Keep us out of the ballpark.
Keep fans out so no crowd.
Instead Steal Doritos and grab free beers
There's no stretch in the seventh
cause nobody's here!
Oh it's loot, loot, loot from the storefronts
If we get caught its a shame!
and its one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game.

Keep us out of the ballpark
ban the fans from the stands
The vendors laid off cause there's nobody here
he's out of a job cause no one's buying beer
Oh its loot, loot, loot from the storefronts-
that Freddie Grey's dead -it's a shame
and it's one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game

The Lady loves me-
I’m certain of it.
It’s not just my read
of a look or glance.
She confessed her love
in a verse redolent
of forbidden
passion and romance.

Elizabeth is of the old faith,.
a highborn lady of eighteen..
She is young like my own daughters,
How inappropriate would our love seem?

I was tutor to the Prince but
Edward’s reign too soon is done
Catholic Mary will be our Queen
I must  to the continent be  gone.

The Wealthy must pay their fair share
Here in the “Golden State”
Fifty three percent or so
Here by the golden Gate.
They will likely move to Utah
where the skiing’s just as great.
We rule by Proposition,
It’s Democratic and it’s fair!
But when we have to pay for Pensions
It seems the money isn’t there.

California pays its workforce
with Golden I.O.U’s.
We hope Obama bails us out
Before they all come due.
Our growing Mexican population
plans for la Reconquista.
They smile as each old ****** dies
They mutter “Hasta La vista”
Governor Moonbeam’s back in charge,
The Terminator’s gone
Pelosi’s back in Washington
What could possibly go wrong?

Look into her eyes where kindness keeps
Or else a jealous dragon sleeps
Her eyes will tell if she’s true and fair.
Are you saved or dammed? The answer’s there.
Her words may dissemble and lips oft lie.
Those curves may distract as does her smile.
No, her eyes are where true beauty lies.
The sooner you learn this the sooner you’re wise.

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

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

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

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

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

On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
She was dressed in the clothes
She had worn when she died.
A bullet hole in her temple,
a handgun by her side.
A beautiful Stranger
at the foot of my bed.
A faint smell of lilac
from a specter long dead.
The Ghost didn’t speak,
At least not that I heard,
Nor could I, gripped by terror,
Utter one word.
World weary and sad
said her ****** expression.
A Love gone all wrong
was my honest impression.
Then she was gone;
Not a glimmer remained.
The warm summer evening
My stateroom reclaimed.
It was cold where she died
On the steps to the beach;
Her spirit is restless
and seems never to sleep.

Oh beautiful stranger
None can say why you died
But the coroner ruled
That it was suicide.

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

The walls of this place
have protected me
since the moment I
was first aware..
Here in the darkness
I float upside down
like a fruit bat
asleep in his lair.
Now I feel pressure
and pushing
Something’s draining
the fluid of life.
A dim glow growing
constantly brighter
at the end of a tunnel
there’s light
My heart beat
is marathon racing
as I’m dragged from
my sinecure dark.

This new place is large
and its freezing
Put me back in,
I beg you
I scream.
My protests are ignored
as I’m prodded some more
Then I’m slapped
on the ****
by some cur
I’m lain down
on a warm curvy belly
and this woman, called mom,
weakly smiles.
At least this part
doesn’t seem
frightening
Perhaps I will stay
for awhile

It was seen from a distance,
the oncoming beast.
Surely faith's fragile Armour
would shield you at least?
If, in the encounter,
it's no help at all-
The problem, my dear,
is your god is too small.

The cosmos is a vast
and curious place
Our comings and goings-
machinations of fate.
He who is , He the master,
The soul of it all
He is past comprehension
and your god is too small.

There' a man on a cross
on the hospital wall.
Crucifixions take place
every day in it's halls.
Life's last little drama
in which ripeness is all..
Faith can move mountains
if your god's not too small.

I've seen good men suffer
with His name on their lips.
Their cups didn't pass
as the nurses changed shifts.
I wouldn't conclude
faith has no place at all.
Just sometimes, in extremis,
our god is too small

I imagine you in profile,
sitting in the artist’s chair.
Your coiffure, so elegant, yet
wind is blowing through your hair.
Did you feel self conscious
in the crown of Liberty you wore?
Those lips, moist, pink and parted,
That noble nose and chin,
You stare into eternity
as the artist then begins.

Teresa De Francisci
was the face of Liberty
from the roaring twenties’ boom
to the Depressions’ maladies .
Then she disappeared
and was minted just once more:
It was at the Denver Mint,
in the summer of Sixty four.


They coined your youthful face
when you, yourself, were old and gray.
Then politicians changed their minds,
and consigned them to the flames.
Did it break your husband’s heart
that his work met such an end?
what joy it would have been
to see you made young again.
Whatever was the cause,
your husband died that very year:
the year his lovely Liberty
had been set to reappear.

Sweet Lesbia, hold me in your arms,
give me kisses without ceasing.
Your husband fights in Caesar's cause
and is no challenge in deceiving.
Your smooth white shoulders,beautiful,
that never see the Sun.
They are a feast for this poets' eyes
when your stola comes undone.
Beneath your tunica intima
are sweet ******* that fed your child.
I hope you'll bare them to my lips
in just a little while.
The shadows of the autumn Sun
creep clear across the room.
but Lesbia's sweet smile is enough
to brighten up the gloom.
Great Pompey has been put to rout,
Caesar claims the curule chair.
Outside the World has gone to Hades
Not that this poet cares.
For Lesbia is world enough
to treasure and explore.
If more were of my frame of mind
what need had men for war?

Through Summers ' heat
and icy rain
The stone faced guardians
remain.

They stand fast
when the snow lies deep.
They stand their guard
where the heroes
sleep.

Long Summers past
there was a war
and boys in butternut
charged gloriously.

Then broke upon
the blue clad wall
as cliffs repel
the storm tossed sea.

Now of that host
not one remains
to sound the charge
or scale a wall.

The stone faced guardians
remain
long past the bugles'
dying call.

She was fished out of the river just beneath the mighty span.
Her clothes suggested affluence. Her death bespoke despair.
I sent two men to search the spot from whence she took to air.
Her dead face poses the challenge; can you find out who I am?

Her prints? Not in our database. No purse and no I.D.
She wrote no note that we can find before she took her leave.
Was this some broken love affair? Is there no one to grieve?
The witnesses to her leap are few and contradictory.

Her hair is blonde and shoulder length, neatly coiffed and trimmed.
I notice that she bit her nails, but never will again.
She should be off in college; a new beginning not an end.
The M.E. bags the body. Soon the autopsy will begin.

I look through missing person files, to match a face and name.
I dread the call I’ll have to make to drain some parents’ hope.
To lose a child by her own hand- how can a parent cope?
The tox screen shows no drugs present. I had thought the same.

Female Caucasian, about nineteen, no birth marks and no scars.
Our Janet Doe was pregnant. Was that motive for her leap?
Did her condition make her desperate for this forever sleep?
Surveillance footage yields a clue. To pursue I’ll need my car.

The Tap room reeks of Guinness; the night is near its end.
I show her picture to the barkeep- This girl was here tonight.
There’s a glint of recognition and new facts brought to light.
He doesn’t know her name, but he surely knows her Friends.

They are sitting at a table, looking somewhat worse for drink.
I get her name and address. She is “Janet Doe” no more.
Celene attended N.Y.U. she had been majoring in law.
I left them deeply grieving and not knowing what to think.

This morning I will make the call, the saddest one of all.
“Can you come in to identify the wreck of your hopes and dreams?”
“We think your daughter took her life, at least that’s how it seems.”
To hear her mother’s sobbing is the hardest thing of all.

For thirty years I’ve worked this beat, but today I cried.
I’m not inured to suffering or indifferent to pain.
I’ve seen the broken bodies and think it such a shame
whenever wingless angels try to fly.

He knew the secrets of this wood
He knew it should be shaped for good.
He was not sure that he approved
when the Centurion came
seeking a rood.

The grain was heavy and unforgiving
It was surely meant to serve the living.
Now a means of torture it must be
for some rebel rabbi from Galilee.

Whipped and scourged like a beaten dog,
a poor excuse for a son of God.
He staggered through the streets of the City
Cursed and reviled for few showed pity.

His grieving mother, one courageous friend,
and his woman stayed until the end.
Nicodemus helped to take him down
with my ladder he had brought from town.

Those who died with him fed the dogs
but the Rabbi did not share their fate.
His body was lain in a Hillside tomb
on Nicodemus' own estate.

What happened next depends on Grace
What transpired there on the third day?
Did the body rise or was it just misplaced?
Some will scoff while others pray.

I contemplate the rough hewn rood
Now to me it seems a stranger.
Was it used for good or ill?
The secret is held
in the hands of the Maker.

The target of bullies
in his tender years.
They made his existence
one of misery and fear.
His mother embarrassed him
when she visited class
to discourage his classmates
from kicking his a*s.
He suffered in silence
He never fought back.
His mind became twisted,
He laid plans to attack.
He harbored resentments
for most of ten years.
He was silent and moody
and aloof from his peers.
He spent much of his life
alone in his room
playing first person shooter
and plotting their doom.
His teacher and Principal
had failed to protect him.
And he gave no forewarning
that they should expect him.
His victims were small
and defenseless its said.
They were not who he saw
as he made the room red.
He saw bullies and villains
Who had caused him despair
He saw the girls who had laughed
Or, worse, didn’t care.
There was likely one victim
In a class of that size
Who was, like Adam;
withdrawn, undersized.
The target of bullies
In his tender years
who found his existence
one of misery and fear.
Cut down by a bullet
by one of like mind.
He’ll be no second Adam-
Lanza ended his line.

Bargaining with the Venusians
can prove quite expensive indeed.
(Arranging the transit of Venus
cost me astronomical fees.)

I'm assured it will last me a lifetime-
The last in this century they say.
I've spared no expense to arrange that
it coincides with  my daughter's birthday.

After today I will never
see Venus transit the Sun,
Her childhood, too just a memory
Now that she's turned Twenty -one.

Some will dance while others mourn
The "Iron Lady" who can't atone
for the deaths of the blanket men-
read her crimes on their headstones.

Some will dance while others weep
For a great conservative gone to sleep
but if you are a union man
you'll wish to god that she is dammed.

A flood of blood engulfed her brain,
such memories as did remain
were quickly in the torrent lost.
Do sins leave an indelible stain?

A lake of fire or a heavenly home?
Her ultimate fate remains unknown
No lone piper for her will play
unless there's one she has to pay.

We walked up to the Fun House,
Together, arm in arm.
The ticket taker watched us
with a smile devoid of charm.
"abandon hope, who enter here."
He mirthlessly intoned.
" For some who come together,
will end this night alone."
We walked among the mirrors,
together hand in hand.
At first they were quite innocent,
These walls made out of sand.
Our images were stretched or shrunk
as magic mirrors can.


Then we came to mirrors
unlike the ones before:
My face resembled Satan's,
My girl looked like a *****.
We were somehow seperated
by these walls of molten sand
We ran from that place screaming
like two souls who had been dammed.

We were reduced to silence
by the nightmares that we saw.
Not a word was spoken
as I walked her to her door.
The ticket man had spoken
and the words he spoke were true:
We had spent that time in Hell,
The love we had was through.

“Till death do us part.”
Is a comforting phrase
To all those who repent
their impetuous days.
Those whose “I do’s” were followed
By a question mark,
Or who subsequently experienced
a quick change of heart.
It’s a comfort to them,
on their terminal day,
that their sentence is over
and they can get away.
When the last breath is expelled
Then their marriage is through.
They are free then to love
Anybody but you

My legs and arms flail
franticly, I propel my body
across the sand.
We are being pursued
by Killers.
I hear my brother’s screams
As his murderers rip
him apart.
I must reach the safety
of the water.
My stalker cries triumphantly!
He dives, I dive.
Mine is the victory!
Death has been cheated
It’s not easy
being born a turtle.

George Zimmerman
desperately
sought some way
To silence those
who call for blood.
He’d be defenseless,
Once released,
As Eric Holder has his gun.
In such a desperate situation
The answer came
Like sweet salvation.
To keep his name
off the public tongue,
where he’s reviled
as if a ****,
George filed a name change
with the courts-
And henceforth will be called
Ben Ghazi

I found a place where we could talk
undisturbed, an hour or two.
A verdant grove, a treasure trove
of colors green and blue..

It's been so long since we had shared
some time like this alone.
I cannot blame you, Mother Dear,
-it was I who chose to roam.

It's true that I'm kept busy-
what with school, my job, my home.
Still that is a poor excuse
to leave one's Mom alone.

I see the changes time has wrought,
Those times that saw me stray.
The Spring is missing from your step
Your visage has grown gray.

You have been patient, loving, kind,
through the Autumn of my years.
I've heard your cries in winter winds
In April storms, your tears.

I hope there's time to make amends
for all the wrongs I've done
To dance once more beneath the Moon
as radiant as the Sun.

sunset in oahu by ginkguygagoogank



The Sun sank in the Waters off Oahu
as the old man raised the cordial to his lips.
The perfumed air was just as he remembered,
The sky was golden with the sun's last kiss.

He recalled that day they'd climbed up Diamond Head
and imagined red ball zeros in the sky.
Looking down on Ford's Island in the harbor,
imagining grim scenes from time gone by.

The restaurant was much as he remembered
when first they'd dined here fifty years ago.
It had been a special anniversary,
Still vivid in his memory, ever so.

He thought of something funny he could tell her,
an incipient smile was forming on his lips,
but his dear lost love would never get to share it-
he dined alone with the memory of her kiss.

John Charles Buckley with his one man crew
set sail for Boston on the ocean blue.
With a makeshift sail and with favorable winds
they left Ireland behind and their journey begins.
Our cockleshell heroes soon lost sight of shore.
Not even a gull could they see anymore.
The days passed by slowly as they worked, side by side,
Slaves to the wind and the whims of the tide.
The Atlantic holds terrors,I cannot deny;
icebergs and fearful waves twenty feet high.
One starless night as they battled a squall
they were tossed like a cork with each waves rise and fall.
Sunburned and hungry, they started to drift
and their sense of time passing had started to slip
when they spotted a seabird, a sure sign of shore:
The harbor of Boston- their next port of call.
Their small wooden rowboat with the sail ripped and torn
was ******* to the dockside that September morn.
Heroes or Fools? I'll let you split the difference.
Theirs the smallest boat that had traveled the distance

Hearts, it seems, are as fragile as dreams-
and quite as easily broken.
Frail as a paper valentine
Which is but true love’s token.
The widow maker kills the king
Before needed words are spoken.
Hearts, it seems, are fragile things
And quite as easily broken.

He was at the hospital
until he learned it was a girl.
That fact was just in-congruent
with his model of the world.
Don't look to him for child support
for he will give you naught
He'll delay, deny and threaten
and you'll spend your life in court.
He's devilishly handsome
and can complete a forward pass.
If asked to put a ring on it
he'll look at you and laugh.
He was last seen in the minor leagues
but he never got "the call"
There are "Baseball Annies", hangers on
prepared to bare their all.
So today is not his day
He never has and never will
considered Fatherhood
as more than just a passing thrill.

Last night we kissed hands goodbye,
never dreaming that it was forever.
Unsuspecting that you, my dear child,
soon would lie cold and still neath the heather.

The graceless Sun thoughtlessly shines
I would eclipse it forever.
The death I prepared for was mine,
but God twists the knife and is clever.

First your sister, thirteen summers ago
Then, soon after, I lost your dear Mother.
Now you, daughter- taken from me.
There's no chance this old man can recover.

The comet that shone at my birth
Will soon light its way through the heavens
I beg that it bears me away-
lets me stop being Samuel Clemens.

I really like my muse, I do,
despite her incessant chatter.
It's just, at times, her timing *****,
when sleep, I'd much, much, rather.
It's true I love the verse that she
compels me to compose.
It's ever so much nicer than
my forays into prose.
It just that when it's four A.M.
and I would rather sleep-
She pops in with a word or phrase
that's just to good to keep.
So, obedient to my muse.
I reach for pen and paper.
I dare not lie about in bed
or make plans to betray her.
For so prolific is my muse
who comes to me each waking.
I dare not tick the Lady off
or even keep her waiting.

Her blood alcohol level was point thirty three
when the trooper pulled over her car.
She had a flat tire and her speaking was slurred
As if she had just drunk a whole Bar.
She was over the limit and half in the bag
So they charged her with a D.U.I.
Yet her case got dismissed and the D.A. was miffed
When she proved she was naturally high.
In seems that some people who munch on French fries
Are host to yeast that is causing them grief, making sure that they never run dry.
For Stella’ own body was churning out brew thus explaining her bloodshot red eyes
(and her sad reputation as a cheap date as well as her poor taste in guys.)
Her babes that she nursed never fussed or complained
For her ******* they were naturally keen.
Kids back in High School all thought Stella was cool
(She was drunk off her *** as a teen.)
She now must watch carefully what she consumes
when she’s out for a night on the town.
She produces Grey Goose with her own gastric juice
So Pasta remains out of bounds.

It’s the bottom of your Liter
And you’re feeling little pain.
You stopped with friends on Baker Street
to get out of the rain.

London has a winter chill
That seeps into your bones.
So many people live here
Yet you feel so all alone.

The bottle lies beside you
And you fairly reek of Gin.
You muse is tugging on your sleeve
impatient to begin.

You long to live a simpler life-
perhaps a piece of land.
A place out in the country
with your woman close at hand.

But that’s not going to happen
There’s the trouble with the band.
Lawsuits flying back and forth
with unreasonable demands.

The alcohol helps dull the pain
of a lifetime of regret.
No one said it would be easy
And life’s not finished with you yet.

So you try to get two hours sleep
And you need a shower bad.
You’re heading back to Glasgow
For the best Sax you ever had.

The Jupiter is on the launchpad.
The count down  is proceeding smooth.
On board there's a crew of robots;
for Man there is no room.

Yes, those androids look like us;
and, once, there was a time
when human Scientists themselves
designed some android minds.

Now AI has progressed so far
that circumstance demands
that the designers of this crew for space
must have titanium hands.

This crew will never tire.
they need no food to eat.
Radiation that would **** a man
they'll easily defeat.

The distances in space are vast
at even half the speed of light.
This robot crew will long  endure
after my last good night.

There are headed for Tau Ceti.
Exoplanets there abound.
They'll transmit their data findings
to those here on the ground.

I worry for Posterity;
Fear clouds my troubled mind.
Once  our species were explorers
now we're  forever left behind.

The prowler entered wordlessly
into our back yard.
On padded feet he crept along,
finding an open door.
Like a thief in the dark of night.
silent , unobserved.
Up the stairs the intruder came,
I was taken unawares.
The prowler pushed the bedroom door
open just a crack.
He saw me snoring peacefully and
plotted his attack.
The prowler leapt upon my chest
A little ball of fur.
I'd wondered where our cat had been-
You never know for sure.

Why do I love you?
because you’re my child.
Since before you were born-
So it’s been quite a while.

I couldn’t resist you
No way and no wise
Since the first time I saw you
in your Mother’s eyes.


In part your remind me
Of those I hold dear
the sound of your laughter
the salt of your tears.

The way your tongue curls
And mothers’ cannot
You’re a storehouse of traits
That I can’t do without.

Your voice raised in song
Can be heard in the rafters
Your song is a gift
Handed down from ancestors.

Like me you love humor
With a sarcastic wit
As often as not
you score direct hits

So while I still breathe
And still can remember
I love you dear child
and the sound of your laughter.

The old man, grey, bespectacled, with difficulty, rose from his chair.
If he’d come to plead for mercy, I doubt he’d find it here.
He struggled to stand steady with his Zimmer walking frame
As he gave his testimony we all felt his sense of shame.

“I was there when all this happened; I saw the smoke rise to the sky.
I saw the piles of ashes that were once like you and I.
I counted stolen valuables; Money, watches, gold.
I dared not speak objection. I did as I was told.”

He asked for a glass of water; this much he did receive.
He testified an hour without asking for reprieve.
He spoke about those distant days we see in black and white.
Of a Germany destroyed by debt and burning for a fight.
He then was young and good with numbers
He was the bookkeeper of Auschwitz;
He can’t un-see all he did see.

Although he never shot a girl or stabbed a sleeping child,
He’d tallied up their worldly goods to add them to the pile.
When the Russians over-ran the camp, he and the others fled.
They left behind warehouses full of the possessions of the dead.
The Jury must deliberate about what punishment is due
For this ninety year old **** who kept track of baby shoes.

Your Randomness amazes me; you are the primal spark.
The Devil’s in the details for those of us who hunt the quark.
The particles accelerate around Cern’s race course track,
Then collide in a burst like fireworks that quickly fades to black.
One cannot really “see “a quark, those infinitesimal little things.
It is by their “works” we know them as they race around our ring.
At times it can be tedious, like counting angels on a pin
But finding basic particles is its own reward, my friend.
It’s hard to wrap your mind around the uncertainty within.
We can either know location or the direction of the spin.
Notions of causation must be checked at the front door
For bi locating particles don’t follow Newton’s laws!

When making arrangements for ending it all
be sure to consume the right pills,
for the medicine chest contains many things
They prescribe now to cure other ills.
He’d said his goodbyes and he’d written the note
On the day that he thought was his last.
When he saw he’d O.D’d on Cialis instead
he was taken back and aghast.
For Cupid, not Thanatos, had answered his call
leaving him hard as dried plaster!
Though his wife was impressed-
And gave it her best-
He still throbbed on the edge of disaster.
Two pros they then called
To give it their all
To deal with this “gift” that keeps giving.
Despite their best efforts
He rampant remained
And he thought to himself “This is living”.
His medical doctor had just the thing
to keep Priapism in check.
When he finally went slack
There was no turning back
They at least kept it out of the Press
Upon further reflection
the hope of resurrection
Made him rip up his note and go on
For Life is worth living
with a wife so forgiving
of a spouse with a four hour bone.

On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of artic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.

Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don’t make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.

She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.

Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.

Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won’t pass.

Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain’s choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing put an end to fear?

No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We’ll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths  find honorable graves.

The Memory of my Love
Is as a rose preserved from time.
Or like a treasured bottle
from a vintage year for wine.

I am haunted by her memory-
How our fingers intertwined.
The fragrance of her body
as I held it close to mine.

Now just the shadow of her smile
Brings tears to a dry place.
Funny how my heart can race
Within the ghost of her embrace.
.
She is unchanging, therefore perfect
Her aspect is divine.
I believe that year was vintage-
for love, if not for wine.

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.
.

Good friend, for Heavens’ sake forbear
to pluck the rose that’s growing here;
For many a season there was none:
too much rain, too little sun.

Enter this garden as a child would,
In life’s morning, all seems good.
Let wonder wander where it may.
Scarlett roses bloom today

Good Friend, for Heavens’ sake forbear
To pick the rose that’s growing here
her velvet robes will come undone,
if you should steal her from the sun.

For roses are in short supply,
These bloomed the day my mother died.
If you should take these, I’ll have none
This late in season, no more will come.

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 in his new clothes.

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.

Default on your debt,
Yet not rue the day.
why worry-
The bundesbank
will save the day.

German taxpayers
grumble and moan
At the cost of supporting
the whole Euro zone.

Next the Italians
neck deep in debt,
then Ireland and Spain,
both financial train wrecks.

Massive inflation-
The price all will pay.
So that rioting Greeks
Can live the Greek way

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.

His calloused hands caressed the wood that, shortly, he would plane.
The carpenter was on his knees examining the grain.
The Romans wanted cross beams and the carpenter knew why:
Upon this tree the rebel, Jesus, would be crucified.

He’d never heard the rabbi speak to the admiring crowds.
He thought himself too practical to go in search of God.
In the temple he made sacrifice; he conformed and he complied.
He’d seen too many mad for God and noted how they’d died.

The carpenter thought it was a shame; this wood too good you see.
It’s a tragic waste of good timber to make a hanging tree.
Still the money came in handy as good wine was still not free.
Galled wine would be served in a sponge to this man from Galilee.

The crowd called for Barabbas when this Jesus was condemned.
He shuddered as he thought of the cruel way this life would end.
There is no dignity he could see in a death upon a cross;
mocked by the onlookers while his women wailed his loss.

The Roman paid him coin and slaves bore the beam away.
The sad procession passed his shop later that same day.
The Rabbi wore a crown of thorns, fashioned from the jujube,
and there, upon his shoulders. He bore the hanging tree.

It was a dry , sunny day in June.
that fact she would never forget.
It was the day she lost her partner
to a surfeit of regret.

She had taken their little daughter,
the product of donated *****,
to the nearby Hillside Park
and picnic'd on the side of a berm.

Jane had declined to come with them.
Jane was in one of her "moods".
Perhaps she shouldn't have left her,
but she thought Jane just needed to brood.

Jane was her beautiful partner
erratic, mercurial, bright.
Jane, who could light up the heavens
like a bolt from the blue in the night.

They returned to a silent apartment.
It was the stuff of nightmares, not dreams.
A red streak of blood in the bathroom
Her little girl started to scream.

A kind neighbor cared for her daughter
as she spoke to police in a fog.
The M.E.'s van came for the body.
Seeing Jane lifeless was odd.

Tomorrow, she must make arrangements.
She needn't bear this all alone.
It was time that she spoke with Jane's parents.
Softly weeping, she picked up the phone.

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

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

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

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

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

.

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

As Eleven sprints towards its end,
and the fire slowly dies,
forget the tears, recall the joy
for that way wisdom lies.

Father Time stood undefeated.
Bonds came close, but Barry Cheated.
Roger Clemens had a career for the ages
but oft fell prey to roid based rages.
Mariano Rivera was a more worthy foe
No pharmacological freak was Mo.
He threw one pitch, his control well learned,
and he chose to leave on his own terms.
I stood up and joined the cheers
the day Rivera last appeared
and, though I wept to see him go,
Time would never lay him low.
Mo Struck out Time, he had it cooking
A called third strike that left Time looking
like Beltran caught in the bright lights
good morning, good Evening and Good NIGHT!

What is one death out of Fifty eight thousand?
One house full of weeping in a divided land?
Examine, minutely, the loss of one solider,
one single example of so many last stands.
His sisters hair, now streaked with grey,
She lights a candle in a church
in memory of that fatal day
when her brother's airplane fell to earth.
Freedom's sacrifice paid in blood
by lance Corporal Ronald Powell.
It was an August day like this,
but far away and long ago.

Remember.