I say always play nice with the neighbors, don’t rile them up or make them sore
But my wife,( who’s a bit of a hot head), went to war with the people next door.
The “causas belli” are murky, the results of the skirmish unclear
But the fellow next door is a hacker; now me and the wife live in fear.
We have every modern convenience; programmable gadgets galore.
But your password should never be “password” when fighting the hacker next door.
Our motorized shades were ascending as the missus was trying to dress.
“Alexa” just called her a “fat Cow”- who programmed that is easy to guess.
In the depth of the winter we’re freezing As our AC is in his control.
When we shower the temperature varies. Its either too hot or too cold.
We spent thousands on home automation.  But now we are riddled with doubt.
We tried for a truce, but , alas, it’s no use. Now we’re paying to tear it all out!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

First we heard the distant drone
of their oncoming planes.
We raced towards the shelters
but could not out run the flames.
A package of incendiaries
Freed from a Bomb bay door
Melted Martin Luther’s
bronze statue in the mall.
The city center is ablaze;
thousands maimed or dead.
This was our first night of fear
But they would come again.




Zuerst das ferne Dröhnen hören wir
ihrer entgegenkommenden Flugzeuge.
Wir rasten in Richtung der Unterstände
konnte aber nicht aufgebraucht, die Flammen.
Ein Paket von Brandstifter
Von einer Bombe Bucht Tür befreit
Geschmolzene Martin Luthers
Bronzestatue in der Mall.
Das Stadtzentrum ist in Brand;
Tausende verstümmelt oder tot.
Dies war unsere erste Nacht der Angst
Aber sie wiederkommen würden.

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.

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.

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 is there, I believe, behind those slate grey eyes.
Those eyes that once viewed me with Love
or with amusement.
Now, however, they see me without seeing.
She is held prisoner in a silk web of confusion.
She knows not who she is now.
She knows me not and has forgotten my name.
I visit though she forgets I ever came.
She is one who exists instead of lives.
A dear sweet girl with little left to give.
You ask me why I still come and I reply
“ I  promised my love until the day I die.”

They briefly loved who sheltered here; the beautiful Sarah and her cousin Will.
They fled the City to this place in England’s north wild rolling hills.
Her husband had neglected her, visiting stables and not her bed.
By that wild summer of Sixty- eight their estrangement had come to a head.
To this old country house she fled; to linger in her Lover’s arms.
Their close sanguinity proved no bar; she gladly yielded to his charms.
They summered here and oft were seen, together, on the Lover’s walk.
A place where blackthorn trees entwine; but you know how people love to talk.
He left her then, alone, with child, as coloured leaves began to fall.
Divorced, disgraced, abandoned thus; She sheltered in another’s home.
This famous beauty with Stuart blood there would raise her child alone.

Such is the history of this place; their romance played out in these halls.
Their scandalous adultery was consummated within these walls.
Modern beauties visit still and stroll with beaus the Lover’s walk-
A place where blackthorn trees entwine and old ghosts whisper in the dark.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

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

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.

“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.”

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.

It has come to our attention that your License was suspended-
for failing to stop, within lines, for needed punctuation.
Your casual allusions to things and times of yore
Are confusing to the reader and frankly mark you as a bore.
Your long winded analogies sometimes beggar all belief,
though some here think that your intent is comical relief.
All attempts at alliteration have been something of a dud;
You fall in love with the technique and sound like Elmer Fudd.
Your recent “Ode to Flatulence” in its use of onomatopoeia
was but the latest instance of your verbal diarrhea.
Your metaphors are pitiful and this committee looks askance
at your evident confusion of mere lust with true romance.
Still, we are both kind and merciful (as bureaucrats tend to be),
So we’ll renew you for another year upon remittance of the fee.

In Sandy Springs stands a mansion, but not for very long.
The trees, grown great, will share its fate, soon all will be gone.
“its progress!” say the town fathers; a new subdivision tract.
To preservationists it’s a tragedy; mark the calendar in black.
A massive Tudor mansion, an edifice so grand-
At fifteen thousand square feet it could house a massive clan.
Too soon the wood will splinter and the stone and stucco part.
The walls will be imploded as the demolition starts.
The wrecking ball will smash stained glass that Tiffany supplied.
You will almost hear the timbers shriek as the vandals work inside.
The stately home of Thomas Glenn was once Atlanta’s pride.
It was finished in the tragic year of Nineteen twenty nine.
He passed away soon after, the family moved away.
Now empty, its’ clocks all stopped, it waits its’ judgement day.
We men of mortal flesh all know how quick we pass away.
Our achievements soon forgotten, our honors made of clay.
We build great homes to house our kin; this hall was built to last.
Yet “progress” is inexorable and this; a relic from the past.

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"

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.

From the time the boy could stand
his Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.

All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.

So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow and Time flies they say-
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.

Opening day is a magical land
That once more found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.

After the excitement of the game
waiting on the platform for their trains
The two men hugged with obvious affection,
then entrained in opposite directions.

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.

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 moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
English Harry has won this day
on this wet and muddy ground.
So many high born men laid low,
but I am still around.
It was my blood that ransomed me
when others’ blood was shed.
I am the Duke of Orleans.
A poet, some have said.
In the aftermath of battle;
wounded, left to bleed.
Sir Richard Waller found me
and attended to my needs.
So today I am his prisoner,
we’ll become friends in time.
Now I am bound for England
as a “guest” of the English crown.
We’d had the numbers and the strength
to bring proud Henry down.
His Yeoman archers  turned the tide
on this awful muddy ground.
Beset by woods on either flank
No room to strike or move.
It was our Constables’ worst mistake
and the last, as time would prove
Like a dark and deadly rain they fell
out of a clear blue sky.
Here on the field of Agincourt
where Princes came to die.

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.

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.

Operation Meetinghouse was launched and underway,
Each Super-fortress stripped of all but tail guns for the day.
We came in fast; we came in low, let darkness shield our flight.
Within our bays the bomblets lay to set the Nips alight.

I heard them at a distance, a large incoming flight,
Inexorable and frightening; like Death approaching Life.
I awakened my old mother, took my small child by the hand.
I fled down towards the river, as the first bombs shook the land.

The night was clear and windy and our bombers cut a swathe
of death, fire and destruction through their capital that night.
Their homes of wood and paper were quickly set alight.
We could smell the people burning. We flew so low that night.

Shitamachi was on fire and the high winds helped them spread.
The fire crews were overwhelmed and quickly joined the dead.
The thick smoke made it hard to breathe, old mother couldn’t stand.
The horrors that we saw that night were like tales of the dammed.




Our fuselage of silver reflects their dying light.
Our losses are acceptable; few planes are lost this night.
Flying in formation, we bank right and turn to go
The skyline of the city flickers with a hellish glow.

I walk the ruined streets of home in dawn’s uncertain light.
I hold my small child by the hand, old mother died last night.
We have no home, nowhere to go, I stare in helpless shock
At charred cars and blackened corpses on what used to be our block.

The General is ecstatic and enjoying his cigar;
our losses few, their suffering great, the fortunes of the war.
Tokyo lies in ruins from the fires set that night
How fortunate God is on our side and we are always right.

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.