The candy filled hearts pile up unsold, and roses go on sale.
A state of deep distrust divides the female and male.
Would-be Romeos instead watch **** and take no lover to their bed.
All complements are misconstrued and hugs become a source of dread.
It’s all too easy to lose your job for posts you made or words you said.

Our human nature is demeaned; each overture imposes risk.
Males are viewed as predators. The zeitgeist changes can’t be missed.
Before you kiss your Tinder date- get signed consent, you must insist.
If not, she might have second thoughts and your name gets added to the list.

It reminds me of McCarthy’s time when left of center was a crime
Actors and artists were dismissed; their names were added to black lists.
Another witch-hunt has begun; this time it is a war on fun.
Flirtation may lead to citation. Romance is a risky proposition.
To risk your heart seems a suicide mission.

The scene at the graveyard in Louth was a circus;
The press was out in force with their cameramen there.
The grave, freshly dug, covered with a green carpet.
The smell of wet, fresh turned, earth filled the air.
As for the deceased: there were varied opinions.
Some called him a sinner; some thought him a Saint.
He was politically savvy but yet had done ******.
An angel corrupted by a simian taint.
None could dispute he had made his life matter.
The head of his party; His words carried clout.
Nevertheless, he died here in hospice.
His brothers in arms have carried him out
The power and glory he laid down and exchanged
for a plot and a stone in this graveyard in Louth.

We met, quite by accident, at the concession stand.
Some forty years or so have passed
since last I was your leading man.
Those years have dealt you kindly; Just a touch of grey.
Surely it was fate that had us attending this same play.
I see in your face your mother but with kinder gentler eyes.
You are, its true, still the girl I knew, just in a mature guise.
When we were closer to birth than death I thrilled to hold your hand.
In our beginnings are our ends; I thirst to understand.
It brought a smile back to my lips when you touched me on the sleeve.
Time, sufficient to heal all wounds, has passed, I do believe.

It happened in a darkened room where many strangers sat nearby.
The ceiling was a field of stars, an image of the Fall night sky.
along the walls, in bas-relief, minarets of a Moroccan town.
I crunched my Popcorn and slurped my Coke, impatient for it to begin.
Now all grow quiet as we gazed in wonder at the

Technicolor


Storybook of dreams

When the body politic, long fleeced, begins to understand,
I believe that local weathermen will be in high demand.
Our politicians will all be seen as having feet of clay;
Venial types who sway according to the winds each day.

Weathermen are truthful; weather girls the same.
They tell us when it’s going to snow and when it will turn to rain.
Their forecasts aren’t perfect but I believe they try.
They consult the Doppler oracle and gaze into the sky.

They, daily, take the auspices like some archaic priests.
They prophesize the temperature for cold snaps in the East.
They are the only public voices who do not spin or lie
They don’t fall back on talking points or dare debate the sky

So if we now choose presidents from their appearance on T.V.
I nominate Bill Evans for president and Storm Field for V.P.

Like a hungry Bear beset by bees,
with its paw caught in a honeyed trap.
The pride of the Japanese surface fleet
Reeled from the Americans’ attack
The Yamato lurched and began to list.
The Americans closed in for the ****;
Torpedoes were set for Twenty feet,
They gave that ship a belly full.
Like Arizona, in Forty one,
Fire spread to her magazine.
A pillar of fire: two thousand feet high,
marked the moment the Yamato died.
Three thousand souls had been aboard;
Three hundred fought the oil slicked waves.
Her captain went down with his ship-
Only a relative handful of men were saved.
The battleship had seen its day
Yamato was the last to fall.
Now she sleeps two thousand feet deep
And colorful coral covers all.

When days of future pass
and cannot come again-
Half a century seems a moment.
A loved musician meets his end.

The haunting notes you played on the flute;
those somber moody blues-
will echo through eternity
though you, yourself be through.

A treasured disk of Vinyl;
A loved, remembered song.
I played it first when just a teen
living in my parents’ home.

A Sculptor’s work melts in the rain
It’s lines made indistinct
An author, once thought popular,
may  soon be out of ink.

A film made in the golden age
is faded acetate.
The beauty of white satin nights
I hope escapes their fate.

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
How quick I disassemble thee!
I check each cranny and each nook
for every ornament and hook.
I pack each carefully- Heaven knows
None of our snowmen must lose his nose!
I roll the garland in a ball
And take the lights off last of all.
Then I put you upon the shelf
Next to that small mischievous elf!
When I was young our trees were real
and while that memory holds appeal,
To **** a live tree every Yule
Would be the action of a fool

A bitter cold night to close out the year;
come sit here near the fire by me.
I have here a fine brandy
that was aged eighteen years,
but that never another will see.

So hold out your glass and I’ll give you a splash
to warm you and loosen your tongue.
Then we’ll each tell tall tales
Of our reprobate youth
And the disreputable things we had done.

We’ll remember with tears those we’ve lost this past year
Those who loved us despite what we’d done.
The Father who sacrificed all for his boys;
the Mother who lived for her sons.

A bitter cold night to close out the year;
I’m warmed by the fire’s soft glow.
If I shed a tear at the close of the year,
I pray don’t let anyone know.

I am widowed and my children are all grown.
They are busy with their own families.
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.
The house is quiet and I wait in hope
That the phone will ring or some friend might stop by;
Anything to end my isolation

I hear the mail slot open and the thud
of magazines and junk mail on the floor.
The letter carrier, gone without a word,
walks briskly in the outside bitter cold.

The radio is on and comforts me.
a chance, at least, to hear other voices.
They prattle on about terrorist threats;
venial Politicians and celebrity divorces.

Another year reaches its anticlimactic end.
I’ll watch the ball drop and prepare for bed.
It is for others to make the New Year Ring-
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.

In the dark, past no man’s land,
When the cold night’s wind whispered low,
We heard a most incongruous sound;
christmas carols sung by our foe.

Someone raised a flag of truce
and we met them on contested ground.
We shared our food, some cigarettes.
And  hummed along with their joyful sound.

Our fellows sang what tunes we knew-
In broken English they replied.
Together we buried our common dead
Who belonged now not to either side.

I hear in some sectors games were played.
a game of football of a sort.
Sadly it was the briefest pause
ere we resumed our deadly sport.

In years that followed no quarter was given
So bitter had our men become.
There were no songs left in our hearts.
after the slaughter of Verdun.

He stops and starts, he drives too slow,
He turns hesitantly.
He struggles reading street signs-
That much is plain to see.

He lingers at each corner
And others can’t get by.
He honks his horn incessantly.
No one can tell me why.

The old should face a driving test
to stay behind the wheel.
Forcing him to take a cab-
That idea has appeal.

I want to give the finger to this annoying S.O.B.
but when I pull up next to him
He looks a lot like me

We had traveled here to Canton to the football hall of fame.
I made the pilgrimage with my brother; He’s a student of the game.
There were many fine exhibits, photos in my mind ingrained:
Y.A. Tittle, his blood gushing, was kneeling in a world of pain.
Ameche flying towards the goal in Football’s greatest game.
As our visit was near an end, we stood before a plaque.
It read Walter J. Payton; Chicago Bears (great) running back.
We read the records he had held; some since have been surpassed.
They play more games now in the NFL than they did in the past.
“Numbers aren’t all that matter.” My brother patiently explained.
“Not the true measure of this man and how he played the game.”
“True he was his team’s heart and soul and ranked among the best;
it was for compassion towards his fellow man that he is called “Sweetness”.”
Payton died still a young man. I’d know that much before.
It was only then I noticed he was born in Fifty Four.
I’d started my own journey then; now he’s gone and I remain.
I’ve never been the man he was and I never played the game.
Imagine what one man can do with his time here on earth,
“Sweetness” valued everyone above what we are worth.

Manhattan looks magnificent in the moonlight,
especially from my penthouse on this eve.
I sense the young girl’s apprehension;
She’s only just arrived in the City of Dreams.

She wonders about the price of her admission.
What will I demand? What will she do?
Just nineteen; she’s the same age as my daughter.
Her vocals are an Angel’s; her complexion too.

I make a joke and am rewarded with her laughter.
She gratefully accepts a chardonnay.
The days of Harvey Weinstein are now over.
Young women no longer need to pay to play.

I look forward to her appearance on the screen.
I’m grateful for the part I had to play.
If I feel just a little bit in Love
I remind myself I’m old and look away.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
The youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters song
and that star that shone like gold.

Were the great and the small impressed in the least,
when Mark Chapman from the shadows emerged?
In the dark shots rang out and John Lennon was shot,
The gun always has the last word.
Do you remember where you were when you heard
the news that John Lennon had died?
In the back of a cruiser his light was extinguished.
The poor, deluded Chapman faced prison.
Such fame he obtained-  The wrong kind.

What images swirl through the dying mind
of a man who’s been peppered with shot?
Does life pass in review, as some have claimed true?
Is he judged and found wanting? Then what?

Or does he embrace and take leave of this place
as life’s’ blood empties out of his veins?
Is the thought of her face the one instance of Grace
When only a moment remains?

The water laps against the hull
Just like that time before
Just like that Sunday morning
That exploded into war.
In these old eyes
That yet can see
Those waves of rising Suns,
A tear wells up
In memory
for those forever young.
Below my feet
My brothers’ lie;
Proud Arizona’s crew.
For a time I have
Escaped their fate
But now my days are few.
and when I die,
I’ll make my grave
In Pearl, beneath the Sea.
Then all we suffered
Will be lost
to living memory.

The world is full of good ideas
And rules we really need.
Signs ensure that drivers won’t
Exceed the posted speed.
Plus we have laws restricting drugs-
So nobody smokes ****.
Chicago’s ban on handguns
Has produced a bumper crop-
Of people full of bullet holes
Legislation failed to stop.

It’s clear to me obesity
kills more than bullets do.
Look at your friends and neighbors
And you’ll realize this is true.
Its burdensome to carry them
To their final resting place
After they’ve spend decades
stuffing Stuffing in their face.
It’s past time we got serious
It’s time to walk the walk.
I’m introducing legislation
That aims to ban the fork.

I lost my Left leg at Bull Run and came home from the war.
With a peg I managed farm work; unfit for battle; not for chores.
My neighbor, Reid, did also bleed in that War Between the States.
His right leg was mangled below the knee- they had to amputate.
Now, each year, we go into town and buy one pair of shoes.
My neighbor, Reid, wears the same size and likes the boots I choose.
We’ve become fast friends, the two of us; our children something more.
My son has bought a ring to give to the girl who lives next door.
In wartime we were enemies; fighting for the Blue and Gray.
Now our womenfolk make plans for our children’s wedding day.
Here, in the autumn of our lives, all enmity is defused.
Each has learned to know and love his foe- by walking in his shoe.

Let us now ****  famous men
for their low morals and cruel cunning.
This witch hunt is different from all the rest;
now the witches hunt and the men go running.

From out  of the woodwork the women come;
victims, opportunists or jilted lovers?
Forty or fifty years have passed.
Their denouncers are mostly young grandmothers.

Now Garrison Keillor has joined the ranks
of venial men obsessed by lust.
He has been banished from Lake Woebegone
Where the women are Strong, the children are bright-
and the men look no better than any of us.

When the fire burns hottest, often heroes will rise.
We don’t know how it started; we can only surmise.
Somebody was careless; not paying attention.
A spark became flame; thus began the convection.

I was down at the pub with some fellas I knew.
It was five O’clock (somewhere)- we were having a few.
There out in the street we heard a commotion,
But as to what was the cause we hadn’t a notion.

We threw open the door to a pitiful sight
Sure the North end of town was already alight.
Twas no use going home. My house was now Tinder.
Still now’s not the time to go off on a ******.

Jimmy the barkeep said “It pains me to say,
But fellas- the fire is coming this way!”
We all raced to his cellar for his hogsheads of ale;
determined to quench the flames; we swore not to fail.
Though some of us wept at the waste of good stout,
we wet down the walls and we kept the flames out.

All the structures around us were lost to the blaze,
But thank God and Saint George that our tavern was saved!
Though our names be forgotten, our deed lives in lore;
Surely no one fought fire with Guinness before!

Soon Sears will be history
J.C. Penney is all but spent.
Even mighty Hudson Bay
Sells their building and pays rent.

Here at Macy's flagship store
Friday was black indeed.
They couldn't process payments
at close to normal speed.

Jeff Bezos is a billionaire.
Brown boxes flood the mail
Clicks beat Bricks is the news at six
Is it lights out for retail?

He started out by selling books;
lost cash on every sale.
Barnes and Noble bled a ghostly white.
His competitors turned tail.

Competition is the rule
All change comes through disruption.
As catalogs give way to clicks
some stores need extreme unction.

This lass, like many others, fair,
Her scent fragrant and sweet.
Her skin, exotic, is caramel toned.
Up North are her twin peaks.

Sweet rubies are my lover’s lips.
Sparkling diamonds are her eyes.
Yes my Lady is pleasing and rich,
She is both good and kind.

One hand explores my Lover’s curves
in search of the Divine.
as I vow  to preserve and love
her for all of  my  time.

together we plumb her deepest depths
She shifts to meet my action.
Happiness is in the moment now;
then, later, satisfaction.

They pile up ******* around my feet
As to the stake I’m chained.
I murmur a prayer unto my God
before they light the flames.

The city folk gather close around
to watch the heretic burn.
I pray the fuel is dry, not damp
As I await my turn

My fellow human torches argue
Whose is the martyrdom..
I pray my suffering will be brief
before the Lord will come.

A soldier bearing a burning torch
Lights the fuel there at my feet
I scream as flames dance up my legs
Oh God please bring me peace.

Be thankful for such things you have-
if those things do not have you.
(They will be inherited, discarded or donated
Come the day your life is through.)
Be thankful for what you don’t know
But still have time to learn.
Be thankful for the health you have
and the wage your labor earns.
Be thankful for the eyes that see
the beauty of Creation.
Be thankful as a citizen-
work to preserve our nation.
Give thanks to God if you have faith;
with song if you are able.
Most of all give thanks today
for the family at your table.

Some say I have your eyes; I’ll vouch for the thinning hair.
I often say things that you would say if you were still here.
As I age my hearing starts to fail; you faced the selfsame test.
Yes, I now wear glasses too, for reading and the rest.
Some say I have your temperament; I’ve heard time and again;
That I have your listening heart; there could be no better friend.
Your patience and your kindness was exceptional but then
-You were an Irish mother dealing with your Irish men
I loved you for your courage when cancer gave a scare.
You suffered it in silence with the help of faith and prayer.
You were summer’s final Rose who outlasted your cohorts
You have been gone a dozen years, but are ever in my thoughts.
When we heard that you were failing, we hurried to your side
But as we came off the elevator, the nurse said that you had died.
You lay there, still, beneath white sheets, with dignity and grace.
You left us on a breath of air bound for a better place.

My old friend, you sit in the corner of my room.
My neglect of you is a silent accusation.
How I long to take you in my arms again
and make beautiful music together.
Alas I am not free. I have long loved another.
Now she has been stricken by a terrible fate.
A stroke has laid her low.
My beloved wife cannot speak.
Her whole left side is paralyzed.
I cannot leave her.
I must remain true to my hearts first love,
looking in her eyes I see
her wordless fear at the loss of her cognition.
Our world has shrunk to a small suite of rooms
Where a rented hospital bed cradles my Love
And the I.V. drips and machines monitor.
I who once sang for her in a beautiful baritone
and played for her my mandolin.
Now I know only songs of sadness and
I cannot play with these tear filled eyes.
So I have put aside my Mandolin.
I hold onto the hand of my Beloved

and the silence overcomes us both.

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers;
your inspiring moments of silence.
Yet these do not one blessed thing
to protect us from gun violence.

The constitution guarantees
the right to lethal Weapons?
Are Life and Liberty not worthy, then,
of sensible protections?

Those diagnosed with PTSD;
The schizophrenic and Bi Polar
Should not be given lethal means
to wipe out holy rollers.

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers
We’re sure they’re well intended.
Just the same we’d like to see
These brutal massacres ended!

No night is so dark as the night of your death.
A truth every mariner knows.
They were caught up in a storm
and it could not be long
as the brave ship and crew took hard blows..
They stayed at their stations, for hours they fought,
their iron ore freighter to save.
The waves crested high and the wind whipped on by
whispering of a watery grave.
The religious ones prayed to the god of the storm
in hopes that this cup too might pass.
The heathens among them beheld only gray sky
and they reckoned this day was their last.
The old girl gave a scream as lake water poured in
Her pumps were no match for the waves.
Her lights winked, then died, said observers on shore
And she plunged to a watery grave.
In church families gathered to weep for their men,
Who had set sail in spite of the peril.
The Sun never reaches Superior’s depths;
Never reaches the Edmund Fitzgerald.

I woke up before dawn with my eye whites ****** red.
The fierce pounding in my skull made me wish that I were dead.
My lips are cracked, my throat is parched, my mouth is desert dry.
I can't remember much about last night, no matter how I try.


I had misplaced my childhood faith that I had gained through my baptism.
As a teen I seized on alcohol as my replacement ism.
There the spirit was available to all who had the price
With services held daily as habit turned to vice.

I have slept at times in gutters when the weather wasn’t cold.
I have ****** on strangers lawns near taverns where my drug is sold.
I have gotten into fistfights, the kind that no one wins.
My family doesn’t want a son who drinks and reeks of gin.

Tonight I took a seat in a church basement for a change.
I’ll spill out all my secrets.   A sponsorship will be arranged.
I know I’ve hit rock bottom and that will be my foundation
I hope my new  friend  Bill W. will lead me to salvation.

My old friend, you sit in the corner of my room.
My neglect of you is a silent accusation.
How I  long to take you in my arms again
and make beautiful music together.
Alas I am not free. I have long loved another.
Now she has been stricken by a terrible fate.
A stroke has laid her low.
My beloved wife cannot speak.
Her whole left side is paralyzed.
I cannot leave her.
I must remain true to my hearts first love,
looking in her eyes I see
her wordless fear at the loss of her cognition.
Our world has shrunk to a small suite of rooms
Where a rented hospital bed cradles my Love
And the I.V. drips and machines monitor.
I who once sang for her in a beautiful baritone
and played for her my mandolin.
Now I know only songs of sadness and
I cannot play  with these tear filled eyes.
So I have put aside my Mandolin.
I hold onto the hand of my Beloved

and the silence overcomes us both.

Tomorrow is on my calendar
as is every day next week.
I have interviews, appointments,
Dinners at which I'll speak.

I'll make some time for family
and writing, I suppose.
I must buy steaks to barbecue
and must purchase new  work clothes.

When evening comes I'll settle back
with a glass of Pinot noir.
I'm a transient immortal,
I'm on loan here from a star.

The future is a game
against ourselves we play.
We plan as if we still have left
forever and a day.

In truth we all are transients
For just this moment free.
Self observing stardust
poised twixt two eternities

I first saw her at the coffee shop;
a pale white girl with long black tresses.
Her legs tucked up beneath her on the chair
wearing one of those fashionable peasant dresses.
I would see her, time and again,
studying out on the Quad on a sun filled autumn day.
She never bronzed burned or tanned;
She was most remarkable in that way.
Her skin was always like new fallen snow
in the glow of a full December moon.
Her voice was comforting, simply lyrical.
As for me; I could barely hold a tune.

“Her name is Laurie” her roommate told me.
“it’s time you introduced yourself,
instead of lurking around like a love sick puppy.”
So I did; and it turned out to be
one of my better decisions.

You would think it a dream
to be forever nineteen.
To not age a day
to let youth and strength hold sway.

Still you never count the cost
of all you might have lost:
The sunsets never seen
because you always stayed nineteen.

Just yesterday we got the news;
a positive ID of your remains.
It seems that you died on a foreign shore
when you were just nineteen

Your parents are gone
your siblings dead or dying.
Your nieces and nephews themselves grown old
and yet we all are crying.

My uncle Joe is come home from the war
after Seventy two years gone past
He is forever just nineteen.
That birthday was his last.

It is a very old photograph, yellowed with age.
It was made from the light of a century ago.
My grandparents sit in their brand new Ford
with my mother and my uncle.
They have sat there stoically watching
Though years of war and peace,
prosperity and ruin.
They have been mute witnesses to the births and deaths;
the joy, the tears, the laughter.
The subjects themselves are all gone now:
my grandmother first; my mother last of all.
(I think the Ford got traded for a Hudson.)
The accumulated light of those ten decades
effaces all away.
The images are fading, some features barely can be seen
But I still recognize my mother’s determined stare
as her nine year old self
faces down the photographer.

In that valley of death the Highlanders made their stand.
To live or die
but not retreat
in the Empire’s hour of need.
The British redoubts had been overrun by the Russians
in the desperate morning fight.
If not for the brave men of the Ninety third
The allies would be put to flight.
The Russian Calvary with sabers slashing
came at them from all points.
The highlanders were not dismayed
by the sound of the Lancers steel.
The thin red line wavered but held
then drove them from the field.
Their courageous stand has been sadly forgotten.
They were passed over by the Press.
For that same day the Light Brigade
were led to the slaughter next.

It was the role of a Lifetime, but she couldn’t accept.
She passed on the chance with a twinge of regret.
It was clearly off Broadway but it would have run long.
A role some would die for, but the timing was wrong.

It had started one night with a casting couch call
from a powerful man – a slob more broad than tall.
Promises whispered, but would they be kept?
Had the mega- producer enjoyed his starlet?

The review came positive in a ladies’ room stall.
Cinderella was late for more than the ball.
She who couldn’t resist, and then couldn’t complain,
now had a pregnancy she couldn’t explain.

While she thought she might, one day have a child,
surely not with this stranger, this crude *******.
A girlfriend loaned her  money;she went there alone,
She kept the appointment she’d made on the phone.

Her calves in the stirrups; her heart in denial,
The deed was done quickly in back alley style.
She nearly bled out; it was botched from the start
But the abortionist did manage to still one beating heart.

Just a face in the crowd; not a name many knew.
She had some bit parts then she faded from view.
These days her tale is on everyone’s tongue:
How the wolves of Hollywood  devour the young.

Vanilla is the flavor that I most adore.
I know that all you chocolatiers consider it a bore.
Vanilla bean for ice cream has long been the favored taste.
and Vanilla butter cream is the icing on my cake.
I love it in a yogurt though some may find it bland.
I eat this bean’s derivative at every chance I can.
Now don’t call me  an elitist ( as I like chocolate too).
I’m just a hungry white man with a different point of view.

She stood with her sister by the edge of the sea.
The song the surf sang was of eternity.
She thought back to the times they had come here before;
as children, with their mother here down at the shore.
The cry of a gull made her look to the sky
and the thought of their mother brought a tear to her eye.
She held in her arms the urn filled with ash,
Here to honor the wish Mom had made in the past.
She knelt in wet sand at the edge of the shore
And the cremains were scattered on the foam evermore.
The leaden low cloud cover then yielded to the sun;,
The warmth dried her tears and she felt overcome.
Never more would she enter her mother’s embrace;
Never more hear her voice or behold her kind face.
Sister offered a hand and she favored one knee,
as the waves took her offering into the sea.
The waves roared their blessing, but all she heard there
were only the echoes of her unanswered prayers.

When Otto Frank returned to his city
He knew, already, that his wife was dead.
Of his girls, Margot and Ann, he had yet heard nothing.
The silence gave birth to foreboding and dread.

On the day that he learned of his families’
fate;
That day that he learned both his daughters were gone.
Frank took on the mission of finding the traitor:
Who informed the Gestapo? Who raised the alarm?

He once again walked the streets of his city,
Free to enjoy the warmth of the Sun.
Reliving the same day over and over;
The day they were taken at the point of a gun.

Which smiling face? Which former employee
had hated the Jews in the depths of their heart?
Why did the food that he ate taste like ashes?
Why did his girls die just a few days apart?

One man in one lifetime could not find the answer
Otto Frank died still not knowing the truth.
Who had betrayed them, the man and his family?
Who was it who stole away beauty and youth?

Would the Famine have happened if the Irish were armed?
Not with staves and pitchforks but with rifles and bombs.
Would all of their grain and their British bound beef
Been kept there in Ireland to give them relief?

We were serfs of a sort, slaves in our own land.
Against British oppression we had no chance to stand.
When our subsistence crop failed the absent landlord
Seized our pitiful homesteads and made them sheepfolds.

With the green grass of Ireland their final repast
Irish died by the thousands and their deaths weren’t fast.
Hunger, like Cancer, gnaws a man to the bone
They lie now in mass graves without even a stone.

The poor Irish Catholic was a man with no rights.
No wood for his coffin; No oil for his lights.
What “relief” was provided was cause for despair
as the hungry and  the dying built  roads to nowhere.

The coffin ships sailed and the old women weep.
Some took the soup and renounce their belief.
Such a strange Famine; it boggles the mind
That food was exported- it was sure genocide.

Then we had no rights they were bound to respect.
Their might gave them right to extort and collect.
We were then subject to their whim and decree
Till we learned to fight back and we made ourselves free.

What happens in Vegas won’t stay there this time,
It’s the scene of a terrible, unspeakable crime.
From high up above in the Mandalay Bay
Bullets rained down as the musicians played.
Carnage and horror. Screams in the night
People were trampled as others took flight.
The gunman is dead but the questions remain.
Was this act one of terror or was he insane?
Fifty Eight are dead, It doesn’t seem right.
Vegas, our playground, has been bloodied this night.
The Morgues overwhelmed and the E.R. is full.
The shooter had come well equipped for the ****.


Is it time to restrict weapons sold in our nation?
Surely it’s time we had that conversation.

As she stepped into the M.E.’s chamber
The light was uncomfortably bright.
The policeman held her by one arm
As she took in an unwelcome sight:
A sheeted body lay on a slab,
a human who had come to harm.
The medical examiner pulled back the sheet
And she could no more deny.

Her son looked peaceful and composed,
almost as if he was asleep.
The needle tracks upon his arms
Betrayed addictions hold was deep.
“Yes” she said, “this is my son.”
There was little else to tell.
She claimed his body from the state
thus sparing him a pauper’s grave.
An Overdose was ruled the cause
The antidote administered was too late
With ceremony she buried him
In hopes of Heaven, in fears of Hell
Her tears betray a common grief
In Purgatory now she dwells.

A orange tufted dotard and a tubby rocket man
got into a ******* match and said: “The world be dammed!”
One spoke of fire and fury while the other threatened Guam.
The World looked on in disbelief-“Who gave these morons bombs?”

Enter Dennis Rodman, a baller of renown,
His hair dyed blonde, his body inked, dressed in a wedding gown.
“Hold on there! Mister President. Don’t press the button yet!”
“Don’t give your naïve voters yet more reason for regret.”

So Dennis traveled to the East to see the Hermit King.
They drank in Karaoke bars; he heard the dread Lord Sing.
They Joked about “The Interview” They compared tattoos.
They ate Korean barbecue and listened to “The View”

Kim had so much fun with him all bombing was delayed
They went out for a quick massage and afterwards got laid.
The seventh fleet remained offshore with no invasion plans.
“A bullet was avoided. Dennis Rodman is the Man!”

His battles now are over, his earthly struggles done.
We place him in a body bag; a Mother’s only son.
We do not speak of “Sacrifice” or patriotic pap.
Such thoughts deserted long before our third tour in Iraq.
Some will say our eyes are hard that will not shed a tear
For the promise of his future that abruptly ended here.

We who serve know differently; Our wounds you cannot see.
His helmet, gun and empty boots remind us of his Calvary.
So thank him for his service; spare us the other crap.
Just play the anthem for doomed youth;


a simple tune called Taps.

DEATH felt a tug upon his line.
He gave the reel some play.
Down in the depths the struggle commenced
This was some soul’s dying day.

Down in the depths of deep despair
His victim fought the hook.
DEATH had used pleasure as his lure
oft that was all it took.

DEATH sat back in his fishing chair
aboard his Yacht “Mort Du”.
He waited for acceptance;
for the struggle to be through.

DEATH smiled a hideous fleshless smile.
What did one mortal say?
“If your work is your hobby,
It’s like you never worked a day.”

The Sun rode low in the western sky.
A  certain chill invades the air.

DEATH felt the strain in his sinewy arms.
And He shifted in his chair.

It’s Time, DEATH thought, to end this sport.
“You will not get away.
I’m glad you made it interesting
Now perhaps it’s time to pray”

Just then DEATH felt the line go slack:
Cut through upon a submerged rock.
His prey, still burdened by his hook,
still had time upon the clock.

DEATH surveyed the darkening sea.
as twilight settled on the brine.
DEATH took it philosophically;
We’ll meet again another time.

At birth, we boarded the train of life and met our parents, and we believed that they would always travel by our side. However, at some station, our parents would step down from the train, leaving us on life's journey alone.

As time goes by, some significant people will board the train: siblings, other children, friends, and even the love of our life.

Many will step down and leave a permanent vacuum.  Others will go so unnoticed that we won't realize that they vacated their seats! This train ride has been a mixture of joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, goodbyes, and farewells.

A successful journey consists of having a good relationship with all passengers, requiring that we give the best of ourselves. The mystery that prevails is that we do not know at which station we ourselves will step down. Thus, we must try to travel along the track of life in the best possible way -- loving, forgiving, giving, and sharing.

When the time comes for us to step down and leave our seat empty -- we should leave behind beautiful memories for those who continue to travel on the train of life.


Let’s remember to thank our Creator for giving us life to participate in this journey.

I close by thanking you for being one of the passengers on my train!

I boarded the train a long time ago, back East,
in the company of good friends.
We had good times on our journey.
Those days were invariably pleasant.
I recall bright sun and skies, mostly, blue
At each stop along the way there were
some exits and entrances.
At first they did not touch me.
Then;
I remember this most painfully-
The day you told me that we had reached your station
That place where you could accompany me no more.

My surviving companions did what they could to console me.
The train proceeded determinedly west.
The terrain was mostly flat, the skies now grey and wet.
We knew that the Mountains loomed ahead;
massively real; to us passengers yet  unseen.
We traveled the rails laid down by others’ hands.
We passed through snow-capped peaks
through darkness into the  light.

I have had a wondrous journey,friends.
But, excuse me , my stop is just ahead.
I step out to a golden promised land.

Once, in a jungle preserve in Tanzania, there were two elephant herds. One was headed by a wise old matriarch of sixty seasons. The other had a much younger matriarch who had never experienced a severe drought.  When a terrible dry season came to the preserve she kept her herd in place, trusting the water hole would not dry up. The older matriarch knew to move her herd  beyond the preserve boundaries and found a second water source. The herd that stayed suffered severe loss of numbers some literally dying of thirst.   In times of crises experience makes all the difference. This is true of elephants and among men.