A word was born, some years ago,
Perhaps from Mister Marlowe’s pen.
Will Shakespeare stole it for his play.
The groundlings picked it up that way.
It gained currency by the hour-
For such is a poets’ power,
though Marlowe died in a tavern brawl
And all but scholars forget his name,
Words conquer worlds, thoughts persist
far longer than his Tamburlaine.
Genetic lines may hit dead ends
From war or pestilence or fate-
But words poetic or prosaic
Survive (though sometimes they’re Archaic.)

The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury  had foretold

Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.

Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme

The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me,  awkwardly, to start the fray.

The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.

They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.

Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.

There were disappointed faces
on the students in the quad
The professor’s classes cancelled-
illness  had struck their mortal god.
A literary lion, A scholar
world renowned.
Pneumonia, favoring old men,
was the disease that took him down.
The Professor got the best of care
and had a private room.
His favorites brought him roses
to brighten up the gloom.
He was in an out of consciousness,
oblivious to fading blooms.

His true friends
were dead poets
and he imagined them about:
Blake, with his wild head of hair;
Bill Shakespeare’s pate without,
Byron, dripping from the Hellespont,
and Dylan Thomas chugging  stout.
His breath was shallow, rasping
His heart would skip a beat
His mind would wander mercifully
back to when the past  was sweet.
He recalled playing the Wolf
with a beauty named Naomi.
Had she ever thought him handsome?
Had he come across as phony?
The monitor went flat line then
They would save him, never fear.
Naomi's accusations were still
ringing in his ears.

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.

Glory came early as did fame.
to Gary Speed there on the pitch.
Cheers he heard from adoring crowds
among the elite he found his niche.
With time’s passage he lost a step
even if he felt the same
but as he ran he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

He coached to stay around the game.
After the cheers for him had faded
A friendly face, a familiar name
but as he coached he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

For many, Gary was an icon,
a living legend of the game.
They failed to see the mortal man
with silence weighting on his frame
As he tied the rope he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game

I knew an old man  
Who tried to act young
He popped a blue
pill on the tip of his
Tongue.
He slicked back his hair
and put on a White suit
He tried to style like Travolta,
one more grey and hirsute
(It wasn't much as illusion
but it sure was a hoot)
He danced till his hip ached
then had to recline.
The lifts in his loafers
had betrayed him this time.
He tried to impress
with a big *** of cash
But the young ladies knew
his best days were long past
He loved them, they left him
He wined and they dined
He tried to romance them
but was always declined.
At the end of the evening
and the last of the wine
He conceded to age
and resumed his decline.

Joe Bisquick was driving,
It was late Friday night.
He turned his rig left
when he should have gone right.
Folks say he avoided
a fork in the road.
His rig overturned
And he lost his whole load.
There was hungry Jack Syrup
on the Buttermilk Pike.
It oozed onto the shoulders
Of the road left and right.
All of that Syrup-
Not a pancake in sight!.
Police questioned Butterworth-
Who had motive and cause,
But she was released,
having broken no laws.
Pancake breakfasts were cancelled
In Kentucky the next day
Aunt Jemima made
a clean get away.

I wore a gold Star.
I bear a tattoo.
When Six Million died
I was one of the few,
Through the mercy of God
or the missed chance of Fate,
I escaped from the boxcar
into winter’s dim light.

My parents and sister,
Long are dust on the wind.
Their faith and their race
were their only known sins
Now, though stooped and arthritic,
I still testify
To the bitter cup tasted
when the Six Million died.


(An elderly docent at the Shoah Center recalls his brush with death at the hands of the Gestapo)

I think it very sad, don't you?-
That we grow old but  songs never do.
I'm listening to Kim Carnes
sing of Betty Davis eyes
but I can't will myself back
to the Dublin Pub
where I heard it the first time.

We were young and beautiful then.
(Vouch for me, I'll vouch for you)
I hear they've torn the old place down.
That's a **** shame, sad but true

Five minutes together
before the bell rings.
What can I say
to make her heart sing.
Here are blondes and brunettes,
short ones and tall.
All of us single-
seeking dates for the ball.
Speed dating's a challenge,
the whole thing a blur
Does she root for my team?
Do I play on hers?
the little ones cute
and I do like her smile.
Some minutes are shorter
when your dating speed style.
I look back in longing
she catches my eye.
Now I'm stuck with a Red head
who looks like a guy.
It's all musical chairs
matching circles with squares.
Just who is the maiden
who can answer all prayers?

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

He sits with a stoic's resistance,
        his son in the casket lies there.
        No line of a tear mars his visage-
        the man with the Thousand yard stare.


        He sits in the front row of mourners,
        His dear sobbing wife by his side
        in silence he keeps his sad vigil
        and stares up at Christ crucified.
    

        The mourners pass by him in silence,
        touch his hand or say meaningless words,
        for his part he stares straight on through them
        as if nothings felt, nothings heard.

        The Parson commands us to silence
        and struggles to lead us in prayer-
        but half of the room has forgotten the words
        like the man with the thousand yard stare
        

        Death is my race's core competence
        dealing with life, we're but fair,        
        but none living today keeps sorrow at bay
        not the man with the thousand yard stare.

We speak of "truth" and "beauty"
with a savant , knowing air.
We are the keepers of the flame
who formulate the prayers.
We play with your emotions;
we heighten every sense.
We labor at this constantly
with little recompense.

...but...today... today I saw her,
and for words I'm at a loss.
Like Saul approaching Tarsus;
Like a second Pentecost.
Her beauty knows no simile
indeed , and it's a pity
Only George Gordon, at his height,
could , perhaps, describe her beauty.
I saw her but a moments time
and she's not mine to hold.
but from that brief encounter
I can now tell dross from Gold.

That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.

Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.

The men were cooking barbecue,
Tossing footballs, drinking beers
You'd recognize their names-
because you hear them once a year.

The day was nearly cloudless
Seldom was the sky so blue.
Who knew so many would be lost
before that week was through.

Within two days too many here
were cut down in their prime.
Betrayed by poor equipment-
They could not escape in time.

But I, permitted to grow old,
remain to testify
about the courage of my friends-.
so that their memory never dies.

That day is sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

It’s seldom that folks see me dance,
for want of occasion or partner.
My stiff joints pray “give others a chance!
Just sit with your drink in the dark there.”

I’m not really hip and can’t hop
Arthritis has put paid to that dream.
I’d let younger ones gambol and lark
here I’d sit, waiting patient, for ice cream.


But no, I sway out on the hardwood,
locked in a slow dance with you.
I clinch like a boxer, exhausted-
Whose opponent has landed a few.


I pray that the music is ending-
My balky hip screams with each turn
After this I’ll for sure need a Walker
A Blue, on the rocks, I have earned.

These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
perhaps not all of you has died.
Here in print your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.

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 Margaret, Clare and Jim.
That was our last Christmas in her home
The last that we would share.
In Memory it is evergreen-
so let me linger there.

King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.


King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.

Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.

The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.

The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***.
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?

Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.

I stumble forward in a daze
with shackles on my wrists and feet.
The room is cold and very bright
As I approach my final sleep.
I see the gurney waiting there
It bears the aspect of a cross
For me to stretch my arms out wide
Embracing what my sins have cost.
Behind the one way mirrors stand
the next of kin to all my crimes.
They wait there to see justice done.
They count down to the end of time.
I feel the needles subtle pinch
as liquid poison finds a vein.
As Icy coldness creeps towards my heart
the savior to my darkness came

For Three years we had been used as slaves,
since surrendering to the Japanese.
We’d been starved, beaten and abused
and lived in filth and misery.

We’d heard they planned to **** us all
once it was clear they’d lose the war.
We’d lived in fear, like Damocles,
waiting for the day Japan would fall.

Then came the news of Victory
and our tormentors disappeared.
More eager, then, to save themselves
Than carry out the order we had feared.

Beneath my bunk a treasure hid,
concealed there from the Japanese.
It was saved from the fall of Singapore,
then passed through several hands to me.

We struck down their flag, the rising sun,
for we were sure their sun had set.
We replaced it with the Stars and Stripes,
Around that banner we rallied yet.

Hearts filled with pride, we stood as men
and saluted the red white and blue.
We were like scarecrows dressed in rags,
but we knew that this ordeal was through.

Our air force dropped us food supplies
and shortly after we entrained.
We’d made a bonfire of the camp
to consume the memory of our pain.

If we had never done the deed
and soiled the sheets together,
Lesbia we might have had
a love that lasts forever.
Instead, you lay back, wantonly,
inviting me to sin.
Our cries and whispers mingled
as I spent myself within.
Lust comes with an expiration date
and I was cast aside;
Some other noble Roman
now mounts my favorite ride.
Caesar too, will come and go ;
Veni, Vidi, Vici.
Some label you promiscuous
your morals are thought dicey.
Yet you're not indiscriminate
in choosing your next partner;
The distinction is that you lie down
and do not stoop to conquer.

Deep beneath Park Avenue,
where protestors never tread,
The Sandhogs delve beneath
the earth laying new track bed.
In time to come commuter trains
from Grand Central to Penn
will take the tunnel they have dug
at a cost now of one dead.
A father and his only son,
both of a Sandhog line,
were excavating underground
and working overtime
when suddenly there was a roar
a shifting in the earth
Their two lives were in jeopardy
They ran for all their worth
The Dad survived, his son was crushed
beneath.the the earthen mound
Despite attempts at C.P.R.
A pulse could not be found.
They bore his body up the shaft
to the city that never sleeps.
Where his poor father, suddenly old,
a lonely vigil keeps.

My calling patterns are rather dull.
I’m a sixty year old man.
I get phone calls infrequently
almost never from Sudan.
Then one day I received a call
From some fellow called Abdul.
I thought it was a prank at first,
from students at my school.
He talked of pressure cookers
and praised his foreign god.
I said “it’s a wrong number, Bub.”
And I thought “that was odd!”
That didn’t stop him calling here
Oh, once or twice a week.
I explained I’m not the party
To whom he wished to speak.
(It seems my number was one digit
off from a certain Chechen geek).
After Tax day it got interesting-
all this clicking on my phone.
One time my placed was ransacked
while I was not at home.
Eric Holder, if you’re listening,
I am not the Droid you seek.
It seems the fourth amendment
Must be null and void this week...
I might be your perfect villain:
White, Catholic, and a man.
I know if I made videos
I’d be rotting in the “can”

I knew nothing about the plot,
I’m innocent, you see.
My knowledge, like the President’s
comes strictly from T.V.

The nation's Capitol rattled and shook.
Washington's monument cracked.
The Nation's Cathedral is minus a spire.
The people Cried out for Barrack.
A previously unknown fault line had shifted
causing a crack in basalt
The President paused from his golf game to chat
with his geologist, a man named Walt.
After a lengthy Analysis
down in the Smithsonian's vault
The commander in chief is relieved to report
that this too was Bush's Fault.

Today is National left handers day-
Only Southpaws are pitching tonight,
I suspect its all part of a sinister plot,
a coup against all that is right.

Eating with Lefties is always a risk
when Lefties your starboard assay.
but seated to port they're a jolly good sort-
if you get them to offer to pay.

A cardboard Flat
some ribbon and string
some ******* and a teething ring
Together they make
a silly Chapeau
for Christine to model
it has been ever so
at Baby showers
for the mother to be
Photographed
wearing such
elaborate frippery

At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.

The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.

Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.

With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John

He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.

Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.

Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms

A small Bronze plaque commemorates
the fate of Chaffee, Grissom and White:
Near half a century has passed
since their final, fatal night.

Ad Astra per Aspera-
a rough road to the Stars.
We do well to remember that
as we make our try for Mars.

The fire was horrific
and death, though quick, was cruel:
Like heretics of an earlier age
they served as human fuel.

Engineers by radio
could hear their muffled cries.
Thick black smoke drove back
the men who made a rescue try.

Poorly insulated wires
had given off a spark.
pure oxygen has fed the flames
on that distant night so dark

Ad Astra per Aspera
a proud epitaph for them:
Apollo’s sons who heard his call
to search the skies again.

Our "sergeant" gave a low whistle
that stopped us in our tracks.
He motioned two kids forward
to prepare for the "attack".
The "enemy" was hiding.
Behind Uncle Louie's rusted Ford.
We checked our "guns" and "ammo"
and we trusted in the Lord.

We couldn't call artillery.
We couldn't drop ******.
If we really killed my cousins
they'd be Hell to pay from Mom.
We launched a pincer movement
with our guns set to pretend.
Imaginary air grenades
made quick work of my friends.

They had little cause to argue
as we shot them in the back.
They swooned upon the concrete.
All were "dead" from our attack.

Just then our Mother's called us in
for a feast of sausage bread.
Amazing how the dinner bell
so quickly raised the "dead".

All of us are older now
and some have gone to war.
Some Mother's sons I played with
aren't with us anymore.

If only Moms could ring a bell
and call us in to eat
And raise those honored dead to life
like back there on my street.

The Sun, at dusk, was ruddy red,
as it was swallowed by the sea.
A promise of fair weather
and a gentle rolling sea.

Come morning we'll be outward bound
as the winds possess the sails.
Then, out beyond the harbor,
under way and under sail
my first mate and I will revel
in the fresh and salty air.
Making way along the shore
with a gentle pitch and yaw
Was that a babe in a bikini
or a mermaid I just saw?

We tack around a floating buoy
and towards the deep we bear.
On the far horizon, bright colored sails
belong to friends of ours.

This is freedom best defined
on a sea as smooth as glass.
Free to choose and set your course
as freely hours pass.

The sun grows lower in the sky
its time we must return
to our mundane working life
for to play we first must earn.

Reluctantly we tack about
and set our course for shore.
its time to find safe harbor
for our boat the "Pinafore".

Every year, on Christmas Eve
we gather at her parents' home.
That has been our tradition
since before I married Joan.

First, the traditional feast of fish,
Lobster and scungelli.
Some pasta shells for Judy
cause fish makes her stomach queasy.

The Men took turns as Santa Claus
when all the kids were small.
I needed pillows way back then,
I've since grown into the role.

My only son, when he was young,
could not say Santa's name.
but boy was he excited
whenever "**-**" came.

The years fly past. We all grew old
the Children all grew tall.
The little ones are College bound
the oldest works on Wall.

This year was sadly different-
"The patriarch has died
It’s Dolores’ first Christmas
without him by her side.

But if he's not there in the flesh
to joke and beam with pride
I'll put his portrait on a chair
placed near the fireside.

Then when all gifts are given,
and third desserts have been declined.
I'll say, “Christmas is over"
because that always was his line.

We knew only your laughter which won you renown.
We never observed the tears of our clown.

You entered our homes as the loveable Mork;
with Your razor sharp wit and lightning fast thought.

Your movies mixed laughter with serious turns;
Good Will earned you an Oscar For which many yearn.

There were personal demons that proved hard to hide.
A divorce, an affair, Drugs and rehab besides.

But, through it all, We heard only the laughter.
Not the tears of our Clown that brought on this disaster.

To us you were Robin, Like Peter Pan, just a kid.
May this sleep bring you peace that your days never did.

Each morning I'm awakened
by my annoying little friend.
As long as he has wood
he will be at it once again.
"Woody" has been with me now
for days beyond recall.
A Persistent little Pecker,
the little ****** gives his all.
For a month now he's been tapping
on the tree outside my den.
On weekends its annoying
cause I like to sleep till Ten.
I so wish someone would eat him,
perhaps the neighbor's cat,
and end his constant tapping
by putting paid to that.

The prognosis was distressing.
The outlook was the same.
My aging mother could not eat,
we were playing her endgame.
Bereft of speech and cogent thought,
sitting in her chair with wheels.
Her fate placed firmly in our hands,
in the court of no appeals.
A feeding tube could well extend
her life for twenty years.
A life in limbo that way leads
where none can care or feel.
Pain management and hospice care
was the choice we had to make.
Years later some still argue
we had made a vile mistake.
Yet if my fate should be like hers
be kind and let me die.
A gentle exit into night
once life become a lie.

October’s storm was brutal,
drenching rain and heavy wind.
Our little tavern by the beach
started taking water in.
Then, when the storm surge
breeched the wall,
the place lacked all defense.
Waves swept away our little bar
leaving us just the front steps.

The “Pour House” now a memory
for its scattered congregation.
Mostly Irish Catholics who enjoyed
its liberal dispensations.

Some people prefer brews to pews
for fighting off dammnation.
So many demons haunt our souls
and these demand libations.

The juke box played sad Irish songs,
the only sort it knew,
while disorderly Hibernians
enjoyed their favorite brew.

Here the patrons much preferred
Draft Guinness in a glass
while stealing furtive glances
at my waitress’ shapely ***.
Here the women started homely
but were beautiful by close-
at least to those poor drunken sots
Who’d relieve them of their clothes,


By Christmas it was apparent
that the “Pour House” had to go.
There just wasn’t FEMA money
For an old man’s bar you know.
So word swept through the beach blocks
And it reached the subway station.
Gather at the Pour House Steps
for the New Year’s celebration.

Party favors must be had
So I bought some horns and hats.
Dry eyes and throats were disallowed
So I had free beer on tap.
That New Year’s Eve was cold and drear
When we held our celebration
Our dear old timers all appeared
for our “free beer” dispensation..
At midnight we stood on the steps
And had our photo taken.
We all hugged and went our separate ways
While inside our hearts were breaking.

The Pour house is a memory now.
I’ll miss those guys and girls.
It was a sort of Paradise,
a refuge from the world.

Brave men run toward the flames
when others turn and flee.
Without such courage all is lost,
there could be no victory.

From fire Station Number Seven
the men of Prescott heard the call.
"Go and set a fire break
near the town known as Yarnall.

It was a race against the clock.
Their team of twenty vied
to wall off the drought fueled flames
before a whole town died.

A stroke of lightening set the blaze
that would consume them all.
With the county suffering a drought,
the trees were tinder dry.
when wicked Western winds whipped up
the Granite Hotshots died.

In the town of Prescott, Arizona
in fire station number seven
A stained glass window commemorates
men who died deserving heaven.

Brave men run toward the flames
when others turn and flee.
Without such courage all is lost,
there can be no victory.

In the flat where William Butler Yeats
had ridden the Gyre of mind,
Sylvia, with son and daughter,
came to spend the last of her time.
An angel, Ariel, visited
and spoke such lovely lines.
Sylvia hastened to write them down
though her pen froze at times.
Her doctor was concerned for her:
Her depression was profound
Despite the drugs that he prescribed
Her soul gyrated down.
Her husband had abandoned her
and their two babes besides.
A darker angel came to her
and whispered “suicide.”
Three days before St. Valentines
in Nineteen sixty three.
Her nurse received no answer
there at number twenty Three.
Fearful for the children,
the nurse had to get inside
Police where called and
the door was forced, but
sadly, not in time.
The smell of gas, pervasive,
in the room where Sylvia died.
Her two little ones were rescued-
Her death ruled a suicide.

The learned Dons of Oxford
Have invented and refined
An efficacious compound;
Love Potion number nine.

A heady mix of pheromones
and vitamins and such.
Just give it to your blasé mate
And she’ll hunger for your touch.

Oxytocin warms her heart
and bonds her to your side.
Testosterone’s included
So she’s randy as a bride.

A simple pill upon her tongue
And passion is restored.
A boon for long time couples
Rather lacking in Amor.

Just be sure to stay at home
when she ingests the pill.
If you don’t make yourself available
The mailman can and will.

She 'll be dressed and ready
right on time
My funny little Valentine.
We'll have pancakes for dinner
but no red wine-
My funny Little Valentine
Her gift didn't come
from a diamond mine
My funny little Valentine
More Precious than gold
is this girl of mine
My Funny Little Valentine...

Happy Valentine's Day,
Daughter

I would listen, in the dark, as the L.P. circled round.
A big fan, I’ll admit it, of this petite brunette’s sound.
I was shocked the day I heard you’d starved yourself to death.
Talent, beauty, youth all gone; the recordings all you left.
I hear you still at the holidays like a ghost of Christmas past.
Occasionally on the radio for your hits were built to last.
Most often when your C.D. plays as I drift off to sleep
So long ago, so long ago, but still your voice sounds so sweet.
Those who touch lips with fame die twice I’ve heard it told:
Once when we’ve forgotten them, then again when they grow cold.

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, freed from bra and gravity-
were ******* 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.

My naked skin glistens
with strenuous sweat.
My name on your lips
urges me faster yet.
The Whip in your hand
is applied to my back.
I jump in my tracers
to the head of the pack.
As we round the last turn
To hollers and cheers,
I look forward to oats,
My Jockey , to beers

For ninety years or more
Zelda’s family owned her home.
Generations born and died there,
She never felt alone.
The spirits of her parents
She always felt close by
And sometimes she would talk to them-
to gossip on the sly.
Most ghosts are rather lonely.
Regard it from their point of view-
To wait unseen, unbidden,
with no one to talk to.
It makes the loneliness we feel
While incarnate seem a sham.
We need only to make a call
to reach our fellow man.
But ghosts can not dial telephones
And rarely get attention.
Few master apparition
hardly any I can mention.
So take your cue from Zelda
and the next time you’re at home
have a spirited discussion
with any ghosts who chance to roam.
(To avoid two years in therapy
Make **** sure that you’re alone.)

Disappointment dogged their every step
on the trip back from the Pole.
Amundsen had bested Scott,
as the World would soon be told.

Evans was the first to die,
to perish in the frost.
Oates, the poor old soldier,
was next to pay the cost.

Crippled by an old war wound,
Home base too far to go,
He walked out in a blizzard
and was buried by the snow.

Eleven miles to fuel and food
The three men left were stranded
A fierce winter storm held them at bay
Empty bellied, empty handed.

Bowers first, then Wilson died,
felled by dysentery .
Scott, their brave Commander,
then wrote his final entry:

“A pity, I can write no more,
too weak to venture out.
Nearly snow blind from the Frost,
by Winter put to rout”

Eight months later, a rescue party
came upon their sad remains
Robert Falcon Scott had died.
The world would learn their names.

They raised a cairn of ice around
the place where brave men died.
A crudely fashioned wooden cross
they placed above on high.

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

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

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

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

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

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mondays are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

How can I write the story
of a battle fought and won,
when lying close beside me
Is the body of my son?

He was ordered to this field,
a place where his unit bled.
Wounded, left to die,
when even surgeons fled.

The sole object of my interest
Is this, my oldest son.
Does it matter Lee was beaten?
That the Union forces won?

All around me is death’s harvest.
for him, a fruitful one.
I will send you home to mother
and be cursed for what I’ve done.

The photographers are roaming
Through the fields of blood and gore
Taking pictures of the fallen.
They are bringing home the war.

Her parents weren’t there to cry
The day that sleeping beauty died.
First Dad, then Mother, slipped away
as their comatose daughter slept each day.
Through forty two years of dreamless sleep
Her loving family did their promise keep.
A drug reaction was the cause
of her coma irreversible.
By the power of
Unconditional love
The faint flickering flame
Of life stayed possible.
Until today did beauty lie.
Until today did life endure.
Today she smiled and opened her eyes
Only then did beauty die..

My cohort is shattered, the regiment reels,
from the lead of the merciless foe.
I'm wearing the blue, Fredericksburg,62'.
I''m a conscript from County Tyrone.
Saint Mary's Heights is a most fearful sight:
****** acres of men who won't fight again,
Our wounded are dying alone.
The devout say a prayer, others blaspheme and swear.
I just wish I was back in Tyrone.
Up on that hill wearing Butternut grey
are Irish like me from back home.
Sure they gave out a cheer when Meagher first appeared,
with our banner of green, on his Roan.
What mortal flesh can, we did in the end
Some died just in sight of the wall.
In the cold dark of night we survivors take flight;
Rappahannock, protect us I pray.
I'll never forget the screams of that night
or the butcher's bill we had to pay.

As she held the ring box in her hand,
she felt a trace of fear-
Would the answer to her question
be the word she longed to hear?
They'd lived some time together,
wrapped their bodies in a kiss,
but would satisfied desires
translate into wedded bliss?
This was the time, this leap year day
to end her long suspense
she'd ask her love to marry her
and hope she would say yes!