon a stone.

From age to age we gather, and we pool our ignorance.
At things we think good and moral,, our forebears would take offense.
Tolerance- the last virtue lost, as we approach a darker time.
Our civic altars desecrated; our civilization in decline.

Once upon a time in the land that is down under,
There was a feral pig whose heart was set on plunder.
While wandering the outback he chanced to chance upon
A group of unwary campers and lo, their beer was gone.
The pig was feeling happy, having put away a case,
And he wandered through the bushland with a smile upon his face.
As he staggered through the wilderness he chanced upon a cow.
The poor cow was soon set upon by this drunken sow.
A battle royal then did ensue but our pig was out of luck.
The feisty bovine bested him and tossed him in the muck.

That’s where the pig was sleeping it off when found by this reporter,
Who, at first glance, had mistaken him to be a Trump supporter.

Memorial Day Parade

The fog that day at Arlington, the thickest I ever saw.
The only thing that could compare would be the fog of war.
From the marshes and the gardens of old Marse Robert’s estate
The dead rose from their hallowed graves in numbers small and great.
There were scarecrows dressed in butternut, and ghouls in tattered blue.
Some had battled for old Virginia; the others Union true.
They all formed up in lines of four; right smartly they arrayed.
Side by side they began to march in columns on parade.
These men, who had been foes in life, now seemed to understand
That they were brothers, joined in death, and bound by Love’s command.
One hundred and fifty years had passed since last they saw the sky.
I watched fascinated as this ghost army shuffled by.
No word of command was spoken; these men knew what to do.
Proudly they marched together; these veterans, Gray and Blue.
Then they melted back into the fog; I watched in shock and awe.
These men had seen the last of Earth and had had enough of war.

My heart was full of joy that night; I’d just received good news:
I’d learned that my request for flight training had been approved.
That night was warm and the sweet scent of flowers filled the air.
As we sat in the Bloch arena, Navy bands for battle did prepare.
Bands from the Tennessee, the Pennsylvania and the Argonne played.
and no one in that audience gave a thought to an air raid.
Pearl Harbor was too shallow for torpedo planes to strike.
Or so we had been told and did believe till morning’s light

I’d had an ice cold beer (or two) to celebrate my good news.
My shipmates from Arizona sat beside me in the pews.
Our ship’s band was believed to be the finest in the fleet.
The surviving band tonight would be the foe they had to beat.

The golden sun had long since set in the Pacific sea.
Perhaps that was a harbinger of what was yet to be.
In just a few short hours hence did hell on earth arrive.
Though I was thrown from the burning deck, no band members survived.

The Arizona sank so fast; Eleven hundred died.
I watched from the oil-slicked water as their second wave arrived.
This was the day of infamy that entered into lore.
The last sweet strains of peace had been played the night before.

Some stars explode in the darkest night,
while others, massive suns implode and swallow even light.
Most, after ten billion years, find themselves begin to fade,
As their hydrogen exhausts itself and they are put to shade.

Thought their ends may be varied, the next results?-the same.
Another Sun extinguished, another star put in its grave.
With the snuffing of each lamp, colors disappear from view.
We share the same fate as the stars, for we are stardust too.

At Seventeen
Janis Ian


I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "Come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
And the rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
When dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call and say, "Come dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Songwriters: Janis Ian

By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

In an antiquated walk-up
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.

His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don’t be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.

Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.

His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.

She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her *******.
So many men had fun with those.

He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.

The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses  blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.

Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.

Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.

Grumpy cat has shuffled off of this immoral coil.
For years he was my favorite meme; my most favorite  foil.
He had a constipated look, a near perennial scowl.
He was a cat that didn't purr, In truth I think he growled.
He had a most unpleasant mien.
A most unpleasant stare.
This tabby has checked out for good,
Don't ask me if I care.

When I was little, as a general rule,
I’d hide neath the covers on days meant for school.
I’d lounge in pajamas all day; I swore that I would.
Mom said:” I let you sleep as long as I could!”

So I’d have to get up.   I’d pretend to be sore.
“Surely you could have let me sleep five minutes more!”
Then the sizzle of bacon and the scent of the same
Convinced me my protests would all be in vain.

“I let you sleep as long as I could.”
I disputed this always, but it did me no good.
Though I may be lazy to my spiritual core
Mom always had ways to get me out the door.

First Grade school, then High School, then College –the same,
I always awoke to that dreaded refrain.
I’ll roll out of my rack to the cold bedroom floor
Always swearing I could have slept five minutes more.

Now I am old and I wake to an alarm.
Daylight floods in and the radio is on.
I have a snooze button- should I wish to snore
That would happily let me sleep five minutes more.

But that would be cheating, not how I was raised
So I always get up. To my Mom goes the praise
She made me responsible; you see I turned out good-
because she let me sleep just as long as she could.

I thought to arm myself against seas full of trouble,
but my every effort  was doomed  to fail and caused my woes to double.
Let this be a lesson that I should proceed with caution
Because these days slings and arrows cost an outrageous fortune

The Millennium Falcon seems empty now
with no one in your chair.
Though you had a tendency to shed
I didn't mind, I swear.

Your presence was always comforting.
I took courage in your growl.
I might even have understood you,
if I could only buy a vowel.

Leia is waiting for you now
to take you by the (?) hand
Off you go now together
to the moons of Alderan.

So may the Force be with you, friend,
though mortal bonds now sever.
Take solace that we hold you close
in memory forever

“It is time” the Priest said.  I nodded, being well prepared.
My last confession had been heard, as well as my unanswered prayers.
Tom Clarke and Tom Mac Donagh would, shortly, join me in the yard,
where a line of British Soldiers would dispatch us off to God.

The light, grey and uncertain, the air was cold and raw.
A plain grey concrete wall would be the last thing that I saw.
My hands secured behind my back; a blindfold on my eyes.
A sacrifice both right and proper; for Ireland I will die.

I’d dreamt of an Ireland brave and free. To that I did aspire.
I hear the bolts of their enfields click and their captain shouted “FIRE

From the beginning  was the Wyrrd,
and the Wyrrd  was in the hands of the Norns.
These three weird sisters held men's fates .
They handled , measured and cut
the strands of fate
Some think them witches
or else the classical Fates.
These are the Norns.
They measure out our days.
Do not look
Do not dare to gaze upon
The faces of Fate
The Weird sisters

Flee, Macbeth, thane of Cawdor!

Fly Thane of Glamis

She looks much like an angel in her white lace hat and dress.
Her patent leather shoes are polished; her beads clutched to her chest.
She almost looks as if asleep, but, sadly, we know better.
Violence shattered an Easter morn; this child may sleep forever.

The tiniest of martyrs, who can tell the reason why
She was murdered by hearts full of hate who determined she should die.
Her little classmates are here too, awaiting the embalmers art.
A little boy in his blue suit; it’s enough to break a parents’ heart.

There first was an explosion, and then began the screams and shouts.
The Terrified parishioners were in a panic to get out.
The dead and dying left behind enveloped in a silent peace.
First responders found them there. They called for doctors and a priest.

The man of sorrows bears his cross; upon his head a crown of thorns.
His naked feet step upon the Stony path that leads to the glory of Easter morn.
His back is marred by ****** stripes; he bears our imperfections.
Remember, Christians, without the cross there can be no Resurrection

Forty Seven hit us hard, we peasants had little to eat.
Famine stalked our Island, even as landlords exported Wheat.
Death was a constant companion then; starvation the usual cause.
Out in the hills the Banshees screamed and the next death might be yours.
Some Auld woman with long silver hair and half out of her mind
Keening aloud for the family she’s lost and the share hold left behind.
The sound of her shrieks would fill hearts with fear.
The sight of her filled us with dread.
For we’d become certain that she was a sign
By nightfall someone would be dead.
For she was no kindly fairy or sprite;
The banshee was nobody’s friend.
The harbinger of death and despair
And many a  journey’s end

La flèche et le toit se sont effondrés,
Mais au moins aucun corps n'est mort.
Le vitrail a fondu de la chaleur
et des œuvres d'art inestimables d'ailleurs.
Notre-Dame est ouverte vers le ciel;
Son tabernacle profané.
Un trésor de la foi de l'homme est parti.
Peut-il être recréé?
Un curé âgé parcourt ses allées
Dont les murs résonnent les prières des hommes.
Il regarde les chœurs nus en ruine
et combat les sentiments de désespoir.
“Nous reconstruirons” pense le Père
comme les pierres chauffées deviennent froides.
«Nous élevons nos cœurs au Seigneur
Qui a payé la rançon pour nos âmes. "

The spire and the roof collapsed,
But at least no body died.
Stained glass melted from the heat
and priceless works of art besides.
Our Lady is open to the sky;
Her tabernacle desecrated.
A treasure of man’s faith is gone.
Can such be recreated?
An aged curate walks her aisles
Whose walls hold echoes of men’s prayers.
He looks upon bare ruined choirs
and fights back feelings of despair.
“We will rebuild” the Father thinks
as the heated stones grow cold.
“We lift our hearts up to the Lord
Who paid the ransom for our souls.”

It was a "rite of passage"
to climb those stairs
in the dark clock tower.
She went there on a dare.

A" photo opportunity"
that many attempted
once their last test was  taken
and their senior year  ended.

A beautiful girl,
a tragic misstep,
a fall from a height,
a bright future wrecked.

She was not suicidal,
she deserves  thoughts and prayers.
She took one wrong step
and the step wasn't there.

She fell into darkness
her Soul unprepared
Doctors labored to save her
but she couldn't be spared.

He flew with Doolittle against Japan
on the eighteenth of April in Forty two.
Eighty brave volunteers made that flight.
but their numbers dwindled down to you.

In postwar reunions these men would meet
And toast the fallen gone before
From silver goblets with their names inscribed,
these heroes of that distant war.

Then, when there were only two,
A vintage bottle was opened at last.
You gave the toast to vanished friends;
The faces and names from your storied past.

Now you, too, have been laid to rest
In old Marse Robert’s hallowed fields.
Once more you hold the bombers yoke
And lift off Hornet’s pitching deck.
You rise toward grey shrouded skies
upon a fearsome enterprise.

The only lottery where I took first prize
was the  one that determined who lived and who died.
I might have been sent to Nam with a gun
had my number come up in Seventy one.
Instead our older brothers all
had their names inscribed upon a wall,
in gold leafed letters, incused in black,
that said they weren't coming back.
I have no tales to offer of battles I won,
That's because I was the fortunate son.

My brother-in-law was a chauffeur.
He loved cars since he was a teen.
My sister Clare thought he looked handsome
at the wheel of a Lynch Limousine.
For years he drove town cars to airports.
He was courteous and impeccably dressed.
He loved New York’s bridges and byways,
And he rated among the best.
Later in Life, Tom drove Corporate.
A CEO rode in the back.
The job had appeal; Tom was still at the wheel.
And nothing was better than that.
Then, when Semi-retired, Tom drove school buses
shepherding Pre-Teens to class.
A task unappealing to many of us,
But Tom always had parents trust.
Even his hobby revolved around cars;
Tom owned vintage automobiles.
His black 40’ Chevy appeared in parades
with, as usual, Tom at the wheel.

This day, a sad day, Tom will take his last ride
In a Cadillac, polished and black.
This day another will be doing the driving;
This day Tom will be riding in back.

Today I came upon this word
which at first blush may sound absurd.
It means you're tookered, all worn out,
at the end of your tether without a doubt.

So if you're too tired to seek even pleasure.
Quanked is a word that takes your measure.
Exhaustion has a new adjective
If you care to comment- please, no invective!

Debt be not proud, though lenders label thee
useful and powerful, for thou art not so.
For those poor souls who take your ready dough
Pay not Principal, just interest and the fees.
Unlike cash wealth and true liquidity
Which, in sum, denote prosperity,
Your burden would enthrall them where they go
And collection agents nightly tell them so.
Your rates are slave to a data dependent Fed,
and you are a poison consigning men to Hell.
Cash wages are what we need to slumber well,
Free of this debt incurred with the stroke of a pen.
One more loan payment and we 'll eschew your fee.
Then Debt shall be no more. We’ll be debt Free.

Belfast is a bustling town where big muscled men make ships of steel.
Down on the Quay we come today to bid farewell and see you off.
You have your suit case in your hand. I see you wore your Sunday best.
If you were lying in your casket you could not be better dressed.
So kiss your Mum a sad goodbye and shake your Father’s hand.
You have your ticket in your pocket to take you to a distant land.
You siblings and your kin have come to wish you well and say goodbye.
To raise a parting glass with you; in truth nobody is dry eyed.
Off with you now to America, Where a young man has space to dream.
Your mother bravely waves good bye. Only in private will she keen.
*******************
M­any years later, when he’d grown old, my DA returned to his native land
To see the house where he was born now just ruins and in others hands.
We visited the parish church where he had been baptized long ago.
A Celtic cross marks his parent’s grave and on their plot the wild grass grows.
Every one he’d known and loved had passed before him as if a dream.
He wept before his sister’s grave and said a prayer for my  Aunt Kathleen.
His story yet had years to run before the day came he, too, would pass.
Then relatives would gather once again and raise to John the parting glass.

She is there, I believe, behind those slate grey eyes.
Those eyes that once viewed me with Love
or with amusement.
Now, however, they see me without seeing.
She is held prisoner in a silk web of confusion.
She knows not who she is now.
She knows me not and has forgotten my name.
I visit though she forgets I ever came.
She is one who exists instead of lives.
A dear sweet girl with little left to give.
You ask me why I still come and I reply
“ I  promised my love until the day I die.”

From the first time I encountered AL, AL became my closest friend.
When my other buddies weren’t around on AL I could depend.
AL was always at my house or with me in my car;
a constant presence in my life, AL was  never very far.
When work or school caused me distress, AL would understand.
I always had the time for AL and AL was close at hand.
My other friends might disapprove, but what did they really know?
I was my best self when with AL, when I’d been feeling low.
Some tried to keep us two apart, but they could not succeed.
Having AL with me always was both a want and need.
Then came the day I crashed my car and cost my girl her life.
The police report blamed my friend AL for the death of my young wife.
I tried to rid my life of AL, but AL didn’t want to go.
My guilt, my grief, my misery made my dependence grow.
So now I sit on a wooden chair in the basement of a church.
For, you see, my “friend” named ALhas left me in the lurch.
I need to learn to love myself and deal with deep regret.
I rue the years I’ve wasted, AL; I wish we’d never met.

The battle is fought and our victory won,
My General has ordered me to run,
From Marathon’s plains to Athens Agora
to tell the elders of the battle’s outcome.
Oh gods on high grant us surcease
from threats of invasion if no true peace.
I have fought in the front line
and raced to and from Sparta in two days’ time.
Now fatigued and nearly done
I speed toward home from Marathon.
We will not suffer Eretria’s fate
Their city burned, their folk enslaved.
No! Thousands of Persians we have slain.
Our city on a hill is saved.
I’m short of breath and weak from wounds
Even as the walls of our city loom.
“Nike!” I cry! “Rejoice, we’ve won!”
As my proud heart breaks and I am done.

It began with the work.
He was the brilliant author; she his secretary.
They were racing against time
To pay a debt that must be paid.
Her nimble hands matched his nimble mind.
Her fingers flew to record his thoughts.
Four weeks, a mere four weeks,
to finish his novel; to rescue himself from debt.
Each night she worked, by feeble candlelight,
To transcribe his thoughts
While thoughts of love engendered in her breast.

At last the work was done, his time redeemed,
Yet he could not let go of one so dear.
Shyly, Dostoevsky proposed they wed.
She consented to become his wife, so dear.
She was not beautiful in the conventional sense
But became his muse, in fact his life and death.

Love is a choice, not a feeling,
At least that Love which will endure.
Feelings are transient, really,
and feelings,  like sand, are unsure.
Love which endures will be patient,
Love works to improve every day.
Love is a choice, please remember this,
should the stars in her eyes fade away.

The old black man had CA in his bones.
His pain by opiates barely concealed.
His nurses at the hospice were frankly amazed
that his proud heart, so far , refused to yield.

Within the lattice of his brain, he saw
his young self on the baseball field.
He'd been an all-star, twice MVP.
A threat to homer  or to steal.

Thad Tillotson was on the mound.
Paul Blair took his lead off second base.
His Orioles were the  leagues elite.
The once proud Yankees were in fifth place.

Frank Robinson stepped in the box
The distant black walls were his goal.
This time he did just enough
he drove a single through the hole.

As he reached first and Paul Blair scored
Reuben Amaro took Joe Pepitone's throw.
The first base coach ; a winged Seraphim,
welcomed Frank Robinson to the Show.

Someone has cut off my hands, not that it caused any pain.
Look upon me, a proud man’s daughter, enjoy then what remains.
My eyes will stare into your soul. My lips bear the trace of smile.
My portrait has lent immortality to this woman who never had child..
I was both a wife and a lover, this painting was made for my swain,
But he had both a wife and a mistress. In Florence he couldn’t remain.
In me you will see light and darkness. Sadness is there in my eyes.
My family has made me an older man’s bride; my circumstance breeds my disguise.

It’s a sad, sad scene on a Saturday night;
a lady sits  at the bar with no lover  in sight.
Stirring her drink with the straw in their hand,
bemoaning the lack of a suitable man.
She’s long since been abandoned by her ”Mister Right”,
Now the magic never lasts for more than one night.
She’s a leftover lover on the wrong side of thirty.
Feeling sad for herself; not the least bit flirty.
She has a good job and a place here downtown
But a true mate and friend is nowhere to be found.
No one to go home to, except for her kitty,
A sad denouement for one once thought to be pretty.
“Either they’re momma’s boys or they’re gay”
She thinks of the “talent” she sees on display.
She knows all too well that, in a drink or two,
She’ll be stumbling home with Mister He’ll do.

A House divided cannot stand,
though we try to preserve it no one can.
Uncivil discourse leads to civil unrest.
Both sides dig their heels in
But no one is impressed.
I recall this all happened once before
when rancor escalated into civil war.
Six hundred thousand died by the end
and the weapons they used were inferior then.
What will the butcher’s bill cost us this time?
The hate of disunion-
It Approaches

It’s time.

Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.