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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one saw it coming,
that warm September day-
Not the workers at the pudding shack
Who mixed sweet treats for pay.

Not the Rookie at the pressure valves
Not the people in the town
It was the Rookies’ rank incompetence
That set in motion what went down.

Nine vats of Snack Time pudding
Exploded with a roar
Nine hundred thousand gallons
Went oozing out the door

The workers never had a chance
On this, their final day
Ending up like Easter bunnies
For a giant’s holiday

That mighty wave of chocolate.
Like a Tsunami hit the town.
Sweet creamy death swept over them
Deliciously, they drowned.

Others turned and tried to flee.
They ran for all their worth.
The swift were lucky to escape
This scrumptious hell on earth

The survivors of the snack slide
Lost all they owned in town
It was a diabetics’ *******
Everything was chocolate brown.

It was the worst snacktastrophe
Our land had ever seen.
Obama sent marines with spoons
The air force dropped whipped cream

In a far land known as Pakistan,
in the little town of Prym
Impiety was criminal,
And blasphemy a sin

A Christian woman stood accused
Of impious words and deed-
Did her words insult the Prophet?
Or did her neighbors hate her creed?

Tried and condemned for Blasphemy
in the little town of Prym,
The Christian woman waited,
for the stoning to begin.

The townspeople all gathered round,
pious Moslems one and all.
They chose their weapons from the ground
and awaited Imam’s call.

When suddenly the sky grew dark
The Sun obscured from view
A Nickel Iron stone from space
One, without sin, just threw.

In the place where Prym once stood
is a crater deep and wide.
There is no more impiety.
and no more fratricide.

Take to heart the lesson
Let hatred be unknown
Or next time He who is without sin
may cast a larger stone.

.

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.

As Eleven sprints towards its end,
and the fire slowly dies,
forget the tears, recall the joy
for that way wisdom lies.

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

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

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

Out past the Dam
with its whispering water
overflow.
the ducks sally forth
beneath the wooden bridges
of Brady Park pond.
The trees line
our way as
bare silent Sentinels
Our boots crunch
upon the icy, stony path.
Come Spring there will
be cygnets and green
in profusion.
but now only brown
and the white
nakedness
of the Birches

No brother's love could
match my love,
my poor dead girl, Virginia.
You filled your pockets
full of stones,
then waded into the river.
You drowned your
troubles and your fears
In an Ophelia like allusion.
Leaving me to be,and not to be.
until my own conclusion

The shot rang out from across the street
The Minister clutched at his throat.
He collapsed upon the balcony.
There was little cause for hope.

Dr. King was there in Memphis
to support black men on strike.
To help them gain a living wage
To help all do what’s right.

Jessie Jackson cradled King
as his vitals went flat line..
His words saved for posterity,
But violence would define the time.

A foolish, selfish criminal
Full of hate and self conceit.
James Earl Ray killed Dr. King,
And tempers flared on city streets

Bobby Kennedy called for calm
As riots rocked the City streets
Ironic that he too would die
within the space of several weeks.

Within four years, three leaders lost-
gone well before their time.
These killings poisoned Liberty,
She’s dying all the time.

From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stake his prey.


“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.


She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final ******
And she folded in a swoon.

He grabbed her purse which was the prize
And left her in the courtyard, dead
Her name was Kitty Genovese
A pretty girl, the tabloids said.

A moment in a City’s life-
Not a source of civic pride
Glad she was not a child of mine
Did you watch the night that Kitty died?

The old red car
sat alone in his garage
pondering his likely disposition..
Odometers don’t lie
and his said he’d
seen some miles.
There was some body rust
defacing his red paint.
He was out of warrantee
and as he could plainly see
there were newer, flashier
models now about.

Still, his battery was strong,
plenty tread left on his tires
and his CD/stereo still
sounded great..
Would he be sold to another,
less considerate owner
who would make him
spend his old age
on the street?
Would he be towed off to the
dump?
his parts salvaged by some chump?
Would he end up crushed and
melted by the man?

If so, when the metal cooled,
would he find himself retooled
in a showroom ready
for the road again?

I take the Apple in my hand
And ponder how this tasty fruit,
Once a bite or two was eaten,
caused God to drive us out of Eden.

But what if Adam didn’t bite
upon that fatal primal night,
and God decided Eve, alone,
should pack and leave their Garden home?

Would Adam by himself remain,
long centuries after Eve was dust?
Converse with snake and count on sheep
if and when he couldn’t sleep?

Would the fiery angel give a shout
when Adam passed on his way out,
to join Eve on the Darkling plain?
One paradise lost, and one regained.

You can still find our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our Families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

Our boat was the pride
of the  Atlantic Sub Fleet.
Five years on our station,
patrolling the deep.

We were out on an exercise
Two hundred miles off Cape Cod
When, quite unexpected,
We encountered our God

A critical subsystem failed
the reactor shut down
Without power or steering
The thresher would drown

Our companion ship heard
A roaring like wind.
We were crushed by the pressure
as the Thresher caved in.

Some worker on shore,
in a hurry to lunch,
Had missed a weld on a pipe
-The Inquiry board’s hunch.

You can still see our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

Everyone said I had such great potential:
A bright eyed lad, adept with word and song,
an angelic voice, a wordsmith like a lawyer.
They look at me now and wonder-what went wrong?


If I could put my finger on the problem,
Procrastination did beget my fall.
I had, at times, an ambitious plan and project.
I just never got around to it, that’s all.


I dallied in my summer’s afternoon,
Listening to other siren’s songs
Now winter comes upon me with a vengeance
I realize now I never sang my song.

But on my cluttered desk, a wooden talisman!
A round wood carving- a Tuit tis
And now, in possession of a round Tuit,
I’ve no excuse for wasting time like this.

I sense the smoke
I taste the Peat.
My tongue caresses
each drop so sweet
The golden Goblet
in my hand
says to the cold and damp
“Be dammed”
While by the fireside
I sip and play
some favored songs
from yesterday.

In my father’s Father’s time
The violin sang
a tune to time
Grandfather too
would raise a glass
to toast the cruel winds
of Loughhesh.

A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.

The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
for Frankie’s intervention.
Frankie lived in the corner house
He was older and quite wise.
He taught me that this green cocoon
would change into a butterfly.
He bade me watch, he had me wait
to see the wonder taking shape.
We saw the Monarch first take wing
once caterpillar, now a King.

Several summers passed us by.
I still lived but Frankie died-
He was nineteen, Young and brave
A landmine put him in his grave.
He died just before Saigon’s fall
His name’s inscribed upon the Wall
Corporal Frank Evangelista Junior,
beloved by mother and mourned by sister.
He was too good, too young to die.
He would have been a butterfly.

“Let no man write my epitaph.”
The defiant rebel said.
'Let no woman eulogize me
After I am dead.'

'I give my life for Ireland-
An Ireland strong and free
An Ireland that‘s united,
One free of tyranny.'

'When my country takes its rightful place
Among nations of the world.
That day I will not live to see
When our banner is unfurled.'

'On that day, and only then
Let my suffering be recalled-
and that I died for Liberty-
The sweetest death of all.'

To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.

Whether it is better in the end to suffer

The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord

Or take loans. against your future earnings

And end up owning something? In hock, for years;



Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end

The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks

Home ownership is heir to.  Reduced Consumption?

No Politician’s wish! To rent?    To lease?

To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought

For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills

Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil



It gives one pause. That’s the aspect

That makes calamity of  adjusting rates

For who would bear the years and years of debt

Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,

Buyers remorse, and the long delays.

The Questionable title and the risk

Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.

When you yourself know if you lose your job

You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.





To grunt and sweat under a heavy load

Under the threat of something worse than debt

The forced short sale, from which, once closed

No equity returns. It puzzles the will.

And makes us rather bear such debts we have

And, if necessary, refinance them still.



Compounding thus make cowards of us all.

And so our youthful promise and ambition

Is hobbled by the weight of student  loans

made by lenders judged too big to fail.

In this regard the risk is very real
we lose the house to auction.

For every aging boomer
there are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.

Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.

Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent

From the walls of Hue to Can Ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.

The lucky ones who did come home
recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.

Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick.
He’d always been so full of life and song.
She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick.
until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone.

The very day they put her husband in the ground,
a Jet black Lab with no collar or license
that she took to calling “Pepper” came around.
“He must belong to someone.” was her sense.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab.
No one in town had seen the dog before
the day they placed her man beneath the sod.

Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side
They took long walks down Beachcomber Way
Only Pepper heard the tears she cried
and stayed by her till the sadness passed away

Three winters they passed in that little town,
a town that made its living from the sea.
Eventually she felt strong enough to work
and re acclimate to life and company

As Spring’s warmth dissipates the winter gloom,
Sadness cannot forever shadow hearts
The heart is a perennial and so will bloom
as soon as the snows of sorrow will depart.

Then, on the anniversary of the date
the day they placed her husband in the ground,
She called and called but Pepper didn’t come-
The Jet black Lab was nowhere to be found.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find her dog again.
but no one ever saw the Lab in town.
The stray will go where he is taken in.

I am older now
than you were then.
That day still lives
in memory

Did you hear the rifle's
echoing sound
as you passed me
in your Limousine?

The next,
like a Zapruder film,
plays out
in my unsettled dreams.

I saw a spray of pink
and blood.
I heard shouts
and a woman
scream.

Panic filled
my childish heart
I saw fear in
my Father's face.

I am older now
than you were then
that day
the world changed.

I knew an old man  
Who tried to act young
He popped a blue
pill on the tip of his
Tongue.
He slicked back his hair
and put on a White suit
He tried to style like Travolta,
one more grey and hirsute
(It wasn't much as illusion
but it sure was a hoot)
He danced till his hip ached
then had to recline.
The lifts in his loafers
had betrayed him this time.
He tried to impress
with a big *** of cash
But the young ladies knew
his best days were long past
He loved them, they left him
He wined and they dined
He tried to romance them
but was always declined.
At the end of the evening
and the last of the wine
He conceded to age
and resumed his decline.

It’s strange, there was no pain.
The atom moves too fast for that.
It left my shadow on that wall,
There’s nothing else intact.

It’s strange to die so quickly
I had no time for fear.
Swept up, as in a rapture
Less than a leaf, more than a tear.

My conscious self dissolving
Like a sugar dropped in tea.
No body left to bury
You incinerated me.

Elsewhere in the city
They’ll unearth a murdered clock-
It’s hands forever frozen
on the moment I was not.

In the cold damp stairway
of the Tower I saw her:
Lady Jane
the nine days Queen.
Unperturbed
she walked right through me
heading for the Tower Green.
Escorted by an unseen Parson
to the block, likewise unseen,
Her translucent body
bends before it
Lady Jane, the nine Days Queen.
How many times, I wondered then
has this poor ghost played out this
Scene
bereft at once of crown and life
there upon the tower Green

Stuck in a chimney
high above ground
A burglar called out
He couldn't go up nor down.

He'd stolen some money
and pilfered some clothes.
then, by way of egress,
up the chimney he rose.

But that move only works
with a suit of red Clothes
on one night a year
if you finger your nose.

He got stuck half way up
and he couldn't get down.
The fire Department
had to rescue this clown.

He'd broken in through a window
and jumped down to the floor
If only he'd thought
to go out the side door.

He was covered in soot
from his cap to his feet.
He's our Darwin Award
winner for this week!

I heard him exclaim
as they booked him that night
I sure am a dumb-***
( That at least he got right)

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.
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 in where many others fled,
May now he rest in Peace.

Pint on Saint Patrick’s Day


Our servers name is Molly,
She works at the Pence and Pound
We were there to have some beers
and dine on beef that’s ground

She is a lithe and lively blonde
in black tights and mini dress.
Her hair tied back in a pony tail
as she seated us, her guests..

But what a sight did Molly make
when she next came into view:
each hand contained a perfect pint
of Guinness’s dark brew

A darling girl, wondrous lass
A Gaelic beauty too
I’d testify that St. Pauli girl
can not compare to you.

But I’ll sit here and sip my beer
Too old to give offense
We’ll stay and have a round or three
And spend more pounds then pence.

In the flat where William Butler Yeats
had ridden the Gyre of mind,
Sylvia, with son and daughter,
came to spend the last of her time.
An angel, Ariel, visited
and spoke such lovely lines.
Sylvia hastened to write them down
though her pen froze at times.
Her doctor was concerned for her:
Her depression was profound
Despite the drugs that he prescribed
Her soul gyrated down.
Her husband had abandoned her
and their two babes besides.
A darker angel came to her
and whispered “suicide.”
Three days before St. Valentines
in Nineteen sixty three.
Her nurse received no answer
there at number twenty Three.
Fearful for the children,
the nurse had to get inside
Police where called and
the door was forced, but
sadly, not in time.
The smell of gas, pervasive,
in the room where Sylvia died.
Her two little ones were rescued-
Her death ruled a suicide.

It came at night,
a howling wind,
when gentle Spring
had been expected.
Gumtree pond
Homes destroyed,
bodies everywhere,
devastated.

In the silent
aftermath
there , the sound
of a baby
crying.

Baby Elvis
had survived
when all around
folks keened
for those
who died.

Deep beneath Park Avenue,
where protestors never tread,
The Sandhogs delve beneath
the earth laying new track bed.
In time to come commuter trains
from Grand Central to Penn
will take the tunnel they have dug
at a cost now of one dead.
A father and his only son,
both of a Sandhog line,
were excavating underground
and working overtime
when suddenly there was a roar
a shifting in the earth
Their two lives were in jeopardy
They ran for all their worth
The Dad survived, his son was crushed
beneath.the the earthen mound
Despite attempts at C.P.R.
A pulse could not be found.
They bore his body up the shaft
to the city that never sleeps.
Where his poor father, suddenly old,
a lonely vigil keeps.

He showers each day,
and he takes out the trash.
He works in the garden at times.
Mostly he sits in his cell and he reads.
He has never admitted his crime.

He seldom gets visitors
and hasn’t made many friends.
He sits by himself at mealtimes.
He serves a life sentence-no hope of parole
Until death he’ll remain here inside.

Conjugal visits? It’s been several years.
Since last she was seen by his side.
At lights out, sometimes,
you can hear gentle sobbing
as a little bit more of him dies.

An Infinite number of Monkeys,
furiously typing away,
provided with paper and ribbon
would, in time,write Shakespeare's plays.

Off-shoring and Corporate mergers,
Massive layoffs, death and disease,
plus the lack of typewriter repairmen
Decimated those bard-chimpanzees.

Instead of that infinite number
these days I'm afraid it's just me
churning out corrupt Shakespeare Quartos
titled "Piglet, the Prince of Belize"

The Brute had a puzzled look on his face
as the city around him burned.
What possible value this object might have
could not by him be discerned.
The object was heavy, musty and old.
Some thick yellow pages he turned
"The old man died in vain to protect this?."
he thought- and what means this word "Guttenberg?"
"It won't get me high and it won't get me laid"
The Brute saw one possible course-
He warmed his rear end as the book fed the flames.
Only the dead knew the cost.

Ascot - Race Course 1910-20 by daib0


King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
At Ascot later that year
his mistresses, I hear,
all favored blacks over reds.
Black hats with black feathers
they wore
in mourning for Bertie, they swore.
Black dresses, of course
for their dear love, now lost,
who, often, had honored their beds.

King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
In uncertain blue twilight
Dark shadows were spawned
as the glow from the
lamp lights had fled
Kaiser Wilhelm now free
of restraint from
  his Uncle Bertie
with reckless abandon
chose war.

This is
a poem
to bemoan
that a
munchkin
has died
after
a short
illness

His Lady is lovely-
Her verses, Divine.
On her wit and her wisdom
we've all oft opined.
He, Texas handsome,
skin kissed by the sun
in all respects admirable
save that he snored some.
Pilloried in verse
fort his one fatal flaw,
Far too much the gentlemen,
He didn't get sore.
He didn't want her to suffer
on account of his curse
So, like a true gentleman
He'd let her sleep first.
But before he, too,
could drift off to Nod
From her side of the bed
came some sounds rather odd.
Was it a trick of his
sleep deprived brain
or did his lady love whistle
much like a Freight train?
Since its highly unlikely
she will cease and desist
and, awake, she's the Lady
his heart can't resist.
He's taken to counting sheep
with fingers and toes
till the Ambien works
and he gets some repose..

We die each night,
to sleep succumb .
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.
But as the Son
for mercy, dies.
Perhaps this good thief
too may rise.

Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.

He was just a simple juggler
He could not read or write.
He performed his simple tricks
for children’s laughter and delight.

In return for food and shelter-
for he had little use for gold-
He travelled from town to town
until he at last grew old.

When arthritis swelled his joints
He grew stooped, his fingers cold
When at last his gifts had failed him
He turned attention to his soul.

In the order of Saint Benedict
The kind Abbot gave him place
Though he barely knew the prayers
His simple mind was full of grace.

In the chapel of Our Lady
The Juggler prayed there in the Aisle
Bemoaning his inability
to entertain the holy child.

He felt warmth in his fingers
A quick release from pain
He reached into his leather sack
for the objects of his trade.

There before the altar
The brother juggled for the Lord
It was to be his last performance
with a heavenly reward.

Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.

King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.


King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.

Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.

The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.

The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***.
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?

Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.

I boarded the train at the rush hour peak.
like hundreds of others at the end of the week.
Darkness came quickly at this time of year
It was Pearl Harbor day and Christmas was near.
Dark was my skin and dark was my heart
and dark was the drama in which I’d play my part
In a brown paper page I carried my gun
with enough ammunition to **** the white ones.
Out near Merillon Station, I stood up from my seat.
Whites had ruined my life and revenge would be sweet.
Like a deadly conductor I walked down the aisle
punching everyone’s ticket, high caliber style.
Their screams were my music; their fear was my meat
I served it up raw with blood on the seat.
It took three to subdue me once I emptied my gun
If they hadn’t overwhelmed me I’d have killed everyone.
Six dead, nineteen wounded, some trampled they say.
as the whites in the car started running away.
I sit here in prison with no hope of parole
in this place I am known as the conductor of souls.



( Colin Ferguson and the L.I.R.R. massacre 12/07/1993)

The weathermen were not prepared,
the storm turned West towards the shore
For eighteen hours it came down
in blinding sheets three feet and more.
It buried cars, it covered streets
It weighted down branches
on the trees, it dusted roofs
It snarled the roads, The winter
storm did as it pleased

When it was done, the air was calm
a cold serene and peaceful scene.
The snow in drifts lay on the ground
as I looked upon what once was green.


Then, as whiteness overawed the earth
A single red snowdrop appeared.
It briefly touched the snow draped earth
then rose again towards heaven's sphere
then one by one, here and there
flakes disengaged and rose on high
until all the snow that was earthbound
in blinding flight had disappeared.

In a flash, the snow was gone
The fields of earth once more were green
No traces of the storm remained
like a half remembered dream.

Improvised Explosive Device



The soldiers who were with me
no longer answer to roll call,.
They lie in peace at Calverton
except in my recall.

We were on routine patrol,
In the seemingly pacified town,
When the I.E.D. exploded,
a repurposed artillery round.

The Army, faithful to their word,
did not leave us behind.
On the way to the field hospital
They say I died three times..

Months I spent in a coma,
my broken body tied in bed.
When I came to, Doc had bad news:
I’d never walk again.

Staring at the ceiling
I swore not to be denied.
I swore that I would walk again,
His prognosis I defied..

It took three years before I stood
And walked as once before.
A semblance of the man I was
before I went to war.

My legs and arms flail
franticly, I propel my body
across the sand.
We are being pursued
by Killers.
I hear my brother’s screams
As his murderers rip
him apart.
I must reach the safety
of the water.
My stalker cries triumphantly!
He dives, I dive.
Mine is the victory!
Death has been cheated
It’s not easy
being born a turtle.

The stubborn little Maple leaf
held on when all its fellows fled.
They carpeting the ground beneath
a vast lushscape of gold and red.

Leaf held on thru wind and rain,
the last survivor of its race.
Leaf held on past Turkey day
maintaining there its pride of place.

Then Leaf grew lonely, I suppose-
Like the summer’s final rose.
Leaf envied then the flakes of snow
Who fluttered past to their repose.

Then, just as winter came to call,
Leaf felt a tug and then a snap.
Flying, tumbling on the winds
Fall to Earth. Fade to black.

Here, in the pale light of a winter’s day
I entered with a sketch pad in my hand.
I never dreamed that I’d encounter you-
To sketch out some old master was my plan.

Was it your eyes that first seduced me near,
or those cherry lips that I would never taste?
Two centuries past you were a beauty, dear.
Now, all but this image, time has lain to waste.

I envy him who painted you in camera,
together in your sitting room alone.
Who knows just how the session was concluded
If your old and senile husband wasn’t home?

I’m cast here in the role of a ******,
I haven’t even tried to draw a line.
Your dress of silk reveals just one bare shoulder,
Your eyes, the promise of a night divine.

After two weeks of fracking shale,
We needed to unwind.  So we
went down to the  Black Hawk
in search of a real good time.
My Buds picked up some “Ladies”
and they disappeared up stairs.
I sat down to play poker
at the gaming tables there.
An old guy sat across from me,
gin and tonic on his mind.
Two guys who looked like brothers
were seated side by side..
I had a decent pile of chips,
(I’m paid well for my time.)
I’m also a pretty fair player
and lady luck seemed on my side.
My pile of chips kept growing
as blue twilight turned to dark.

The old guy at my table pulled
at his tie in search of air.
He started going faint and pale
as he slid down off his chair..
I leapt up in a panic and
raced to the old guys side.
No one else in the casino seemed
to care if he lived or died.
I grabbed my phone, dialed
Nine- one- one and told him
to hold on. But when the
E.M.T’s arrived, the poor old
man was gone.

It was then I saw my pile
of chips was vanished
from my place.
Of those two brothers
who sat in with us
I couldn’t find a trace.
A girl smiled sadly
at my plight
as people often will
whenever age and treachery
Trumps over
youth and skill

The General stood looking in the mirror
Perfectly attired, Cap a Pied.
He turned to me and said
"We must not delay this,Mister Marshall.
This bitter cup that fate has handed me"
I handed him his sword in silence.
We'd be fighting in the hills
Were it up to me,
but even I knew that our men
were starving, Surrounded,
there could be no victory.

Traveler was mounted in an instant
Few looked finer on a horse than
Our Robert Lee.
Under flag of truce we rode
to the McLean House,
there to await the modern Ulysses.

Grant rode up dressed in a Sergent's uniform,
mud splattered,
His shoulder straps the only hint
of rank .
He looked more like the man
who had been beaten
Than General Lee who had to play that part.
He took Lee's white gloved hand, offered in greeting
both men's faces  etched with suffering, I saw.
They reminisced  about their other meeting,
when both served Scott in the Mexican  War.
Then General Lee asked Grant
to state terms of surrender.
They sat down and, in short order,
ended the unpleasantness of war.

The Victor was generous to the Vanquished:
No Rebel would be tried, or lose their home.
The men permitted to retain their side arms
Rations fed to men of skin and bone.
We'd Stack the drums and cannon in the field
Give our parole despite our internal pain
There were troops still in the field but it was over
April Ninth, a dark day without rain.

“**** those Pakistani kids
Always playing ball
outside my compound wall.
With all this noise
And confusion
It’s amazing that
I can hatch a plot
at all.”

"What’s with those Helicopters?
Landing on my lawn!
Don’t the Honchos  know I’m busy
On my laptop
watching ****."

"It is infidel crusaders
Come to pay a call!
They’re violating our
Sovereignty! Treaties!.
Protocol."

"Come here dear
Wife number four
Hide and shelter me.
You make a lovely
Human shield
From Seals
Who’d
****** me."

Mary was on time, as usual.
As per usual, John was late.
“He’d be late for his own funeral!”
Mary fumed and cursed her fate.
They’d first hooked up in freshman year
at a frat house mixer bar
John got sick from too much beer
and hurled in Mary’s car.
They were pursuing the same major
and they lived in the same dorm.
He was always in her classes,
and they both worked at the Mall.
It was natural that they bonded.
It‘s said opposites attract.
His folks were alcoholics
from the wrong side of the tracks.
Mary came from Celtic stock
Hence her saintly name
She always called upon the Lord
when, infrequently, she came.
They both loved the Smashing Pumpkins
and were devoted to the band.
But it’s not enough to make her want
to wear John’s wedding band.
When at last John made his appearance
her well rehearsed words went askew.
She said, when giving back his ring;
“It’s not me, it’s you.”

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mornings are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

Imagining the perfect girl
Is a fantasy of mine.
Every feature perfect
in proportion by design.
I’d have to start with
Elizabeth Taylor’s
captivating eyes.
Anne Hathaway has perfect skin
and is the perfect size.
Emmy Rossum’s flowing hair
Attracts some envious eyes
J-Lo is most bootyful.
Sweet Scarlett has nice thighs.
Mila Kunis gams are fab
And she is worldly wise.
To make her warm and welcoming
Add Julia Roberts’ smile

Of course this perfect girl of mine
Would want some change in me..
Six inches taller would be nice,
Then I’d be six foot three..
I’d then be perfect for my weight
The abs would come with time.-
I’m sure they’re somewhere buried
underneath this flab of mine.
I’d have to dye my hair for her,
to hide the tell tale gray.
Some dental work to fix my smile.
And keep bad breathe at bay……

It seems a lot of work to me.
I’d not enjoy the rack.
I’m better off right where I am
than having to deal with that!