X used to mark the spot
where two hearts intersected.
X used to mark the spot
On a map where  treasure was hidden
X used to be the variable
For which I sought the solution.
X turned out like all the rest
which explains why I’m disillusioned.


Nowadays X marks the spot
Where love found its conclusion.

I am not a butterfly, their beauty I do not possess.
I am but a humble moth, but His creature nonetheless.
On this sultry summer's eve, for reasons I can only guess.
I'm captivated by the glow; your open flame has me impressed.
I'm like a bit of cosmic dust from the outer darkness come.
drawn inexorably to my doom, seduced  towards the fiery Sun.
I'm fascinated by your glow; see how you flicker and shift shapes!
Ever closer I draw near, Thought I fear it a mistake.
Beautiful the reds and golds, like a veiled dancer
you entice me on
I flare up like a dying star, you scarcely notice I have gone.

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

Two poets, Oxford men, both of them,
met by chance on the field of woe.
They were prepared to charge the Boche
when they heard the whistle blow.
For King and Country, to gain a yard,
to bleed and suffer like some god.
One would be taken, the other left

A mortar Shell made its quick work.
The lad had scarcely time to scream.
His fellow stared, in shock, to see.
A pink mist where Clive used to be.
The charge soon faltered in fading light
The survivors lay low in Niemanns land.
A line from Matthew dogged each breath:
One was taken, the other left.

Dennis Doyle, a barrister,
gave up his job upon a whim.
Now what to do? A quest!
A quest he would begin.
A lifelong fan of the New York Knicks
He'd follow them home and away!
Tickets were a big expense
=Twenty five thousand he would pay.
Then there would be planes to catch,
food and hotels along the way.
He'd sit and cheer his heroes on!
Each night he'd watch Carmelo play.
Too soon, the losses began to mount;
he watched the season slip away.
It takes a special sort of soul
to sit and watch this team at play;
to seize defeat from victory ,
the Knicks would surely find a way.
To qualify for a high pick
they traded half the team away.

Each night He'd sit and glumly watch
This team that will not win a ring.
Is it all worth it? Who can say?
For the true fan, the play's the thing!

The water laps against the hull
Just like that time before
Just like that Sunday morning
That exploded into war.
In these old eyes
That yet can see
Those waves of rising Suns,
A tear wells up
In memory
for those forever young.
Below my feet
My brothers’ lie;
Proud Arizona’s crew.
For a time I have
Escaped their fate
But now my days are few.
and when I die,
I’ll make my grave
In Pearl, beneath the Sea.
Then all we suffered
Will be lost
to living memory.

Here, in the pale light of a winter’s day
I entered with a sketch pad in my hand.
I never dreamed that I’d encounter you-
To sketch out some old master was my plan.

Was it your eyes that first seduced me near,
or those cherry lips that I would never taste?
Two centuries past you were a beauty, dear.
Now, all but this image, time has lain to waste.

I envy him who painted you in camera,
together in your sitting room alone.
Who knows just how the session was concluded
If your old and senile husband wasn’t home?

I’m cast here in the role of a ******,
I haven’t even tried to draw a line.
Your dress of silk reveals just one bare shoulder,
Your eyes, the promise of a night divine.

She was found there, by the shoreline, hidden in a plastic bag,
where the ebb and flow of Ocean beat upon Deer Island’s sand.
A little girl, just two years old, in a bright jumper clad
A little beauty beat to death by some brute of a man.

No one could identify the body they had found
so police employed an artist to help them solve the case.
His rendering of “baby Doe” went up all over town.
Soon it was on the internet. “Do you recognize this face?”

They broke the case last Thursday, they finally had her name.
Her Mother and the boyfriend were arrested and arraigned.
Each condemned the other for the ****** of the Babe.
A bronze fawn now commemorates the spot where she was slain.

Pet Meds are expensive!
Chuck Schumer says it’s so!
So He’ll co-sponsor legislation
To make sure costs are low.
If kitty needs some birth control
before her nightly prowl,
the taxpayers will gladly pay.
If not then Chuck will scowl.
Why shouldn’t people without pets
Pay for those who do?
He’ll make them pay for strays as well-
It’s a Democrat’s World view.
You may think the world has gone to hell
as our border teems with trash.
The Ukraine is on fire.
Jews are fighting with Hamas.
Yet none of these disasters
has made Chuck’s passion burn.
Even Vets who fought our wars
are not Chuck’s main concern.
It’s Vets, who deal with cats and dogs.
It’s far too much they earn.
Why is this his main concern?
Why does he want it passed?
Because it deals with animal rights
And he’s a horse’s a

Twelve thirty five
three shots ring out.
The Presidents been hit.
He's dying, no doubt.
A ghost stares down
at the Motorcade.
Another clutches his throat
as lifesblood is splayed.
Their drama plays out
at Dealy Plaza
Without the blood
or the Dura mater.
A great Man murdered,
A vision gone
November twenty Second
Fifty Years on

Let Appraisers be consulted; Let the sages have their say-
Surely somebody can tell me the true value of one day.
I’m asking for the value of one spinning of this globe;
What’s the cash surrender value of the hours that unfold?
Is it worth its weight in sunshine, in deep breaths and loving glances;
This treasure trove of hours, all disguised as second chances?
The seconds are fine grains of gold; the minutes slip away,
Our memories the only store of value for one day.
We are like ruined millionaires, who, idle in our play,
were possessors of a fortune, but then ****** it all away.
I ask the value of one day; pleased don’t think me glib or clever,
But it appreciates tremendously –when you do not have forever.

The Mongols swept down from the North
across the Persian plains
They massacred those who did not flee
and left their homes in flames.
The libraries that heretofore
were Persia's pride and joy
Were valueless as plunder
to the rapacious Golden Horde.
So that is why the buildings burned
and the rivers turned to black
as priceless volumes bled to death
discarded  in the Horde's attack.
A learned culture was destroyed
and never made it back
in the land that is a crossroads
and which is now known as Iraq.

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

I just want to wish a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow poets and poetesses  here on Hello Poetry.  this site has given me a forum that I appreciate, surrounded by so much talent and such good people.

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 jolly 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.

I awakened to a horror in which I couldn’t feel my feet.
In traction, in a hospital room, I drifted in and out of sleep.
I’d retain some feeling in my hands, yes, my fingers moved.
So I’d be a paraplegic if my condition won’t improve.

I can’t recall the accident.  Some call me fortunate.
Yes, I survived the crash; but I wouldn’t choose this fate.
For some weeks I was in a coma. The other driver’s dead.
Some days found me wishing that he was here instead.

They say I’ll never walk again. I’ll be sentenced to this chair.
I fight for my independence; the only remedy for despair.
I must cultivate new interests; I’ll no longer run and play.
Fate has cast long shadows upon the middle of my day.

You’ll find me in my garden now, when days are dry and fair.
I can still tend to my roses, even working from this chair.
They once were ornamental and seldom on my mind;
Now their careful cultivation is what gives meaning to my time.

They blossom in profusion in a riot of color here.
I have a little greenhouse and I work sheer magic there.
These petals, pink and delicate, are salve to my troubled mind.
They give me peace and an escape from all I left behind.

To prosper is not merely to accumulate more things.
It is more properly understood as the wisdom suffering brings.
A long life is a blessing to those who use each day
To perfect their love of others for we are brothers in a way.
Spock traveled the known quadrant in search of other worlds like ours;
planets at a proper distance from an ordinary star.
Mister Spock now rests in peace, it is logical he would say
That the old yield place to the young, for that is nature’s way.
Still I could wish he’d linger longer in this world of ours
He who first taught me to look up in wonder at the stars.

Taps

The smell of cordite fades
as the day declines to dusk.
the reek of iron rises
From brave men who'll soon be dust.

A solitary bugler,
Plays a mournful song;
Serenades the fallen
Two short notes, then one long.

The sinking Sun is fiery red,
Like Mars, the god of war.
The honored dead?
Not one of them
Recalls what they died for.

It’s strange, there was no pain.
The atom moves too fast for that.
It left my shadow on that wall,
There’s nothing else intact.

It’s strange to die so quickly
I had no time for fear.
Swept up, as in a rapture
Less than a leaf , more than a tear.

My conscious self dissolving
Like a sugar dropped in tea.
No body left to bury
You incinerated me.

Elsewhere in the city
They’ll unearth a murdered clock-
It’s hands forever frozen
on the moment I was not.

Mariano is a humble man
In an ego crowded sport.
The greatest closer of his age-
of all time, by some reports.

He never liked the music
That played when he appeared.
None can match the saves he made
as the stadium rocked with cheers.

He wore the number forty two,
In honor of a man
Who in his day took more abuse
than most of us could stand.

When that last batter is retired
When his last pitch has been thrown
When Girardi cannot summon him
by picking up the phone.

Then next winter will seem longer
And next Spring devoid of cheer.
Mariano is retiring,
This is to be his final year.

I remember his great moments
and recall his failures too.
The later are made easy
by the fact they were so few.

Despite the wind and driving rain,
At their posts they must remain.
In woolen garb and white glove dress,
Twenty one steps, no more no less.
They honor those who came before
Who, unnamed, fell in foreign wars
Entombed forever far from home
in their sarcophagus of stone.
For duty and honor they remain
Despite the wind, despite the rain.

Of Time and Love-
Those gifts you gave-
Only memories may I save.
Although I have a goodly store
Don’t call me greedy for wanting more.


Those other gifts you made for me-
A home and loving family-
I hold them close about me now
that my love has outlived our vow.


With you, dear love, I saw the world
Not half bad for a Bronx bred girl
Yet I would yield the world and more
If Time, that thief, gave us encore. .

Apparently Shakespeare got it all wrong
when he threatened the lawyers in verse.
The carnage in Paris proves he should have written:
"Let's **** all the cartoonists first!"

Some say the opposite of Love is Hate;
That blazing hot antipathy is true Love’s stablemate.
Yet I cannot suppose that true for both Love and Hate
Give significance to the object of their passion or their scorn.
Thus they are more alike than we suppose;
In visage they are cousins, just wearing different robes.
No. Indifference is the opposite of Love.
Love warms Love’s object and holds it near and dear.
Indifference is an icy death that anyone would fear.
No touch , no glance, no loving words; This signifies Love is done.
Like a comet outward bound, banished by the Sun.
Banished from your light and warmth, I am become no one.

If they weren’t in the Polo grounds, the drive was a home run..
Don Liddle served a meatball and Wertz swung and thought it gone.
But Willie Mays thought otherwise and raced towards the wall.
Improbably, impossibly, he caught Vic Wertz’s ball.
He turned to throw; his cap flew off, as Doby raced for third.
When Grisson relieved Liddle, Liddle quipped:” I got my man.”
That the Indians were dispirited you well can understand.
That inning turned the series as Cleveland didn’t score.
The Giants won that game in ten and swept the Tribe in four.
Of all who played the game that day, a precious few remain.
The man who made “The Catch” still lives; forever will his fame.

I am patient in my work. I take pride in what I do.
I have no room to make mistakes that would, forever, be on view.
I crouch before the stone with the dew still on the grass.
I record the names and dates which are their only epitaphs.
I’ve been at this work some time and I always work alone.
For lives written on water I record their term in stone.
Each gravestone holds a story of a life, once lived, now past.
These lives of joy and sorrow which, though precious, do not last.
Each one searching for their meaning, experienced alone,
from the moment of conception until the day that they’re called home.
Some here had lived a century, others just a day,
their entrances and exits incused for posterity.
Fate, which is inexorable, brings everyone this way.
to leave a stone upon a stone, to ponder and to pray

It was back in the winter of Ninety –nine,
the day before Paddy’s on Chicago’s south side,
when a routine traffic stop turned deadly for one;
James Camp was shot in the face with his own gun.
Kevin Dean was the killer, his victim wore blue.
Dean did what he’d previously threatened he’d do.
He was out on probation for attempting such a deed.
On this day he struck and he made a “pig” bleed.
It’s a very fine line we police have to toe;
Act too fast- you’re a bully- Be a corpse if too slow.
There was a fierce struggle and one shot was fired;
Fold a flag for the widow whose Love has expired.
Kevin Dean is in custody, charged with the crime.
This time there’s no bail and he’ll surely do time.
In a Cop bar we sat, nursing grievances and beers.
We’re alone on the streets and we have been for years.
The smell of turned earth and a young widow’s tears,
were fresh in our memory as the next roll call neared.

There once was a man who drew lines in the sand
daring Bashar Al-Assad to cross.
When “the Lion” so dared he was so unprepared
our man looked like the back of a horse.
Now the same man says he’ll stare down Iran
There’s no need for advice and consent.
John Kerry, his proxy, the Ketchup Queen’s mate,
Ignores deadlines that he never meant
He’ll bargain some more til he sells out the store
The Jews, our lone allies, be dammed.
When the I.C.B M.S rain with bombs they’ll obtain
Tel Aviv will melt into the sand
Then we’ll all learn the true cost of “Peace in Our time”
with the murderous thugs from Iran.

Most days of the year a visit here
would involve a rinse blow and trim,
but on Halloween it’s a whole different scene
As the Queens of the night wander in.
Our regular staff has this day off-
It helps keep their heads in the zone.
To help “Jason” and “Freddie” get themselves ready
We’ve beauticians from good funeral homes,
If you wish to appear as a zombie or Ghoul
These girls will help get your “Freak “on
By the time you stagger up out of your chair
You’ll look like you’re long dead and gone.
With a wicked gleam they will paint your *** green-
You may fear it won’t ever come off.
Some bolts on your neck and, oh what the heck,
You can tell folks you’re Boris Karloff.
If a ghost is your quest you will be most impressed
You will look just like Lizzie the Queen
It’s quite the parade as they head out our door
To march in the West village scene.
“You look Boo-tiful dears”, I say to all here
As we all celebrate Halloween.



    x

The other side of Lonely
is where words best not be spoken.
An amazing space where two can live
when both their hearts are broken.
Where money serves to be a salve
to fill the empty places.
Where Joy and Hope no longer live-
You can see it in their faces.

As darkness falls the shelling stopped and the Earth grew ever colder.
It’s taking far too long to die for one badly wounded soldier.
Abandoned by his comrades for the safety of their trench,
He’s dying out in no man’s land amidst the gore and stench,
too late for prayer, too late for Love Too late even for repentance.
He hears the cries for “Mother” from those under the same sentence.
With labored breath he, too, gives voice to the dark forbidding sky.
The last word from his dying lips is the simple question: “Why?”

The onset was a subtle thing;
a clumsiness, a loss of grace.
She who had been strong and proud
was, suddenly, listless, out of place.
A weakness in a muscle here.
A spasm in a tendon there.
The prognosis, like a hammer strike
to the unsuspecting steer.

First came the cane,
Then came the chair.
Long before them
Came the fear.
The loss of strength
And motor skill
Lou Gehrig’s illness
left just her will.
Yet with that will she loved her man
Wrote a book with just one hand
Saw as much of the world she wished,
left them wanting one last kiss.
Then, when breathing became a chore,
She didn’t do it anymore.
To be surprised by death, she felt
Was the best way to manage
The hand she was dealt.

In the streets, broad and narrow, of Republican Rome,
when Cicero, togate, called the Forum his home,
there was sly innuendo and sarcastic wit.
Court was quite entertaining with those advocates.

In the Senate, gridlock was rampant those days
the Boni, content with conservative ways,
Would block legislation and seek to destroy
The populist leaders who held mobs enthralled.

The realm grew too large, the Republic too small,
And Civil War was declared and great Pompey did fall.
Then Caesar was slain and violence started anew
and the laws became silent as often they do.

Exhausted, at last, many principals slain,
Caesar Augustus the power reclaimed.
There still was a Senate in Empire Rome
But form is not substance, the Republic was gone.

Now Rome had an emperor to worship and fear.
Change happened quickly, the fruits of despair,
When the dust had all settled
a Monarch ruled there.

They finally did it,
so often they'd tried.
The whole Human race,
dead, a suicide.

The people I'd chosen
made war on Iran,
Until the last drop of Isaac
bled out on the sand.

Their allies engaged
and the dread missiles flew.
Nuclear winter
took care of a few.

The rivers of Babylon
clotted with dead.
So it was written.
So it was said.

The tribes of the Prophet
and Abraham's clan
took everyone with them
so I understand.

I really will miss them.
If I had eyes, I cry.
They only knew How,
They stopped asking "Why".

Their Cities are silent,
filled with cockroaches only,
They consigned me to Myth
and now I am lonely.

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 jolly 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.

When I was young and callow
and could run for twenty miles
I met a woman, Karen,
both sophisticate and kind.

We met while on vacation,
I was her junior by five years.
Her eyes a vivid, limpid blue-
marred recently by tears.

She was on the rebound
from an instance of heart break.
I was young and willing
and,to be honest, a mistake.

It was a thrill to take her hand
and be invited in
I watched her undress slowly
so our passion could begin.

We did not get much sleep at all
though I'll not kiss and tell.
I will say for her recent loss
I stood in very well.

When I awoke next morning
She had dressed and gone away.
I never saw her face again
or spoke about our play.

We loved for one night only
when we wrestled in the sheets..
How bittersweet came morning
with no chance of a repeat.

She was a young girl, just fifteen,
when the wondrous deed was done.
Behold, a ****** had conceived;
It was foretold she’d have a son.

She was promised to an older man,
a joiner of wood, simple and plain.
Many a man might have demurred;
exposing her to the stones of shame.

In his troubled sleep, he had a dream,
revealing all that God had done;
Joseph took Mary to be his wife
As the Roman census had begun.

Mary considered these things in her heart
As the infant grew and thrived.
He was strong in wisdom, kind of heart.
Though Herod pursued Him, the child survived.

Three years he traveled these ancient hills;
In synagogues and Temples, he taught.
Until, betrayed, he was arrested,
and brought before the Roman court.

How hard for Mary to behold
her only son upon a cross.
She heard Him cry out to the sky
and yield His spirit when all seemed lost.

It seemed he was in Satan’s power;
When even gold appeared but dross.
Then Joseph of Arimathea came
to claim His body from the cross.

Hope is a slender reed;
enough to build a dream upon.
She, too, beheld the empty tomb.
The stone removed, the Master gone.

Her little black dress is by Ralph Lauren,
her complexion is Lancome.
Estee lauder blushed her lips
And Apple made her phone.
She loves the feel of Hermes’ silk
upon her naked skin.
Her shoes are Gucci,
her bag by Coach.
Her perfume is “my Sin”

Lady Clairol turned her hair
the color of ripe wheat.
She’s a devil wearing Prada
who looks good enough to eat.
I ponder on this vision
And a stray thought makes me laugh:
My fiercely independent woman
Has been “branded” like a calf.

This time the French have gone too far! This will not stand, you hear!
The makers of “Méthode Champenoise” are suing Miller beer.
For years their spies have regularly infiltrated in the States,
suing all who dare mislabel bubbly made from grapes.
(We cannot call the sparkling wines produced on our own shores
“champagne” according to long, well established, laws.)
Fines and penalties are paid for breaking those mandates
Although to me it seems to be a case of sour grapes.
Today their spy was shopping for a piece of camembert
When he spied a Miller ad for “the champagne of bottled beers”
“Sacre Bleu” the Frenchman cried! “what sacrilege is here?.”
How dare these “Millers” to compare our drink with bottled beer.
They seized the product off the shelf to (ahem) do some testing.
I hear it knocked Jacques on his *** but he claims he’s just resting.

They're your uncles or your brothers;
They're the ones who fought and bled.
Theirs are the names upon this wall,
the legion of our dead.
They didn't run to Canada
when they heard their country call.
They ran toward the sound of guns;
All through the Sixties did they fall.
So spare a moment at the wall,
Peruse their names incused.
Long Summers past, they were like us,
with so much more to lose.

It came in the mail the other day;
Another rejection! No big deal!.
I have lots of company;
Fellow poets know how I feel.

The dead poets’ society
is filled with those who have known fame.
We scribble in obscurity –
while every schoolkid knows their names.

Typing madly on our notebooks,
Those of us still in the game,
Are longing for some validation:
assurance that our work is not in vain.

Like a dog who’s been mistreated;
kicked to the curb and struck with a cane-
I snarl and snap from my safe corner
and hate the mailman much the same.

Science tells us that natural selection
plays no small role in our complexion.
Environment too must play its role
in making us white, brown or gold.
Southern whites, whose genes spend time
In hot and sunny southern climes,
may, in the course of generations,
start looking brown to Scandinavians.
While Blacks who live in the Northwest
see dark tones fade, go unexpressed.
In time all hatred based on race
perhaps will prove to  be misplaced.
If whites turn brown and blacks turn pale
for whom would Reverend Sharpton rail?
When mostly Mocha men and women
Drop clothes and prejudice and get to sinning
Our census forms will need fine tuning
when the only box for race is human.

In the dark, past no man’s land,
When the cold night’s wind whispered low,
We heard a most incongruous sound;
christmas carols sung by our foe.

Someone raised a flag of truce
and we met them on contested ground.
We shared our food, some cigarettes.
And  hummed along with their joyful sound.

Our fellows sang what tunes we knew-
In broken English they replied.
Together we buried our common dead
Who belonged now not to either side.

I hear in some sectors games were played.
a game of football of a sort.
Sadly it was the briefest pause
ere we resumed our deadly sport.

In years that followed no quarter was given
So bitter had our men become.
There were no songs left in our hearts.
after the slaughter of Verdun.

Whether Indian or Asian
Whether yellow black or white
The very thing that makes you “you”
is hidden out of sight.

Skin differences are but skin deep,
The roots of love and hate
Are in the wrinkled Universe
That lives inside each pate.

Everything you ever knew
And all you've ever loved
Are self-contained within your brain
That’s how it ever was.

Our Angels and our demons
Live inside our frontal lobes
Since time is short and fate is sure
I’d rather love than loathe.

( inspired by a comment made by Dr. Ben Carson, an American)

It used to be the task of Moms to ***** train young ***** and Janes.
The government had other work; such as procuring tanks and planes.
These days the STATE has grown so large that they alone must run the show
The President, by Royal decree, demands we let his people go.

Though Male and Female God created; that either-or -ness now seems dated.
Learned scholars have explained how **** might think herself a Jane,
providing Kaitlyn, once named Bruce, with a ready-made excuse.
Conservatives rail, but what’s the use?

He She or It? Are you confused about which bathroom you should use?
In former days it was the done thing to use the room that matched your fun thing
Now delicate Psyches are rubbed raw as their gender issues they explore.



Once more the forces of the law are brought to bear on Segregation;
now its stools, not schools, which are the cause for intervention.
Yes, women have their Privacy rights- when it comes to procreation.
All else must now be sacrificed to the vision of a much changed nation.

When Adam and Eve think they’re Ada and Steve
Let them *** where they want or the State is aggrieved.
Adolescence is just such a jumble these days;
What with male lesbians, trannies and gays.
The young must find it most confusing
about which bathroom they should be using.
In New York City, if you so please,
You won’t be arrested if found using our trees.

Obama started with such high hopes.
I voted for him but now I’m bitter,
That the Presidency of hope and change
is winding up here in the *******.

It was sticky hot and humid in Ferguson that Saturday.
Just another weekend where the little leagues would play.
I was riding unit 25 looking out for petty crime.
My units' radio sputtered to life: "shots fired on Canfield drive."
" Officer in need of assistance"

We just didn't arrive in time.

I recognized the body, my colleague and close friend.
Darren Wilson was shot six times, the last time in the head.
His service piece was missing. The shooter had fled the scene.
I called for a bus and backup and radioed what I had seen.
We then secured the crime scene as it drew a silent crowd.
Detectives looked for any clues and canvased the homes around.
No witness would come forward, either out of fear or dread.
"His new wife is now a widow." my disgusted partner said.
Darren face was badly bruised as he lay there in the sun.
I surmised he'd been assaulted in the struggle for his gun.
The coroner sighed and shook his head at the body on the gurney.
He'd perform an autopsy on my friend before his final journey.

The score was one dead man in blue, his murderer still free.
The streets that night were quiet, as I suspected they would be.
There was no public outcry at the killing that was done.
Blue lives never matter to a town like Ferguson.

It’s the battle of Baghdad all over again.
Shiite versus Sunni, it’s them against them.
The push for a Caliphate exacts a high toll.
ISIS marches on the capital and, I fear, heads will roll.

On Potomac’s fair shores the politicos dither.
Are we going to help or just let Iraq wither?
We created a vacuum too big to ignore
And ISIS has filled it with ****** and gore

The blood of the innocent washes the streets
as the Iraqi government stares at defeat.
Feckless, our leader, abdicating his role,
is making a putt on the seventeenth hole.

Was it part of his plan to incite revolution?
Is he evil or clueless? What is the solution?
Does he take a position not based on a poll?
We have paid, blood and treasure, and heads ought to roll.

My Daughter has a fitbit that records her every move.
She wears it daily on her wrist in her efforts to improve.
Her every step, lap and jump thus are duly noted.
To self-improvement and fitness, she surely is devoted.

Me? I can get tired watching football on T.V.
The treadmill in my basement is piled high with clean laundry.
I can’t resist a chocolate bar, my diet isn’t great.
Does rising from my easy chair still count as lifting weights?

Still, there should be a wearable for the chubby hubby set.
To monitor the quality of the sitting time we get.
To count each doughnut we consume, to list each chocolate bar.
To note the steps avoided when we choose to take the car.

This was once a Jew’s apartment, here on the Konig Platz.
It must have been magnificent, before we were attacked.
I squat in an apartment whose glories are all past.
The artwork was seized off these walls and the former owner gassed.
Now the copper mansard roof leaks nearly every time it rains;
It’s my only source of water so I’m not one to complain.
My sleep is poor and fitful, as the foe controls the sky.
How long can we endure this siege? How many more must die?
The noise is indescribable; so many allied planes.
We cannot quench the fires; bombs have burst the water mains.
Food is hard to come by, that’s been true ever since spring,
And it’s gotten worse since Russian troops started tightening the ring.
I see old men and boys march out in their tattered Wehrmacht Grey.
They are poorly armed, with just Panzerfausts to keep the Reds at bay.
In a broken shard of mirror, I glimpse what I’ve become;
a scarecrow of a woman; full of fear, no longer young.
To the Russians that won’t matter;My flesh still warm to hold.
They would take their turns at ****** me while I curse and **** their souls.
My husband died at Normandy and I’ve lost our only son.
Now all I need to join them is one bullet and a gun.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
The youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters song
and that star that shone like gold.