It was something of a medical miracle;
First, an acid attack had destroyed one girls face.
Then another young woman died and
her parents donated her guise
so the first girl's could be replaced.

It was a delicate operation,
detaching the face of one dead.
It became  as pale as a Kabuki girls'
It looked like a death mask they said.

How strange then was the sensation
when the patient was UN-mummified
To see someone else in the mirror;
The face of a stranger through her eyes.

She was glad to once more appear human
though the donor was somewhat older  than she.
She would live out her days in the face of another-
but then, We are all wearing masks- aren't we?

In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.

When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.

With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.

Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.

Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease


Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.

When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?

Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.

Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

She was just a little girl with tousled dark brown locks.
Life had not been kind to her, not kind to her at all.
Her parents both killed in the war; the little one was in shock.
They placed her in our orphanage; there was no next of kin to call.

The little girl was quiet and seldom ever smiled.
She would often wake up screaming from the horrors that she saw.
She would not play with the others; Aloofness was her style.
Her gaze was like a veteran who had seen enough of war.

One day I found her drawing with a little piece of chalk.
She drew a picture of her mother on the floor beside her bed.
I observed her from the shadows; there was no need to talk
As she curled up like a fetus and slept on the floor instead.

It was just a crude chalk drawing; no masterpiece of art
But it gave the poor child comfort as she lay there in the dark
There in the safety of the womb beneath her mother’s heart,
Was a refuge from a reality that was painful cruel and stark.

By
MEG ELISON


I am the very model of a modern-age millennial,
I’ve got no cash, no house, no kids, and student debt perennial,
I know the rules of Tinder, and I’m not sold on monogamy
(For what it’s worth I think that stems from troubles ‘tween my mom and me)
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters on the gender front
Myself, I am nonbinary; your labels I so do not want
Been disillusioned by my expectations with a lot o’ stuff,
The skills with which I am equipped for life are frankly not enough

My job prospects are hobbled by insistence on a living wage
Compete at entry level with some washed-up folks at twice my age
In matters of identity, employment and such petty ills
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial
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On Monday I killed Applebee’s, on Tuesday I axed country clubs
I’ve never bought a diamond and I have no use for cashmere gloves
I quote dank internet memes in lieu of sharing actual thoughts
For earnestness has been passé since sometime in the early aughts
Still advertisers flail and fail to capture all my buying power
(The sum of which amounts to renting GIG cars by the paltry hour)
I’m subject to the bleak nostalgia of Generation Xers
And YouTube sensibilities adored by web-savvy youngsters
So I get to the take the blame for our country’s tanked economy
While fighting for my basic rights and ****** autonomy
In short I’m ****** in matters from the vital to the trivial
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial

In fact, when I know what is meant by "social justice warrior”
When I can tell at sight a fascist MRA conspirator
When such affairs are treated as unsolvable new mysteries,
I shake my head and wonder if the Boomers studied history
When I have learnt what progress has been made and then just flushed away
My generation’s best bet looks like playing Fortnite drunk all day
In short, if you’re angry right now and spewing aged white vitriol
Remember you created me: the modern age millennial

For I’m the generation raised upon the game Monopoly
You’re hoarding all the wealth and jobs and mock me for my poverty
So now I’m skewing socialist with discourse quite ungenial
Please check your local ballots for the modern-age millennial

El ejército se había rebelado y la República estaba en peligro,
Pero éramos solo una pequeña ciudad, ¿qué teníamos que ver con esto?
Mi padre, Manuel Robles, era un sindicalista.
Algunos lo llamaron comunista; solo ahora lo entiendo

El ejército tenía una lista de hombres cuya lealtad era sospechosa
Y cuando estalló la guerra civil vinieron por ellos directamente.
Lo llevaron a él, y a otros, y los alinearon contra una pared.
Fue entonces cuando oí la descarga y vi a mi padre caerse.

Verificaron su trabajo, no puedo olvidar la cara
Del oficial que usó su pistola para dar el golpe de gracia.
Apilaron los cadáveres en su camión y, riendo, se alejaron.
Todos fueron enterrados en una fosa común para esperar el día del Juicio.

Miré con mudo horror el suelo empapado de sangre y sediento
y en las marcas de viruela en esa pared causadas por algunas rondas malgastadas.
No hubo juez, ni jurado, ni veredicto, ni decreto.
Mataron a una docena de hombres desarmados; esa fue su victoria

Asesinaron a mi querido padre sin pensarlo dos veces.
No iría tan fácilmente; hay otros, también, que lucharon.
Ahora Franco tiene mi país y he tenido que huir de España.
Mi corazón está con los huesos de mi Padre. Continúo su nombre.

The army had revolted and the Republic was at risk,
But we were just a small town- what had we to do with this?
My father, Manuel Robles, was a labor Union man.
Some called him a Communist; only now I understand.

The army had a list of men whose loyalty was suspect
And when the civil war broke out they came for them direct.
They took him, and some others, and lined them up against a wall.
It was then I heard the volley and I watched my Father fall.

They checked upon their handiwork, I cannot forget the face
Of the officer who used his pistol to give  the coup de grace.
The piled the corpses on their truck and, laughing, drove away.
All were  buried in a common grave to wait the Judgement day.

I stared in speechless horror at the blood soaked, thirsty ground
and at the pock marks in that wall caused by some misspent rounds.
There was no judge, no jury, no verdict, nor decree.
They killed a dozen unarmed men ; that was their victory

They slaughtered my dear padre without a second thought.
I would not go so easily; there are others, too, who fought.
Now Franco has my country and I’ve had to flee from Spain.
My heart is with my Father’s bones. I carry on his name.

We dressed up in our bulky suits
to stroll across the Luna mare.
Old friend of Earth is this rocky orb
both captives of one nearby star.

We walk together glove in glove
until our base is out of view.
We marvel at the sign of earth;
her greens, her browns, her ocean Blues.

Our ancestors in times gone by
On strolls like this beneath Earth’s sky
Could hold each other’s hands and then
Kiss each other on the sly.

On Luna’s vast and dusty plain
Our helmets touch but it’s not the same.
We long to kiss and to embrace-
So we turn and hurry back to base.
Then, with kisses deep and slow
You’re no longer Terra incognito.

Don't lay me to rest in a burial plot
to molder alone and be forgot.
I think that I would rather be
fresh compost for a growing tree.
As a tree let me grow both tall and thin
(two things that I have never been)
There let me grow both tall and proud
and raise my limbs to worship God
Then children, rest beneath the shade of that tree
Take shelter there in my leafy bough.
Hear my voice in the rustling wind.
I'm with you. I have always been.

It is dangerous for a poet who is lyrically inclined
To even think a word like orange should be included in a rhyme.
Although it’s fruit is succulent and it’s juice is sweet,
The word is something of a loner, one whose
Rhyme you’ll never meet.
It is borrowed from the Sanskrit whose lands gave us the fruit  
Any cunning linguist will confirm I speak the truth.

She was quite the looker, her eyes a cold blue steel.
Her legs went on forever and that’s just part of her appeal.
He met her in a magazine, then in a glossy print.
He painted her, from Memory, on his plane and off they went.
She flew with him into battle. She was his lucky charm.
17 bombing missions they came thru without harm.
They flew over ******’s Germany way up high and cold.
They faced fearful odds against the chance of growing old.
Then, when the war was over and her boys went home
The wings of war were mothballed; decades she spent alone.


The years of wind, sun and rain faded the old girl.
By the time I finally found her she was not long for this world.
I looked at my Grandpa’s photo of the bomber he once flew.
Despite the faded colors I was certain it was you.
The owners of the junkyard looked with favor on my quest
As I set out to battle the years of grime and rust.
Then I set out my palette to restore each shade and hue
I cannot make grandfather young but I can restore her to you
Her  legs are lithe and beautiful just as I ‘d been told
her eyes a cold blue steel,and her hair a platinum gold.

It’s no one’s idea of paradise, this land of dust and wind.
Yet this is where God spoke to man and he  first conceived of sin.
The land is dry and stubborn, like the people of the Lord.
Even now I see them turning their plowshares into swords.
Ever since the Maccabees revolted against Rome
(Rome did not understand those Jews who worshiped God alone.)
This land of Dust and wind has known no peace
The men wield blades and staves.
In such a place the only peace Is the quiet of the grave.
How I long to comfort them, but where would I begin?
The people here have lost their way and lost their sense of sin.
The dispossessed now live in camps and old hatreds here still simmer.
It’s hard to parse the difference between the righteous and the sinners.

By all accounts he’s had a lifelong case of OCD.
“Donald was a disruptive tyke”- his teachers all agree.
He was not much of a scholar but, as a youth, excelled in sports.
As a builder and developer he was often seen in  Courts.

When it comes to matters of the heart, he sadly is no wiser
He loves them and he leaves them. He’s a noted womanizer.
Oh, he pays them for their trouble; that much I will allow.
Still he’s never had compunction over breaking wedding vows.

Now he is our President and making noise on Trade.
If he doesn’t get his way beware his twitterverse tirade.
He's paying  farmers Billions  to forgo their tillage.


Hillary was wrong- It takes a child to raze a village.

There is a mountain we all must climb.
Some  scale up quickly, most take more time
There are many paths to the top you see
and you cannot choose my path for me.
It's an arduous task to reach the peak,
much harder still if you are weak.
As you clamber up high you'll find
crushed bodies that Life has left behind.
Most of these failures had never known
you do not have to climb alone.
We need each other, I've found it true
to achieve the heights and enjoy the view.
Then, like a child, to say "Again"
when we have reached our jouney's end.

I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles  enroute.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head.
I remember where I was exactly that day
for I am a Child of Then.

Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
for I am a Child of Then.

Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head.
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A winter storm had dumped a foot
of wet and heavy slushy snow.
As the sidewalk does not clean itself
I dressed to face my winter foe.

I worked too hard, I worked too fast
as I shoveled out our walks and paths.
My heart was racing; I' was feeling done,
then a golden retriever came on the run.

"hey there good boy." I greeted the pup.
"A Saint Bernard would have been nice too!"
He sniffed then licked my ungloved hand.
"Somebody must be looking for you."

Just then I heard from down the block
a voice called "Rascal" and the dog's head turned.
It clearly was his master's voice
"He's over here" I replied in turn.

His owner was a kindly older man
glad to retrieve his pet unharmed.
He'd gotten out to play in the snow
someone had left the gate not closed.

Rascal offered me his paw
and looked at me with deep brown eyes
We shook, then he accepted his leash
Rascal and his master  then headed home.

I never saw Rascal again
or meet his master on the street.
We met just that once on a snowy eve.
The memory is  all that I got to keep.

I'd often heard my mother say
that we oft meet angels in disguise
I can't say for certain this was such a case.
I have no proof for the worldly wise.

Imagine being loved! It is a miracle some say.
Love fiercely he advised me for this all will pass away.
For all who seek each other there is no need to remind
That we have all the world, but very little time.
Man of woman born Is but a transient creature.
I only learned to love so well
because I had the finest teacher.

Joan of Arc gets all the credit;
everybody knows her name.
Agnes was not nearly as famous
but a least she avoided the flames.

Joan was Charles' warrior Priestess,
Agnes ,his mistress, of sorts.
She was undoing his virtue
While Joan was besieging Brit forts.

Agnes was the lady of Beauty,
That's  the castle Charles put in her name.
Her Decolletage  was her chief attraction;
Her cleavage put all others to shame.

In art she was  depicted as Mary,
her Breast bared for the Savior to ****.
Joan of Arc was depicted in armor,
her breastplate was spattered with muck.

Joan took inspiration from Heaven
Agnes from a feather bed's down.
Together they made Charles a monarch
In the city of Rheims  he was crowned.

It's a closely guarded secret so don't ask for the address.
It's a shelter from the storm for any damsels in distress.
It is funded by the City and follows their mandate
to shelter battered women from the men they've grown to hate.

The location must be secret from the predatory male;
the women would be helpless if security should fail.
Like any abused creature, the fear is  in their eyes
for they've been beaten ****** by their less than perfect guys.

I was there for an inspection, the house mom met me at the door
Most of her charges do not want me there; they don't trust men anymore.
I  arrived when most were working; I must leave ere they return.
for it is peace and solitude above all for which they yearn.

They are Eloi, I am Morlock- at least in their fearful eyes
For they have suffered at the hands of men
and dare not believe their lies

He’d first seen war in Africa; again in Sicily.
He’d been present on the road to Rome
and followed our boys to victory.
His columns and his articles told of our Men at war.
Sometimes funny, often poignant,
Ernie Pyle reported all he saw.

He went to the Pacific on a transport with Marines.
They were not yet hardened killers,
just a bunch of frightened teens.
Ernie had grave premonitions
But still he took the chance.
He never hid behind the lines-
With the boys he would advance.
He had to see his mission through
To end what he’d begun.
He’d endured five long years of war;
the man without a gun.

In April, nineteen forty five, he went forward in a jeep;
On the island of Ie Shima he had promises to keep.
He himself became the Headline before that day was done
A ******’s bullet found and killed the man without a gun.

The old man grabbed his knee with his hand
and held it stable to allow him to stand.
He reached for his blackthorn stick that served as his cane
and stared out in despair at the down pouring rain.
For weeks it’s been like this; his crops now would fail.
That’s life in the North Hills outside of the Pale.
Once he’d been young, handsome and strong;
Now he walked Stooped over and his sons all were gone;
to England and Canada, some  to the States.
He had infrequent letters to keep track of their fates.
Well, the cash from the quarry had not all been spent
And he owned this place clear; he owed no landlord rent.
It’s just him and his second wife, several pigs and a cow,
All the children had left them long before now.
“There’s no future for me here!” one son had enlisted
That boy died on the Somme and his Father still missed him.
He thought, too, of his favorite, his daughter Kathleen,
Who died of the Flu back in nineteen- nineteen
He reached for his fiddle and rosined his bow;
He sat for a bit, played a tune sad and slow.
This old place was his life, in the hills near Strabane
He had so longed to travel when he’d been a young man;
But those days are long gone, over and done
You are only permitted to dream when you’re young.

The young boy measured the distance carefully
and marked the spot of the imaginary rubber.
He hid the pink spaldeen  behind his right hip,
spreading his fingers over imaginary seams
ready to unleash his curve ball
against the unsuspecting garage door


Day after day the scene repeated.
he was out there in the early spring,
and didn't stop until November snows.
Every day strengthening his right arm
and refining his command
He played out the season in his mind.
He waited for the call to the show that never came-
there not being much demand for a short right hander
who topped out at 90

Someone,  out of kindness, might have told the boy
that he didn't have the talent for the majors.  
I'm glad they didn't
For he had found his version of Heaven
at sixty feet six inches.
God forbid that anyone
should ever  take that away.

His breathe came now in fits and snorts,
for weeks John had been ailing.
His legs were swelled up like balloons
because his heart was failing.

His eyes were glazed with cataracts
for which there was no cure.
Those eyes had seen our nations' birth
Her proud destiny now assured.

He faced death with a humble faith
in a Savior that forgives.
With his last breath they heard him say:
"Thomas Jefferson still Lives."

It's been two years since my uncle passed,
his estate ******* in litigation.
Now that the matter's been resolved at last
the old man's bar is my destination.
It must be cleaned out and prepped for sale.
I drew the short straw, thus begins my tale.

The place was a time capsule of that past
when three ball clubs called New York home.
What to keep, what to discard?
These choices I must make alone.
In my mind's eye I see him here;
holding court behind the bar.
On tap were seven kinds of beer
and bottles on ice if you wanted more.
There was top shelf liquors of every description
He was glad to dispense them without a prescription.
In the back was the kitchen
where my cousins made
Sandwiches for the construction trade
My uncle owned a double store
A bar with a billiards room right next door.

near the back is a pay phone booth;
these use to be everywhere in my youth.
Out of habit I jammed my finger in the slot
in search of change someone forgot.
Just then that ancient phone did ring-
a most extraordinary thing!

"Hello", I said, then, on the other end,
His brogue unmistakable across the years,

was the voice I thought I'd never hear again.

Once upon a time in America
the Sons and Daughters of Liberty
faced down the dragoons of a distant tyrant
and won freedom for themselves and their posterity.

Once upon a time in America
A President held forth for human rights
and freed a people who had been held in *******
after five Aprils of costly, ****** strife

Once Upon a Time In America
brave women rallied to be suffragettes;
No more content to be second class citizens,
They won the vote and haven't looked back yet

Once Upon a Time In America
The teeming masses set out for our shores
They were greeted by the lady in the harbor
who raised the torch of Freedom ever more

Once upon a time in America
we raised brave men the equal of their time;
They spent their prom day storming Norman beaches
and didn't stop until they reached the Rhine.

Once upon a time in America
Men with the "Right Stuff" could still be found
to circle the Earth and reach the nearby moon
returning back here safely to the ground.


That was once upon a time in America.
before the dream was sold and spat upon
Before they pulled the ladder up behind them.
For most of us the dream is dead and gone.

My children both tell me I drive like an old man.
I own up to it proudly for that’s what I am.
I keep cars “forever”, much longer than stocks,
replacing, as needed, brakes, tires and shocks.

Little kids are a handful; let parents take heed.
They need to be monitored due to their speed.
I was driving to Citibank to take out some cash-
from  between two parked cars a little girl dashed

I thank God I saw her dart to and fro.
I also am grateful I was driving so slow.
I stepped on the brake and heard the discs grind.
averting a tragedy, barely, in time.

Her beautiful mother, her eyes close to tears,
retrieved her young daughter, soothing her fears.
Our eyes locked a long moment as our hearts settled down.
Then, with a nod, I relaxed and drove on

I have been reading about a distressing phenomenon: all over the world the oldest living things, the great trees are dying.   My poem  "The Tree of Life" is about one such species, the Baobab tree.


I have provided the poem in English, French Spanish and an African language to make it widely accessible to all.

Un viejo *****, en un mes caluroso y seco,
se sentó a la sombra del árbol Baobab.
Las praderas una vez verdes
estaban secos con la sequía,
víctimas de los vientos del cambio.

"Viejo, me llaman viejo". Pensó:
"Mis setenta veranos me han vuelto gris,
pero este árbol Baobab creció alto y fuerte
Cuando las legiones romanas pasaron por aquí ".

El viejo masticó la fruta del baobab
y se hundió en un estado de trance.
Él estaba en un estado mental;
No completamente dormido, no completamente despierto.

Escuchó una voz: "Tengo sed". Decía:
Aunque estaba seguro de que estaba solo.
Parecía que no era una voz humana:
un monótono desapasionado y seco.

"Por generaciones, hombres como tú"
He buscado mi refugio del Sol,
Pero ahora está terminado; la tierra está seca
Y me estoy muriendo, pequeño ".

El anciano lloró al escuchar estas palabras
Para cuando estos árboles mueren, como deben,
Se colapsan sobre el suelo estéril
Tan rápido regresan a Dust.

"El mundo ha cambiado para ti y para mí,
Los vientos están secos debajo del sol.
Perdono el mundo de los hombres
Porque ellos no saben lo que han hecho ".

El viejo se despertó con un comienzo
y se levantó con su bastón.
Lloró al pensar que este árbol moriría

pero las lágrimas no pueden reemplazar a la lluvia.

Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.

"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "

Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.

Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.

"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "

Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.

"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "

Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa

lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.

Un vieil homme noir, dans un mois chaud et sec,
assis à l'ombre du Baobab.
Les prairies autrefois verdoyantes
étaient secs avec la sécheresse,
victimes des vents du changement.

"Vieux, ils m'appellent vieux." Il pensait,
"Mes soixante-dix étés m'ont rendu gris,
mais cet arbre baobab est devenu grand et fort
Quand les légions romaines ont passé par là. "

Le vieil homme mâchait le fruit du baobab
et a coulé dans un état de transe comme.
Il était dans un état d'esprit;
Pas tout à fait endormi, pas tout à fait réveillé.

Il a entendu une voix: "J'ai soif".
Bien qu'il soit sûr qu'il était seul.
Cela ne semblait pas une voix humaine:
un monotone sec et sans discernement.

"Pour les générations, les hommes comme vous
J'ai cherché mon abri du soleil,
Mais maintenant c'est fini; la terre est desséchée
Et je meurs, mon petit.

Le vieil homme a pleuré pour entendre ces mots
Car quand ces arbres meurent, comme ils le doivent,
Ils s'effondrent sur le sol stérile
Donc, rapidement, ils reviennent à la poussière.

"Le monde a changé pour vous et moi,
Les vents sont secs sous le soleil.
Je pardonne au monde des hommes
Car ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils ont fait. "

Le vieil homme s'est réveillé avec un début
et s'est soulevé avec sa canne.
Il a pleuré de penser que cet arbre mourrait

mais les larmes ne peuvent pas remplacer la pluie.

An old black man, in a hot dry month,
sat in the shade of the Baobab tree.
The once verdant grasslands
were dry with drought,
victims of the winds of change.

“Old, they call me old.” He thought,
“my Seventy summers have turned me gray,
but this Baobab tree grew tall and strong
When Roman legions passed this way.”

The old man chewed the baobab fruit
and sank into a trance like state.
He was in a state of mind;
Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

He heard a voice: “I thirst.” It said,
Though he was sure he was alone.
It seemed not a human voice:
a dry dispassionate monotone.

“For generations, men like you
Have sought my shelter from the Sun,
But now it is finished; the land is parched
And I am dying, little one.”

The old man wept to hear these words
For when these trees die, as they must,
They collapse upon the barren ground
So quickly they return to Dust.

“The world has changed for you and me,
The winds are dry beneath the sun.
I forgive the world of men
For they know not what they have done.”

The old man woke up with a start
and raised himself up with his cane.
He wept to think this tree would die

but tears cannot replace the rain.

Sunday morning on a dusty local diamond,
We gather together around about nine.
We try to recapture the glory of our youth
With bodies that, decidedly, are well past their prime.

I strike a line drive between two chubby fielders
By the time I reach third I am gasping for breath.
The coach waves his arms to encourage me home
But what I need now is an oxygen tent.

Charlie got sunburned and Eddy got drunk
Johnny went hitless and James split his pants.
When the last out is made we have lost ten to seven.
We all dreamed of the Pros, but we hadn’t  a chance.

We repair to Shenanigans to have some libations,
Some burgers and brews will ease aches and pains
We share dubious tales of our former glories;
When talent has faded- illusions remain.

Strange to see it summed up in just a few lines.
Mary Lou Marion, the little girl of Louise and Grazio.
She went to my high school, three years behind me.
She worked here then she worked there.
She wed some man I never met and had four sons.
They lived here and they lived there.
The Grandkids were born.
She never noticed the lump on her breast;
Not until it was far too late.
It was not a bad life, Ordinary perhaps.
I will not claim to know what she believed,
Only what we had been taught.
She knew the joys and sorrows
of being a woman
She fought bravely to the end
Against the cancer that took her.


Isn’t she all of us?
Just a thought in the mind of God.

Goodbye Mary Lou

Rest in Peace

It sounded, at first, like two kids fighting.
Then two hard hits brought neighbors to their doors.
Her “boyfriend” splashed the accelerant upon her
then he lite fire to her clothes.

Terrified,  Screaming, she ran  into the hall,
She would have died if Not for Stan.
He got a blanket wrapped tight around her
and smothered the fire with his strong hands.

Her “boyfriend” fled, that sniveling coward,
who had tried to ****** that innocent child;
His criminal rap sheet gave no indication
That attempted ****** was his style.

They say she’ll live; that ******* fire.
Her beauty stolen; it was her curse.
The “boyfriend” ought to turn himself in.
It won’t go well if I find him first.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
une peur qui n'a pas donné son nom.
Une pensée dont la source ne divulguerait pas
la peur que tous ceux qui vivent le sachent.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
ces jours de courte durée nous passons en vain.
La colère, de courte durée mais intense
à l'amour sans sa récompense.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
un rhume froid sans nom
Maladie qui ne suivrait pas son cours
La pilule amère de notre divorce.

La boisson est la porte du désespoir
et oui, je cherchais du réconfort là-bas,
quand les voix humaines sont toutes allées encore
pour me réchauffer du froid hivernal.

In the dead of Winter came
a dread that did not give its name.
A thought whose source would not disclose
the fear that all those living know.

In the dead of winter came
those short lived days we pass in vain.
Anger, short lived, but intense
at Love without its recompense.

In the Dead of winter came
a bitter cold without a name
Disease that would not run its course
The bitter pill of our divorce.

Drink is the doorway to despair
and yes, I sought some comfort there,
when human voices all went still
to warm me from the Winter chill.

My title is “POTUS” and America’s great.
My pardoning power can change people’s fate.
I commuted the sentence of a granny in jail
Who’d been locked up for years for a busted drug sale.
I Pardoned Jack Johnson long after he’d died,
for his crime of having a white ******* the side.

Dinesh D’Souza was an interesting case;
He defied crooked Hillary -who put him in his place.
His “Get out of Jail” card I granted with glee.
Perhaps his next movie will be about me.

I pardoned a sailor who’d fallen from grace;
He worked in a Sub and took films of the place.
I forgave Joe Arpaio and relieved his distress
at having a jail cell as his forward  address.

It’s True Scooter Libby was technically free;
His sentence commuted by my peer “43”.
Now Scooter’s pardoned; absolved of his crime.
It was worth it to hear liberal Democrats whine.

It’s been said that with Russians I basely connived
to secure my election to become “45”.
If Mueller should dig up some dirt on my “crime”
I’ll just pardon myself and thank him for his time.

Je n'ai pas honte,
Je ne devrais pas pleurer non plus.
Parfois, dans les rêves,
Les vieux souvenirs rampent.
Les photographies vont s'estomper avec le temps
plus tôt que ces rêves.
Oui, tu m'as appris à aimer
Et oui, c'était un cadeau précieux.
Je suis l'enfant de votre vieillesse.
Maintenant, de votre présence, je suis privé.
Je m'agenouille ici par ta pierre aujourd'hui
Et pense à tout ce que j'ai perdu.
Pour faire une pause un moment, réfléchir et prier
Et je vous souhaite une bonne fête des pères.

Sans le vent, sans la pluie
La pierre de la Terre resterait en pierre.
Le souffle de Boreas n'a-t-il pas soufflé?
pour former les canyons ici-bas?
Si ce n'est pas pour Kymopoleia et ses vagues
Y aurait-il des grottes sous-marines?
Imperceptiblement, goutte à goutte,
Les larmes du ciel peuvent conquérir le rock.
Transformer la pierre en sédiment par degré
Et retournez à la mer.
Alors aussi, mes larmes vont travailler leur art
Sur ton coeur adamantin
Et, dans leur victoire finale,
ramène ton amour à moi.

They found her, blue and lifeless, a red scarf around her neck.
She was , in life, a designer; head and shoulders above the rest.
Women loved all her creations; her faultless sense of style.
Her Life seemed charmed and perfect, at least for a little while.

She tied the scarf around her throat when she decided it was time.
Medication for depression may have placed these thoughts in mind.
Her vision blurred, her heart beat raced until it came full stop.
Her housekeeper found the body- the poor woman's still in shock.

The police came to investigate and photograph the scene.
In death there is no dignity, the process is obscene.
They found the note, devoid of hope, that Kate had left behind.
People who know nothing spoke about her state of mind.

Her estranged spouse sits in silence with the little girl she left.
He struggles to make sense of it. He's sad, perhaps depressed.
He wonders what to do with the red scarf in which she died.
It is a hated, despised thing, this accessory to suicide.

All men are created equal, if we take Thomas at his word.
Yet we all have different talents, at least that’s what I’ve observed.
Some are smarter, some are faster, some are foolish, others wise.
Yet we are all worth many sparrows in our Creator’s eyes.
I have witnessed great performances involving winds and strings,
Although I too love music there’s a mystery to those things.
I love to watch ice dancing; to view artisans on ice.
Yet when I’ve strapped my own skates on I‘ve fallen once ( or twice).
I love the game of baseball; it’s by far my favorite game
But once more the draft is over and they didn’t call my name.
It is good that we’re unequal; that only few can pass the test,
But let not that excuse anyone from trying for their best.

The last few customers looked, but bought nothing.
At this rate I can’t pay the rent on this place.
It’s Time to turn out the lights, maybe give up my dream.
Sales are only at half last year’s pace.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They stare at their cellphones.
They chill with Netflix

If I lose the store what will become of my treasures?
These are magical portals to all time and space.
The words of the Prophets the poets and dreamers
will wind up in a dumpster, their memory effaced.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They drink Mocha lattes
They live for WIFI

Today I received in the mail the dread notice.
I will be evicted; the Marshall will come.
Shakespeare and Freud will be tossed to the gutter.
The tribe of the verb is forever undone.

He only lives three hours at a time,
most often in a dark and crowded room.
He is haunted by a sense of deja-vue-,
As if he knows he’s racing towards his doom.
He rests, between incarnations, like the rest
in dots of ink upon a printed page.
Three hours at a time he lives, not more,
within the walls of Castle Elsinore.
If only like a crab he could go backwards
Perhaps Polonius could evade the tomb
But, no, alas, its all predestination;
A poisoned foil will lead him to damnation.

We will live and die and be forgotten;
That is the fate of all us common clay.
But Prince Hamlet with outlive this generation;
He lives in every moment of his play.

Il faisait froid pour début juin; une pause entre deux tempêtes.
Le surf -rough, l'eau froide, mais la réception serait chaude.
Notre bateau de Higgins a fait une vitesse constante nous emmenant au rivage.
Pour certains, c'était le jour le plus long, pour beaucoup d'autres le dernier jour.

La scène qui nous attendait était surréaliste; une boue comme le pire.
Les Allemands ont occupé les corpsmen s'ils ne les ont pas d'abord tués.
La pluie de plomb était constante pendant que nous nous sommes battus vers la rive.
Notre peloton a été décimé. beaucoup ont vu la fin de la guerre.

Il y avait des actes d'héroïsme. Nos dirigeants ont prouvé leur valeur.
Nous avons pris le mur de l'Atlantique de ******; pensée imprenable au premier abord.
J'ai regardé depuis le haut bluff à l'Armada grise juste au large de la côte.
J'ai perdu une bande de copains aujourd'hui, mais nous allons même marquer des points.

Nous sommes une bande de frères campés au-dessus de cette rive normande.
Je ne dirai jamais à mes parents les horreurs que j'ai vues.
L'air pue la sueur et le fer, et la puanteur de la cordite des rondes passées.
Les aumôniers recueillent les étiquettes de chien des formes immobiles sur le sol.

It was cold for early June; a pause between two storms.
The surf –rough, the water-cold, but the reception would be warm.
Our Higgins boat made steady speed taking us to shore.
For some it was the Longest Day, for many others the last they saw.

The scene awaiting us was surreal; a muck up like the worst.
The Germans kept the corpsmen busy- if they didn’t **** them first.
The leaden rain was constant as we struggled towards the shore.
Our platoon was decimated; many saw the end of war.

There were acts of heroism. Our leaders proved their worth.
We took ******’s Atlantic wall; thought impregnable at first.
I looked from the high bluff at the grey Armada just off shore.
I lost a bunch of pals today, but we’ll even the score.

We are a band of brothers encamped above this Norman shore.
I will never tell my parents of the horrors that I saw.
The air stinks of sweat and iron, and the stench of cordite from spent rounds.
The chaplains collect the dog tags from the still forms on the ground.

Saint Hilary's day, the coldest of our year,
when snow and ice enshrouded London town,
was the day the Prince of Poets died.

His home in Ireland had been pillaged and torched.
His wife and young son murdered that same day.
The Irish were hot for English blood;
some said the O'Neil accepted Spanish pay.

He was not young, yet not particularly old,
when death arrived to place him under arrest.
His hostess found him lying on the ground.
His body cold; no sign of pulse nor breath.

His friend, the Earl of Essex, had decreed
The Prince of Poets be mourned by all his kind.
Edmund Spencer beside Chaucer would lie down.
and be eulogized by poets of renown.


Ben Jonson came ; the young John Donne as well.
Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman and sweet Will,
followed his hearse, then bore him to his tomb.

There in the nave, the poets did him homage.
Reciting there their hastily written lines.
Each man than dropped his poem into the grave
Each poet's pen dropped in the grave besides.

There are loves that are inseparable,
loves that never leave.
Loves that can define us
This much I do believe.
I remember well my own first “love”.
A Love I brought to bed.
I brought along a flashlight too
To discern the words Love said.
When all my family was asleep
from my pillow I’d retrieve
My treasure from the Library
And I’d begin to read.
That was my first chapter book,
A mystery, I recall.
Of all the words I’ve read or writ
It was the start of all.
I like to find that book again
and hold in one more time.-
and in the touch and smell of it
Recall a simpler time.

I'd like to slip quietly away from Life;
Peacefully in my sleep would be best,
that's for sure.

No doctor pounding on my lifeless chest;
demanding of me an unwanted encore.

I seek no grand Finale.
I require no clamoring crowds.

No, for me, just a bare and empty stage,
with one less spear carrier among the  dramatist personae.
One not remembered once you turn the page.

In certain lights she may appear
An apparition dressed in white.
At other times she’s like a mist;
bitingly cold on hot humid nights.

This is the room where Rachel died;
A young bride strangled by her groom.
He then committed suicide-
having guaranteed her doom.

His soul was dragged away to Hell;
He chokes forever in sulfurous fumes.
For his Bride, a different fate;
She bides forever in Rachel’s room.

Up at the head of the stairs is her room.
You may enter in daylight.
At dusk we hear her piteous screams.
No living soul dares spend the night

A canister of tear gas was lying on the ground.
In my dumb incomprehension, I first heard the rifles sound.
Then there were screams and curses; weeping and lament.
There were bodies lying silent, bleeding out on the pavement.

Our protest wasn’t peaceful although “Peace” was on our signs.
We had thrown rocks at the guardsmen; they responded now in kind.
Tensions had escalated and passion outraced sense.
The crackle of the rifle fire ended the suspense.

Now I am an old man; we’ve moved on to other wars.
To that wall of names in Washington I’d like to add four more.
The rain has washed their blood away. The memories fade with time.
The old guard has passed; now all that is left is the enormity of their crime.

Love is a gift freely given,
Without chance of recall.
Those who expect otherwise
Have never loved at all.