If I had the world and time,
ample wine and leisure,
then I might be well content
to give myself to pleasure.
Oh what fun indolence is
with all the world my treasure.
But infinity is not the cloth
of which I'm cut and measured.
The Fates that cut say time is short,
I cannot bide forever.
I preserve my time
in bits of rhyme
so posterity thinks me clever.
A prophet in his own home town
appreciated never.

The years pass us more quickly now;
The days and moments flee.
The constant in this sea of change
is the love you share with me.
It is the constant Northern light
that guides this sailor home.
It is the Pearl of greatest price
for which I’d sell all I own.
In exchange for all your gifts of Love,
your poor poet offers this:
A simple Anniversary poem,
warmed with a tender kiss.

Gaukroger’s war was over.
Gaukroger, too, was through.
A piece of him here,
a piece over there.
Not the Peace that he wanted
in his last forlorn prayer

Gaukroger was a fellow second lieutenant
and survival was not his forte.
For days after death he lay there unburied
Nor could I make my eyes turn away.

We’d been sent to this place
to be forward observers.
enemy guns found the range.
Gaukroger died quickly,
without even a goodbye.
Sometimes, after,
I wished for the same.

When I looked for Boche,
Gaukroger stared back
A steady and reproving stare
At night the rats came,
larger than cats,
by next morning
my friend wasn’t there.

Outside it feels like ten below,
so I bask in the warmth and light
of the Fireplace's glow.
No better spot on a bitter night.
A cup of Cocoa to warm my hands
and suddenly the world seems right.
Then Chip, my Chocolate Lab, makes demands;
with leash in mouth he nudged my hands.

Out in the utter dark of night.
We walk together , man and beast,
Chip loves to frolic in the snow,
(and cares not if its ten below.)
Whereas I, on the other end of the leash,
do not enjoy it in the least.
He has fur and four paw drive.
I, old and portly, slip and slide.
I'd much rather be back, warm, inside.
I think it's time for chocolate!

It was a time of slush, snow and icy precipitate
when you and I first ventured out on what may be called a date.
A group of us went bowling, then repaired to the local bar.
Later you dispelled the chill as we snuggled in my car.
It's true that ice was on the ground and it was getting late.
I fell for you, you felt it too. It is a blissful state.
True, it was not a "forever" love; such is granted to but few.
We had love for a brief season in a time of cold and flu.

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.

Cyber Monday is my day
to Wrap my Christmas list.
I travel down the Amazon
to find that one-click bliss.

I keep my credit card on file
so when the impulse strikes me
I hop on line and grab my find
They'll ship it free most likely..

I joined their super saver club
which gives me priority.
I save a bunch on shipping
as I buy there constantly.

I pity those fools Thanksgiving night
waiting there on line
before a brick and mortar store
I guess for some that's fine.

Somehow Amazon recalls
the things I've bought before
and comes up with suggestions
I think its called Al Gore.

Regulation time was up
and our team one goal behind.
At the referees sole discretion
Is the length of stoppage time.
How much time do we have left?
What difference can we make?
Already we’re shorthanded
And the playoffs are at stake.
We’re like a man whose heart has failed
a time or two before.
Each time nearly off with death
Until revived for more.
Or somebody whose lease is up
And headed for the door,
Waiting only for the truck
to take their past to store.
I heard my pulse race in my ears
As I penetrate their line.
I tuck the ball inside the post
And score in stoppage time.

Just ahead a shootout waits
which will decide our fate.
When playing games of sudden death
What a difference seconds make.

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.

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.

Sometimes a spirit won't let go,
in spite of all the pain.
It wants another sunrise,
to feel, again, the rain.

But when at last, its time to go
with goodbyes said at last
return them to their mother's womb
at peace with their own past.

For so short is a lifetime's span,
from first word to last amen
We borrow breath to live as man-
expiring, pay it back again.

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 Crust of the Earth Ruptured in a caldera.
The Sun blotted out by the ash and ejecta.
Dark lay the land in that perilous time.
way back before history had written a line.

The carnage terrific, there were deaths beyond count
When Starvation set in we saw casualties mount.
We came so close then to the end of our race.
There were ten thousand humans left on Earth's face.

These ten thousand survivors, the sad Remanent left
were fruitful and multiplied, at least that's a good guess.
At last count we numbered seven Billions or more.
We have plundered the land and polluted the shore.

I wonder when Yellowstone will rumble again.
It will blot out the stars and will threaten World's end.
But if some should survive and start over again
for the sake of Our Father please this time stay friends.

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

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.

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.

A younger man
and his older wife
at their villa south of Rome.
Both English Poets of Renown
and very far from home.
Elizabeth was fading fast
Robert held her in his arms.
Her lungs were weak
and opiates for sleep
had begun to cause her harm.
Robert said that on her last day
she was radiant as a girl.
The last word she spoke
was "Beautiful"
before she left this world.

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.

My secret flame has kindly eyes that I have learned to trust.
Let the world praise Nefertiti but remember she is dust.
No, she is not beautiful in the way the world decides.
Yes, my heart is on fire when I behold her with these eyes.
She is my muse, my Touchstone, my constant evening star.
She is ever on my mind, though often from afar.
Keep Helen with her thousand ships, such beauty is but vain.
A poet is much better off who has a secret flame.

You can still find our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our Families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

Our boat was the pride
of the  Atlantic Sub Fleet.
Five years on our station,
patrolling the deep.

We were out on an exercise
Two hundred miles off Cape Cod
When, quite unexpected,
We encountered our God

A critical subsystem failed
the reactor shut down
Without power or steering
The thresher would drown

Our companion ship heard
A roaring like wind.
We were crushed by the pressure
as the Thresher caved in.

Some worker on shore,
in a hurry to lunch,
Had missed a weld on a pipe
-The Inquiry board’s hunch.

You can still see our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

The thing that killed her has a name

It formed the plaque that scarred her brain.

She embarked upon that one way trip

where names elude and memories slip



This disease is most unkind

It slows the step and clouds the mind

Her daughter daily watched her fade

into a lemure, a ghostly shade.



She was not frail at eighty nine

She’d cold cocked nurses in her time

who came too close with an I.V.

and paid dearly for their ministry.



The heart was strong, but not the mind

Ten years passed, as we count time.

She couldn’t hear or speak our names

How silent then her world became.



She couldn’t eat without an aide,

Or walk without a metal cane.

At the last- the chair with wheels

And we all saw how helpless feels.



Some say death is most unkind

Perhaps, for those before their time-

But for those who linger at his door

There is no gift they wanted mor

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.

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.

“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.

From the beginning  was the Wyrrd,
and the Wyrrd  was in the hands of the Norns.
These three weird sisters held men's fates .
They handled , measured and cut
the strands of fate
Some think them witches
or else the classical Fates.
These are the Norns.
They measure out our days.
Do not look
Do not dare to gaze upon
The faces of Fate
The Weird sisters

Flee, Macbeth, thane of Cawdor!

Fly Thane of Glamis

Time has traded in his wing-ed chariot;
He donated it to the obnoxious Kars for Kids.
Still, I wouldn’t worry about Time.
It’s not like the old boy has hit the skids.
I saw him, just today, down by the station
He was styling in his Porsche nine forty-four.
Whatever is his final destination-
He’ll be getting there much faster, that’s for sure!

It’s almost as if Time had a midlife crisis;
Realized he’s no stud muffin anymore.
His grey and grizzled beard could use a trim.
He should buy a suit and ditch the robes.
He needs a woman to help him spend his money;
With the miracle of compound interest he has loads.
Thus, while I may drive a Fourteen year old Chevy
and eat my lunch out of a paper bag.
Time is styling in his Porsche nine forty-four;
I guess, for him, the economy’s not that bad.

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

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.

In the bowels of a prison, in a tomb of concrete, for twenty three hours a day-
The “Teflon Don” was alone all that time, free only to scream, curse, or pray.
To seek refuge in madness most men would resort, but that was not John Gotti’s way.
He was chained when he showered; by the guards he called cowards,
he saw the Sun seldom these days.

His mind oft would drift back to better days at the Bergin hunt and fish-
Playing cards with friends and cronies who indulged his every wish..
He recalled how he rose to be Don; it was a blood drenched throne,
but, unlike his predecessor, he would die slowly and alone

Cancer took his lower jaw; he gummed what food he ate.
Four grey walls surrounded him, the door an iron gate.
His tumor soon metastasized; that death was imminent was plain.
Although John Gotti was in agony he took nothing for the pain.

He would not chance a mental lapse, a confession overheard.
He would not give the ******* that; he would not say a word.
He died choking on his own blood, his corpse lay still and cold.
It was then, and only then, the Feds released their hold

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."

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.

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.

Long and passionate or short and sweet./
Old Aunt Mabel’s peck on the cheek./
French or American, it matters not/
Long and languorous I find hot/
Experienced or ingénue/
Always enjoyable and new/
Given by mistresses or/
Bestowed by Misses./
In a pinch I’ve made do
With Hershey’s
kisses!

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.

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.

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)

When, as a child, I thought about
a future to be planned,
I saw myself upon the mound
with a baseball in my hand.
I’d fantasize about the game
throwing at our garage door.
Fearlessly I toed the rubber
and reached down for something more.
I learned the basics of control,
a fastball and a slider.
If I could only get my curve to break
I’d really be on fire.
Through long summer afternoons
From sixty feet, six inches.
I’d shake off imaginary signs
and called my own dammed pitches.
There was a problem, I confess,
one troubling me greatly.
My fastball wasn’t all that fast-
It topped out about eighty.
I also stand at Five foot eight
and, even then, was hefty.
But I think I could have made “The Show”
if I had been born a Lefty.
Published today 09.12

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.

It was windy that night, all those questioned agreed,
when the woman was struck by some falling debris.
It was here on West 12th Street,at the corner of Seventh,
by the condo they’re building on the site of Saint Vincent’s.
A section of plywood had chanced to fall,
driving “Tina” Nguyen head first into a wall.
She fell to the pavement and she struck her head.
They rushed her to Bellevue, but she was already dead.
Was it chance? Was it fate? Was it some Divine plan?
Her death was so random, so hard to understand.
We walk these same streets, so I think you’ll agree
It could have been you. It might have been me.

“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.”

Four bold gypsy warriors
bonded when very young.
Neither darkness nor the roaring wind
could make them come undone.

The four became like sisters,
like mothers to the young.
to outsiders they were terrors
and they vowed to be as one..

From the time that they were children
They sang, they played, they prayed.
They claimed each others friendship
in ways  time can’t blot or fade.

The winds of change could separate,
-but only physically.
Each bold brave gypsy warrior
retained true empathy.

Life gave both tears and laugher;
happy times and desperate days.
At times they felt like wanderers
trapped within a maze.

Then, when the days were darkest
one would pick up the phone
and summon a companion
for things you shouldn’t face alone.

Once more now they’re together.
Shared dreams and kindred hearts
Four bold brave gypsy warriors
against the wind and dark.

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”

There are those who prefer to live on their knees when others would die on their feet,
Chabu is dead, but his words still resound, like the echo of shots on the street.
He was a free man with no child and no wife. No attachments can be a mercy.
A man who has paid for his thoughts with his life is a martyr who sets others free.
Vengeance is natural and there are those who will spit on these gunmen and curse.
In the showdown between “faith” and ideas, the artist will always draw first.



Il ya ceux qui préfèrent vivre sur leurs genoux quand les autres mourraient sur leurs pieds,
Chabu est mort, mais ses paroles résonnent encore, comme l'écho de coups de feu dans la rue.
Il était un homme libre sans enfants et pas de femme. Pas de pièces jointes peuvent être une miséricorde.
Un homme qui a payé pour ses pensées de sa vie est un martyr qui met les autres libres.
Vengeance est naturel et il ya ceux qui vont cracher sur ces hommes armés et malédiction.
Dans la confrontation entre «foi» et des idées, l'artiste puisera toujours en premier.

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.

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)

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.

A kind word and an autograph
were the sort of things he did..
He always had a winning smile
The man we called “the kid”.

In Victory; magnanimous,.
In defeat: A stand up guy.
He was the newsman’s hero
with deadlines looming nigh.

With his Mets down two games to nil
and a must win game to play.
He drove the ball to Lansdowne Street
and showed his team the way.

He hated making the “last out”-
In game six he never did.
His single brought us to our feet
The man we called “the kid.”

Now the opposing pitcher, Death,
has slipped a changeup by.
That Gary went down swinging
will cause grown men to cry.

But somewhere, in some little league,
There’s a kid with curly hair.
Who loves the game like Gary did,
He’s the answer to our prayer.

He’ll play the game the right way,
just like Gary always did.
Then, when he smiles, we’ll think about
The man we called “the Kid”.

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.

Telemarketers get a bad rap.
People call us impersonal drones.
We’re just trying to eke out a living,
armed just with a script and a phone.

My place is called “Cubicle City”.
It’s the dream of a lifetime for me:
Five thousand square feet of space underground
where the bowl-a mat once used to be.

Joey is one of my workers,
For years he’s been one of my best.
He knew how to deal with rejection
and make many more sales than the rest.

Just lately, his work has been suffering.
Last night he was crying on phone.
I see he’s been calling one number
far too often. I see that it’s his own.

Now I am a curious fellow
about all these short calls to his home.
I pick up my handset and dial it
to tell her to leave Joe alone.

Of course I would get a recording;
A woman’s voice, honeyed and sweet,
It seductively says “leave a message,
when you hear the sound of the beep.”

Puzzled, I asked his co-worker
To tell me, when Joe’s not around,
“What has been up with him lately?
I notice that Joe has seemed down.”

Judy tells me that Joe’s wife had left him.
For weeks he’s been living alone.
The calls have become his obsession;
Just to hear his wife’s voice on the phone.

I nod, but elect to do nothing;
I, too, had a wife of my own.
I recall when she left me- just four barren walls
and the sound of her voice on the phone.

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$.