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 game

She was careful that she was not seen
There, in the graveyard,
deep in the night.
A single rose in her left hand
A bottle of Cognac in her right.
She knew the path to his grave by heart,
How could it be otherwise?
The two of them had shared one heart,
Now in his tomb the Master lies.
Libation poured upon the stone.
She wets her lips with Hennessy
He, of course, Edgar Allan Poe
She, of Course,his Annabelle Lee.

I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.

The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.

Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite cancer's indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.

She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I 'd been just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.


She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.

I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”


We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.

I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.

“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”

She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.

“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”

I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a  warm and humid  night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.


I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.

When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned

I am fleeing from Proscription,
half heartedly at best.
I view death with some ambivalence,
as perhaps a welcome rest.
I would die here in the Country
That I have, so often, saved.
The constitution predeceased me.
The Republic is enslaved.

A Freedman has betrayed me.
I see soldiers block my path.
Like some fallen Gladiator,
I’ve turned thumbs down on in the past,
I will not draw back in fear,
I stretch my neck out to the sword.
By the gods, this man’s a butcher.
My neck is hacked and sawed.

It’s an interesting perspective
as my head rolls in the dust.
They are hacking off my hands
My voiceless lips mouth my disgust.

The pavement neath
my pad pawed feet
is sometimes rough
(They seldom Sweep)
I tour my little concrete Fief
with a boy on a chain
dragged off his feet.
I sniff and check
each rock and tree
to find which dogs
have stopped to ***.
I roll a growl deep
in my throat
if I see rivals here about.
If perchance, Fifi I meet
I wag my tail and act real sweet.
She's French you know,
and , when in heat,
worlds can collide
and blend tout suite.

Jolly? or pejorative?
It's really hard to say.
They work the streets by night.
He flies upon a sleigh.
They quicken old mens hearts,
He gladdens children's days.
They both can lighten wallets
in direct and derivative ways.
Like the poor, they're always with us-
Those girls who play for pay.
Santa isn't like them
He gives it all away.
Will they get coal in their stockings
from that jolly rotund Guy?
He's coming Christmas Eve
They just pretend to, being sly.

In the darkness of late evening,
Mark Chapman waited for his prey.
A born again Christian, incensed by Lennon,
Gun in hand, prepared to slay.
In cold blood he murdered John,
Never again would Lennon play.
Everyone knows where they were that day

The people crowd the entrances
at Malls all over town.
To seize the choicest bargain deals,
They’d gladly knock you down.
The retailers all hold their breath
as shopping gets in gear.
Will Santa fill his sleigh as hoped?
-or lay off more Reindeer?
There are plastic toys from China
colored with suspicious paint.
Whip out your last credit card
(-when you see the bills, you’ll faint.)
“The children must have Christmas! ”
No request will be denied.
Never mind your youngest child
has just turned thirty five.
Down forget a gift for you
Don’t you deserve the best?
Shopping is such good therapy
for the financially depressed

TAP, TAP, TAP- Over here! Over here!
We hear their frantic tapping.,
sailors trapped in the capsized ship
with the water levels rising.

We work with acetylene Torches,
work quickly as the December sun dies.
The smell of blood and oil mixes
I'm too numb to let myself cry.

Work is my only salvation
for me and the men down below.
I am racing with time to their rescue
A race I might lose even so.

Tap, tap, tap, the sound growing fainter
some sailors have died as they wait
Others survive, breathing foul air
Praying for deliverance from fate.

My naked back glistens with Sweat
as we manage a breech in the hull
I grasp the hand of a survivor,
a stranger who now I knew well.

The sun settles red in the West
A red ball like I saw on the planes.
Yet Pearl is not totally dark
we continue to work by its flames

Since I have poetic license
and don't get out much at all.
I sometimes think of words as people
- it beats talking to the wall.

So I had a chat with "Friend" today
after one or several Brews
Thanks to social sites like Facebook
"Friend" is often in the news.

"Friend" you're looking tired,
Exhausted, overused.
People have abused you
like they'd treat a rented mule.

Folks who'd be acquaintances
back in the days of yore,
are now best friends forever
and we have them by the score.

Our brains are not hardwired
to handle friendships by the score
Our mundane lives no longer private
either "liked" or, worse, ignored.

"Friend" has  suffered from inflation
like the dollar now and then
Both seemed once to have value
comparing now to way back when.

He was leader of no country.
King of no Sceptered Isle.
He never led his folk to battle.
It just never was his style.

The history books we have
recount the foibles of the "great"
The cannon fodder mass of men,
in these tomes, never rate.

He died,and, like a coral,
lent his bones to form the reef
that stands between the tidal plain
and the waters of belief.

November of  Sixty-five, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.


this poem is written in honor of Captain Ed "Too Tall" Freeman. the action for which he received the Congressional Medal of Honor was the battle of La Drang, Vietnam which is the core of the Mel Gibson film " We were soldiers" the action takes place on 11/14-15/65

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

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

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

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

A difficult woman, most people would say.
Stubborn and headstrong,
clearly uncommon clay..
Thick as a mule
Steadfast in her ways
When she went on the warpath
even atheists  prayed
A heart good and faithful
A rock in the storm.
She could drown out the choir
She was never lukewarm.
Her several grand daughters
are  of the same mind
My daughter's just like her
I've been paid back in kind.

I woke up in a stranger's bed
in a room that's not my own.
I gathered, from the perfumed sheets,
that I was not alone.

Spooning with me was a girl
not like the girls back home.
The girls back home don't sport tattoos
The girls back home sleep clothed.

This girl moaned softly in my ear
and stroked my morning glory.
I'm not the sort to kiss and tell,
so here I'll end the story.

Paul Wittgenstein returned from war,
feeling half a man.
He had fought his nations’ battles
at the cost of his right hand.
The loss of an appendage
scars anyone, its true.
Paul was a pianist-.
With just one hand what could he do?

Paul Wittgenstein was fortunate
Having Ravel for a friend.
A confidante of Gershwin,
He said Paul would play again..
He wrote a sweet piano piece
To be played with just one hand.
If you close your eyes and listen
You would never guess his plan.
A composer of precision,
With a jazzy playful side,
His left handed concerto
Was one to make the angels cry

Paul Wittgenstein took to the stage
A sea of faces looking on.
He played the piece so brilliantly
None guessed his hand was gone.
Not until he left his seat
To bow to their applause
Some gasped in their astonishment,
But most just cheered and roared.



Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand is one of the most brilliant and important of 20th-century concertos for any instrument. Composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who lost his right arm during World War I, there is no way by simply listening that you would ever know its secret. Both of Ravel's concertos were heavily influenced by jazz--possibly also by his acquaintance with Gershwin--and successful performances must combine his customary precision with a certain ability to "swing" the tunes. --David Hurwitz

Elliot Handler, late of Mattel,
has gone to his heavenly rest.
The designer of Hot Wheels
Made many great toys;
Barbie, the doll, is known best.

Barbie was shaped
Like a ******* recruit;
A miniature teenage *******.
Barbie wasn't  impressed
When she got Ken undressed;
Some equipment was lacking, it seems.

Last night we kissed hands goodbye,
never dreaming that it was forever.
Unsuspecting that you, my dear child,
soon would lie cold and still neath the heather.

The graceless Sun thoughtlessly shines
I would eclipse it forever.
The death I prepared for was mine,
but God twists the knife and is clever.

First your sister, thirteen summers ago
Then, soon after, I lost your dear Mother.
Now you, daughter- taken from me.
There's no chance this old man can recover.

The comet that shone at my birth
Will soon light its way through the heavens
I beg that it bears me away-
lets me stop being Samuel Clemens.

The Polo Grounds, when first seen,
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.

It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?

Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.

The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.

We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans..

The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill,,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.

My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age-
What he was then, so I am now.

Thirty years, about, it’s been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don’t get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.

He can’t enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
He can’t pour himself a glass..

In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game-
What was I waiting for?

You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.

Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.

These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.

Curves and ice cream swirls can be
****, yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.

To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”

We batter our foes
with bomb, shell and shot.
Now Despair walks their streets
And their children do not.
The average Marine
Spends more time at the front
than his grandfather spent
As a World War two grunt.

At home when we travel
We wait in long lines
To be poked and prodded
Even X rayed at times.
At home prices rise
For most essential things
The bankers are  flush
Ben Bernanke’s their king.

As the empire creaks
And grounds to a halt
Will he hyper inflate
or simply default?
Mourn the Republic
For which we once stood
When all food was organic
And we worshiped the rood.

Heed old Ben Franklin
He had vision to see
He warned long ago
What the tradeoff would be.
If they offer you “safety”
in trade for your Liberty.
You will never be safe
for you will never be free

Spot, that lucky dog, is dead.
He did not live to see
what became of **** and Jane.
Let me relate their history.
**** and Jane now were in their teens
Vietnam was our national hell.
Jane mourned her fellows at Kent State.
****'s squad stormed Hue's Citadel.
**** came back from Vietnam
a changed and distant man.
In sleep he'd mutter, toss and turn,
crying out like one who's dammed.
Jane became a feminist and
in protest burned her brassiere.
****, in monosylables
proclaimed he loved Jane dear
Soon Jane was having fun with ****
in the back seat of his car.
A different sort of fun, I think
than they ever had before.
They both tried marijuana
and both of them inhaled
They were discreet, unlike their friends
and avoided time in jail.
They lived together for  a while
Eventually they married.
The product of their union was
two boys named Tom and Harry.
**** got work at Chysler
standing right beside his Dad.
He figured he was set for life.
He became a Union man.
Jane became a lawyer
working for A.C.L.U.
**** and Jane would often argue
about the causes she pursued.
By now the boys were growing up
and spending time with Dad
Out at Tiger Stadium
they had seats in the grandstand.
It seemed everything was perfect.
Of course everything was not.
**** and Jane fought frequently.
Her career was getting hot.
She no longer had much fun with ****;
the passion had grown cold.
Cialis was not invented yet
and **** grew fat and bald.
Jane began to question why
she  ever chose to marry.
Jane stopped having fun with ****.
Jane  now has fun with Sally.

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Lori didn’t turn many heads
But she turned my life around.

Forty years, has it been
since we were both seventeen?
I remember it a difficult year
Like all the ones in between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner
she worked on the school paper with me
She rolled up her skirt like the others
to show off her Catholic girl knees.

With Greg as her steady companion
she was the heart of our group.
They provided a fair bit of drama
and the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, inclined to be round.
It was Lori who drew our social circle
big enough to include me in bounds.

We always were friends, never lovers,
never shared one passionate kiss.
She taught me that mercy trumps justice
She made Circles just like God makes his.

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Her face had the smile of an angel
such beauty is rare to be found.

The Cut man and the manager
had seen this scene before.
Smoking Joe was staggering.
He looked destined for the floor.
His left eye badly swollen
from where a cut had bled.
For Fourteen Rounds
He'd matched his foe,
the greatest,many said.
Now it seemed he's have to yield
to this implacable foe.
Eddie reached and grabbed the towel
he was prepared to throw
Frazier glared with his good eye
to tell his corner " NO"!

The minutes seemed forever.
He gave his all, they said
The fifteenth round has ended
and smoking Joe is dead.

I woke up on the gurney
with pain that robs my breath.
Broken ribs and a row of sutures
running down between my *******.
Strange to still be breathing
when my heart is dead and gone
In my chest Abio-Cor
stubbornly pumps on.

Was it really just a week ago
sitting with my friends  in class
when first I felt the stabbing pain.
when each breath came as a gasp?
My teacher called an ambulance
He saved my life, friends say.
A muscle killing virus
caused my pulse to fade away.
One hundred over forty
I was quickly losing ground.
I would need a donor transplant
but none compatible was found.

I’m a high school girl, just seventeen
-I should be college bound
Not fighting for each breath and
destined for a plot of ground.
The surgeon asked my parents
if he should try Abio-Cor
an artificial heart replacement
in which researchers placed great store.
My crying parents, grasped the straw
consenting he should try.
They would operate immediately-
delay would mean I’d die.

So now I’m in recovery
with my artificial heart.
My fiends call me the Tin Girl,
because of my replacement part.
It will be a long recovery-
seven weeks if fate is kind..
I share my feelings with a heart
still learning to be mine

The Swedish Tax Authorities
were sure they had their man.
He owed a lot of kroner
They saw through his crooked plan.
When he got out of intensive care
He wouldn't get too far.
No one escapes the tax man.
Like death, their grip is sure.
The suspect's heart was failing
and no replacement could be found.
It was either a jarvik Seven
or he was destined for the ground.
Doctor's worked for hours
His life was in their hands.
He had the cash to pay them
about one hundred grand.

An artificial heart was placed
in his chest cavity
to replace his own
which had been starved
of the oxygen hearts need.
The tax man thought to nab their prey
as soon as he came around.
His attorney said " Unhand him,
a loop hole I have found!"
"Per Swedish law a man is dead
when his heart has ceased to beat.
You are barred from prosecuting
a man who is deceased."

While the Tax men sorted out
this novel defensive line
The man fled to a haven
where he enjoyed the fruits of crime.
He dined out on the novel tale
of how he and only he
outwitted death and taxes
and obtained immunity.

On that first Christmas, long ago
They say a brilliant star shone forth.
It guided Magi on their way
to where the infant Jesus lay.

What was that star that shone that night?
was it a comet streaking by?
Perhaps two wanderers in the sky,
or else a star about to die.

Oh kindly light
that offered hope
You burned bright briefly
then were gone.

But a people in darkness
saw a bright new dawn
when a baby cried
that Christmas morn

My house is haunted
it seems to me.
It has its
idiosyncrasies.
The heat comes up
pipes clank and hiss.
I fear something
must be amiss.
The floorboards creak
a dreadful sound.
Strange, it seems
no one's around.
The windows rattle
but the storm has ceased
This house won't give me
any peace .
Light bulbs flicker,
hiss and decease.
but even in darkness
my bills increase
Is some foul spirit
lurking here?
or perhaps the house
needs some repair.
I fear a demon from the abyss
in every clank creak rattle and hiss

A younger man
and his older wife
at their villa south of Rome.
Both English Poets of Renown
and very far from home.
Elizabeth was fading fast
Robert held her in his arms.
Her lungs were weak
and opiates for sleep
had begun to cause her harm.
Robert said that on her last day
she was radiant as a girl.
The last word she spoke
was "Beautiful"
before she left this world.

The first time that they two entwined
her passion nearly blew his mind.
Never had she known such bliss
from each and every orifice.
The lust went on for months, not weeks;
two ****** athletes at their peaks.
Thereafter it somewhat declined
pressing business, lacking time.
Yet while it wasn’t “off the charts”
It satisfied two loving hearts.

Sometime after they had wed
routine crept in their marriage bed
children came and there went sleep.
Their eyes, like Raccoons,
with circles deep.
Though they dearly loved
both boy and girl.
There was something missing
from their world.
Too much to do from nine to five.
They barely made the evening drive.
A hour after kids were abed
They likewise drooped their sleepy heads.
He gave a wink, she gave a yawn
They did not stir from then till dawn.
If I were to chart the sad progression
they now did nothing worth confessing.
First Night and Day
then from time to time
then I’d rather sleep
If you don’t mind.

He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.

Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.

The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.

With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.

In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.

Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.

It seems my little curb side tree
is acting like a tease these days,
Like the famed Gypsy Rose Lee,
She is disrobing by degrees.
A gust of wind, some red leaf falls
like feathers from a boa ripped.
Nearly naked head to breast
but fully dressed about both hips.
She seems quite loathe to lose it all
even in these waning days of fall.
Yet as the stripper ends her tease-
bare magnificence applauded,
My little tree will shed her leaves
to be raked,bagged and discarded

A word was born, some years ago,
Perhaps from Mister Marlowe’s pen.
Will Shakespeare stole it for his play.
The groundlings picked it up that way.
It gained currency by the hour-
For such is a poets’ power,
though Marlowe died in a tavern brawl
And all but scholars forget his name,
Words conquer worlds, thoughts persist
far longer than his Tamburlaine.
Genetic lines may hit dead ends
From war or pestilence or fate-
But words poetic or prosaic
Survive (though sometimes they’re Archaic.)

Of Time and Love-
Those gifts you gave-
Only memories may I save.
Although I have a goodly store
Don’t call me greedy for wanting more.


Those other gifts you made for me-
A home and loving family-
I hold them close about me now
that my love has outlived our vow.


With you, dear love, I saw the world
Not half bad for a Bronx bred girl
Yet I would yield the world and more
If Time, that thief, gave us encore. .

For years now I have lived alone
Since my marriage fell apart.
In theory we’ve joint custody
But that’s always how it starts.

I’m a salesman on the road
About thirty weeks a year..
My barkeep is the mini bar,
Room service makes my meals.

But I was in town for Valentines
And for my weekend with our girl
I took her to her favorite place
These days she’s my whole world.

All grown up at five years old
And learning not to cry..
She enjoyed the present that I brought
Cause I’m her special guy.

I’m careful not to criticize
her mom who’s now my Ex.
.She also is considerate
And I’m current with the checks.

We had a decent pasta meal
I wisely passed on wine.
As I enjoyed my night out on the town
With my little valentine.

We met for drinks and music
in a quiet little bar.
A singer, Reno Sweeney,
was the evening’s featured star.
Bob and Shelia never showed,
throwing us together:
You, a dark eyed beauty,
loquacious and quite clever.
I, your unexpected swain,
With eyes an emerald treasure.

Later at the Piper’s inn
We sat before the fire
You sipped on your white Russian
I drank my Pinot Noir.
I could not know, did not foresee
Our future in my glass:
Our sensual adventures
On rooftops and on grass.
Our joys, our sorrows, and our end
Which then could not be guessed-
Just your sweet face upturned to me
anticipating to be kissed.

A casual glance, a gentle touch,
It stops at that, we know it must.
A chaste embrace, an offered cheek
which I dryly kiss and count it sweet.

Once we’d danced around a flame-
an older man, a willing maid.
Both comfortable in our own skin
In secret we began our sin.

I know your body like my wife’s
But she was elsewhere, I recall
Your husband, too, was on the road
When I, like Adam, had my fall.

We speak of nothings, jobs, careers,
Not of our existential fears.
Celebrity splits, Horrid crimes,
our ****** ever on our minds.

We dance like moths about a flame
which never must be lit again.
It stops at this, we know it must
a casual glance, a gentle touch.

Borne forth from darkness into light

A child is born this Christmas night

A Mother’s pain is turned to joy

as she swaddles her little boy.



Their habitation is the place

where beasts of burden spend the night.

Their bodies' heat the only warmth

on this cold and bitter night.



This child shall be called many things:

A fraud, a Myth, the King of Kings.

But Mary’s heart, a secret minds

This is the son of the Divine.



This night is born to us a King:

A true judge of the soul’s gain and loss,

whose wisdom will enflame men’s minds.

whose arms embrace us from the cross.

While climbing near mount Nevis
A Scotsman dropped a dime.
He leaped off to recover it
So fast he dropped his line.
He seemed to fly upon updrafts
And glanced off lumps of rock
He made it safely to the ground-
The rescue squad was shocked.
He had some bumps and bruises
And was sore in both his arms
But at least he found his coin
and didn’t lose his “Lucky Charms”.

Most folks who drop a thousand feet
Would suffer death or worse.
He rode a helicopter home
Most folks would take a hearse.

Fortunato, I am called.
My friends rate me a connoisseur.
Tonight I wear a jester’s garb
for the feast day of misrule.

Tonight is fine, the wine flows free
With honeyed sweetness on my lips
My headgear rings with happiness
as I enjoy another sip..

Montresor came to speak with me
He wore a mask and monkish gown.
I shook the hand he offered me.
We spoke about a cask of wine.

A cask of sherry, dark and sweet
Amontillado- so he claimed
My friend had paid a premium.
Wished me to judge and share his gain.

He thought he’d ask Luchresi’s help
But that man is no judge of wine.
Give him grape juice in a cup
And Luchresi would exclaim “How fine”

I took his arm and off we went,
Not knowing how this night would end.
I went quite willing to my doom
with this fiend I thought a friend.

Montressor’s servants were away
Leaving he and I alone
He poured for me a warming glass
then led me to the catacombs.

We sampled others of his wines
to keep the cold and damp away.
I coughed and could not catch my breath.
But from my goal could not be swayed.

In the darkness of the tombs
Among Montressor’s ancestral bones
He victimized my drunkenness
I found myself chained to the stones.

I quickly learned it was no jest
I screamed in vain- none heard my cry
As he with brick and mortar built
this prison tomb where I will die..

....


Everywhere I drive, she’s there,
dependably beside me..
Anticipating my every move,
and always there to guide me.
She has a sultry throaty voice
seductive in a way.
I hang on every word she speaks
lest I should lose my way.

She never gives me grief about
Some bill I failed to pay.
I never have to worry
That her Mom will come to stay

She’s always calm in Crisis
She always saves the day
Unless the signal should be lost-
If that should happen-PRAY!

In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
forgiveness followed for the devout..

Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating
the Absolute.

My parents would take me,
on Sundays, at times,
to visit their friends
who lived in West Farms.
Their five year old daughter
and five year old me
would play out in the porch
while the old ones had tea.

Ann Marie was an imaginative girl,
and our playtime involved
her imaginary world.
Music was played
on invisible strings
and her "friend" Purple Lady"
was invited to sing.
I never did "see" her
the Lavender Lass.
But I'd pretend to greet her
to make the time pass.
Ann Marie would tell stories
and include her "friend" in
We were always a trio
in her imagination.

I'm the only survivor
of those Sunday Soirees
Half a century older
and tending to gray.
So imagine my shock
when my sister described
A girl who'd been murdered
in that house in West Farms:
It had happened some years
before Mom's friends bought the place.
A young girl, dressed in Purple
Amethyst graced
was killed by her father,
who, divorced and disgraced,
sought his ex wife's blood
but killed their child in her place.

Her Mom died then of grief
of her dear girl Bereft ,
but I'm beginning to think
that her child never left.

It was always quite cold
in that room where we played
as children

Love is an accident
Waiting to happen
Despite all precautions
It catches us napping.


Sometimes it sneaks up
On innocent youth
Or blindsides some victim
Who‘s long in the tooth.


It lurks in our schools
But prefers crowded bars
(It’s occasionally found
in the back seat of cars.)  


It often times chooses
a boy and a girl
Except in the Village
That’s a whole different world.

Love is an accident
Like you see every day
But you know how that is-
You just can’t look away.

As militant Mullahs mutter and pray

And plan their Mosque near ground Zero

Protesters march and people say:

“This isn't right! They'll have to go.”



But let's demur and make no noise

No tears, no threats, no signs approve.

It would profane our civic faith

To tell the Mullah he must move.



The Towers’ fall brought harm and fear

Men reckon what that did and meant;

But building a “cultural Center” near

Though demonized, is innocent.



Dull couch potatoes of the Right

Those ditto heads who can't admit

Tolerance, cause it doth reprove

Those thoughts that have them in a snit.



But we, my love, are so refined

that we ourselves don't care one whit.

Let them build it, come what may

But build a brothel next to it.



Two buildings place there, cheek to cheek:

the Mosque and “Annie’s House of Pain”.

One dealing with things spiritual,

The other deals with things profane.



In both, salvation is for sale

It seems to me a perfect fit.

For do not both invoke God's name?

-and both, I fear, use whips a bit.



students at the Madrasah may

hear the cries of Joy next door

on her mattress, hard at play

While they use prayer mats on the floor.

.

Will they too prove as tolerant?

Live and let live, for now- they say

When they enforce Sharia law,

The folks next door will learn to pray.

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well."

On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.

Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
Though numerous, they were lightly armed
against our spears and swords.
We burned their ships and slew their men
Their Panic turned the tide.
Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere
urging on our side.
A  Legend holds Pheidippides
To Athens then made haste
to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!”
at the end of his last race.

Rattler

I lay, languid,
upon the rocky
outcropping.
Basking in the early
afternoon Sun.
Just then
a furry vole
wandered past me.
I slithered over and said
“Let’s do Lunch.”

There’s a stranger in my house
I have seen him mope around
In some fuzzy bedroom slippers
and a faded dressing gown.

He somehow seems familiar
Though I cannot place the face
My memory retrieval seems
lost without a trace

Every time I see him
He is staring back intently
As if he too is searching
for a clue within his memory.


This morning he was back again
In a faded emerald robe-
You know, I have one like it-
Did he steal it, you suppose?

But that can’t be, I’m wearing it
I look up with a start
What a curse are full length mirrors
to a senescent aging ****.

His wife had always been afraid
of death, disease, decay.
So she made her husband promise,
before she passed away,
That she would be cremated
not interred and hid away.

Their children were against it;
Cremation they abhorred.
They much preferred the customs
of those who’d gone before.
Her husband, old and feeble,.
her two sons proud and strong.
They took over the arrangements
and felt sure he’d go along.

Instead he brought a lawyer
to the Simmons Funeral Home
with an order to cease and desist
from the plans they’d made alone
Mom was refrigerated while the case
hung in the court
Her husband’s strength and wealth
were spent quicker than he thought.

It was decided in her favor
in the civil court of war
She was retrieved from
her cold storage and
at last the flames would roar


When the deed was finally done
and the urn placed on the shelf.
His love’s last labor finished
He drifted off himself