There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking


much

From the moment I first saw her
I knew she was the girl for me.
Sun freckled skin and auburn hair;
Her eyes laughed Merrily .
Intelligent and focused
with a smile forever young.
I doubted not a moment
that she would be "the one"

"I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old." -
I'll be your special guy!

She looked at me, perhaps askance,
When I had said those lines.
I think she knew their provenance
was another place and time.
" Unless you're wearing Pantaloons
and have a balding pate
don't be quoting Shakespeare at me
if you expect a second date."

Unabashedly ashamed was I-
caught stealing others' lines.
I longed to be her Romeo
with balconies to climb.

To lie with her beneath the stars
to share Love's sweet delights-
these days its but a memory
that keeps me warm at nights.

No, you will not hear him anymore.
belting out a Broadway score.
You would wait forever
before he walks through that door.
Cory’s golden voice is silenced,
because he was tempted and succumbed.
That often is the price one pays
to be forever young.

Cory Monteith, R.I.P

In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
forgiveness followed for the devout..

Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating
the Absolute.

Why on Earth is Oblivion Black
instead of a more gracious hue?
After all, once you’re done decomposing
there’s nothing to see or to do.
The dastardly Demons of death
have decreed this dismal décor.
I think it’s high time we revolt,
not take it lying down  as before.
Interior designers of note
must give Styx a thorough redo.
We’d enjoy a more fab non existence
if everything faded to blue.


( I fell asleep while my wife was watching “Design Stars" on HBTV)

A child this day was born in Britain
but no camera men record this birth.
He's not the child of Kate and William.
He's common clay of humble earth.
He'll soldier on four score and seven
He'll fight and win your senseless war.
He'll never claim noblesse oblige
as he shoulders debt from those before.
One is born Royal, the other common.
One wears Purple, the other, dust.
One shall be the king of England.
One's blood is blue, the other, rust.
One shall head the church of England
The other lad will own a pub.
Which one in time will prove right noble?
to quote the bard "Aye, there's the rub."

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

What if the stars around us
are of Sentient life devoid ?
Binary stars and Giant blues
are common in the void.
Binaries do not provide
a habitable clime
Blue Giant Stars burn fast and short-
Evolution needs more time.
Giant Reds live long enough
but keep few planets warm.
Perhaps upon a distant rock
there is some primal goo
but that is quite a ways away
from beings like me and you.
So please be better stewards
of this third rock from the sun
That lovely little yellow dwarf
round which our race is run.

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.

He's nobody's hero,
never wanted to be.
Just one of a million
who were sent overseas.
He dropped into France
on a long ago night.
Near Mere St Eglise
where he joined in the fight.
"These are the real heroes"
and he points to the Stones
of his friends and comrades
who never came home.

A thoroughbred voice.
A stellar career.
A beautiful woman
singing songs sweet and clear.

Must I mention the millions
that flowed to her coffers.
Whitney could have enjoyed
what this world has to offer.

Then she married a punk,
not the least bit refined.
She drank a bit much
she did a few “lines”

A broken down voice;
missed notes and miss dates.
A fate like Monroe’s-
Cut off young by the fates.

With downcast eyes
They headed down,
a mother and her son.
Tears now seemed
in short supply,
both emotionally numb.
John looked back
At the vacant cross
where brother Jesus died.
Low grey clouds
obscured the sun
where He was crucified.
At times like this
it’s hard to hope.
And most forget to pray.
“It is finished.” Jesus said
Of this, our Passion Play.

I was minding my own business
on my way from here to there.
(I was not one of his disciples,
stack the bibles and I'll swear.)
Yet when I was accosted
by a Roman with a sword,
I was forced to bear the Cross-
as certain "points" can't be ignored.
The way was steep and rocky
and the cross beam hard to bear.
On our way up He was silent,
perhaps lost in silent prayer.
There were sounds of women weeping
and jeering Jews who came from town.
I was glad to reach to summit-
relieved to lay my burden down.
It was only then I saw His face,
beneath its thorny crown.
He thanked me for my labor
with a kindly look and word.
I said a blessing in return,
but I wonder if he heard.

Yes, I recall the day quite well
when our paths crossed, then diverged.

His eyes burned in my memory
as I stumbled on my way.
I did not stay to watch Him die
but I was there that day.

“It is what it is”
-Such a popular phrase!
And folks spread it around
Like Fast Food Mayonnaise.
It’s been used to describe
Economic foment,
The state of the arts and
The high cost of rent.

A phrase often spoken
When you wish to seem wise-
In the loop, in the know,
But it’s all just a guise.
It’s a symptom of sorts
Of our current malaise
You did not hear it much
in our halcyon days.

In that past, half remembered,
where house prices rose.
Where portfolios doubled,
and we all wore new clothes.
We were kings of the world
And we partied till three.
Now we live on fixed income
And we struggle to ***.

“It is what it is”
Is no optimist’s line
It’s a dull sounding phrase
Half resigned to hard times.
It implies things are bad
and inclined to get worse.
“It is what it is”
To me it’s a curse.

Its true girls come with baggage,
be she starlet or plain Jane.
The trick for guys is finding one
whose baggage they would claim.

Its said all girls are crazy,
and experience proves it true.
the secret is to find the girl
who’s crazy about you.

Its not as if we’re perfect,
We have baggage of our own.
It‘s the burden we must carry
if we’re to ever have a home.

A Penny for my thoughts
doesn’t seem a princely sum.
It doesn’t buy much else
when all is said and done.
It might be that, In days gone by,
A penny bought a meal.
It was sufficient for the boatman’s fare
Across the Styx to steal
But now the humble copper
Is derided or forgot.-
When it comes to purchase power,
The penny has it not.
So if you would my thoughts peruse
there’s been a raise in rents.
You must come up with a dollar
I’m no longer taking cent$.

Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.

Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.

Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.

The release was unintentional, the Public was assured.
No vaccines were available, not that they’d have cured.
For every ten infected, they knew that eight would die.
more lethal than Ebola, and the people wondered why?

It was born in a researcher’s lab, a variant of the flu;
the strain from 1918 that murdered millions too.
Why he was let to do this work, I cannot understand.
Sadly we can’t ask him as he died by his own hand.

It preyed on old and young alike, it slaughtered rich and poor.
The dead were left unburied, and the pestilence slaughtered more.
It was clear the Horsemen rode that night, we heard their banshee scream.
We decided if we were to die, that first we’d have Poteen.

Poteen is a potent brew, distilled three times by hand.
Its an old family recipe handed down by my old man.
As golden drops poured in each glass we raised a toast on high:
“We salute thee, Mighty Lord, we who are about to die.”

A Warmth of stupefaction went coursing through our veins.
When we finally sobered up, no pathogens remained.
Who knew my father’s recipe could put the plague to flight?
We saved as many as we could; no man went dry that night.

The Sun shone on a brave new world, the air was fresh and clean..
The rivers still flowed to the Seas and Eagles still took flight
The Politicians all had died; both the Left and Right.
We left the Cities far behind and lived upon the land,
And never was a jug of “dew” far from my right hand.

A brilliant Profusion-
in death, leaves are proud!
(No Pharoah or King
have enjoyed such a shroud.)
They flutter on downward
upon the stiff breeze.
collecting in piles
nearly up to my knees.
The rasping of rakes
is a familar fall sound.
An unwanted tribute
I collect from the ground.

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.

It is quiet, even peaceful here,
out past Hana on Maui’s Isle.
Near Palapala **'omau Church,
This is where I have come to bide.
To listen to the Ocean’s roar,
to find what peace is left to me.
I could not hide from you, oh Lord
Not in the uttermost depths of the sea
My time is fast approaching when
I will lose this quarrel with disease.
The air is warm and liquid here,
It has a perfumed fragrance that
would bid a younger man to stay.
but Cancer bids me to fade away
As I will, I’ve seen the stone,
simple enough to mark my space..
In the Churches’ graveyard here
my friend Sam has made a place
I recall, when youth was dawning,
You gave me the Wings of the Morning.
Was it simple vanity
that made me venture the unconquered sea.
I took off from Roosevelt field alone
and touched down in Paris, far from home.
Now I am far from home again,
Death’s boney hand he offers, like a friend.

Someday the songs that we have loved
will not be played on air.
Music belongs to the young,
not the old with greying hair.
As we boomers file retirement,
or pass beyond the vale,
our boast that rock would never die
is past its date of sale.
Its' hard to do the hustle
when your hips no longer hop
When dementia runs epidemic
more than lyrics are forgot.
When your sitting in the Nursing Home
awaiting your ice cream.
You'll most likely be listening
to someone Else's teenage dream.

The bird outside my window
woke me up all summer long
Every day, like clockwork,
with the same repetitious song.
When I’d rather be sleeping
he would rather I awake.
(Once or twice I thought
of drastic actions I might take.)
These days my mornings quiet,
I no longer hear his song.
My avian tormentor
is ,like the summer, gone

Back when Bedlam was in full swing,
and faced with overload,
some lunatics who hadn't killed
were forced to hit the road..
Faced with no "room at the inn"
such persons were discharged
but were made known to the police
as "Lunatics at large"

Since Willow brook has closed its doors,
and Creedmore has downsized,
we give our mentally ill some pills
and house them 'neath the skies.

They mutter to themselves at times
as lonely they do roam
in search of a dry underpass
that must  serve them for a home.

How wonderful that modern drugs
makes zombies of our brothers,
and leave us blithely unaware
of how badly we treat others.

The sky was so very blue, it was a Thursday, I recall.
Nagasaki had just stirred to life when "Bock's Car" paid us a call.
We were the secondary target, but dark clouds concealed the first.
Thus our city was marked for death when hell  unleashed upon the earth.
The super-fortress shimmered, brilliant silver in sunlight.
I saw one parachute deploy as she turned and banked from sight.
There was a blinding flash of light, then thunder from on high.
" that is strange" I recall that thought "Thunder from a clear blue sky."

The man called Mitt
Is known to flip
And flop to try and
Please ya.
The President claims
His foe has got
A bad case of
“Romnesia”
Elephants have
Been known to
Have a
photographic mind.
Yet Mitt, their standard bearer
Changes his stance
time after time.
Might he prove a moderate
or is he right of center?
Can he govern Blue states too
Or is he all magenta?
When talking to his base
He always spouts the Party line.
Other times he’s a Romnesiac
And thus hard to define.

Little children will monitor speech
for the hint of a racist remark.
Veterans cannot be trusted with guns,
there’s a risk that they’re violent at heart.
Is healthcare a tax or a fee
in the land of the formerly free?

Old white men to the back of the bus,
Check your privilege, leave the driving to us.
Barbarians encounter no gate,
freely enter and live off the State.
They‘ll vote Democratic, you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Our President, a liar and phony,
doles out largesse to all of his cronies.
While our roads and our bridges need work
We’re distracted by some twit that twerks.
It’s all misdirection you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Taxpayers are only half free,
constrained by demands of the State.
Despite their Utopian schemes
Inequality grows to extremes
They divided to conquer you see
in the land of the formerly free.

She posed for ******* magazine
In nineteen Fifty Four.
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.
Her freckled skin was milky white,
her hair a burnished flame.
Her ******* were real and firm and high.
Dolores was her name.
She married shortly after that
And loved the child she bore.
She had both family and career
And she cared not who saw.
They called her a few weeks ago
To pose for them again
For once one is a playmate,
A playmate they remain.
Her skin is mottled, wrinkled now.
She sports a silver mane.
They used a gentle softer light
And a shawl embraced her frame.
She posed for ******* magazine
Like she had once before
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.

We die each night,
to sleep succumb .
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.
But as the Son
for mercy, dies.
Perhaps this good thief
too may rise.

It’s the bottom of your Litre
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.

A simple curved stone bench
Set in a rustic niche.
Outside, this city bustles,
here, time passes by the inch.
There’s a fine array of roses
and stone tablets on the wall.
The inscription is in Irish,
It tells of a rise and fall.
As I sit, quiet, here
Near the bronze children of Lir
The reflecting pool brims full
of my races’ gathered tears.

She had been condemned to silence
since the stroke, two years before.
The lovely lyric voice I loved
seemed vanished evermore.

Locomotion came back slowly.
Just this spring I saw her smile
Still, my girl remained in shadow,
sadly silent all the while.

Her new therapist was hopeful
That she could be taught to sing.
I doubted it was possible-
She couldn't say a thing.

Two hours, nearly every day
the girl who wore my ring
with her therapist accompanist
keep struggling to sing.

I never thought that
"row your boat"
could be my favorite song
Until I heard her sing it,
for the first time on her own.

When all my prayers were answered
I no longer felt alone.
That day the girl who wears my ring
made it all the way back home.

When I was young,
and bedtime loomed,
my Father used to read to me;
stories from a wondrous book.
A Book that he alone could see.

From memory he'd recite poems
or tell of heroes doughty deeds.
Those stories shaped my mind and heart
as much as any faith or creed.

They were, of course,
the tales he'd heard
when mother had
sung him to sleep.
Stories run deep in our blood
the only treasures we can keep.

I was waiting on the platform,

waiting for a westbound train.

I was thinking about you

but I didn’t know your name.

I had seen you at the wedding-

You were playing bass guitar.

I didn’t at the time yet know

How wonderful you are.

Amazingly the train was late,

delayed because of rain.

You came with that umbrella.

I forgot about my plane.

I somehow found my courage

to finally ask your name.

In time we would share sorrow

But first we’d share romance.

I’ve no regrets that we two loved-

just grateful for the chance.

Someday I’ll tell our children

How we met there in the rain

How a shared umbrella

brought us close

While waiting for a train.

Someone has cut off my hands, not that it caused any pain.
Look upon me, a proud man’s daughter, enjoy then what remains.
My eyes will stare into your soul. My lips bear the trace of smile.
My portrait has lent immortality to this woman who never had child..
I was both a wife and a lover, this painting was made for my swain,
But he had both a wife and a mistress. In Florence he couldn’t remain.
In me you will see light and darkness. Sadness is there in my eyes.
My family has made me an older man’s bride; my circumstance breeds my disguise.

In the grove of Isla Negra,
his beloved by his side,
lies Pablo Neruda-
Does his grave conceal a lie?

Forty years since he departed,
Four decades in the clay,
A Judge in Santiago
calls him forth to light of day.

This poet was a mortal soul
whose love illumed his lines.
Was he murdered in the hospital,
or did cancer end his time?

He said Love’s time is brief
and is much longer forgotten-
But he could extend its lease
With Love sonnets he’d begotten.

Did Pinochet eliminate
The poet left alone.
He was lying in the hospital,
Defenseless, it was known.

Did a needle give that lover’s pinch
That hurts, but is desired?
Or did Cancer gnaw his bones
relentless like wildfire?

The bones will tell, They always do
Though mortal flesh decays
So we disturb the poets’ sleep
This resurrection day.

Too long we have denied the truth
of our sad situation.
We needed to pay down our debts,
not spend like party nation.
Now our debts are coming due
and we resort to printing payment-
We've kicked the can down the road
but we're running out of pavement.
The great Pablo Picasso,
with great flourish, signed his checks.
He knew they would never be
cashed at his expense.
We are not as fortunate
with those trillions held abroad.
The Chinese could buy Canada
and barely dent their horde.

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

To be, and not merely seem to be
is the core of authenticity.
Those who, instead, essay a role,
(like actors in a classic play),
Hold up a mask before their face.
They speak what others bid them say.
These merely seem to have a soul.
Such folk are fools or clones or trolls.

Those who tread the stony road
Where honor truth and virtue dwell
need no  masks or other wiles
The truth will serve them well.

For Five long years he fought a war
against the mighty English crown.
At times, it seemed, by will alone
He kept our army in the field.
At Valley Forge our ill clad troops
suffered greatly from the cold.
In New York harbor thousands died,
held as prisoners in foul ships’ holds.
The reverses were many, the victories few
until the world turned upside down.
That day at Yorktown when Lord Cornwallis
And all his troops were brought to ground.
Yet, with our independence won,
the victor would not wear a crown.
Like Cincinnatus, the hero of old,
He lay down his arms and went back home.
Washington was that paragon
He refused all kingly robes.
Liberty lives only because
A free man refused to be a Lord.
Remember, if you would stay free,
the price they paid for Liberty.
Remember George who wore no crown.
His sacred honor deserves renown.

The weather is perfect for flying today;
seventy degrees, hardly a cloud in the sky.
I stowed my carry-on in the overhead bin.
I am glad our 747 is only half full,
perhaps I will be able to sleep on the plane.
I am due in Rome tomorrow .
There is a growing problem in our parishes and schools.
Men of the cloth engaged in unspeakable acts.
The Curia must be alerted.
The diocese has turned a blind eye to these problem priests
Moving them from parish to parish
Ignoring the harm they perpetrate against the innocents.
I will not be silent.
I watch a young family take their seats in the row across from mine.
I hope the baby is not going to cry all the way across the Ocean.
The smiling Blonde stewardess begins our preflight safety check:
“Welcome to Trans World Airlines Flight 800 to Rome via Paris”

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Our City teetered on collapse as pimps and prostitutes worked Times Square.
That long hot summer of Seventy five, ere Disneyfication happened there.
When fear ruled these streets and crime rode the subway trains.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Fun City’s last mayor had packed and left, the sad faced accountant now held the reins.
Along the Bowery vacant eyed drunks panhandled passersby for change
And squeegee men collected tolls on all the bridges.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Working and Middle class New Yorkers fled the mounting crime and social strain
Open enrollment disrupted schools as educational standards went down the drain
And FALN placed a bomb in Fraunces Tavern.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Then real estate sold for a song; there were so many vacant lots.
Fires up in the Bronx had consumed whole City blocks.
That year the Yankees played their games in Queens.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Gerald Ford told the City to drop dead when Beame went to him hat in hand.
Midnight cowboys plied their trade, strangers in a stranger land.
In Yonkers, a deranged young man was taking cues from a black dog.

He stared at the words on the paper-
at least a dozen times.
At last he gave a little laugh and said.
“I can’t recall if these are mine.
I recognize a familiar style; a well-worn rhyming scheme.
Perhaps I may have written this back when still a teen.”
Beneath his façade of outward calm, I thought that I espied
a too familiar horror in his bespectacled eyes.
I saw the fear of loss of self, of dignity, of mind.
A brilliant wit now silenced, aware of its decline.
His mind was like a drowning man who panics in the brine;
eluding would be rescuers, going down for the third time.
He handed back the paper and I was too kind to say
that this was the piece of verse he finished yesterday.
Forget me not, It seemed to say. Please don’t leave me behind,
although the better part of me has died before my time.

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Lori didn’t turn many heads
But she turned my life around.

Forty years, has it been
since we were both seventeen?
I remember it a difficult year
Like all the ones in between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner
she worked on the school paper with me
She rolled up her skirt like the others
to show off her Catholic girl knees.

With Greg as her steady companion
she was the heart of our group.
They provided a fair bit of drama
and the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, inclined to be round.
It was Lori who drew our social circle
big enough to include me in bounds.

We always were friends, never lovers,
never shared one passionate kiss.
She taught me that mercy trumps justice
She made Circles just like God makes his.

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Her face had the smile of an angel
such beauty is rare to be found.

When Desmond Fitzgerald succumbed to disease

his hereditary knighthood expired.

He had fathered no son to take up his sword.

No heir means the title’s retired.

For eight hundred years and twenty nine scions

The grand clan Fitzgerald held sway.

Now with his last breath, no successor is left

So, with honors, he’s buried today.



The green knight of Kerry is still in the field,

The last Irish knight in the fray.

Not that he sallies forth swinging a sword.

He sits home and drinks sherry all day.

James Bond was a dissolute youth
who spent his nights drinking Vermouth
I was shaken, not stirred
when they gave me the word
that his blood test came back  ninety proof.

“Did I hesitate a moment? Did I stop and wonder why?
We were ordered to attack from some blunderer up high.
We were all, I think, afraid. Who wouldn’t be right then?
Those Russians were entrenched and had artillery with them.
We must have looked magnificent on our chargers riding high
As we rode for God and Country, we knew Death was standing by.
I saw my brother Henry die and more brave lads besides.
We dressed the line and galloped on, We who were about to die.
My horse was shot from under me and that threw me to the sod.
The battle sounded distant and my left arm felt quite odd.
Some Shrapnel cut my face and thigh, but I saw many worse.
Some men called for their mothers, others raged and cursed.
Our gallant charge was broken by effective cannon fire.
There were many horses riderless like the one that I acquired.
When I got back behind our lines, I thanked my equine friend.
Then I realized he’d been Henry’s mount when this travesty began.
I’m sure there will be an inquiry into how this was misplayed.
It is then I’ll tell my tale about our murdered light brigade.”

The rain has stopped falling,
and the sun no longer shines.
Can broken hearts
truly be mended?
perhaps, on the other side.

The joke bears the retelling.
You didn't cry alone.
Your suffering is ended.
In song you still go on.

May the loser finally win
May your sorrows be redressed.
May broken hearts be rendered whole
May your tears be dried at last.



( Robin Gibbs, RIP)

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was good company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

Jessica lay quiet on the floor
as images still flickered on the screen
One of a dozen murdered in their prime
when the silver screen became a ****** scene.

Just last month she had narrowly escaped
a shooter loose in a Toronto Mall.
As in the movie"final Destination"
Death came back to pay another call.

We never know the moment or the hour
when we'll be called to render our account.
Arbitrary fate selects the victims
from both doubters and the hopefully devout.

Parents still wait anxious by the phone
for any word about their children's fate.
Ten dead at least lie scattered in the aisles
The ****** harvest of a madman's hate.