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!

Dead leaves smoking on an open fire,
Tricksters dressed up in odd clothes.
Ghouls and Goblins sneaking up on our porch-
Give them chocolate and maybe then they’ll go.

Everybody knows the jack-o- lanterns wick-ed light
Means it’s a pagan sort of Gourd.
Tiny tykes, munching sugar all night,
will wind up bouncing off the walls.

They know Brunhilda’s on her way
trying out her new broom on her special day.
And every little goblin’s gonna try
To see if chubby Witches still can fly.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase
Since trick or treat I think is overused.
Although it’s been said it’s the day of the dead;
Happy Halloween to you.

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.

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.

We never touched.
We never kissed,
Nor did our limbs entwine.
Yet your translucent beauty
made an impression in my mind.
We never spoke
I never met
this beauty of the screen.
A girl they called Emanuelle
In a film some thought obscene.

She is dead of Cancer now,
A Krystal so sublime:
All youth and beauty withers
How briefly it was thine.

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.

Consider a planet the mirror of Earth,
a place that is nearly our twin,
where Cannabis is legal
and sugar is banned.
Where you can have “coke”
But not gin.

Would moonshiners distill
sour mash in their still?
Would junkies  there “jones” for some “Cane”?
Would addicts have shakes
due to no frosted flakes.?
Would they ****** and steal
for sweet sin?

There, those who like smokes
Would be left free to “****”
While the sweet toothed
were facing hard time.

To rehab they’d go
And be fed sweet and low.
To keep sugar
Off of their minds

Much of our literature
has come from his pen-
or was He a She?
I can't say I ken.
When not writing poems
or dabbling in prose
Beautiful songs
Anon oft would compose.
Anonymous never gained
fortune or fame.
The works are immortal,
Their maker, unnamed.
Since the first of his line
painted caves all alone,
Anon ever has been
the artist unknown.

My life was changed when you arrived,
I moved from Rock to lullaby.
I watched you as you grew and thrived
Just Daddy and his little guy.

When first you learned to ride your bike
and, wobbling, you sped away
I had a weird sensation that
I had just grown a touch more grey.

through every step of life with you
from nursery school through your degree
I paid the bills, I gave the rides
Life's afternoon you walked with me.

Afterwards,out with your friends
some beauties' eyes attracted you.
You stayed out late with your dates.
and I could not wait up for you.

Still later when you moved away,
and had a family of your own.
I didn't get to see you much,
we kept in touch mostly by phone.

Life is a journey, not a state
We knew this day would come for me
When I must go embrace my fate
and you must bide your destiny.

Our paths diverge, just yours goes on.
but do not stop to grieve for me.
I always knew this day would come
That I'd become a memory.

For so it was, and will always be
We parents bring life to this world
We start out as your guide and friend
never to see the journey end.

Sickles' corps had broken; the Rebels had them on the run.
Hancock foresaw disaster; perhaps a worse one than Bull Run
How could he plug the gap in the line and rally men to stand?
"What Regiment is this? " he asked of Colville, in command.
The First Minnesota volunteers- they were sorely undermanned.


They were Lincoln's first volunteers, staunch Union men in Blue
Hancock ordered them to charge; a death sentence, they knew.
With bayonets fixed they made their charge outnumbered twelve to Two.

The Rebel regiments were shocked, disbelieving what they saw;
The company sized regiment who'd come through three years of war.
Canister ripped through their lines; there was no time to weep.
Five minutes Hancock needed; for that long their grief would keep.


This field knows many heroes; so many fought and bled.
But let us pause and honor these brave Minnesota dead.
They bought time for the General; the Union held the Ridge.
We might not have a country had they not done what they did.

Pressure intense
around my head
and shoulders.
I am pushed
******
towards a distant
glimmering light.
My perfect
world
collapsing.
I am pulled
unwilling
into a world of bright
and cold.
Pummeled
by a white coated
assassin.
Made to weep
forced to breathe.
They lay me down
on your warm belly.
Your voice says
softly
"Hello, little guy"
I think
( but do not say)
Happy Mother's Day!

Our fingers never touched.
Our lips have never joined.
What might have been, forgotten.
What could have been, ignored.

A moment in your presence
is worth a mound of gold.
A hunger left unsated,
as time and chance unfold.

Here in the cold and damp
Of our, sadly, separate lives
Here we have never joined,
thus we have never died

My life was changed when you arrived,
I moved from Rock to lullaby.
I watched you as you grew and thrived
Just Daddy and his little guy.

When first you learned to ride your bike
and, wobbling, you sped away
I had a weird sensation that
I had just grown a touch more grey.

through every step of life with you
from nursery school through your degree
I paid the bills, I gave the rides
Life's afternoon you walked with me.

Afterwards, out with your friends
some beauties' eyes attracted you.
You stayed out late with your dates.
and I could not wait up for you.

Still later when you moved away,
and had a family of your own.
I didn't get to see you much,
we kept in touch mostly by phone.

Life is a journey, not a state
We knew this day would come for me
When I must go embrace my fate
and you must bide your destiny.

Our paths diverge, just yours goes on.
but do not stop to grieve for me.
I always knew this day would come
That I'd become a memory.

For so it was, and will always be
We parents bring life to this world
We start out as your guide and friend
never to see the journey end.

The bar was closed,
the dawn approached
like a grey and threatening sea.
He placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
We proposed a toast to you
thirty years ago tonight.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
hard to believe you're gone.


They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'll understand.

I'll never hear your voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

The scientist was first on stage,
Then came his Geminoid.
The family resemblance-
impossible to avoid.
An android in his image,
That seems to understand.
A body that is ageless
in the shape and form of man.
An android body could survive
The void of outer space
without the need for oxygen
Or food that looks like paste.
Manufactured Hominids
Could roam the plains of Mars
Explore the nearby cosmos,
Travel to a nearby star.
Then when, at last, they journey back
to Earth, their cosmic home,
will they embrace their distant kin
or find they are alone?

No Judge, No Jury, No sentencing time,
No hurried last kisses, No final goodbyes,
Ramos and Liu were killed because they wore blue
by a black hearted coward named Brantley.

The Tompkins House off Myrtle was the scene of attack.
Two officers down; both were shot from the back.
There is blood on the pavement; there is fear on the streets,
as the fires of Ferguson are fanned by the Elites.

Lincoln forewarned us before Booth killed him
That America only could fall from within.
No great foreign power could conquer these shores.
No, we would decline from within, he was sure.

Our house is divided and, as such, cannot stand
as long as we hyphenate each woman and man.
We are not helpless victims oppressed by”the Man”
We are either free people or hopelessly dammed.

My house is haunted
it seems to me.
It has its
idiosyncrasies.
The heat comes up
pipes clank and hiss.
I fear something
must be amiss.
The floorboards creak
a dreadful sound.
Strange, it seems
no one's around.
The windows rattle
but the storm has ceased
This house won't give me
any peace .
Light bulbs flicker,
hiss and decease.
but even in darkness
my bills increase
Is some foul spirit
lurking here?
or perhaps the house
needs some repair.
I fear a demon from the abyss
in every clank creak rattle and hiss

It always starts with a Woman;
a woman with skin like sweet milk chocolate.
A woman with a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night
And brown eyes in which a man might comfortably lose his soul.

The club was cold; not much of a club really;
A drafty old barn of a building somewhere in Arkansas
A big barrel half filled with Kerosene was lit to heat the hall.
The Young black folk of the town were gathered around

Young B.B. King was playing the blues, on a guitar with no name.
That was when the fight broke out on the dance floor.
two strong men doing battle over a woman who worked at the club.
It always starts with a woman.

Punches were exchanged; in the melee someone kicked over that barrel
And fire, like a river, roared across the floor.
Everybody started to run for the only open exit.
B.B. King ran too, until he recalled he had forgotten his guitar.

She was nothing special except for the man who played her
The man who coaxed sweet sad sounds from every catgut string.
King wasn’t a rich man and that guitar was his meal ticket
So he raced back through the flames.

Just as he retrieved his guitar, the building began
Its slow sad collapse into ash and embers
He barely escaped with his life and his guitar.

Standing outside in the cold night
Looking on the ruins of what had been a good paying gig.
That was when he met Lucille;
She was the barmaid with the sweet milk chocolate skin
And a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night;
Those two men had just fought and died over
a pleasure that neither would ever possess.

That was when B.B. King christened that old beat up guitar
“Lucille”:
To remind him of this night he almost died.
to remind him never to do something that stupid again.
Like I was saying, it always starts with a woman.

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.

He’d offered her his hand to dance
Politely, she’d declined.
“I have promised many others,
-perhaps another time.”

He accepted this with all good grace-
“Perhaps another time,
When your dance card is nearly full,
The last dance shall be mine.”

The night was young and she was fair,
Men clamored for their chance.
In some eyes she saw routine lust,
In others- true romance.

Her card was signed by many
There remained a single line.
She stopped back at her table
for a final cup of wine.

The dark and handsome stranger
was waiting for her there.
She took his hand without protest
as he rose up from his chair.

He led her to the dance floor
as the band played one last time.
The music was a stately waltz
done in three quarter time.

His arms were strong and masterful
as he led her in the dance
Her will seemed to desert her
as she fell into a trance.

In the half light she looked up
And searched his face and eyes
The eyes of Death looked back at her,
In lust for her demise..

Swept up in her dance with Death,
She uttered not a sound
for she was in his power now.
and destined for the ground.

The night was cool
the moon was full.
There was no hint
of what was to come.
A nearby asteroid
was perturbed
from its journey
around the Sun.
It hurtled down
toward the Earth.
A billion souls
it put at risk
none but the moon
stood in its path
It struck the moon
a silent blast
because in Space there
is no sound.
Luna shook
but gave no
ground.
A slice of moon was
sharded off
Fragments blasted
here and there
The tides went mad
The seas rose up
The waves raised
in a desperate prayer.
In time the dust would coalesce
into a ring
about our orb
Poets would write
about the ring
which girds our earth,
our Eden home.

This is a Christmas time request
to join in a good deed.
I’m Giving a pint at Christmastime
To strangers who are in need.

So raise your sleeve and not your glass
Don’t let blood banks run dry!
The pint you give might help one live
Who otherwise might die.

Then afterwards we’ll raise a glass,
two heroes, you and I.
We must replenish after all
And not let the well run dry.

At five foot two in her heels
and being decidedly round
Lori didn't turn many masculine heads
Yet she turned one poor boy's life around.

Forty or more years its been
since we were both seventeen.
I recall it as a difficult year,
Like so many others between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner-
She worked on the 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
in the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, built close to the ground.
It was Lori who made social circles
large 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 must  make his.

Let other Bards praise the great beauties
They're easy to spot in this town.
My muse was a girl short and homely.
Such  a beauty is rare to be found.

Pressure intense
around my head
and shoulders.
I am pushed
******
towards a distant
glimmering light.
My perfect
world
collapsing.
I am pulled
unwilling
into a world of bright
and cold.
Pummeled
by a white coated
assassin.
Made to weep
forced to breathe.
They lay me down
on your warm belly.
Your voice says
softly
"Hello, little guy"
I think
( but do not say)
Happy Mother's Day!

They looked so happy,
the couple upstairs.
He, roughly handsome,
was tall and strong
She, dark and lithe,
was prone to song.
Their apartment was done
in the height of fashion.
where scented candles
lit nights of passion.

Now their place is dark
and the shades are drawn.
He sits and wonders
where they went wrong.
in the room once shared
now devoid of song
It's painfully obvious
that she's gone.

I've soiled my sacred garments. I fear I've fallen far. I have a pounding headache and just woke up in a bar. My clothes reek of tobacco. My heart races from caffeine. As I was born and raised a Mormon this is not my normal scene.


I was prospecting for new converts , going door to door, when I ran into a sort of girl I'd never met before. Her hair was fire engine red, at least the drapes I 'd say. Her blouse was silk and tightly stuffed in a most intriguing way.

She said that she was off to "church", would I care to come along? She said the spirit moved her there, a place of cheer and song. I sensed a soul that I could save and so I went along.


Soon I was drrinking  Jameson. I bought the house a round. It's amazing stuff, this alcohol, this new friend I have found. I was singing karaoke and was dancing on the bar. I guess I had a bit too much, oh, I have fallen far.

I woke up from my stupor- cotton mouthed, dazed and confused. I'd been overcome by demon ***, a thing I shouldn't use. There was somebody laying next to me, I feared it might be "Red".  Imagine my profound relief that it was a man instead. He said his name was Khalid and he'd come here from afar. He, too, had a Prophet who forbade drinks from the bar. It turns out he also met the girl, this "Red" of whom I speak. He 's been trying to convert her and he's been here since last week.

You would think him a villain; you would call him a thief
But he would just shrug and say “We all have to eat.”
On the Petersburg siege lines, he’d just made a score;
A rusted old bayonet used in our Civil War.

There are scores of collectors who would pay a good price.
They wouldn’t ask questions, they wouldn’t think twice.
He cared nothing for the History of the Blue and the Grey.
Only for the money the collector would pay.

The Sun was descending when he left from the Park
He bought some Tequila, to drink in the dark.
in a third rate motel that didn’t leave the lights on.
By three the next morning the Tequila was gone.

The thief had bad dreams, in his ***** induced sleep.
of a specter in gray at his bed near his feet:.
The ghost of a drummer from that long ago war.
The thief shook with fear at the visage he saw.

The blade he had stolen was now in the Ghost’s hands.
The ghost grimly eyed him with the soul of one dammed.
The blade shattered his ribs and ripped him apart.
As darkness descended it tore open his heart..

The medical examiner was called the next day.
A horrified maid found the body, they say.
His room had been locked. He’d bled out on the ground
The hall cameras showed nothing; no weapon was found

Some think it cute when young girls twerk,
Or use cosmetics like Tammy Faye.
Isn’t it cute to hear them curse?
Childhood?- Oh, that’s so passé.
Dress them like their older sisters;
in clothing barely more than slips.
Put ****** heels upon their feet
to roll those prepubescent hips.
I pity those who think this progress.
I put the ball back in their court.
The taking of innocence, I find appalling.
It makes childhood nasty brutish and short.

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.

Vile stubby fingers invading all my holes,
You take my body in your chubby hands.
You swing me in an arc along your side
And violently heave me in the air.
I crash down on a track of polished wood
And dizzily set off for parts unknown.
I smash into a bunch of wooden pins-
The seven and the ten I leave alone.
A spinning wheel prevents me from escape
And launches me back again to where you wait.
Though you will try your best I’d have to bet
The split I left is not one you can make.

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.

An Academic (with too much time) deplores our use of him and her.
“These gendered pronouns give offense; to transgenders, they are a slur.”
“So at our University, “Ze” shall stand for “He” or “she”
And when crowds gather now and then, “Zey” shall now be known as “zhem”.”
“Old style pronouns must not be used when the student body is so confused.”
“Gendered bathrooms, were so unkind, now the doors bear equal signs (=)”
We must not judge or interpose when boys dress up in women’s clothes.
Nor should we act with prejudice if Zey decide to make a switch.
For what you may have been at birth may not be what you had in mind;
Hormonal treatments can, in time, make a drab boy look Divine
Though Ze went to an all girl’s school, Zee’s now packing all the tools
With the surgeon’s skill and care you can lose or grow a pair.
“Though Male and Female He created them, surgically we have updated zhem.”

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.

Do you recall where you were that day, that November Friday afternoon?
The moment that you heard the news that someone had murdered J.F.K?
Some were just children at the time who now have grown so old and grey.
Half those Americans are gone who heard what Cronkite had to say.
That day that Camelot came to grief, and power passed to L.B.J.
Yes, I am a child of then, that day lives still in memory.

It used to be they’d be together
All around town;
Down at the beach or out on the sound
Now she’s broken hearted, he’s no longer around.

Please don’t ask her to explain,
Instead she tells it to the rain.

He used to tell his friends
He was sure she’s the one,
for no one was more beautiful
or could be more fun.
But she won’t wear his ring,
Now that Love's come undone.

Please don’t ask him to explain
Instead he tells it to the rain.

Their breakup causes problems
Beyond their private pain;
When friends start choosing sides
things just won’t be the same.
I heard that she got jealous of
Some girl named Lorraine-

But please don’t ask them to explain-
Just let them tell it to the rain.

Your fire red lips should have caused me alarm-
or the smoldering look in your eyes.
You lured me away from the bar where we met,
I was having a beer with the guys.
There was the faint hint of smoke in your hair
But, in Vegas, that’s par for the course.
I shouldn’t have listened to your siren song
But I’m a free man, just divorced.
Besides, I’ve heard it said
That a redhead in bed
Is about the best lover you’ll find.
When her burning bush beckoned
Who was I to resist?
I’m not in the monogamous bind.
Now I’m bound and I’m gagged
and secured to her bed.
From this pyre I never will rise.
She’s just emptied the last of that
Five gallon can.
Her lit mtch will complete
my demise.
“I hope you don’t mind
That I leave you behind.”
She said as the flames start to roar.
“your Ex is a far better lover than you.”
She laughed as she walked through the door.

The time machine, itself, was old,
compact, yet seemingly vast.
It prepared now for the journey
The traveler thought would be his last.

Like a ghost in the machine
Lights glimmered, dimmed, then flared.
The time traveler breathed deeply,
nodded that he was prepared.

Back in his distant past he roamed,
back, to his childhood home.
A vanished place now only seen
in creased photos with sepia tones.

But no, the sky a remembered blue,
The white clapboarded home
The lawn, a rich lush emerald hue
and he was not alone.

For at the door his mother stood
as she was in her prime.
To see her once again was worth
all the world and time.

She beckoned him to join her
and she hugged her welcomed guest.
The traveler whispered “Mother”.
as so many have said at their last.

Back in the sterile I.C.U.
There were no vital signs.
The traveler had a D.N.R.
The nurse noted the time.

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.

A candle in the window is a warm and welcome sign
of an accommodating spirit with a thirst for the Divine.
Our ancestors lit candles in the Ireland of our past
To let a persecuted Padre know that there he could say Mass.
Our native tongue was under siege and in time was nearly lost
as the Crown tried to grind Ireland down no matter what the cost.
We are a charming people, sweet and witty are our ways,
stubborn in our faith that man is most uncommon clay.
So on this coming Christmas Eve before the feast begins
Put a candle in the window and welcome Jesus in.

There is a place on Goree isle-
It's call the house of slaves.
A port of call for slaver ships
whose crews no saint could save.
The captives of defeated tribes
here caught last sight of home.
Borne down by chains on
feet and wrists, crowded yet alone
All would pass one portal-
the door of no return.
Into the holds where many died
and more wished for the same.
They'd lose their language and their kin
and any hope of home.
They'd find a place beneath the loam
they'd work a lifetime long.
Stronger than the Indians
whites worked until they died
Their labors built a Country
in which they took little pride.
Yet they knew the day was coming ,
in the year of Jubilee,
When the shackles would be stricken off
and once more they would be free,

There are, in truth, few beauties can compare
to you, my lady, when you care to smile.
Even now, you, with downcast eyes,
are self possessed with grace and matchless style.
Your Father’s disgrace and untimely fall
has dimmed your light into a shade of blue.
No look or touch of mine can ease your pain;
my words, inadequate, to comfort you.
If there is, in beauty, truth, I can’t recall
I am experienced, Love, in most things-
but not all.

I used to have the names and facts
right quick at my disposal.
It helped in settling arguments
and in drafting work proposals.
Now names and dates elude me.
Appointments just slide by.
Were it not for my Blackberry
you might see a grown man cry.
Yet deep in the recesses
of my bicameral mind
my neural Librarian,Norman
strives not to fall behind.
He's peering into synapses
and looking into lobes
He's hoping I can temporize
till the name he can disclose.
If I relax it comes to me
though too late to save face
Long after she has left my bed
I recall her name was "Grace"

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.”

Wilmer McLean had seen war in the flesh;
Near Bull Run he had purchased a farm.
When rebellion broke out, Stonewall Jackson came up
Causing Wilmer distress and alarm

So McLean sold his farm, moved his kin far from harm;
-kept them safe to the very last day.
Until Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant
chose his parlor for the end of the Fray.


From Fort Sumter’s surrender to Appomattox Court House
Through five Aprils, ****** war had held sway,
It began in his back yard, ended up in his parlor
From fate he could not get away.

She had her side,
he had his.
Stuck in the middle
were their two kids.
No blows were struck
No hits were scored.
Just needs and wants
that went ignored.
She's a gossip,
He's a bore,
whatever did they marry for?
Not much chance of common ground
when loneliness for two is found.
Some find each other though wedding bells
Many others just lose themselves.

John Paul Satre could have written it; a play about these times.
The Greek banks are closed on Holiday and Greeks all stand in line.
Sixty Euros if you’re lucky, that’s the limit for the day.
The Greeks are running out of Euros, and I’m afraid there’s Hell to pay.
The people have rejected Merkel’s plan to be austere,
And so the leftist government might finish out the year.
Printing Drachmas in the basement has to be their back up plan;
as they make their graceful Grexit may their creditors be dammed.
Will Brussels send the Wehrmacht in to seize crops in the fields?
You can only squeeze an olive once; there’s a limit on the yield.
This isn’t debt that they can pay the pundits have opined.
The can cannot be kicked again, this was the final time.
Italy and Portugal both wait with bated breath;
Along with Spain they want to see what Brussels will do next.
Greece is a small country, one with a pleasant clime.
What happens next is what you’d expect of Dominos in line.

The path I tread is difficult, the grade, in places, steep.
Condemned by the gods, I follow it without surcease or sleep.
I push my rock before me like a slave beneath the lash.
My sentence is forever and this is my fated task.

My hands are callused from hard work maneuvering the stone.
I do my work in silence; my thoughts are still my own.
The gods will not hear me complain as I struggle to gain traction.
I am not weak and will not give those ******* satisfaction.

The stone moves as my muscles strain to roll it towards the height
The stars are very beautiful and I’m working by their light.
At last the apex is achieved, a feat of strength and will.
Once more I hear Dis snickering as the stone rolls down the hill.

I take a breath to clear my lungs and then proceed below.
My stone waits on me patiently for yet another go.
Well, I am game if you are game-my unspoken reply.
We resume our pas- de- deux beneath the cold uncaring sky

The fields were green; the sky clear blue, the land was fat and fair.
Prosperity was all we knew, and poverty was rare.
I looked with pride upon my fields, the ripening waves of grain,
unaware, that in scant days, so little would remain.

A desert locust, by itself, is not a fearsome thing.
A swarm of eighty million is pure terror taking wing.
The swarm came out of Africa and descended on my fields.
The sky was black with insects, the devastation was surreal.

The fields are black; the sky sad grey, the locusts’ feast complete.
Like teenagers with the munchies, these little beasts can eat.
The crops that we had counted on now simply aren’t there.
These now are hungry desperate times and happiness is rare.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

Eight Thousand and twenty games it took
before Howie could put it in the books.
There was, here and there,
a base on *****.
One desperate catch against the wall.
One possibly disputed call,
but Johan Santana got them all..

Bob Murphy would have loved this night
The Park in Queens alive with cheers.
Fans walking out in a gentle rain
with his happy recap in their ears.