I remember the morning sky so blue. The air was crisp and clear.                              
Days like that are all too few
With autumn drawing near.

I remember the first report of a plane.
The details weren't precisely clear.
The proof that  it was no accident
Very shortly would appear.

The mother of my children worked
Right there across the street.
Communication proved impossible
When we most needed to; it was impossible to speak.


I saw the smoke from fires rise
From my vantage miles away.
Men died whom I had just met
A scant few days before.

We watched footage in an endless loop
As planes crashed and the towers fell.
Lost was a beautiful late summers day.
Transformed by hate to a vision from hell.
  
We watched as search and rescue changed
To search and recovery.
Sixteen years have passed. Still the fate of some is a mystery.

That was the day we lost.
It's memory still makes me cry.
The day death came for so many
Out of a clear blue sky.

They briefly loved who sheltered here; the beautiful Sarah and her cousin Will.
They fled the City to this place in England’s north wild rolling hills.
Her husband had neglected her, visiting stables and not her bed.
By that wild summer of Sixty- eight their estrangement had come to a head.
To this old country house she fled; to linger in her Lover’s arms.
Their close sanguinity proved no bar; she gladly yielded to his charms.
They summered here and oft were seen, together, on the Lover’s walk.
A place where blackthorn trees entwine; but you know how people love to talk.
He left her then, alone, with child, as coloured leaves began to fall.
Divorced, disgraced, abandoned thus; She sheltered in another’s home.
This famous beauty with Stuart blood there would raise her child alone.

Such is the history of this place; their romance played out in these halls.
Their scandalous adultery was consummated within these walls.
Modern beauties visit still and stroll with beaus the Lover’s walk-
A place where blackthorn trees entwine and old ghosts whisper in the dark.

As our solar system moved through space
It chanced upon a region where
A cloud of dark matter, like a shroud,
was wrapped around our Earth so fair.

It blotted out the stars of night
It dimmed the light of Sun and Moon
Crops grew stunted or not at all,
Mankind faced its mortal doom.

Rigel, Sirius, Vega gone?
Blotted out of Human sight?
Arcturus and Capella too
fail to pierce the veil of night.

Ignorance of every stripe
Began to fight for center stage:
Ignorance both Left and Right
spilled blood in their righteous rage.

I looked true North in the night sky
and saw Polaris still on station .
The darkness began to dissipate.
Tranquility returned to our Nation.

Some few thanked God
with praise and Prayer
More raised their eyes to Heaven’s bowl;
grateful to see the stars still there.

Dark deeds; Dark times, and desperate schemes,
We had been put through Hell by them.
Now bright sunshine warmed our days;
At night we saw the stars again.

I saw my neighbor standing in disbelief.
He seemed to be in shock
He stared at the ruins of his home
as the waters of Harvey  receded from his land.
He had his wife, but that was all.
They had nothing to look forward to now but fighting mud and mold.
“ I came into this life with nothing and I leave it with nothing.”
He muttered this more to himself than to me.
“I will help you.” I said. “We will help each other.”
Then he seemed to recall that he was a Texan;
Born and raised.
and we  Texans do not allow ourselves to become discouraged
by a little adversity.
“We will rebuild.” he told his wife. “Don’t you worry.”
Then, like Greek Sisyphus with his shoulder against the stone,
He began to pick and sort through the wreckage of his time.

Some of you I saw in my crib; those brightly colored shapes.
Who knew how close we would become through words and printed page?
How clever these twenty six close friends seem to me  right now.
They can answer my every question; be it when, where, why or how.
Near infinite is thy variety in your mix of shapes and sounds.
In you every Indo-European language can be found.
Like a linguistic DNA you take on varied forms
From age to age you morph, through slang, until you are reborn.
You are like the Phoenix rising glorious from the ash.
You are a friend to Every man who journeys to the past..
You are printed, you are digital, you are spoken on the stage.
Without you Love itself is mute and blank remains this page.
You have proven all good friends to me. I hope I’ve served you well.
(My punctuation is sometimes questionable but I’ve mastered how to spell.)

His head droops low beneath a mocking crown.
His last breath spent in calling to the wind.
“It is finished” were the words onlookers heard.
Mary grieves; the Son of Man has died
Nicodemus and old Joseph ask for John to help
to climb the ladder and take the Rabbi down.
Old Joseph has a rough hewn tomb of stone;
There they will lay the body in the ground.
The day grows dark and windswept;
large drops of rain, like teardrops, coming down.
Mary has only the comfort of the Magdalene’s embrace
As the men, with a hand drawn cart,
Struggle to take the crucified one away.
No carrion bird, no wild dog
shall feast on the King of the Jews.
The other two were not so lucky.

Dictionaries are wonderful things.
Spell-check, I’ve always admired.
My brand new tattoo
has misspellings of two
Of the words for which
you were hired.

Now I’ll wander through life
As an object of scorn
As this ink artist failed to reflect
That it’s “E’ before “I”
When “C”’s not involved
I mean, really, how could he forget?

There’s a ship that won’t sink
On my chest, done in ink,
With the slogan of
“Ankors Awieght”
I was drunk at the time
But you ought to be fined
Or at least give me back
What I paid.

I’ve played it out of habit, bought the tickets, stood in line.
I’ve called the game “the stupid tax” at least a hundred times.
I’ve dealt with all the nay sayers who tell me I can’t win.
They’ll all be here with their hands out the day my ship comes in.
For on that day Champagne will flow and I’ll be of good cheer.
Bankers and accountants will all vie to have my ear.
All the long stemmed lovelies who ignored me heretofore
Will be slipping me their numbers and hoping they can score.
That day I’ll dress in bespoke suits and watch the Wall Street ticker.
They’ll call me “top shelf Johnnie” for my discerning taste in liquor.

Even with my new found wealth, I hope some things will linger.
I’m still with my first wife you see; I’ve never been a *******.
Through these years of losing tickets she always stood by me.
That day that she said yes was when I won my lottery

On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.

Sophie was just twenty two, arrayed in prison grey,
Sentenced to death for treason; this, her final day.
She was a faithful Catholic who defied the twisted cross.
She saw through the Fuhrer’s lies; those golden piles of dross.

Her boyfriend was a medic who served on the Eastern front.
Then, wounded, he returned with some hard truths to confront.
He’d seen the mass graves filled with Jews; the horror, the despair.
Demons such as ****** require more than prayer.

When they authored their first leaflet they surely must have known
That they would be discovered and how they would atone.
With each succeeding pamphlet they courted their demise.
Their Martyrdom a certainty; truth is treason in men’s eyes.

One by one the White rose died; death by the guillotine.
They had committed treason; their sentence guaranteed.
When Sophie heard the guillotine sing she knew what they had found;
As she, too, cast off her earthly cross and exchanged it for a crown.

Washington and Lee were both proud sons of Virginia.
Both men were brave, intelligent and resourceful.
Both men were relatively a-political.
Both were generals leading armies in a revolutionary war.
Both men were beloved by their troops.
Both men were slave owners in an era of slavery
Lee won most of his battles, Washington lost most of his.
Washington won his war, Lee Lost his war.
Washington received financial and military support from
the French.
Lee fought on alone, with no foreign support or recognition-
Often the odds against him were two or three to one.
Washington, as a subject of King George the third,
was a traitor to that allegiance and would have been hung had he lost.
Lee, as a citizen of Virginia, was loyal to his home state.
It is an active question whether states have a right to secede.
Lee and his officers were never tried for treason.
The case against them was weak, that’s why.
We honor Washington because he won his revolution.
We dishonor Lee because he lost his revolution.
Lee’s decision to surrender rather than resort to guerrilla warfare
was a major factor in healing the wounds of a hard war
Both these men command my honor and respect.

Let our country produce no more exceptional men;
at least none worth remembering in Bronze or Stone.
The American Taliban has declared war on the past;
Since those men are dead, their statues must atone.

So pull down their monuments and leave the empty plinths.
Efface their names from  parks and roads and forts.
Gutzon Borglum offends us with his carvings.
“Demolish Stone Mountain!” the Taliban retorts.

The day will come when Stonewall is just a bar
Where tops and bottoms battled with police.
Foote, Catton and McPherson must be burned,
with all other books about that war and peace.

An army of ants can bring an elephant down.
An army of ignorance can drag down old heroes.
When America is exceptional no more
All will be equal; all men will be zeros.

We waited on Saint Marye’s heights behind a fortified stone wall.
We were brave Rebels, one and all, and many of us hailed from Erin’s shore.
The boys in Blue from Maine and Michigan we had repulsed with heavy loss.
Now we saw the green battle flag raised by Meagher’s boys from New York.
We raised a cheer for Erin’s pride which was cut short when our captain said:
“ I do not care if they are brave, I only care to see them dead.”
They set out smartly up the heights, through the ranks of dead and wounded.
We saw the proud Green banner wavering, caught up in a gust of lead.
A red head lad sprung to retrieve it. He saved their banner lest it fall.
One brave sergeant took five bullets, falling ten feet from the wall
The shattered remnants of Meagher’s brigade fell back from St. Marye’s heights.
Darkness came early with biting cold as that it cruel December’s way.
We gave a mighty Rebel yell; Old Marse Robert fared well this day.
Through his field glass he surveyed the field, the hill a writhing mass of blue.
“It is well that war is so terrible, James, or we should grow too fond of it.”
Marse Robert said that, I tell you true.

It began quite subtlety, a drop off of the Light.
Then faster, much faster, as day turned into night.
The summer breeze grew slightly chill
in the absence of the Sun.
Primordial fears teased at my brain
But there was no place I could run.
My intellect assures me that this eclipse will pass
That the darkness will be fleeting-
Light shall return at last.
Unconsciously I held my breath
as the moon’s shadow passed.
The arches here at Stonehenge
were bathed in light at last.
This eclipse was long predicted;
the place and hour known
I stand within the circle.
A privilege mine alone
The passing of the seasons
Are remarked by these stones
Our Ancestors who made this place
Millennia ago
Built it as a sacred space;
The soul’s eternal home.

Once upon an Earth lit night,
On NASA Moon base two,
I chanced to spy a cute Brunette –
A space Cadet named Yu.

Her eyes were dark and beautiful
Deep as a lunar mare-
And, free from bra and gravity-
her ******* beyond compare.

Love in Microgravity
Is a curious affair
She brought me to her snuggle tube
And she restrained me there.

She straddled on the launching pad
And docking was effected
And after a few awkward strokes
Our cadence was perfected.

The Moon Child that resulted
From our friendly first embrace
Forced Yu to have to shuttle back
to Earth from outer space.

It seems that Human embryos
Need gravity to grow.
Else their hearts would be too weak
Their reflexes too slow.

So, like Salmon, we go back
to where our mothers birthed.
Procreation’s problematic
beyond the bounds of Earth.

We named our daughter Luna
-Unoriginal, I know.
And now we’re out near Jupiter
getting busy on Io.

The soft blue glow of his smartphone screen
Attracts him like a lover.
He looks intently at the “feed”
and snap chats with the others.
He photographs his dinner plate and
shares it with the web.
He plays no sports, he stays inside
He plays VR instead.
His neck is permanently bent
from looking at the screen.
He’s not much for conversation.
He’s a solitary teen.
He’s getting fat and growing soft
from long stretches of inaction.
He needs an intervention-
He’s addicted to distraction.

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

Aletheia looked into my eyes
and I could not avoid her stare.
Her silence a grim accusation
as I shifted uneasily in my chair.
No words escaped my lying lips.
No words could change my fate.
All men are confronted by the truth
Be they small or great.
Aletheia, you see, would be my judge;
such was my despair.
I looked again to see her face
and saw mine own image there.

“When I was one and twenty, I partied every night
and still was ready for my close-up  in the early morning light.
By the time I hit my thirties this girl stayed in every night.
With the proper rest and makeup I could still get parts all right.
Now that I’ve turned forty I’ve  abandoned film for the stage.
(The poetry of youth decays into prose by middle age.)
On the boards I can play younger. In kindlylight I still get by,
But my film career is over because
The camera doesn’t lie.”

It would not be long now, his doctors knew.
Initially they thought the taking of his arm
would save his life.
They didn’t count on the infection.
Now Stonewall teetered on the fine line
between the living and the dead.
In his fever and delirium
At last he spoke:
“Let us cross over the river,
And rest in the shade of the trees.”
Then Stonewall Jackson was no more.

I saw her just the other day, a most familiar sight.
The Lady in the Harbor, holding her torch alight.
At her feet a poet’s words; some sentiments concerning Liberty:
a welcome to all immigrants yearning to breathe free.

These days we take a different tack, the welcome is withdrawn.
That Lady in the Harbor grows distant and forlorn.
The grand-kids of the immigrants she greeted in her day
Have hatched a plan designed to keep such Riff- Raff far away.

Then this morning I looked out and Liberty was gone,
Her place of honor empty: just her pediment of stone.
The Lady has returned to France; the reason? Sadly clear:
Liberty has figured out she’s no longer welcome here.

Those who call Trump a dictator
are guilty of using
two syllables too many

There is this very orange man
who isn’t sleeping well these days.
He has attained his heart’s desire-
and now watches as it slips away.
He’s a very angry man
who takes to twitter for a rant.
He’d like to bomb Kim Jun tomorrow
But his generals say he can’t.
His failure to repeal, replace
Convinces everyone
The man’s a crispy orange duck
Before his first term’s done.
He rants and raves on twitter
on and on about Barrack.
He is envious of Bannon-
Such flexibility he lacks.
So he must console himself
With twitter based attacks.

I have been like some shipwrecked mariner,
adrift on the friendless sea for many days,
who looks upon the celestial lights
as they play on the water’s surface
and deceives himself by thinking
he beholds the stars themselves.

Just so have I self-deceived in thinking
That I have known my Love’s true essence
Yet never having experienced
more that your faint reflection

His new Blue Suit

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there is his new clothes.

The blank page lies before me, the hour being late.
As Inspiration is  lacking,perspiration takes its place.
My deadline approaches and I have barely writ a line.
My Muse finds this amusing and I find her most unkind

Crumpled ***** of paper mark how I spend my time.
Clearly I am no Durant behind the three point line
All I have accomplished is to waste a pad and ink
Indeed why do I bother; who cares what poets think?


Her hand upon my shoulder,  Her lips upon my cheek.
Her eyes are importuning, there is no need to speak.
She lures me from my garret; she takes me to her lair.
Her perfume- intoxicating. she has me in her snare.

I know what you are thinking; that I should be more devout.
Dedicate myself to writing, cut the "monkey business" out.
I am no fan of Lovelace now, nor was I one before
When my Lucasta calls you will not see me off to war.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he scurried up to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we endeavor to hide."

""We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."

"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."

"Our graduates cheat and suborn
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and all learn to prevaricate."

"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some Coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
telling lies in an endless loop.

There were quotes from
the Koran and Bible
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The people must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."

I said, barely moving my lips.

I say always play nice with the neighbors, don’t rile them up or make them sore
But my wife,( who’s a bit of a hot head), went to war with the people next door.
The “causas belli” are murky, the results of the skirmish unclear
But the fellow next door is a hacker; now me and the wife live in fear.
We have every modern convenience; programmable gadgets galore.
But your password should never be “password” when fighting the hacker next door.
Our motorized shades were ascending as the missus was trying to dress.
“Alexa” just called her a “fat Cow”- who programmed that is easy to guess.
In the depth of the winter we’re freezing As our AC is in his control.
When we shower the temperature varies. Its either too hot or too cold.
We spent thousands on home automation.  But now we are riddled with doubt.
We tried for a truce, but , alas, it’s no use. Now we’re paying to tear it all out!

Here by the shore of the swift flowing Boyne
Where the Jacobite cause bled and died.
Here the piper had come to find his dead sons
that their loved native soil must soon hide.
What chance had they here against William’s cannon
Armed with muskets their grand sires bore?
Why had they been drawn to the sound of the guns?
A call they will hear nevermore.
While he searched he still harbored the faintest of hopes
That one of his sons still might bide.
But no, then he saw them as if they both slept
by the shore of the Boyne, side by side.
Beneath a great oak the man buried his hopes
His ***** turned the red clay aside.
His strong hands worked the earth for all he was worth
as a trickle of sweat stung his eyes.

I have heard that man play, on the cool evening’s breath,
Such a dirge as would make angels weep.
It’s a cry from his heart that escapes   from his pipes
to the place where his two heroes sleep.

“I desire to gain wisdom.” said the acolyte to the Priest.
“There are many paths to wisdom, Karol, imitation is the least.”
“In imitating someone who you perceive to be wise,
A false sophistication you display before men’s eyes.”
“Experience is the hardest path , contemplation is the best.
Read widely and love deeply, Karol, and be ready for the test.”
“In suffering there is wisdom gained for those who are devout.
The stony path to Golgotha we cannot do without.”
“Consider the fate of common grapes ripening on the vine.
Some may become raisins in the withering sunshine.
Others will be squeezed for juice or fermented into wine.
The rest will be distilled and become brandy in due time.”
“Each you see is useful, transformed by the Vintners art.”
“Our lives are not our own but each must play his part.”
Father Figlewicz began the mass with Karol as his server.
They were the only souls that day that came to the Cathedral.
Outside, the Stukas bombed Krakow, the City would not stand.
Evil, like a darkening cloud, spread out across the land.
For many years Poles were enslaved, trapped in Dictator’s hands,
But Karol Wojtyla was a most uncommon man.
He would not forget his people, he would work and never cease
Until the day the Soviet fell and Poland was released.

There are several approaches to climbing Everest.
Some are easier than some others, none are easy.
This mountain is littered with discarded equipment
and the evidence of loss and unforced errors.
The cold here, at the top of the world,
pierces through your clothes
Like a million acupuncture needles.
The air is so thin
That hypoxia is a constant danger.
There is exhilaration at the summit
For those who reach the top
They stand where Mallory and Irvine stood
before they suffered their fatal drop.
We climb mountains because we are men.
We are addicted to the adrenaline rush.
We climb Everest because it is there.
We climb Everest because we must.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t right; I don’t care what they say.
My dog was more than a pet to me; I lost a friend today.
Though I did the kindest thing, and stayed with her to the last.
I come back to a quiet house, now that my friend has passed.

The unused leash, the ownerless bowl, I survey through my tears.
Meg was my boon companion. Far too few were her years.
The vet gave me a cherished poem that I’ll read tonight again.
It promised Meg will wait for me just beyond the rainbow’s end.

The souls of Dogs are gentle which is why it takes less time
Before they achieve perfection and are ready for the climb
To that place across the rainbow, to the place where journeys end-
where the roses bloom forever I will always have my friend

I remember the night we made camp
There on the Sands outside Giza.
The desert air turned cool beneath the stars
As we coupled before the
jealous eyes of the Sphinx.

The Great Pyramid fairly shone
bathed in moonlight.
We thought we were being discreet,
That only the stars saw our pleasure
But the cold eyes of the sphinx saw us too
And she must have sworn a vendetta.

In the valley of the Kings
There was rumor of a tomb.
A tomb untouched by robbers’ hands
My love, Selene, and I
Would enter and there behold.
The face of a pharaoh, a boy,
rendered forever in gold.

There must be some rational reason
For the cough Selene developed soon after.
Like some delicate flower she wilted.
Some virus had strangled her laughter

We didn’t know then of the curse
How could we; we hadn’t been told.
My darling Selene would soon die
And I ,too,  would never grow old.

No assassin, perched way up high,
lies in wait for the limousine this time.
There’s no crazed job seeker at a fair.
No killer lurks near a rocking chair.

No gun or knife is needed this time;
Innuendo will do just fine.
History, like a poet, rhymes.
They seek to win your hearts and minds

No blood is spilled but oceans of ink
to mold the way that people think.
An accusation born out of envy.
As to actual proof- they haven't any.

He is a narcissistic man
with a massive ego-and such tiny hands
He is coarse, uncouth and, if truth be known,
He tweets too much and he sleeps alone.

He’s hounded daily by the Press
And Senator Franken won’t let it rest.
As our national economy sags under debt
All the Democrats can say is “Nyet”

Disrespected both abroad and at home
No POTUS since Nixon has been this alone
The result of this political assassination?
We are left with a badly divided nation.

They stood together for a photograph; Aunt Bessie and Irene.
One the aging matriarch, the other still a teen.
Irene’s hair was a fiery red well matched with eyes of blue.
Bessie’s days are numbered now, life’s journey nearly through..
Bessie’s one hand held her cane, the other Irene’s arm.
Irene was a vision, heading off to senior prom.
One has all her life before her, for the other just a past.
Irene looks much as Bessie did,  when Bessie was a lass.
I have seen old photographs, creased and Sepia toned
When Bessie was  Belle of the ball and stood beside some crone.

They found him, slumped over, in his small writer's garret.
There were no obvious signs of foul play.
No wounds, no abrasions or ligature marks
and just the faint hint of decay.

Later, laid out on a cold metal table,
No cause for his death could they find.
His arteries clean as twenty year old.
No detectable poisons this time.

He didn't do drugs and he didn't drink beer.
His death was not self-inflicted.
His muse had abandoned him; took his will to live.
His demise could thus be predicted.

For a poet will have himself tied to a mast
To hear the sweet song of a Si-ren.
The loss of one's muse is a serious blow;
Look what it did to Lord Byron!

And now, my weigh-ins near;
Weight watchers makes a big production.
I've cheated, had a few beers
then gotten quotes for liposuction

I've eaten way past full
and then had one more for the highway
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way!

Baguettes, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention
I love my salty snacks
but that's what gave me hypertension

I planned each 3 course meal
at greasy spoons along the highway
Ive gotten old
I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

Yes there were times when I was blue
Ice cream in quarts, I would go through
but through it all, despite the gout
I'd eat it in, or take it out
I ate it all, - and I'm not tall
don't diet my way

I've lunched, I've wined and dined
I've had my failed attempts at losing
but now my jeans just split
and it no longer seems amusing.

To think I ate it all
and may I say not in a shy way
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

For what is a meal without cake for desert
and JOGGING IS DANGEROUS - a guy could get hurt
I ate the foods I truly craved
and never once was fashion's slave
The weight-in shows, I need new clothes
don't diet my way!

The bar was nearly empty as the barman cleaned a glass.
This establishment is closing. Its glory days long passed.
The jukebox sat in silence; A regular nursed his beer.
Before too long they’ll put another drugstore chain in here.
My Uncle and my father both worked here and tended bar.
Its heyday was in the 50’s when the boys came home from war.
A friendly local tavern; an essential spot in life
Where you came to drink with buddies and escape your scolding wife.
This place of refugee now succumbs. We all know that its true.
Cold beers are in less demand when opioids get you through.
With the cost of the insurance, the wages and the rent,
It’s been run as a nonprofit for so long that all’s been spent.
The awnings lights extinguished. One last toast for old times’ sake.
Let there be tears of joy and sorrow; This is an Irish wake.

Saint Andrews cross on a Crimson field
was borne by Pickett’s men that  day.
When Union canister, like a scythe,
swept Proud Virginia’s men away.

A handful reached the “High water Mark”
Armistead was one of those who gained the Copse.
Their heroism was beyond question
But here the gray line broke and stopped.

Ordinary men in extraordinary times
are called to do extraordinary things.
Mortal flesh becomes translated
into legends that a Bard might sing.

I stand where Cushing’s battery stood
On that third day so long ago
Here Stars and Bars met Stars and Stripes
Flags fly forever; friends now, not foes.

In some long marriages
the couples complete
each others sentences

In all others
each serves their own.

Pen and Ink, which was your sword
to keep the Demons held at bay.
I remember how you calmed the Tempest
When King was murdered and hate held sway.
Wisdom borne of suffering then
You knew first hand of what I speak:
Of pain that drips, drop by drop
Upon our hearts while we yet sleep.
Then, barely two months afterward,
When your brother’s legacy seemed in your grasp,
An assassin’s bullets pierced your brain
And your night of Triumph became your last.

On this cold November night
Salman Rushdie shook my hand.
An irate Ayatollah had
pronounced a fatwa on the
man

He seemed at peace, this hirsute fellow.
in his bespoke suit from Savile Row.
He signed some copies of his book
then his security man said he must go..

The lecture hall had been half full.
Perhaps some had been scared away.
I had come to hear him speak.
Freedom of speech must rule the day.

Outside  Colden in the dark
an amphitheater is tucked away
A stage sunk in a bowl of grass
where Greek tragedies  might be played.

Which tradition shall prevail?
I wondered to myself that day.
Will acolytes of a murderous cult
Sweep Euripides away?

A Moslem horde  poured through the gates
when Rome fell  for the second time.
The Divine Wisdom was defiled
and Constantine Palaeologus died.

I turn my collar against the damp
illumined by sodium vapor light
I think on Arnold's loss of faith
and ignorant armies that struggle in the
night

They are but shades who once were men.
We shall not see their like again.
Stonewall Jackson, Grant and Lee,
Men of courage, Men of faith,
honorable men from an honorable age.
In the chapel at Fort Hamilton
They met and prayed.
Let no man mute their story.

Perhaps they prayed
That their cup would pass
And that the Union would endure.
Their cup, brimming full with blood.
Would not pass,
Until every drop shed by slave was matched
By blood a soldier shed
But the Union would endure.
Let no man deny their glory.

Robert E. Lee at Fredericksburg
"It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it."

Abraham Lincoln (2nd Inaugural)… “Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense

when Truth is trampled on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore                                                                                                                  
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law

then  truth is trampled on.

There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-

This history must live on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

This history must live on.

They are forever here together, they shared a common fate.
Here are they, the first to fall, and those who perished late.
Some were slaughtered at Khe San, Others died at Hue.
All came home through Dover, buried in their native clay.
They are our older brothers who fought as brave Marines.
There are sons and fathers here and far too many teens.
Fifty Eight thousand names inscribed in ebony writ bold.
Time passes and the memories fade; their stories go untold.
I see my grey reflection as my fingers touch the wall
Across the years I think of one, so young, who gave his all.

Liam had come to see the birds, and to hear a favorite song.
Just eighteen, he was facing stiff exams.
A night off from his studies couldn’t do him that much harm.
He’d thought that- but he couldn’t be more wrong.

He’d counted himself Lucky with a ticket near the stage.
Inside the darkened stadium, where decibels run high,
He’d just met up with Anna; a big Ariana fan.
Both soon would suffer for a madman’s rage.

The bomber was just twenty two, a loner uninvited.
He waited till the star was done, striking as the house was lighted.
Police found Liam dead and Anna, bleeding, beside him.
Liam’s bloodied tee shirt read: Manchester United.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair.
Her prized violin was in its case by her side.
She was just come from her Julliard audition,
with the world on a string in her talented hands.

Richard Rojas was high as a kite, his blood on fire with ***
His Honda Accord he drove into a crowd.
The voices in his head made him do the deed
There were curses and screams, then weeping.

A lovely young tourist lay dead on the street.
Several others, severely injured, might never rise again.
The beautiful violinist was thought one of the lucky ones;
Her left hand merely mangled, her violin shattered in its case.

Richard Rojas was quickly apprehended.
He’ll go on trial for this thing he’s done.
Parents weep for the dead and injured,
And feel their souls dead in New York.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair
Her prized violin, which she would never play again,
left  in splinters on a street in New York,
in the gutter where her dreams lay shattered.

On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.

His sin sits heavy on his soul, an illicit lust the source of shame.
He’s registered offender now with no means to redeem his name.
Now as he walks the streets of town he studiously avoids all eyes;
those harsh accusing glances from the men and women passing by.
His work is menial and part time. He often moves from place to place.
He had once been a Catholic priest before he fell into disgrace.
I’ve seen him waiting there outside; his collar turned against the cold.
I’d often wondered what had caused his blue grey eyes to look so old.
People whisper; women talk.  A yellowed newspaper explains.
Invisible to all but him; his forehead bears the mark of Cain.


Some say the past does not exist. We cannot go there. It can’t be changed.
What would he say, I wonder, if he were asked?
He, whose life is burdened with regrets.
Does he still pray to the Carpenter’s Son,
whose sacrifice repays all debts?

It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.