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.

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.

Let the curse be invoked, let ghosts gibber and moan!
It appears the Bard’s skull is out and on loan.
Although long protected by a malediction dread,
It turns out Shakespeare’s body is missing his head.
Some Victorian fans thought it quite the lark
to make off with his skull; a deed done in the dark.
Alas poor Shakespeare whose works I know well
Your skull now a paperweight where miscreants dwell.
Like Crassus the Roman, you serve as a prop
And your moldering bones are missing their top.
If Poor Yorick had heirs they are under suspicion;
Subject them to torture to obtain their confession.

They invade us from our hospitals,
They come in ones or twos.
They’re cute but they’re unruly,
a most uncivilized crew.
They speak no human language
Yet demand that they be fed.
Their pitiful screams at 2 A.M.
Leave their parents feeling dead.
They need to be taught manners;
To say “Thank You” and “Please”.
We need them to be immunized
against childhood disease.
In time they’ll become civilized;
Young Ladies and Gentlemen.
Until that time they must be confined
In their strollers and playpens.

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.

I remember well his spirit
on that warm September day.
Al Quaida had attacked us,
Tom enlisted right away.

In Operation Phantom Fury,
near deaf from the cannons roar,
He manned a Marine battery
in November of 04'

He was present when Fallujah fell
proud of his unit's aim.
Then he saw his best friend die
After that, his letters changed.

He came unscratched through tours of duty
both there and in Afghanistan.
He was strangely quiet when back home
like he was a different man.

At night we would be awakened
by his screaming in his sleep.
He was haunted by experiences
of which he wouldn't speak.

The V.A. couldn't help him
escape the horror of the war.
Wounds so deep opened in sleep,
unbound, unsalved,and raw.

I thank you for the folded flag,
The honors of the field.
We lost Tom several years ago,
only now is it revealed.

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

He’s back again, demanding to be fed.
I thought this time that he was gone for good.
The black dog with the aspect of a wolf
that none but I can see within the wood.

When he is near the sun refuses to shine
there is no warmth or color in the world.
The feast of life reduced to bread and water,
No bands will play and flags remain unfurled.

With Winter solstice, shadows settle early.
With the darkness comes a certain sense of sin.
The creature, a harbinger of desolation,
That’s when the edge of sadness creeps within.

When and where does the mind wander
When it‘s trapped within its’ loom?
When plaque obstructs the passageways
Through which her thoughts would zoom?

When she was young the Universe
was all hers to explore.
Little did she realize then
What horrors lay in store.

She encountered the excitement
of new concepts and ideas.
But those memories grow distant
Then, in some dark corner, disappear.

When young, she was a fashion plate;
Vibrant colors every night.
Now she’s dressed in shades of grey
as she stumbles through twilight.

True, she sometimes can recall
a place, a name, a slight.
Yet she forgets to take her medicines
And she isn’t eating right.

When young her nimble mind could play
whole symphonies by rote.
But now all she remembers
is a single plaintive note.

His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.

Of Celestial Beings
and omnipotent Kings,
the poets tend to
ramble.
Triune Godhead,
If explained,
Can leave your poor wits
scrambled.
Approach Him, rather,
In a cave
in service as a
stable.
Behold Him there, the guiltless Babe,
In that setting rather odd;.
The smiling baby Jesus,
the human face of God.

The look of pleasure in her eyes
as she sniffs, then licks, then bites.
She savors the taste on her tongue
with a look of pure delight.

The first taste doesn’t jade her
I can see that she wants more.
Her two partners in this moment
have lost none of their allure.

There will be countless others,
of this I’m doubtless sure-
Yet her first Peanut butter
and Jelly
is a sensual pleasure pure.

The night is still and cold and clear
As Christmas Day draws ever near.
I hear the church bells start to ring
And hear angelic Choirs sing:

“Peace on Earth, Good will to men,
This day a Savior is born for them.”
A child is born to be a King,
This is the essential thing.”

A tree adorned with lights and glitter
in two weeks’ time will just be litter,
Wrapping paper, ripped and torn,
will be in landfills before too long.

Concentrate upon the star,
The guiding light to who we are.
Never, Never condescend
To live in darkness
once again

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

Those lovely folks at N.S.A.  love reading your e-mails.
They parse each line in search of crime; the devil’s in the details.
Those Patriots at A T & T are equal to the task
of providing them with access; they’ll do anything they’re asked.
They spy upon the great and small, the poets and the dreamers,
to catch a whiff of nasty plots now being hatched by schemers.
They’ve spied upon Sarkozy and they’ve eavesdropped in on Merkel.
They tapped lines in the U.N. and other diplomatic circles.
Their corporation cronies provide them with full access for no fee;
This makes our spies the envy of the Russian KGB
So when you reach out and touch someone, don’t assume you are alone.
I’m pretty sure big brother is there listening on the phone.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his broken heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished in that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

For years it was the seat of Love;
an all-consuming fire.
Eros was his guiding light
to which his thoughts aspired.
His words have touched so many hearts,
a master of his art.
But now his heart is silent
but not his Heart’s desire.
For, surely, one who loved so well
lives on an astral plane.
I cast my verses and my pen
With Shakespeare in the grave
And pray the Lord his soul to keep
While we his music save.

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.

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

This is the Anniversary,
of a gentle night in May.
The call came from the nursing home.
to say you'd passed away.

You lay there still and silent
already growing cold.
The Priest already come and gone
to tend to other souls.

We whispered sweet endearments
to our mother good and kind
Released from her infirmities
marked with the Savior's sign.

I wonder did she linger there
to her our sad amens
like she listened to our prayers
said at our childhood beds.

Voices cast upon the wind
beside her final bed.
I'd like to think she heard the tears
and the prayer my sister said.

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.

You hear people talk
about the "Great Beyond",
but it's all speculation
as they've never gone.
Except perhaps Hindus
who chance to recall
that back in the day
they were Queen of us all.
What amazes me most
about past life regression
is none claim to have practised
the "oldest profession".
They claim to be Caesar
or Henry the Eighth,
Never some drab
who was just a "good date"

They do not hold out hope of a cure,
Just a short extended time.
A decent quality of life- however that's defined.
There will be bouts of nausea,
They promise joints will tame.
My husband promised me a wig
in just my favorite shade.
Just time enough to say goodbye
ere the reaper claims the stage.
I know the limit of my days
are numbered in my bones.
Until I'm in a crowded room
resting silent and alone.

Living a long lifetime without love,
I had forgotten what confidence was-
But confidence was reclaimed
by her warm summer rain.

Life in the desert can be hard at times.
I had my reasons but none of them rhymed.
but my desert was briefly reclaimed
by her warm summer rain.

When it rains in the desert the wildflowers bloom
And the night air is sweetened with hints of perfume
The desert is utterly changed
by her warm summer rain.

Wildflowers are fleeting, sand always endures.
I’ll choose to remember wildflowers’ allure.
I’ll always remember her name
And her warm summer rain

I woke up in a stranger's bed
in a room that's not my own.
I gathered, from the perfumed sheets,
that I was not alone.

Spooning with me was a girl
not like the girls back home.
The girls back home don't sport tattoos
The girls back home sleep clothed.

This girl moaned softly in my ear
and stroked my morning glory.
I'm not the sort to kiss and tell,
so here I'll end the story.

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

She was likely in a drunken daze
when she wed, unknowingly.
A Vegas drive in chapel
Was the spot they did the deed.
Twenty years or so would pass
Ere she would finally see
That when she said “I do” she did,
Albeit witlessly.
Now Janeane has got divorced,
her single life to resume.
It seems nuptials last longer
When you don’t know there’s a groom!

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.

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.

At Eighteen degrees with a wind chill of three,
Beneath several blankets is where you’ll find me!
With a scotch on my nightstand (to ward off the chill)
Old Man Winter can blow but he’ll do me no ill.
When the forecast is lousy and grey snow clouds threaten
My lamb’s wool lined comforter I won’t be forgetting.
In my all flannel onesies (with the flap in the rear)
I’m sure I can hold out until Spring is near.

They monitor the internet.
They listen in on calls.
They spy on foreign Heads of State-
Believe me that takes *****
Their surveillance apparatus
Makes the KGB look LAX.
Omniscience is their stated aim
to “protect” us from attacks.
So put up with whole body scans
And show your papers please.
I believe the cure for terror
Will prove worse than the disease.

The piece of paper in my hand
meant everything to me;
The end of twenty years of "bliss",
the ultimate decree.
Strange, I thought,
how tears now flow
to fill a void
that no one
could foresee.

Astronomers today announced
They’ve found an Urth-like world.
It’s orbiting a star called Sol,
Like Urth, a water world.
What has them most excited?
It’s just twelve light years from here.
Spectral analysis declares
It has an atmosphere..

When I am far from city lights
And the air is crisp and clear
I’ve seen Sol with the naked eye
In late summer, it appears.
It has eight planets
(We have five)
And one is just like Urth.
Encircling its native Star
at just the proper berth.

Some speculate that beings like us
Look up in wonder nightly.
But Scientists have all declared-
Intelligent life? - Unlikely!.

( In this poem the inhabitants of Tau Ceti are hearing of a planet like their home world orbiting a yellow dwarf star)

In my mind's eye
I can see her;
Her dark hair now silver grey,
He smooth child's cheek
now wrinkled
by the light of many days.

Such days as those
she never saw.
Informed upon
and dammed.
Anne Frank lies in
a common grave,
No tombstone bears her name.

Imagine, in a better world,
if her family had survived.
Somewhere, in anonymity,
she might still be alive.

The crops are drooping in my fields.
No rain again today.
My precious topsoil, dry as dust,
threatens to blow away.
It makes a farmer feel like Job
to be afflicted in this way.
No rain dance I can do will help.
I lack the words to pray.
We’re victims of a climate change
which makes the land too dry.
Nor is hope on the horizon
from the high blue, empty, sky.

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

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

Someday past suffering and grief
may her family feel some pride.
She was Victoria Soto,
Not for nothing did she die.

The old grey man sat by the window
with his great grandchild in his lap.
He doesn’t speak much since his last stroke
but at least he could teach her to clap.

His brain is a puzzle with some pieces stolen.
He struggles to keep time at bay.
At times he can speak, if the past is invoked.
Most times, he has nothing to say.

For he is an actor, in spotlight unforgiving
who’s forgotten the lines he must say.
His timing is off, he’s missing his mark.
They’re writing him out of the play

The child in his arms, for reasons quite different,
will likely forget this fine day.
Her Great Grandpa a name, a face in a frame,
a memory time has stolen away.

We start out our lives in rooms filled with strangers
then, gradually, we learn our way.
We end up our lives in rooms filled with strangers.
As it was, so t’will be, make away.

It was protracted suicide
Poe, dead before his time.
At the end he sold his clothes for drink
He was found the worse for wine.
A horror, like the tales he'd spun,
mad visions stalked his days.
This master of the Macabre
this day found a common grave.
No Raven croaked as he lost hope
of an earthly parole.
His doctor heard his final words:
"Lord, please save my poor soul."

The image is indelibly
Engraved in my mind’s eye-
Like the black and white
photography
of the night that Bobby died.
Bobby, lifeless, bleeding out
upon the kitchen floor.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Where is the rule of law?
There were then two Americas
They too were black and white.
Evil times bred evil men.
Do you recall the night?
That summer there was rioting
And violence roiled the land.
It might have been much different
with a Kennedy in command.
The saddest words a poet writes
And lets escape his pen
Is that sad speculation
That asks what might have been.

Summers by the Jersey shore
Have always called to me,
As though a Siren lived beside
our cottage by the sea.
A place where wave
and wind and sand
conspired perfectly
to make a simulacrum
of what Paradise might be.

This will be my last summer
coming to the Jersey shore.
My medications manage pain
But they can do no more.
The doctors say I have six months
before I cease to be.
So I have chose to spend that time
in my cottage by the sea.

I walk alone at Evening tide
beside the golden shore.
The tide erases every step
I take forevermore.
For I am not eternal
Like the deep and restless sea.
In truth I am ephemeral
More than I’d like to be.

I cannot bargain with my fate
I cannot buy more time.
This vintage, strictly limited,
is dying on the vine.

Too soon it will be Labor Day
And time for you and me
To close the place up one last time
our cottage by the sea.

Marian Brown and Vivian Brown
were photographed oft on the street.
Their identical faces and identical smiles
City visitors found quite a treat.
They dressed for effect
In identical garb:
indistinguishable from Heads to feet.
They started their day
Once the sun had gone down;
when most people their age were asleep.
But Vivian suffered a fall in July
And her memories faded away.
Marian mourns the loss of her twin
along with the folks by the Bay.
If Marian paused by a window of glass
That Sunshine strikes just the right way-
It might seem, for a moment, that Marian stands
once again, with her twin by the Bay.

Sara and Stephen were of a marked race,
living at the wrong time, and in the wrong place.
When ****** took power, they eased each other’s fears.
“Germany is civilized, It can’t happen here.”

When the Chancellor railed against gypsies and Jews
“ He’s just playing politics” was their commonsense view.
Yet hatred took root; the brown shirts had free run
And the voters had cause to rue what they had done.

****** came for their guns and they meekly complied.
Few then thought to resist the strong onrushing tide.
“The Police will protect us, Sara, my dear.”
“This is Beethoven’s birthplace; it can’t happen here.”

Those were very hard times, the worst we ever saw.
Rich Jews were resented for the furs that they wore.
“They cost us the war, they are traitors, it’s clear.”
“Sara, don’t worry, it can’t happen here.”

The foes of this Chancellor disappeared in the night
And he started to speak of a thousand year *****.
He censored the newspapers; both Left and Right.
And glass littered the streets one November night.

With Hindenburg dead, who was there left to stand?
Who had will to resist that warped little man?
Perves wore Triangles, Juden wore stars
Both lost their rights under Germany’s laws.

Sara and Stephen were loaded, like freight,
on a train bound for Dachau by command of the State.”
I’m sure we’ll be freed, Sara, my dear.”
We’re a civilized race, this can’t happen here.”

Stephen worked as a slave but at least stayed alive.
He was freed by the Russians in May, Forty five.
Sara, his wife, had a far crueler fate;
She was sent to the showers by the ****’s mandate.

Back in Berlin, Stephen saw with his own eyes
that the “Thousand year *****” was a tissue of lies
First pillaged by brown shirts, then bombed in the war
Stephen thought” This isn’t home anymore.”

Now Stephen is old, living here in the States.
He looks with dismay at these two candidates.
It seems like a nightmare he lived through before.
A crisis is coming and there will be war.

Love is a connection between two people.
When one of them hangs up you get dial tone.
Followed by a little voice saying:
"There appears to be a receiver off the hook."

Sad birthday for a little boy,
that day that he turned three.
His father dead, a nation mourned
for John F. Kennedy.

Sad birthday for a little boy,
who stood at Mama’s side
Could one so little comprehend
why his father died?

Sad birthday for a little lad,
before the flag draped form,
his salute forever frozen
in a frame of Kodachrome.

“Be silent, dear child, make not a sound,
lest by Herrod’s soldiers we’ll be found.
No whimper, cry or any small noise;
They have orders to ****** boys.”
I’ve heard your playmates’ mothers scream
as their sons were taken from their arms.
And heard their helpless piteous cries
forced to watch as their dear ones die.
The streets of Bethlehem run red
with nearly every male child dead.
All lie victims of Herod’s fears
Of every prophecy he hears.
I hear a brute’s fist pound our door.
He’ll still my heart ere he strikes yours.”

Once upon a time
There were two giants
on our Island.
They were tall
and steely strong,
these twin giants.
They stood firm
on the ground
and their crowns
touched the clouds.
Then, on a crisp, clear
September day-
The world changed
And the giants were no more.

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!

In the empty stands
Our champion sat.
Sans fans
and sans applause.
He mulled over
The match just past;
Its aces
and its flaws.

To have come so close
And not prevail-
A lesser man might cry.
But Murray knew the glory
That comes when Mortals vie.
He thought:
“I’m getting closer,
Than I ever have before”
A silver cup
At Centre court
Was the vision
That he saw.

The portrait, done in black and white,
dominates their room.
A picture of their special day,
a day for bride and groom.
The only splash of color;
a bouquet of roses red.
“Jacob made that of us
on the day that we were wed.”
“For years it graced the storefront
of his studio in Bellerose.”
“He’d done our album for us
And he really liked this pose.”
“When we heard his shop was closing,
(Years of smoking took their toll)
My husband had to have it
Before the place was sold.”
When she spoke about her husband
There was love in every word.
It was: “We did this” and
“We saw that”
I listened and observed.
This wife had that rare quality
that beauties seldom find.
like those roses in their portrait
never fading, ever kind.

We sat together on the bench,
we’d walked two miles before-
And though neither would admit it
Rest must precede two more.
We looked out upon the water
on this clear but windy day
as it ran in rivulets
down to the Great South Bay.

“I had a dream,” my brother said
“I’ve never dreamt before.”
“I was back on Fern Cliff Avenue.”
“It was nineteen sixty four.
“Back in our house that they tore down
to build  another store.”

“Dad was there, our grand kids too
Some he’d never lived to know.”
“Dad wanted to get out for a walk,
No one else seemed up to go.
So I said I’d accompany him,
Just a minute though.”

He was out the door before I rose
And half way down the block.
You never saw him move so fast.
It was something of a shock”.
“But as I was just twenty five
And I could really fly.
I was sure that I’d catch up with him
I’d hardly need to try...”

“John, it was the strangest thing-
as his lead increased still more.
Each block I walked I gained ten years
Soon everything was sore.”

“When I reached the cemetery block
Down near old John Bowne High
I was every day of seventy
With cataract clouded eyes.”

Inexplicably there was a bar
where a Dry Cleaners was before.
I felt in need of a stiff drink.
So I went in the door.”

“when I went in I was shocked to see
Our Father waiting at his seat”
“He ordered us each a Jamesons
His with ginger ale, mine neat.”

“I know this must be strange to you”
Our sainted Father said. “But I have
Missed you all so much
In the years since I’ve been dead”

“I prayed to see you all once more,
ere I was born again.”

“As a new born child, I will forget
All loves that came before.”
“The wheel of fate will turn again
You’ll see me nevermore”

“We drank then to each others’ health
and stayed to the last call.”
Such stories that he had to tell
I hope I remember all”

“The barkeep nodded towards the door.”
It was my  time to go.”
“I shook our father’s hand once more
As fate would have it so..”

“Just then a loud noise in the street
Awakened me in bed”
“In vain I tried to sleep again,
To find the vision in my head”

My brother grabbed his walking stick
It once was Dad’s, now his
“I usually don’t remember dreams,
But I remembered this.”