The time machine, itself, was old,
compact, yet seemingly vast.
It prepared now for the journey
The traveler thought would be his last.

Like a ghost in the machine
Lights glimmered, dimmed, then flared.
The time traveler breathed deeply,
nodded that he was prepared.

Back in his distant past he roamed,
back, to his childhood home.
A vanished place now only seen
in creased photos with sepia tones.

But no, the sky a remembered blue,
The white clapboarded home
The lawn, a rich lush emerald hue
and he was not alone.

For at the door his mother stood
as she was in her prime.
To see her once again was worth
all the world and time.

She beckoned him to join her
and she hugged her welcomed guest.
The traveler whispered “Mother”.
as so many have said at their last.

Back in the sterile I.C.U.
There were no vital signs.
The traveler had a D.N.R.
The nurse noted the time.

The bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'd understand.

I'll never hear his voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

You cannot see my wings and my true visage would cause sorrow;
In my hands I hold the key that would destroy all your tomorrows.
I stand nearby the President; I’m at his beck and call.
In Life I’m a nonentity, in Death, the Lord of all.
Some think of me as “friend”; my existence your protection.
In Truth I’m just the agent of your mutual destruction.
I am but one of many who carry this dread weight;
the codes for Armageddon that may spell your planet’s fate.
As I keep my silent vigil, the clock ticks towards midnight.
Ignorance and arrogance define your awful plight
I am the fearful Seraphim at the gate of Paradise;
That place from which you were expelled and cannot enter twice.

Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.

To keep the patient comfortable was all now I could do.
The diagnosis was terminal and he obviously knew.
I was with him through his surgery that was thelast gasp chance,
and now he looked death in the face with an unflinching glance.

He said “Dear, if you’ll humor me and if there’s any chance,
There are three things on my bucket list before I leave this dance.”
“I’m craving one last cigarette; perhaps a glass of wine;.
“and, If you can arrange it, to see the Sun a final time.”

On the top floor of this hospital there’s an open balcony.
I grubbed a cigarette for him out of sympathy.
I could not get a cabernet; he’d settle for Chablis.
I got him on a gurney and called for an orderly.

That afternoon was splendid and Fall was in the air.
The Sun was setting in the West as he watched it from his chair.
The patient puffed his Marlboro and blew smoke rings for me
He didn’t give me too much grief for my choice of Chablis.

“They say the Lord on Calvary was thirsty for a drink,
A sponge soaking in vinegar they offered Him, I think.”
“So who am I to criticize my nurse’s choice of wine;
Its chilled and it is drinkable so it will serve me fine.”

By evening he was comatose; his pulse was weak and fast
His children said there last goodbyes; grateful for the chance.
They’d arranged it with the Doctors; DNR was on his slip.
I sat and held the old man’s hand as the good god, Morphine, dripped.

I knew a man, who had "no name:,
Neznamy he was called.
Though He had his father’s looks and charm
The two had never met at all.
Personable and engaging, Pleasant Company;
I think I learned an awful lot from the man called Neznamy.
I remember once he got laid off from the telephone company.
I remember thinking I’d be crushed if that happened to me
Neznamy was an optimist and the epitome of calm.
Misfortune to any other man was no cause for alarm,
He was sure there soon would come new opportunity.
I asked how he remained so calm amidst uncertainty.
I still recall his brief reply; its perfect clarity:

“ I don’t believe the work I do defines the worth of me.”

The thing about losing one’s mind Is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
No, the loss is a creeping gradual thing, never occurring in a *****.
It starts with some forgotten names; some dear, some famous but, to you, not.
Next you’re at a loss for words you’ve often used but now cannot.
You find yourself on an oft trod trail which suddenly is strange and new.
Its getting dark, its growing cold and the police have to be sent for you.
There is a fear that chills the soul that only knows that it knows not.
Hanging on that precipice fearing you will be forgot
Yet when that last forgetting comes your fear will be forgotten too.
And you’ll greet Death like an old friend whose name will surely come to you.
.

My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a  City of the dammed.

How proud King Carlos must have been
as the Armada fleet set sail
He could not know that those brave men
would drown, and the invasion fail.

Charles Stuart thought his word was law
and swore the Puritans would feel regret.
Charles, who was  already short,
would wind up getting shorter yet.


Consider, too,the Bourbon King;
who married Marie Antoinette;
The guillotine loves royal blood too.
The Deluge came and he got wet.

Banksters lusting for their bonus
who really ought to be in jail
made us make good all their losses
because they were too big to fail.

Our nation teeters at the top
of a twenty trillion dollar debt
If interest rates creep too much higher
I think you know what happens next.

Since she was young she had dreamed of the day
When she would be dressed in white lace
With a bouquet of roses held in her gloved hands
and the sheerest of veils on her face.

You know how time flies
In this work a day world
In business she was a success.
The men in her life seemed mere boys, nothing serious,-
Then she noticed a lump on her breast.

A dread diagnosis, a virulent Cancer,
This surgeon said terminal C.
She had little time left for romantic love
She thought that her dream could not be.

Her friend, a photographer, encouraged her then
to put on her loveliest dress.
She posed for her close-ups
In a flower decked chapel
And they say even Death was impressed

Every young woman possesses a beauty
No matter their complexion or size.
In this difficult life they are angels among us;
Truth and Beauty reside in their eyes.

In her majesty's prison hospital
The patient slipped in to a coma.
For two months he had led a fast
in solidarity with his brothers.

The men of ‘H” block wouldn’t don
Such clothes as thieves might wear
They were  brave Irish Republicans;
Politics put them there.

They dressed in sheets and blankets
When denied their clothes to wear
In this time of the “Troubles”
the “Blanketmen” prepared.

No warder's food would they accept.
No uniforms would they wear.
The world was focused on Long Kesh
and the brave lads dying there.

Bobby Sands was comatose;
His breathing shallow; his pulse was weak
This Native son of Antrim
Nevermore would speak    

Just Twenty Seven years of age
As he slipped into the past
Bobby Sands was the first to die,
But he wouldn’t be the last.

This place is a museum now; this great hall where my father stood.
Here he waited on line with all the rest. He waited for admission.
He was dressed in his best with a few dollars in his pocket,
and the address of his sister and her husband in New York.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother, Helen, was native, first generation born upon these shores.
My father was a laborer; the quarries and mines had made him strong.
His years in Scotland plus his native Irish brogue
was baffling at first  to those Ellis Island clerks.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My Dad found work building a bridge high above the waters reach.
He started out a near illiterate but slowly learned to read
From discarded copies of the New York Daily News.
He met my mom at an Irish dance.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother’s voice was all New York; a dialect of English speech.
She loved her numbers, and clerked for Met Life, but she may have longed to teach.
Instead she sat with me in our small kitchen
Teaching me my numbers as our dinner was prepared.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

For those of you who have heard me speak
And found my own accent hard to place.
I am a little of old New York and a little of a fair green place.
My American voice is but the echoed music of my race.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

The envelope please!
No, not that one, you fool.
Mistakes have been made
by Price-Waterhouse tools.
A Harvey –like gaff
At the Oscars was made
And the wrong cast and crew
were called up to the stage.
How mortifying
It sure must have been
To be standing up there
And learn you didn’t win.
Kimmel mocked Harvey
For just such a switch
Last night Jimmy learned
That karma’s a witch

We the People have an enemy
But it isn’t who you think:
It is not the Liberal Printers
with their paper and their ink.

It is not protestors in the street
Who wear pink p*ssy hats-
No, the enemy of the People
is not as obvious as that.

The enemy of the people
is no social media link.
He’s not some homeless vagabond
adorned with tattoo ink.

He is the oaf who took an oath
To Preserve ,Protect, Defend
The very basic liberties
He would subvert and suspend.

So if you seek the enemy
You vain and pompous ***
You will very likely find him
In a West Wing looking glass

Norma McCorvey has died today
In assisted living in a Texas town.
She was Jane Roe in Seventy Three
when the court struck all restrictions down.
She was used by lawyers for their cause
Used by men and women both.
Once a Lesbian then a Christian
Her fame the thing she hated most.
The times have changed and many have died
Because of what that court decided.
Her child still lives; she was adopted.
Its Sad how we have become hard hearted;
Divided we are, now as then.
We never met, nor were we friends;
Goodbye Norma (Jane) McCorvey
May you rest in Peace at journey’s end.

As the Rose is the flower of flowers,
Exalted above all the rest,
Their color denoting desire
Which words alone cannot express.
Some shades are symbols of friendship.
Some others connote happiness.
Some buds are a byword for passion,
and the reddest of blooms says it best.
A first love is never forgotten-
unless you forget yourself first.
It lingers in mind like the taste of your lips.
It is either a blessing or curse.
We were little more than adolescents
That day we embraced by the shore.
Though the tides haven’t changed
It has been many years
And now I will see you no more.
My tears are my heart’s lamentations
For a Love that was too long repressed.
I place my red rose on your casket.
The reddest of blooms says it best.

Condell, Hemmings, Burbage all
Have had their final curtain call
The boards they trod were burned in flames,
And not one single script remains.
The author, Shakespeare, now bones and dust
as is the fate of all of us.
Yet do not count all as defeat
As we playgoers take our seats
For Shakespeare still retains his fame.
Though all else be gone
His words remain

The Cop stood in the doorway
With his handkerchief held to his nose.
A young white male, the tenant,
had died in this apartment.
This must have happened three days ago at least.
It had taken that long for the smell
To permeate the building;
before someone thought to summon the law.


From the looks of it, another overdose-
Another young victim of a cruel epidemic
That takes the young and leaves the old to grieve.
Those who choose to ride that particular horse
Need rodeo clowns with Nar-Can standing by.


Was it an a accident or a suicide?
Perhaps the M.E. could make the determination;
a fine distinction between blurred lines.
There will be need to notify the next of kin
to claim the corpse and make the final disposition.
Then soon, perhaps next week-

a studio in Williamsburg for rent.

With wild teased hair, bright orange, and wearing shoes too big,
The clown abandoned Ringling to take on a new gig.
He was not content to pay his rent, like others of his “race”,
By acting in the remake of “killer clowns from outer space”
Nor would he do kids’ parties although he is no slouch
at raising fears that will take years to solve upon a couch .

With wild teased hair, a bright red nose and makeup piled on thick,
This clown decamped to Washington to try out his new Shtick.
With Eddie Munster as his pal, new laws he would propose,
that Femes, dressed as Vaginas, would vociferously oppose.
He’d surround himself with Sycophants but will not get too far
as, unlike his former colleagues, they don’t all fit in one car.

The clown claims he can build a wall to keep out one and all,
and he has a herd of Elephants at his beck and call.
He rules our land by fiat, as delay he can’t abide
He is a textbook narcissist with an overweening pride.

Minnesota has Al Franken as a Senator of course
And, back in Roman times, the purple was worn by a horse.
So  one might say that precedents exist for this strange thing;
for a clown to wield a scepter and rule over us as king.

Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.

He was not from these parts; a big city teen.
At Five – Six not imposing, he was barely fourteen.
A big city teen with a bit of a mouth,
which was bad for a black man in the heart of the South.

A warm summer day in an old country store,
The white girl was a looker; that much was sure.
Emmitt Till whistled for he was impressed
With how good that girl looked in that tight fitting dress.

That girl had a husband, a big burly man.
He was a bad man to cross for he rode with the ****.
He and his cousin sought out Emmitt Till.
If a man can die slowly they both swore this one will.

The two held Emmitt captive in an old wooden barn.
They strung him up with barbed wire and broke both of his arms.
They gouged out one eye for the pleasure of pain
Then they dragged out to the river his mortal remains.

His poor mother wept when she saw what they’d done;
How they’d tortured and murdered her beloved son.
She mourned, open casket, and word soon got out
How Black men were killed in the Heart of the South.

The law found Till’s killers and brought them to court.
But the jury was friendly (or else they were bought).
The two killers went free, smiling, down the court steps.
But their sins lit a fire folks here won’t forget.

After Till’s death Civil Rights was the cause
There were marches and protests; the movement changed laws
The ****’s hold would be broken; of that do not doubt,
And, slowly, things changed in the heart of the South.

She was a young girl, just fifteen,
when the wondrous deed was done.
Behold, a ****** had conceived;
It was foretold she’d have a son.

She was promised to an older man,
a joiner of wood, simple and plain.
Many a man might have demurred;
exposing her to the stones of shame.

In his troubled sleep, he had a dream,
revealing all that God had done;
Joseph took Mary to be his wife
As the Roman census had begun.

Mary considered these things in her heart
As the infant grew and thrived.
He was strong in wisdom, kind of heart.
Though Herod pursued Him, the child survived.

Three years he traveled these ancient hills;
In synagogues and Temples, he taught.
Until, betrayed, he was arrested,
and brought before the Roman court.

How hard for Mary to behold
her only son upon a cross.
She heard Him cry out to the sky
and yield His spirit when all seemed lost.

It seemed he was in Satan’s power;
When even gold appeared but dross.
Then Joseph of Arimathea came
to claim His body from the cross.

Hope is a slender reed;
enough to build a dream upon.
She, too, beheld the empty tomb.
The stone removed, the Master gone.

October 12, 1870, the last surrender

There it is again, that old familiar pain.
It is clutching at my chest as I feel my color drain.
I reach my favorite chair and I struggle for each breath.
I place a pill beneath my tongue and just hope for the best.
Ever since Antietam it has hunted me just so.
It is like my old opponent, Grant, an unrelenting foe.
I am approaching Appomattox, my struggle nearly done.
I hear the cheers of boys in Blue for it is they who’ve won.
I could not ask more of the Grey for they had little left.
Now I too am about to fall to this traitor in my breast.

A car crashed into our tree last night, one fatal last mistake.
It was a cooper mini; I never heard the driver brake.
My wife, a nurse, ran to the car, then, sadly, backed away.
“There’s nothing I can do for him. This was his dying day.”
I could see there was a lot of blood; the driver’s chest was crushed.
I got the precinct on my cell. I said-“you need not rush.”
An ambulance came and his corpse was freed;
at the scene  he was pronounced deceased.
I knew he’d had a violent end, but reasoned it was quick at least.
The road was dry and freshly paved and, as per the EMT,
There was no hint of alcohol when they pried him from the tree.

The patrol called for his next of kin, and, as the sun rose in the East,
a woman with her baby came, her face a mask of grief.
Her fiancé was thirty and that night he’d tended bar.
He’d been working lots of overtime to save for their new car.
A baby’s needs are many and often dollars are too few.
I didn’t know how she would cope and somehow make it through
Her face betrayed a fresh concern; I saw her check her phone.
“I had sent my fiancé a text- he was late coming home.”
I knew what time the crash occurred; it had awakened me,
But I was unspecific.” It happened around three.”
She showed me then the text she’d sent that may have caused his end
The time stamped on her text message read “2:31AM”

My Altar is a table set upon a naked stage.
While waiting for the memorial to begin
I watch from the wings as students and alumni
In clots of twos and threes come shuffling in.

Poor Mary lived just nineteen years.
A dark depression did her in.
She was my student, I knew her well;
These tears I shed are genuine.

Ours is not an age of Faith;
Our thoughts and prayers are platitudes.
I look out  upon the faces of her friends
who’ve forgotten the beatitudes.

Her body rests in the cold hard ground,
interred two weeks ago today.
Some claim she is an angel now.
So I do hope but who can say?

What then can I say to salve these souls
who have forgotten  how to pray?
What cold comfort is my funereal black
on this bitter grey December day?

Her youth and beauty have been overthrown;
Persephone has been by Pluto wed.
How wise he was, the poet, who observed
The folly of being comforted.

I was then but middle-aged, established in my world.
She was a young ingenue, a lithe and lovely girl.
she knew about the ring I wore, the promise it contained,
but we were both the worse for drink and passions were inflamed.
I should have left here at her door, my lusts I should have tamed.

Her perfume was enticing, unlike what my Lucy wore.
I stepped back to admire when her chemise hit the floor.
To hold a warm girl in my arms; to kiss those lips of flame.
I felt my youth restored to me when she whispered my name.

Her mystic rose was delicate; its subtle nectar sweet.
She raised her hips to meet my lips, the conquest was complete.
We both were lost in pleasure, her fingers urged me on.
We surrendered to our yearnings, all inhibitions gone.

Some say that Hell is a fiery pit with fierce unquenchable flames.
Others say its lined with ice and  the cold drives you insane.
For me Hell was a woman scorned and a co-respondent named.
I was crucified in the press; such is the cost of fame.

I am older, wiser now. I never touch a drop.
See, if you never drink the first no one need tell you stop.
I  have been a fool for Love but I will not pretend
that I don't miss her passionate kiss I'll never have again.

Golden haired and handsome, Joe seemed to have it all.
He’d won a PAC 8 championship just that previous Fall.
Surely the Heisman would be his; another prize to win.
He started strongly, at least at first, but would falter at the end.

Joe Roth had Melanoma and it ravaged skin and bone,
It was a lonely battle, the hardest fight he’d known.
Joe Roth was a gamer who would strap his helmet on
and go out on the gridiron though his strength was nearly gone.
He knew that he would not grow old, or play the game for pay.
In this final autumn of his life he merely wished to play.

. Despite fatigue and nausea he still made every start,
Until his game clock ran out on an overburdened heart.
There’s a moment when the cheering stops, when a man feels most alone;
blind-sided by a tackle while checking down against the zone.

When game clock seconds tick away and the outcomes not in doubt
Joe stood tall in the pocket even when it was a rout.
He gave the game the best he had, then it was his  time to go.
He was an All- American, and no ordinary Joe

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

If he prefers a bitter brew and takes his coffee black
You my friend had best beware; you ought to watch your back!
A scientific survey says that of all people on the street;
those who prefer the bitter to the sweet,
have psychopathic tendencies revealed by what they eat.
If he loves eating Brussel sprouts, but passes on the butter
He might be the sadistic type with issues about mother.
If he takes his coffee black but eschews the use of sugar.
It’s a good predictive marker that your colleague is meshugah.
So pay attention to the habits of your most near and dear,
because their choice of what to eat makes their intentions clear.

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.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

In widowhood, Mom lived alone
in the house that was her pride.
Though a faded glory to others 'eyes
it still held her dreams inside.
Still, Mom was growing feeble
in terms of strength and mind.
Assisted living loomed ahead,
just past that Christmastide.
So all us children reconvened
to bide our home farewell.
We decked her halls with garlands,
Her doors with Christmas bells.
For years she'd had a tiny tree
placed on a table stand.
This Christmas saw a Douglas fir
which made her home look grand.
We gathered round the Christmas Tree
and raised our voice in song
After a cup (or two) of cheer
not a single note seemed wrong.
Evening came and that tree shone bright-
lights twinkling in the dim.
There were hugs and kisses all around
to all my next of kin..
That was our last Christmas in her home
The last that we would share.
In Memory it is evergreen-
so let me linger there.

As darkness gathered, so did the crowds;
They were like moths drawn to the flame.
The swastikas were everywhere-
All loyal party members came.
The piled the books by Freud and Jung
And untermenchen of their kind
And tossed them on the bonfire there
as part of ******’s grand design.
The flames leapt high into the night
Fueled by these UN-German books
As Goebbels watched in rapt delight,
at how he had these people rooked.
As darkness gathered so did the crowd
to witness this unholy scene,
unaware that those who start with books
will end up burning human beings.

Some days she feels better than others;
Her life ebbs and flows with the pain.
She’s an eighteen year old girl fighting cancer
facing chemotherapy once again.

Thanks to some kind hearted donors
who conspire to make dreams come true
She flew into New York City
To spend her last Christmas with you

She’s spending three days in our city;
enjoying the hustle and flow.
She must see the Tree and window shop stores
and there’s one other place she must go.

As a young girl she loved figure skating.
Now she laces her skates one last time.
Alone on the ice it’s as good as it gets
There’s a smile on her face and there’s joy in her heart
as she spins in a tight Pirouette.

Just six inches long and not hard to conceal,
I examine the pistol that began the Great War.
It’s been put on display in the British Museum
And it must be regarding with awe.

“The Archduke must die!” Mister Princip declared,
as he emptied this gun at close range.
“Sophie, live for our children.” The dying Duke begged,
But sadly his pleas were in vain.

Great armies mobilized, by August, guns roared
For Four years the slaughter went on
Till all the King’s horses and all the King’s men
and even the Kings, too ,were gone.

Now news comes from Turkey of a murderous deed;
a Russian Ambassador slain.
Once more a pistol was used for the deed.
How much can this poor Globe sustain?

I said my plans out loud
and heard a deep throated chuckle.
I felt so foolish and exposed
and in a muckle of trouble.
For there’s many a slip
Twixt the cup and the lip
For those who chance to dare
And though you flee from
City to City
Fate will find you there.
So keep your secrets to your self
and shelter your designs.
Don’t dare to whisper on the wind
The debts you owe to Time.

The officer’s whistle blew and we rose up
into the stiff wind of German fire.
Whole companies disappeared in the smoke
While tangled up in razor wire.
Our generals were exposed as fools;
Their tactics drawn from earlier wars
Our young conscripts, bayonets fixed,
were fed into the cannons maw.
Nineteen thousand young Brits dead,
Thirty thousand wounded more.
We gained so little ground that day
so little for that blood and gore.
A generation raised on tales
of the glory and romance of war,
has learned today the hard harsh truth
Wisdom gained through suffering is universal law.

I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.

I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race

I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.

By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.

I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.

I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.

La ville de lumière porte une couverture de blanc
Comme les flocons de neige et l'obscurité, en tandem, descendre.
Je marche dans ses rues, seule, avec juste votre mémoire en tant que compagnie
La vieille librairie que nous avons aimé faire des emplettes
A fait sa dernière vente et fermé pour de bon.
Notre restaurant préféré est toujours là, ouvert pour les affaires,
Mais de nouvelles personnes l'ont maintenant.
Elle aussi est changée.
Dans les temps plus heureux, nous nous sommes assis à cette table extérieure
Et regardé, ensemble, les nuances subtiles de la lumière
Réfracté sur les eaux de la Seine.

Dans votre entreprise, une simple croûte de pain
Et une bouteille, ou deux, de calvados semblait un festin.
En votre absence, les meilleurs aliments sont, pour moi, la paille et la paille.

Années de vie dans votre amour
Ne m'a pas préparé
Pour cette vie seule
Je regarde les flocons de neige tomber, vers le bas.
À travers le froid sombre de cette soirée parisienne
Et les envie de leur résolution que je ne peux pas encore partager.

The City of Light wears a blanket of white
As snowflakes and darkness, in tandem, descend.
I walk her streets, alone, with just your memory as company
The old bookstore that we loved to shop
Has made its last sale and closed for good.
Our favorite restaurant is still here, open for business,
but new people have it now.
It, too, is changed.
In happier times we sat at that outside table
And watched, together, the subtle shades of light
refracted on the waters of the Seine.

In your company a simple crust of bread
And a bottle, or two, of calvados seemed a feast.
In your absence the finest foods are, to me, chaff and straw.

Years of living in your love
has not prepared me
For this life alone
I watch the snowflakes falling down, down.
through the cold dark of this Parisian evening
and envy them their resolution that I cannot yet share.

She was not born to be a bride,
She had no child of her own.
When she faced evil face to face,
some will say she died alone.
But to the children whom she helped hide
when terror roamed those halls.
She didn't die for nothing
She died to save them all.

Some learn their purpose early,
Others at the final turn.
Many blunder blind through life.
There are those who never learn.

Someday past suffering and grief
may her family feel some pride.
She was Victoria Soto,
a Heroine, she died.

Like those daughters of Zeus of old,
Three graces now I see before me.
I’ll call you Beauty, Joy and Mirth;
It’s my good fortune to behold thee.

The oldest has a beauty rare;
She is pale white with raven tresses.
Like her sisters, she’s clad in lace
and those are some exquisite dresses.

The middle sister loves to sing;
Like a songbird she can warble.
A lovely smile, warm to the touch,
Like nothing ever done in marble.

The youngest has a cheerful mien;
witty bright and full of laughter.
The pity is I’m old; they’re young-
My money must be what they’re after!

There's this dance they do in Washington
whenever Debt's head rears..
It's called the "Fiscal Chicken"
They've performed it now for years.
With a Jiggle to the Right
and a wobble to the left
They kick the can on down the road
I can't say that I'm impressed.
The rotund in the Rotunda
Scream and shout and hop about.
Some claim that they will hold the line
deceiving the devout.
Don't let their moves distract you-
We all know whose Ox gets gored-
As Mister Ryan postures
and as the Donald roars.
If we manage somehow to save
they want it in their paws.
Like inebriated White men
They flail and shake their rears
The only moves they have result
from drinking too much beer..

His eyes are glazed with cataracts; these days he seldom speaks.
He’d choke if not for thickeners his nurse puts in his drinks.
The Amyloid has run amok, like weeds that spread and climb,
His intellect is overthrown; He’s trapped within his mind.

Alzheimer’s started subtly. He’d forget a place or name.
He’d wander through his rooms at home, uncertain why he came.
His wits became befuddled; he gave up his keys to drive.
He’d wander off without his coat; it’s a wonder he’s alive.

His world grew gradually smaller, snared in a web of fear.
Frustrated by his loss of self, he’d shed many wordless tears.
Now he is in hospice and he hasn’t got much time.
His body, too, is failing him. He’s already lost his mind.

Old memories are stirred in him, treasures he can’t speak.
He imagines himself young and strong; not old senile and weak.
His lips curl in a toothless smile and I can only pray
That in his tangled mind he’s found the door to yesterday.

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
Their youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters voices
and that star that shone like gold.

The only computer on board was Glenn’s brain,
as he orbited up  in the heavens.
The heat shield was damaged and hung loose on the frame.
His odds of survival were even.
With faith placed in God; no time even to think
Glenn began the flaming descent.
Icarus or Daedalus; which would he be?
Was Glenn’s luck still good or all spent?

In the waters below the Navy stood watch,
anxiously scanning the skies.
His wife had been told she should expect the worst;
The Mission head thought Glenn might die.
There! A red parachute dotted the sky!
The destroyer “Noe” sped to the scene.
Not since Lucky Lindy had America had
Such a hero who dared us to dream

That night was cold and dry as we gathered in the park.
Someone, I don’t know who, lit the first candle in the dark.
The dark mass of the Dakota was ever in our view,
as we joined to mourn John Lennon in small groups of ones and twos.

They kept us from the crime scene where John’s blood still stained the stones.
He was gunned down by some lunatic who’d acted all alone.
John was groaning, barely conscious, when Cops got him in their car
He died there in the back seat before they’d gone too far.

I heard somebody singing, in a strong clear baritone,
the lyrics of “Imagine”; John’s song that’s so well known.
Other voices swelled the chorus, singing loud and long.
What prayer could not accomplish we would try to do with song.

I went back to visit recently to show my children where
Their Dad stood vigil in the park back when he had long hair.
Strawberry Fields forever, the name they call this green,
where greying fans still gather to sing, to mourn, to dream.

George Johannesen isn’t dead
though the State claims he’s expired.
His driver’s License they cancelled
though he still had four good tires.
George, at first, thought to complain
about this twist of fate.
Then he came to realize that
Death is a tax free state.
Five hundred thousand dollars
Were paid out to his “next of kin”
Paid to one with the same name
Who looked a lot like him.
He accepted philosophically
the wage of sin is death.
If the alternative is taxes,
he assumed its for the best.
George enjoys the “afterlife”
on the Island of Majorca.
Where he chases younger women
And he doesn’t need a walker.
Only George, of all his friends,
has managed to retire.
He enjoys his afterlife
While the state thinks he’s expired.

The cows of California produce methane from green grass.
They are causing global warming every time that they pass gas!
The assembly has determined that this simply cannot stand.
(The cow pie situation is completely out of hand.)
A researcher from down under has devised a clever method
To reduce methane production which is utterly impressive!
It seems that when Australian cows munch seaweed for their fodder.
Their farts smell so much sweeter and the Earth will not get hotter.
I hope this satisfies the “Greens”, but I fear it’s just a start;
Next they’ll demand that **** plugs be installed in us old farts!

Rudolph was differently -abled
As nearly everybody knows.
He suffered discrimination
because he had a nose that glows.

All of the alt-right Reindeer
Were bigoted and called him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
Participate in Reindeer games

Then one foggy holiday Eve
O.S.H.A came to say
“This hostile workplace violates rules
There will be hefty fines to pay!”

Now all of  the Reindeer hate him
but learned to hide it carefully.
They just spent two weeks in training
For Reindeer sensitivity.