Grandfather John, my mother's dad,
remarried later on in life.
When he passed on his vast wealth
passed largely to this second wife.
Thus did her children benefit
from the bulk of his estate.
My mother and my Uncle John
relatively little, sad to state.
Sometime after the internment date
a piano was shipped to our home.
A piece Step- Grandma didn't want
She didn't play and lived alone.
When my mother was a child
living up in Marble Hill
She'd learned to play the instrument
that now she merely wished to ****.
In mortal rage she grabbed an axe
and like a batter swung away
It was a fair bit of exercise
(She had played baseball in her day.)
Such sounds that spinnet then produced
were likely never heard before.
such atonal melodies
as she ripped and smashed its core.

the Axe concerto was concluded
when only splinters still remained
She went and stored the axe away-
After than she never played

Pygmalion beseeched Aphrodite:
"Goddess, please answer my plea:
Give life to my dear Galatea,
that she may live always with me. “

The goddess, in a generous mood,
animated your figure Divine.
Your *******, generous in proportion,
Your bubble **** one of a kind.

Your skin is a fine alabaster;
Like marble, but warm to the touch.
Could your sculptor have done any better?
No, I’m sure there is only one such.

With golden, shoulder length tresses
and lips, apple red, candy sweet.
It’s not much of a mystery, really,
That Pygmalion was swept off his feet.

The young woman struggled,
she pushed and bore down.
She was covered in sweat
when they first saw the crown.

The doctor, with forceps,
Tried to coax the newborn
Into the light from the
womb dark and warm.

What came next was amazing,
a wonder to see.
The obstetrician so shocked
He nearly dropped the baby.

A cute baby boy-
There no cause for alarm-
and his miniature wings
Merely add to his charm.

This cuddly cherub
hovered feet off the ground.
The umbilical cord
All that kept him earth bound.

His wondering mother
Was clearly perplexed,
For none of her lovers
had been winged’ sexperts.

True, one was named “Angel”,
her Swedish masseuse,
but, apart from good hands,
he’d been of little use.

Perhaps that old goat
With the lengthy Greek name
Who muttered “by Zeus”
Every time that he came.

Not that it much mattered
Not here or not there
Still there’s no denying
Her boy’s got a pair.

A simple curved stone bench
Set in a rustic niche.
Outside, this city bustles,
here, time passes by the inch.
There’s a fine array of roses
and stone tablets on the wall.
The inscription is in Irish,
It tells of a rise and fall.
As I sit, quiet, here
Near the bronze children of Lir
The reflecting pool brims full
of my races’ gathered tears.

Keeping with the wedding theme of today.


The ***** swells as bellows fill.
The wedding march begins to play.
The bride is beautiful in white
All eyes attend her on her day..
He in black Tuxedo waits,
With the best man and the priest.
..
A pledge, a promise and a vow.
A ring , a kiss, a camera pose.
Two optimists race down the aisle
What fate awaits them?
God only knows!

You see me suspended in space-time
as I’m passing the 89th floor
Falling headlong, my form is impressive.
Sadly, no one will be holding up scores.
Just moments ago I was standing
at a Morton’s Fork in the road:
The fires of hell were advancing
where I stood on the 98th Floor.
Well can you imagine my terror
when I came face to face with the flames.
I don’t know why I chose as I did;
Souls in torment can never explain.
The day of my death predetermined,
but which death would provide me less pain?.
My choice, which was no “choice” at all
was to smash through the window and fall.
Then the only thing that could “save” me
was the camera that captured it all

Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
the trio we know as “the Fates”
Were discussing the fate of some poet
while calmly ******* on dates.

“At best Sisters, he’s merely adequate.
Sure, he knows his rhythm and rimes.
But when they compile an anthology
will his poems merit  more than three lines?”

“Some of his verses are Humorous”
“You’ll grant me that, Clotho, at least.”
“Other times he takes himself too serious,
and behaves like some priggish high priest”

“Atropos, where is my measuring rod?
All too soon he’ll meet us face to face.”
“Here is the fate I have chosen.
Take your shears and mark well the place.”

The fruit made Atropos’ grasp slippery
A lock of hair fell in her face.
The poet got more than allotted
It was sheer dumb luck in his case

He was younger than me.
He was a Prince of the “Street”.
Folks would all stop and listen
whenever he deigned to speak.
To him profit came easy
And with it came fame,
(while I cursed my bad luck
at the Powerball game.)
Yet I’m still living and breathing,
while he’s stiff as a board.
His heirs all lining up
to ravage his hoard.

It’s said he had millions,
yet, as you can see,
they could not buy him health
Or even longevity.
He saw the sun set
But did not see it rise.
Was it pangs of regret?
-Of Thrombosis he died.

First they’ll hold a grand funeral
with much mindless palaver.
Then, like other such maggots,
They’ll feast on the cadaver.
They’ll Jet here and there
To Paris or Rome
Drink fine wines and whiskeys
but seldom at home.
Their meals will all be
Five star and five course
and all at the expense
of one excellent corpse.

King James demands a Scottish play
and believes in witches three
Look close and see they are the fates
that set our destiny

I can't write about his mother
or the ****** of her clerk
One whisper about Darnley
and we'll all be out of work.

After that unhappy business
about Essex and the Queen.
I won't risk another incident
no abdication scene.

Keep the text, in time to come
it will prove rare like gold
I kept it shorter than King Lear
your attention span to hold.

At the Empire's fringe
A woman and man
Traveled by night
over oceans of sand.

The woman, quite pregnant,
rode their sole beast of burden.
Her time; near at hand,
Her child's fate; uncertain

They saw a light in the distance
from a sheepherder's ranch
The couple was fearful
but saw it was  their best chance

an abandoned outbuilding
on the outskirts of the spread
It had a tin roof
and some straw for a bed.


The blankets they carried
Jose lay on the straw
He then helped down Maria
who could travel no more.

The empire has watchers
with guns and night scopes
on the watch for illegals
there to frustrate their hopes.

Maria was panting
Jose said” bear down!
The baby is coming
I can see it, the crown"

The watchers were coming
in their camouflage Jeep.
They pulled up near the ranch
to that garage they would creep

Looking in through a window
they saw the birth of the child
one of them swore
but the other just smiled.

The birth of that child
on American soil
would serve as an Anchor
for that man and his girl.

The couple thanked God
that their child had survived.
That the boy they named Jesus
in this new land would thrive.

This ****** with binoculars
sat waiting in the blind,
half hidden by the rushes
That grew tall on either side.
Perhaps I’d spot a Peregrine
or a hawk on the attack.
My camera is beside me, and,
should I catch one in the act.
I’d photograph a mating pair
(but artfully, with tact.)

So far there’s just a flock of wrens
Not much this day I see.
I start to get the strange sensation
that they’re here observing me.

A cardboard Flat
some ribbon and string
some ******* and a teething ring
Together they make
a silly Chapeau
for Christine to model
it has been ever so
at Baby showers
for the mother to be
Photographed
wearing such
elaborate frippery

Its former tenant long since fled
to wherever Mollusks go..
Its’ empty shell rests on my shelf
For years that has been so.

I took it down the other day,
intending just to dust.
A mote, or something, caused a tear.
Was it perhaps, a thought of us?

We walked along the Islands shore
As old, practiced, couples do.
We found this shell half buried
And I rescued it for you.

We had a fine collection
On the shelf above our bed
Until your former flame returned
And you, like summer, fled.

Triangles are eternal
constructs pleasing to the mind
But this one proved ephemeral
being the romantic kind,

I raise the Conch Shell to my lips
And give a practiced blow.
Its low sweet song a threnody
For days of long ago

The thing that killed her has a name

It formed the plaque that scarred her brain.

She embarked upon that one way trip

where names elude and memories slip



This disease is most unkind

It slows the step and clouds the mind

Her daughter daily watched her fade

into a lemure, a ghostly shade.



She was not frail at eighty nine

She’d cold cocked nurses in her time

who came too close with an I.V.

and paid dearly for their ministry.



The heart was strong, but not the mind

Ten years passed, as we count time.

She couldn’t hear or speak our names

How silent then her world became.



She couldn’t eat without an aide,

Or walk without a metal cane.

At the last- the chair with wheels

And we all saw how helpless feels.



Some say death is most unkind

Perhaps, for those before their time-

But for those who linger at his door

There is no gift they wanted mor

I called her tiger Lilly
As she favored clothes with stripes
But I did not back away in fear
when she flashed her pearly whites.

There’s a chapel on the campus
And we both so liked to sing
There was just one little problem
Lilly wore another’s ring.

She’d been six months separated
From her lawful wedded mate.
She’d suffered two miscarriages
Things between them weren't great.

It still of course was possible
That they might work it out
But I found myself falling
Every time she was about..

We started sharing moments
At the ballpark and the shore
As much as we were together
I found myself wanting more.

I told myself its over-
that her man’s not coming back.
She’s a pretty, gracious flower
and a tiger in the sack.

And then one day it ended
Her parents intervened
They forced them back together
We never had our farewell scene.

A year after we’d parted
There was a story in the news
Lilly died in a car accident
Her husband had been stewed.

So every year on that same date
The day I heard you’d died
I lay a Lilly on your grave
It’s from your other guy.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.

Did Custer reach the river
before the natives struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.

Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield
An ocean of grass to tame
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

Out upon the greasy grass
George tried to make a stand
Two hundred men surrounded
There was a breakdown in command.

Outnumbered and surrounded
Some men simply broke and ran
But death was not to be denied,
Their blood fed thirsty sand.

Custer, mortally wounded,
with a bullet near his heart.
did not live to see the rest.
His troopers hacked apart.

The position held by Reno
And commanded by Benteen
survived several furious assaults
before the natives fled the scene.

Relieved by General Terry’s force,
They sought their fallen ones-
The bodies hacked and naked,
decomposing in the sun.

No horse to Ride, No sword to wield,
an ocean of grass untamed.
The Seventh lay out in the field
That was the cost of fame.

The University where my friend teaches
has sadly forgot what Free Speech is.
Instructors are expressly forbidden
to use the name” Christ” in a greeting.
If you say “Merry Christmas” in passing
if non tenured,  it can be career ending.
If you bless in the name of the Lord,
be prepared for your Ox to be gored.
On the same Campus, on many occasions,
Folks speak freely of perverse persuasions.
Yet, Dean forbid, you should pray,
You’d be better off coming out gay.
If Supernatural salutations you savor
“May the Force be with you”- still is in favor.
So forget about Magi and Manger
or your teaching career is in danger.
If you lecture about Christ and sin
be prepared for what they did to Him.

My mother forgot how to swallow.

Before that, she lost my face and my name,
erased from her memory by sickness and age.
Her nurses complained she took too long to feed
They wanted a peg and a tube for the deed

My mother forgot how to swallow


She forgot her late spouse, dis-remembered her vow.
With the loss of the past there is no here and now.
Once she read to my child, then my girl read to her-
Until all the sounds were a meaningless blur

My mother forgot how to swallow


Jesus and Mary and her patron saint
would loved to have helped her, so weak and so faint,
but she had forgotten the simplest prayer -
the beads in her hand little use to her here.

My mother forgot how to swallow


The night nurses found her while making their round
She was cold to the touch, no pulse to be found
She stared, eyes wide open, at the cross on the wall
Perhaps the Messiah had come after all.

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

Ganjgal, September 8, 2009


They had a job to do that day
in the Valley of Ganjgal.
Afghani and Americans
walked into a metal hail.
An ambush had been laid for them
as they approached the town
Every light was darkened
Taliban held the high ground.

One squad was pinned
Behind a wall and
was taking Casualties.
The gunny Sergeant
for sure was dead
and perhaps the other three.
Corporal Meyer on the radio
called for suppressive fire
but was denied because brass feared
to rouse the natives ire.

With no air support available
and the situation looking grim
Corporal Meyer told his Sergeant  
They should take the Humvee in.
They drove into the ambush zone
time and time again
Engaging with the enemy
and rescuing their friends.



Corporal Meyer killed one enemy
at close range with his M-4
He then engaged with a machine gun
and killed or wounded several more.

When air support, at last, arrived
and held the foe at bay
Corporal Meyer entered the killing zone
to take the dead away.
He came across four bodies
that had been stripped of guns and gear
All four had been shot at close range
the  postmortems make that clear..
On his broad shoulders he bore a friend
Who’d paid the price of war.
He ran between the bullets
until he had retrieved all four.
Disregarding his own safety
and heedless of his Shrapnel wound
He displayed great personal bravery
without which our cause is doomed.

Corporal Meyer wears an honor now
that few men living bear
The Medal of Honor on his chest
for conspicuous Gallantry there.
He will tell you he’s no hero.
He just had a job to do.
A proud United States Marine
to their motto ever true.

When she saw brown dots upon the rug,
and more upon a chair.
The poor housewife was certain
several mice resided there.
“I’ll need a cat. Or perhaps two,
quite possibly I’ll need four.”
“This quantity of **** demands
a feline killing corps.”
Just then her rotund husband
opportunely wandered in.
with a bag of Nestlé’s morsels
and brown stains upon his chin.
She watched him munch a handful,
several dropping to the floor
Hard to believe someone that fat
had ever missed his maw.
No killer cats were needed
if spouse droppings was the source.
What the housewife really needed
was a lucrative divorce.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
We named you inoffensively.
Your boughs have been de- Christianized
Rededicated to mankind
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
takes all denominations

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
Enjoyed by Jew and Pagan.
You twinkle with a million lights
like the Universe of Carl Sagan.
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
Takes all denominations.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
No Creche beneath your branches
Atop your pine- No Star Divine
instead a golden dollar sign
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
takes all denominations

Each night we strut upon the stage
in plumage not our own.
You are Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.
I am Marc Anthony of Rome.
I die by sword, you die by Asp
our seperate fates well known.
Octavius had triumphed at Actium
and moved to seize your throne.
Each night, our tragedy complete
we bow to crowds' applause.
We act out Master Shakespeare's words
in climes and tongues unknown
to that Queen of Eqypt
and the Triumvir, late of Rome.
After curtain,some young dancer
gets you drunk and takes you home
Octavius does lines of Coke
Marc Anthony drinks alone.

I dropped you off at Kindergarten
wasn’t it just yesterday?
You clutched at Mother’s tailored suit
Loathe to turn away.
Your teacher came, a kind young girl
and took you off to play.

You’re Twenty two, a man now grown
dressed in tailored Grey
We wave bye at the window
when your cab takes you away.
I remember that first parting
wasn’t it just yesterday?

Glory came early as did fame,
to Gary Speed there on the pitch.
Cheers he heard from adoring crowds
among the elite he found his niche.
With time’s passage he lost a step
even if he felt the same
but as he ran he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

He coached to stay around the game.
After the cheers for him had faded
A friendly face, a familiar name
but as he coached he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

For many, Gary was an icon,
a living legend of the game.
They failed to see the mortal man
with silence weighting on his frame
As he tied the rope he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s gam

The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury  had foretold

Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.

Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme

The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me,  awkwardly, to start the fray.

The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.

They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.

Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.

Three friends in a row
On a windswept hill there
Had they but eyes to see
It’s a spectacle rare.

Three friends in a row
on a former plantation.
Three soldiers confined here
just for the duration.

It was Robert Lee’s land
Before terrible war
Made it a plantation
Like none was before.

There are soldiers and sergeants,
Many heroes, few saints.
Some are here since Antietam
since the war between States.

Marse Robert’s plantation
takes the proud and the few.
No serfs and no slaves,
only freeborn and true.

Famine had come to our shores
The poor and weak it claimed.
It was our staple, the potato, which failed.
There was no lack of grain.

The landlords were exporting crops
While they watched their tenants bide.
A crueler death than Cromwell gave
Back when he let God decide.

The Wealthy were the Protestants,
centuries in the ascendant.
The victims, mostly Catholic,
of native Celts descendant.

Starvation is a lingering death.
It is not quick or kind.
Green Grass was, for many,
the last meal on which they dined.


When our neighbor, Kitty Kelly, died,
too proud to take the soup.
We boarded ship for old New York
And left behind our youth.

Lilliana was quite beautiful
in most peoples’ estimation.
Even her name was musical
Her proportions were perfection.
She, being young,
heard her praises sung
by the minstrels of the land.
Of course she was a princess.
His Royal Highness was her Dad.
.
Little gifts began appearing,
anonymously, of course
Often she heard some angel singing
but could not trace the source.
Her little sisters teased her
about her mystery man.
Who would do anything to please her
Who'd ask Father for her hand.

Could his Father be the Duke
or perhaps the son of an Earl.
Perhaps a Prince of Persia,
from half way across the World
But they were wrong and she was wrong
wrong in the n th degree.
for it was Cupid who loved her so,
the son of Aphrodite.

“It is what it is”
-Such a popular phrase!
And folks spread it around
Like Fast Food Mayonnaise.
It’s been used to describe
Economic foment,
The state of the arts and
The high cost of rent.

A phrase often spoken
When you wish to seem wise-
In the loop, in the know,
But it’s all just a guise.
It’s a symptom of sorts
Of our current malaise
You did not hear it much
in our halcyon days.

In that past, half remembered,
where house prices rose.
Where portfolios doubled,
and we all wore new clothes.
We were kings of the world
And we partied till three.
Now we live on fixed income
And we struggle to ***.

“It is what it is”
Is no optimist’s line
It’s a dull sounding phrase
Half resigned to hard times.
It implies things are bad
and inclined to get worse.
“It is what it is”
To me it’s a curse.

She had a book of Sorcery,
that vile and evil crone.
She had no gift for Prophecy
or she wouldn’t have stayed home.
They caught her selling magic veils
and liquid in small jars.
(She was magically recycling
the contents of a mini-bar.)
She was caught with these potent potions
by the Saudi Faith police.
(Like the Spanish Inquisition
They’re not expected in the least.)
She was condemned for Sorcery
Her head forfeit to the Crown.
The price of magic veils just rose
if any can be found.

Love, imperfect, stillborn
to have been but not to be.
We ended it in a coffee shop,
how cruel that was of me.
An old love had resurfaced,
but who had the better claim?
Should I go back to she who left,
or, with the other, remain?
There are no perfect answers
in life, in love, in time.
My children followed from my choice;
sweet hostages to time.
If I were of two bodies
as I was then of two minds
only then could I refuse
and not leave one behind.
My past has been imperfect,
I'd hesitate to live it twice.
Yet all I'd ever hoped I'd be
flows from my choice that night

They buried him at Calverton,
the sky provided tears.
His mourners were the Few, the Proud.
No next of kin appeared.

For years he’d wandered City Streets,
a casualty of war.
The V.A. patched his injuries,
they couldn’t bandage what he saw.

The State had little use for him,
once the Peace accords were signed
His tiny pension was just enough
to purchase anodyne.

The blessings of a dreamless sleep,
He sometimes found in wine.
Otherwise he was on night patrol
With friends he’d left behind.

It’s hard to live civilian life,
His haunted mind was too far gone.
His body slept in Central Park
while his soul patrolled Khe San.

Then one night, more cold then most,
that solider finally yields.
She found him, dead, beneath the bridge
That he’d called “home” for years.

That kindly New York City Cop,
who knew he was a Vet,
arranged a simple funeral.
-That’s more than many get.

Present, aim, ready, fire!
They fire three quick rounds.
Accompanied by a tape of “Taps”
They commit him to the ground.

He’s back again, demanding to be fed.
I thought this time that he was gone for good.
The black dog with the aspect of a wolf
that none but I can see within the wood.

When he is near the sun refuses to shine
there is no warmth or color in the world.
The feast of life reduced to bread and water,
No bands will play and flags remain unfurled.

With Winter solstice, shadows settle early.
With the darkness comes a certain sense of sin.
The creature, a harbinger of desolation,
That’s when the edge of sadness creeps within.

Why do I love you?
because you’re my child.
Since before you were born-
So it’s been quite a while.

I couldn’t resist you
No way and no wise
Since the first time I saw you
in your Mother’s eyes.


In part your remind me
Of those I hold dear
the sound of your laughter
the salt of your tears.

The way your tongue curls
And mothers’ cannot
You’re a storehouse of traits
That I can’t do without.

Your voice raised in song
Can be heard in the rafters
Your song is a gift
Handed down from ancestors.

Like me you love humor
With a sarcastic wit
As often as not
you score direct hits

So while I still breathe
And still can remember
I love you dear child
and the sound of your laughter.

I found myself in darkness there
My hands reached out
and touched concrete.
I could smell the wet cement
and the odor of dead
chrysanthemums.

At my feet a wooden box
and a brass plate displayed my name
(Useful for Archeologists
though I doubt if any ever came)
my heart raced with anxiety
there in the crypt none heard me scream.
Where is the border beyond which sleep
would end my fear and ease my pain?

I woke in the darkness of my room
The sheets were dripping with my sweat.
It seems I'd been to hell and back
and seen the eternity of regret.

When last I lay with you my Love-
lay with you in your narrow bed
in your room, off campus, near the mall.
in your last semester of Pre- Med.

That day I’d helped you move your things
And after our feast of pie and beer
You were loathe to let me go
In your narrow bed you held me near.

Your hair was then a fiery red
Your milk white ******* had known no sun
I kept eye contact as I inclined
to worship Venus ever young..

I held you in your narrow bed
hardness in softness intertwined
about a thousand kisses worth
yes, the name you called was mine.

Sweating in a chilly room
Your landlord didn’t give much heat
I held you then for the last time
Both knowing and not knowing that.

You moved away, we grew apart
I met the girl who’d be my wife
You had your practice in L.A.
We both got along with life.


Thirty winters passed me by
I heard that you were back in town
I hurried out to visit you.
To see your face for one last time.


Your brother met me at the door-
The one who used to be a priest
He led me to the open casket
Where your body lay at peace

Streaks of grey were in your hair
The strain of cancer marred you face
But though the battle had been lost
Were you not now in a better place?

Laid out in a pale blue dress
A rosary wrapped around your hands
if they were warm and capable-
Could they make me feel young again?

I left you, Ellen, one last time
Feeling overcome by tears
I clutched my coat against the cold
That reached for me across the years.

“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
parishioners
who then fled.

The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
go
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.

He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.

The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.

He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.

He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.

He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.

As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
“Mother!”
and fell, senseless, on the floor.


His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.

Sometimes a spirit won't let go,
in spite of all the pain.
It wants another sunrise,
to feel, again, the rain.

But when at last, its time to go
with goodbyes said at last
return them to their mother's womb
at peace with their own past.

For so short is a lifetime's span,
from first word to last amen
We borrow breath to live as man-
expiring, pay it back again.

For Better, or Worse,
They freely consented.
The gowns were fitted,
the Tuxes were rented.
They both pledged their troth
before family and friends.
A fairytale Day,
but all fairy tales end.

For Richer, for poorer,
the latter's the norm.
with three kids in college
who all want to dorm.
They worked extra hours
to pay the expense
of caps and gowns earned.
Those were happy events.

In sickness and health,
There were scares, here and there.
A bout with colitis
A broken hip, a wheelchair.
They soldiered on through it
lifelong lovers must.
Silver may tarnish
but it never will rust.

Till death do them part,
No gold left in her hair.
She relies on her walker
He's confined to the chair.
She struggles to aid him,
at night she just cries.
Though his body still lives
there's no light in his eyes.

This is the journey
from the ring to the stone
Either rise to the challenge
or live life on your own.

The woman paid money-
Three hundred it’s said-
To help change her life
But she ended up dead.

A voodoo priest promised
To alter her fate,
but all he accomplished
was speeding up her due date..

The candles were lit
on his bedroom floor there.
The priest and the woman
Shortly after went bare

“Oh, Father!” she murmured
“You’re sure looking swell!
Now come do that Voodoo
That you do so well.”

As they bounced on the bed
A candle placed there
Fell down and ignited
Clothes piled on a chair.

The supplicant woman
And the priest, now defrocked,
At first didn’t notice
while they were hip locked.

But first they smelled smoke
And then they saw fire.
They had no clothes and no means
to extinguish their pyre..

The voodoo priest’s roommate
Was ironing pants
When he heard the commotion
It didn’t sound like romance.

When he opened the door
To go to their aide
A strong gust of wind
Added fuel to the flame
A blazing inferno
engulfed the whole room
what had been their temple
was shortly their tomb.

The tenants all fled
As the night burned bright red
They had only the clothes on their backs
Reports said.

When you next do the voodoo
That you do so well
Skip the part with the candles
And you may live to tell.

This gut I’ve got won’t go away
while I sit at my desk each day.
Munching McDonalds in my car
won’t land me “dancing with the stars”.

Mashed potatoes, I have found,
really help pack on the pounds.
While French cut fries, it seems to me
are helping clog my arteries.

I do no exercise, to speak,-
I think about it twice a week.
This diet soda helps me not
As muscles fade , I’ve gone to ***

I’m gaining weight, my knees are shot
Carting around this gut I’ve got.
Is munching wonder bread the cause
Or am I suffering Manopause.

.


Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.

The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.

The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.

The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.

“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now!”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
As Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.

It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body
before North tower, too, would go.

Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.

Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed where Angels feared to tread,
not fearful in the least

This actually happened pretty much as I have told it. It happened on a weekday afternoon in summer on 60th Avenue in the Queensboro Hill section of Flushing, NY. The Mister softeee trucks still roam the streets to this day playing the same jingle as in my youth. For some reason they have adopted a sensible pay first policy. The Pioneer was the name of the local tavern at the foot of the street. it now serves bubble tea to the asian elite.


Our ice cream man on Queensboro hill
was a curmudgeon, to put it kind.
I'm pretty sure he hated those
who paid in quarters, nickels and dimes.

Ritchie was a "special " kid
He was a big kid for his age.
To put things gently he was slow,
Half a wit and not a sage.

We heard the Mister Softee Jingle
from a good half mile away
It must haven driven the bald guy mad
to have to listen to that all day.

Ritchie went up to the window
He got a cone then refused to pay.
Mister Softee left his station.
Ritchie made to run away.

It was like a Chinese Fire Drill
Ritchie jumped into the truck
The keys were there, the engine on.
He displayed considerable verve and pluck.

The softee truck rolled down the block
with Mister Softee in hot pursuit.
His bald head gleaming in the sun
wishing for his long lost youth.

The truck crashed into the Pioneer.
Ritchie was cuffed and led away.
Mr. softee nursed his vanquished pride.
His truck sold no more cones that day.

Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

The night was cool
the moon was full.
There was no hint
of what was to come.
A nearby asteroid
was perturbed
from its journey
around the Sun.
It hurtled down
toward the Earth.
A billion souls
it put at risk
none but the moon
stood in its path
It struck the moon
a silent blast
because in Space there
is no sound.
Luna shook
but gave no
ground.
A slice of moon was
sharded off
Fragments blasted
here and there
The tides went mad
The seas rose up
The waves raised
in a desperate prayer.
In time the dust would coalesce
into a ring
about our orb
Poets would write
about the ring
which girds our earth,
our Eden home.

In seeking where true beauty lies
I urge you to seek it in her eyes.
Youthful curves in time decline
with too much food and too much wine,
While upturned breast and graceful knee
in time succumb to gravity.
There are some, I know, prefer the smile
as true beauty’s peristyle.
For me, her eyes hold pride of place-
not just another pretty face.
Google bots may search the web
suggesting dimples, curls or pout.
That true beauty lies within her eyes
has long been known to Love’s devout.

How can I write the story
of a battle fought and won,
when lying close beside me
Is the body of my son?

He was ordered to this field,
a place where his unit bled.
Wounded, left to die,
when even surgeons fled.

The sole object of my interest
Is this, my oldest son.
Does it matter Lee was beaten?
That the Union forces won?

All around me is death’s harvest.
for him, a fruitful one.
I will send you home to mother
and be cursed for what I’ve done.

The photographers are roaming
Through the fields of blood and gore
Taking pictures of the fallen.
They are bringing home the war.

When your best friends a canary,
you've been too long in the mines.
The dust that marks
your skin and lungs
is never far behind.
Paler than a Vampire,
hidden from the Sun.
Long hours digging with your pick
wherever the seam may run.
Sometimes the dust
constricts your breath.
Some times you feel undone.
When you're living life in dog years,
you can count on dying young.

“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..

Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
singing his swan song.

He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
pausing  for his final bier..

Thank God for prearrangement
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.

He’s shuffled off this mortal coil
and brought the curtain down.
Soon he’ll be checking out the grass
from six feet underground..

Melvin has given up the ghost.
He was snuffed out in his prime.
He cashed his chips in early,
passing on before his time.

“Your loved one’s in a better place.”
The Undertaker gravely said..
“His ancestors have embraced him
in a place of light, not dread.”

Some will say he kicked the bucket,
checked out early, bought the farm.
The religious say he’s with the Lord,
The perpetual light is on.

Melvin, were he here with us,
more likely would have said
a better place for him would be
that redhead’s poster bed.