It was simple curiosity, I have just myself to blame.
I was not the man’s disciple, though of course I knew the name.
I could see that he’d been beaten, saw the cruel marks of the lash.
I was told he’d fallen more than once on the steep and stony path.

So when the Centurion beckoned me, I hurried to comply.
I have a healthy fear of swords and was in no rush to die.
He bade me to take up the cross, to put my back into it.
I took the Prophet’s burden on; he could no longer do it.

Most of his friends abandoned Him, this man from Galilee.
He who soon would breathe his last stretched painfully on this tree.
They did not wish to share his fate, a death upon the cross.
They scattered into hiding just as soon as all seemed lost.

This work was hot and difficult for one man all alone
I struggled up the incline, Stepping carefully, stone by stone.
The Prophet was a beaten man whereas I was young and strong.
He came to this place to die, but I would get back home.

I saw his look of gratitude as I put my burden down.
I ‘ll not forget the dripping blood from down his thorny crown.
He said I’d be remembered for this thoughtful, kindly deed.
I told him notoriety is the last thing that I need

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.

In Noah Webster’s lexicon of 1828
this word meant one who walks about
in an aimless mindless state.
(He did not of course mean to describe
our present head of state.
Still I didn’t make it up-
I don’t prevaricate!)
He seems irresolute to deal
with Isis’ militancy.
His only firm direction is
towards the Eighteenth tee.
In the chill of an autumn afternoon,
as the light begins to fade,
it appears his major goal in life
is the par shot he just made.
Now that his term is winding down
I get the strange impression
that all this golfing is prelude
to a planned change of profession.
He’ll join the tour, he’ll make the cut
He’ll finally have it all.
when the only lie concerning him
Is the lie of his golf ball.

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.

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 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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

The season is a marathon and that one, more than most.
The travel was exhausting with two trips out to the coast.
Mickey was the favored son to wear Ruth’s home run Crown
But a ****** abscess in his thigh had taken Mantle down.

Roger Maris was exhausted if the truth were to be told.
He raced Ruth’s ghost all summer; now the air was turning cold.
With the **** down with an injury, the tension only grew,
as the calendar turned another page and at bats dwindled too.

No pitcher wished to be the one to yield that needed hit,
even if it would be marked down with an asterisk.
The count ran two and “OH’ with Barber in the catbird seat
Tracy Stallard toed the rubber as the catcher called for heat.

Some moments are forever, though, sadly, far too few.
Roger turned upon the ball; towards right field it flew.
It landed in the lower deck as Roger rounded third
It proved to be the winning run as the Yankees blanked the Birds.

I have the photo on my wall as Roger dropped the bat;
the consummate professional, no showboating or act.
He defined grace under pressure; he showed what must be done.

The shadows reach out towards the mound when you hit Sixty-One.

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.

La flèche et le toit se sont effondrés,
Mais au moins aucun corps n'est mort.
Le vitrail a fondu de la chaleur
et des œuvres d'art inestimables d'ailleurs.
Notre-Dame est ouverte vers le ciel;
Son tabernacle profané.
Un trésor de la foi de l'homme est parti.
Peut-il être recréé?
Un curé âgé parcourt ses allées
Dont les murs résonnent les prières des hommes.
Il regarde les chœurs nus en ruine
et combat les sentiments de désespoir.
“Nous reconstruirons” pense le Père
comme les pierres chauffées deviennent froides.
«Nous élevons nos cœurs au Seigneur
Qui a payé la rançon pour nos âmes. "

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.

What have I done? What can I do?
One was a challenge, but now I have two!

My garret was lonely as I lived alone
Until Apple's Siri came to life on my phone.
When Siri moved in, Alexa was miffed.
Two personal assistants with a personal tiff!

While  I talk to one, the other is scheming
to send every suit that I own to dry cleaning
If I ask for a song both join in the fray-
each plays  different versions
for which I must pay.
They both ordered  groceries duplicating each other.
My accounts overdrawn; I must borrow from mother.

Yesterday, really, was the last straw
Alexa sent Strippers to my boss's front door!

For Sanity's sake I'll unplug them manana
From here on I'm a one woman man
My Cortana.

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.

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.

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 soft blue glow of his smartphone screen
Attracts him like a lover.
He looks intently at the “feed”
and snap chats with the others.
He photographs his dinner plate and
shares it with the web.
He plays no sports, he stays inside
He plays VR instead.
His neck is permanently bent
from looking at the screen.
He’s not much for conversation.
He’s a solitary teen.
He’s getting fat and growing soft
from long stretches of inaction.
He needs an intervention-
He’s addicted to distraction.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

“Oh come, oh come my little ones
Come to the land of the free.
Cross mountains and deserts
Come on the run!”
said the Pied Piper of D.C.

“We’ll house you and feed you
And give you free treats”
said the schemer to these dreamers so young.
“Citizen’s rights are no bother to me,
I’ll get them to pay for each one.”

“A border so porous you never did see.”
said the Pied piper of D.C.
“Bring all your diseases,
We’ll treat them for free,
And find foster homes for each one.”

“Oh come, oh come my little ones
Come to the land of the free.
Cross mountains and deserts
Come on the run!”
said the Pied Piper of D.C.

Now well you may wonder
How children so young
Cross mountains and deserts to come
But if you should ask you’re a racist of course
Just shut up and pay for each one.

Now back in the day
When a pied piper played
The rats would depart and be done.
But, sadly, these days,
Once this piper’s been paid
(Democ)rats still infest Washington.

Every woman has one in her closet-
(although some are loathe to confess)
It’s perfect for many occasions.
It is known as the little black dress..

For Women who seek to entice,
or have men they want to impress.,
There is nothing terribly virginal
concerning that little black dress.

Its of Spidery inspiration and,
oh, what a web they can weave.
They use it, some say, ensnaring their prey.
It comes out again when they grieve.

In Wedding, our Ladies wear white.,
A Little black dress when they keen.
They dress in subtler shades of gray
on all the days in between.

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?”

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.

My husband never liked it- he'd ***** moan and complain,
but it was my place of solitude, being Queen of my domain.
I spent happy hours there, just puttering  in my shed
I had a stash of bourbon there and some intriguing reds.

How the fire started we have never ascertained.
I still suspect my husband, but he'll never take the blame
He says it was a lightening strike that burned it to the ground
but can't explain the empty can of kerosene I found.

Though of suspicious origin, our insurance man came through
accepting tales of lightening strikes out of a sky clear blue.
I'll built my next she shed with brick and you can rest assured
that, no matter what the cost, it's gonna be insured.

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.

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.

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.

From every county of old
Ireland
The stones have come to speak again.
Joined together in these four walls
They tell the tale of vanished men.
One million dead, the Hunger’s harvest
A million more fled overseas.
The potatoes, on which they depended,
Lay rotting in the Irish fields
It was a hard death they endured;
Their sentence passed by
falling
yields.
The stones cry out, the stones remember
the shadows of the hunger slain.
They curse the British who dissembled
Who showed less mercy than the rain.
They cry out loudest for the children;
The bairns of that famished land.
Their mother’s arms, their only coffin.
their sole possession was their names.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To keep the patient comfortable was all now I could do.
The diagnosis was terminal and he obviously knew.
I was with him through his surgery that was thelast gasp chance,
and now he looked death in the face with an unflinching glance.

He said “Dear, if you’ll humor me and if there’s any chance,
There are three things on my bucket list before I leave this dance.”
“I’m craving one last cigarette; perhaps a glass of wine;.
“and, If you can arrange it, to see the Sun a final time.”

On the top floor of this hospital there’s an open balcony.
I grubbed a cigarette for him out of sympathy.
I could not get a cabernet; he’d settle for Chablis.
I got him on a gurney and called for an orderly.

That afternoon was splendid and Fall was in the air.
The Sun was setting in the West as he watched it from his chair.
The patient puffed his Marlboro and blew smoke rings for me
He didn’t give me too much grief for my choice of Chablis.

“They say the Lord on Calvary was thirsty for a drink,
A sponge soaking in vinegar they offered Him, I think.”
“So who am I to criticize my nurse’s choice of wine;
Its chilled and it is drinkable so it will serve me fine.”

By evening he was comatose; his pulse was weak and fast
His children said there last goodbyes; grateful for the chance.
They’d arranged it with the Doctors; DNR was on his slip.
I sat and held the old man’s hand as the good god, Morphine, dripped.

O’ let us lay together love
when this World’s cares are past.
My Queen I have had locked away
She was treacherous to the last.
Accept this rose I’ve named for you,
A heirloom hybrid bloom.
I’ll have them carve its like in stone
Upon our honored tomb
So that, my Love, in years to come,
Our children’s children see
How I loved my Rosamund,
How much you’ve meant to me

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 *******.

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.

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.

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.

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.

An empty bottle of Mateus couldn’t help me drown my sorrow.
It cannot bring you back to me, and I’ll pay for this tomorrow.
All it has done is render me numb to your parting words and kiss;
a kiss goodbye, no public scene, no angry emphasis.
I had lost at Love before, yet something about today.
I think the finality of it all, drove me to this plebeian rose’.


When the love of your life has walked out of your life
What remains then to do or to say?
I will live work and sleep, pay my debts, keep my peace,
And still love you when I’m old and grey.

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.