My wife's been a smoker
since she turned sixteen.
Through the years we were married
and the years in between.
Now though she breathes
like a fish brought to shore.
her long term addiction
had her craving one more.

Who am I to judge her
or deny her last wish.
She is not getting better,
I've no heart to resist.
I gave her the smokes
she had long put away
I gave her the lighter
and sought out her ash tray.

A tremendous explosion ripped
through our first floor.
It indeed had proved fatal
her request for one more.
on purpose or accident
I can't judge her intent
in choosing to smoke
in her oxygen tent.

This Earthly life is lived in the now,
between what was and what will be.
Yet the Stars above our heads that glow
might, long since, become history.

Consider, son, Orion's Belt
that dominates the Winter sky.
You can't mistake its three bright stars
or fail to find them if you try.

Alnitak in Orion's belt, a familiar
Longtime Nighttime show,
dispatched these photons we observe
about eight Hundred years ago.

A brief elapse in cosmic time
but time enough for a star to die:
Dwindle to a little dwarf or
Explode as Novae in the sky.

Still, at night, above our head
its kindly light will still shine on
Perhaps for years or decades hence
Long after Alnitak is gone.

These words of mine you now consign
as just a foolish waste of time
I hope shine forth my love of you
Long after I write my last line.

I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.

Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?

I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.

Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.

I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.

Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.

I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.

He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.

He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****!"
His boon companion smiled.

I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.

Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.

As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.

His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"

" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."

So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.

After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.

I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.

When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.

My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.

His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.

When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on  Tynes.

Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.

When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.

Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.

He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.

Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.