We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

At midnight’s stroke we raised our voices to greet the brand new year.
The lyrics and the music both are meant to draw a tear.
For there are those, who we loved well, that sang these words and tune.
Who are no more among us as we look about the room.
Dear Mom and Dad, I think on you as another year slips by..
As long as I have tears to weep this cup will not run dry.
Soon others will take up the song to greet the year anew
And if the kindly fates allow I’ll sing along with you.
But if, by chance, fate is unkind and I’m no longer here
Raise a cup of kindness yet to the passing of the year.

Michael Bloomberg was awakened in an unfamiliar bed.
Restraining bands were on his limbs and also on his head.

“our sales are down across the board, our latest soda bombed.”
“While our truckers want to rub you out, We insist you won’t be harmed.”
“We are trying to convert you, There's no need to be alarmed.”

For this most unwilling witness Coke's jingle was replayed,
I cannot say how often, it went on for many days.
He was forced to watch commercials, all in praise of soda pop.
Big gulps were his nourishment, though he longed to make it stop.

Then, when his brain was Cola washed
And we finally set him free,
Michael Bloomberg bought the world a Coke
and sang in harmony.

The Cut man and the manager
had seen this scene before.
Smoking Joe was staggering.
He looked destined for the floor.
His left eye badly swollen
from where a cut had bled.
For Fourteen Rounds
He'd matched his foe,
the greatest,many said.
Now it seemed he's have to yield
to this implacable foe.
Eddie reached and grabbed the towel
he was prepared to throw
Frazier glared with his good eye
to tell his corner " NO"!

The minutes seemed forever.
He gave his all, they said
The fifteenth round has ended
and smoking Joe is dead.

A Pall of Civic Sorrow shrouded Charleston like a mist;
Nine bronze coffins in the church nave waiting to be blessed.
Anger would be natural, doesn’t violence beget more?
Is forgiveness even possible? Many were unsure.
The congregation gathered to pray and understand
in the place the murders happened; a church built by freedmen’s hands.

As they prayed about forgiveness, one shrill voice disagreed.
It cursed the “white man’s Jesus” and all those who bend the knee.
Stop praying to your “*****’s god” and burn the city down;
all those fine homes of brick and wood that stand in Charleston town.

With Faith comes understanding, wisdom denied to the proud.
There will be no wave of violence here, the congregation vowed.
Lord Jesus was not Black or White; his was a brown tanned hide.
He was in chains and felt the lash on the very day he died.

Love is neither slave nor free, as it appears to me.
It is with Love we live and breathe and have true dignity.
So let the White and Black join hands across the Charleston span;
Then we will not be White or Black but each Americans.

Here was age and here was beauty,
The nearly young and very old-
women standing ,stripped stark naked
there were forty in all told.
That cold Spring morn
In Sobior, the SS planned to test
Their newest means of ******
On these Jewesses undressed.
First robed of everything they’d owned,
Then compelled to disrobe-
Forced into the chamber
Where monoxide soon took hold.
First the banging on the door
That was securely locked
Screams and imprecations
Then silence borne of shock.
Ten minutes it was over
The last of them had passed
An open pit would be their grave
Their fortunes had been cast..

The path that led up from the camp
To where they breathed their last,
We Germans called the “Himmelstrasse”
For even villains need a laugh.
But on this day in Forty three
The sheep did more than mutter
They killed a dozen guards then fled.
They would not yield like the others.

The Young resent us Oldsters, we Seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The Young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.

It’s fortunate the rain had ceased early this warm November day.
I glance at my watch: 12:27; “Lancer” and “Lace” are on their way.
I see Lee in his ******’s perch. I still wonder if he’ll get this done.
I stand on the grassy knoll. Beneath my jacket, I touch my gun.
We must not fail; the King must die. I am the insurance it will be done.
A shot is fired from up above. “Lancer” grabs his throat and chest
and Camelot becomes undone.

The second bullet finds its mark And “Lace” is spattered with brains and blood.
The crowd is gripped with sudden fear. Here and there they start to run
Some woman screams “They’ve murdered him”.
I secretly smile for we have won.
I make my way to the phone booth there inside the Dallas Barbecue.
I call Ruby at his club. “Jack, I have one more job for you.”

At the Nassau County Medical Center We nurses were put on alert;
A truck hit a small car on the L.I.E. leaving someone in a world of hurt.
Our “John Doe” was being air lifted and we heard the copter drone near.
One look at his face and I knew he was gone from this world of Love and Fear.
Yes, we all knew it was Harry from his unmistakable leonine mane;
The charts had him labeled as “John Doe” but we knew who it was just the same.
The doctors, like heroes, were fighting to bring Harry back from the grave
But his heart had been pierced by a sliver of glass; there was no way that he could be saved.
Had his heart failed him, there on the roadway, or had he been killed in the crash.
I couldn’t feel mad at the trucker who did what he could at the last.
We found a gold watch in his pocket. “Harry F. Chapin” engraved.
A man who had fought to save others but who himself could not save.

Some days she feels better than others;
Her life ebbs and flows with the pain.
She’s an eighteen year old girl fighting cancer
facing chemotherapy once again.

Thanks to some kind hearted donors
who conspire to make dreams come true
She flew into New York City
To spend her last Christmas with you

She’s spending three days in our city;
enjoying the hustle and flow.
She must see the Tree and window shop stores
and there’s one other place she must go.

As a young girl she loved figure skating.
Now she laces her skates one last time.
Alone on the ice it’s as good as it gets
There’s a smile on her face and there’s joy in her heart
as she spins in a tight Pirouette.

Liam had come to see the birds, and to hear a favorite song.
Just eighteen, he was facing stiff exams.
A night off from his studies couldn’t do him that much harm.
He’d thought that- but he couldn’t be more wrong.

He’d counted himself Lucky with a ticket near the stage.
Inside the darkened stadium, where decibels run high,
He’d just met up with Anna; a big Ariana fan.
Both soon would suffer for a madman’s rage.

The bomber was just twenty two, a loner uninvited.
He waited till the star was done, striking as the house was lighted.
Police found Liam dead and Anna, bleeding, beside him.
Liam’s bloodied tee shirt read: Manchester United.

The farmer stooped and took a scoop of soil into his hands.
It was dry and lifeless, less like topsoil than like sand.
On the far horizon a darkling cloud of dust was seen.
Another year without a crop, the times were worse than lean.
Human beings are full of pride, the sin that caused our fall,
sure that, as populations grew, that we could feed them all.
The forests shrank, the deserts grew, and erosion claimed the soil.
Then the crops began to fail all across the world.
Hunger stalks this once rich land, so many lives erased
So many children dead and gone the shovels can’t keep pace.
Is this the end once prophesied, the apocalypse indeed.
Once the seed corn’s been consumed, hope is a slender reed.

Channel four of the BBC thinks An Gorta MOR fit comedy:
genocide of the Irish nation with laughter as the expectation?
A million dead, two million more forever vanished from Ireland’s shores.
What degenerate would be amused? This programing should be refused.
A starving race, the potato failed, their agony has been well detailed.
The land was rich and still they died as help was grudgingly supplied.
Those whom the reaper failed to grip escaped upon the coffin ships;
never again to see these shores, of kith and kin forever shorn.
How anyone finds this amusing I find to be a bit confusing.
Such a person, I surmise, would tear the wings off butterflies.
I presume a laugh track will be supplied….


as our dead don’t laugh but only smile.

Ambition is the fatal flame
That consumes the world entire.
The dying emperor well knew that
as his last day expired.
The sight of his own funeral urn
Lead him to exclaim.
“Soon you will contain the man
The world could not contain.”
That same ambition killed one son-
dead at his brother’s hand.
In time it brought that other down
But first it made him mad.

Abandoned by my former love,
behind these iron bars I wait.
Boredom may overtake me,
Or some other, far worse, fate.
My only hope, a second love,
to redeem me from this place.
Adopt me from this puppy mill
And I’ll gladly lick your face.

When your best friends a canary,
you've been too long in the mines.
The dust that marks
your skin and lungs
is never far behind.
Paler than a Vampire,
hidden from the Sun.
Long hours digging with your pick
wherever the seam may run.
Sometimes the dust
constricts your breath.
Some times you feel undone.
When you're living life in dog years,
you can count on dying young.

The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

She took my palm quite roughly
As she told me my dark past.
She was gazing into the crystal ball
But all I saw was glass.

She said I’d know the darkness,
That close cousin to despair,
When I’d wake up to discover
The bed cold and you not there.

The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

For much is gained and much is lost
In a life lived on a bet.
Brief was our time together
Just like the gypsy said.

The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white.
Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays.
The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few;
Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed.
Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight,
enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight.
Each move she makes falls before the plan
of the specter’s outstretched bony hand.
As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise
Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise;
“it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said
in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead.
By now almost all ivory pieces are gone,
leaving her only her King and one pawn.
She moves to defend but no chance can be seen
in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen.
Once more her opponent assumes a new face;
Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place.
She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain.
Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame.
“Mom, it is time to resign without shame;
None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

I’m not considered “normal” by policemen on the force.
They apprehended me in public having an*l *******.
From early on I’ve always been attracted to a certain sort of man.
I’ve tried to be with women but that’s not just who I am.

Condemned as an “abnormal”, my security clearance lost,
considered an Enigma and somewhat an albatross.
In war I was a hero in the cryptanalytic game.
Now those doors are closed to me and others just the same.

So much I have accomplished, yet much remains undone.
Their chemicals have unmanned me so this capsule on my tongue
Once crushed with bring oblivion with its bitter almond taste.
The destruction of a once great man, will someone rue the waste?

La ville de lumière porte une couverture de blanc
Comme les flocons de neige et l'obscurité, en tandem, descendre.
Je marche dans ses rues, seule, avec juste votre mémoire en tant que compagnie
La vieille librairie que nous avons aimé faire des emplettes
A fait sa dernière vente et fermé pour de bon.
Notre restaurant préféré est toujours là, ouvert pour les affaires,
Mais de nouvelles personnes l'ont maintenant.
Elle aussi est changée.
Dans les temps plus heureux, nous nous sommes assis à cette table extérieure
Et regardé, ensemble, les nuances subtiles de la lumière
Réfracté sur les eaux de la Seine.

Dans votre entreprise, une simple croûte de pain
Et une bouteille, ou deux, de calvados semblait un festin.
En votre absence, les meilleurs aliments sont, pour moi, la paille et la paille.

Années de vie dans votre amour
Ne m'a pas préparé
Pour cette vie seule
Je regarde les flocons de neige tomber, vers le bas.
À travers le froid sombre de cette soirée parisienne
Et les envie de leur résolution que je ne peux pas encore partager.

On a lonely road they traveled,
Michael Collins and his friends.
Though the road led to
Cork City
He would never see its end.
For the I.R.A. was waiting
where they knew that he must pass.
O’Neil, an I.R.A. man,
T’was him who fired the fatal blast.
Kitty Kiernan made a widow
before she ever was a bride.
On an August day in Twenty two
Brave Michael Collins died.

For four years we endured them;
Trumps ' lame, incessant tweets.
He pilloried both friend and foe,
in victory and defeat.

He raised name calling to an art;
His dislikes he made plain
His politics lacked subtlety.
His ranting seemed insane.

Now his account is frozen-
he nevermore may tweet
We will not hear his theories
about how opponents cheat.

He stands  accused ( and justly so)
Of inciting folks to violence
So his social media accounts are closed
and all that's left is silence.

The manuscript was proofed and approved
when Rachael Carson spoke to us that night.
Silent Spring would be her testament;
her final gift to the world of men.
Her cancer of the breast had spread
and she fought weariness often now.
Still, she knew she must sound the warning;
“Reform your ways or face your worlds end.”
To her well-trained mind, it’s true
She found Our Earth beautiful and new.
Still, she saw troubling things as well
in the thinning of the Ospreys shell.
If these beautiful birds still grace our skies
Thank Rachel Carson for she was wise..
Heed well her words and the light they bring
If you seek to avoid a silent Spring.

A comfortable rocking chair, a woven shawl upon his lap,
Lincoln sat in the Presidential box with trouble lurking at his back.
His guard had a terrible thirst-which he quenched at the neighboring bar.
The war was over after all-Who expected an attack?

Booth stealthily climbed the stairs, with ****** on his mind.
John Wilkes spotted his prey, through a hole he had drilled in the door.
The South must be avenged! He would salvage Southern pride.
He unloaded his derringer in Lincoln’s head; the last Union dead of the war.

Clara Harris was screaming in terror, as Booth slashed her Beau to the bone.
“Sic Semper Tryrannis:” Booth shouted, announcing the deed he had done
Booth’s spur caught on the star spangled bunting as he vaulted toward the stage.
Booth limped across to the door- His leg broken, bad luck for a man on the run.

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.

His new Blue Suit

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there is his new clothes.

I think you will find
That dating a poet
Is no waste of time.
An ardent poet
will transport you-
with flights of fancy
he will court you.
His catalogue of
All your graces
wll put fond smiles
on knowing faces.
And, if you are
Not so inclined,
Who better
to forlornly pine?
A poet on a string
Who’ll send you verse?
You might do better-
But you could do worse.

There is a house that haunts my days, a house that infiltrates my dreams.
It is seven stories tall and was not made by human hands.
In this house are many rooms and I can’t catalog them all.
Its chambers reach out to eternity and back towards the fall.
That which the mind can’t comprehend yet can be known by heart;
The sum of all the stars at night would only be a start.

The bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

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

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

The poetry of longing
is but the bright side of despair.
The expression of a yearning
for a love no longer there.
The embodiment of our parting
that cold dark Winter’s night,
brutal in its finality
beneath the stars unblinking light.
We turned there from each other
as two halves, now unpaired,
Each knowing in our hearts
the bitter tasting fare.

Twelve years; has it been as long as that?
I’m conscious of the grey that streaks my hair.
She, however, seems just as I remember
As the day before that day she wasn’t there.
There are no ties that bind me to this woman.
There are no banns that tie her to this man.
This was, of course, an accidental meeting.
Her leaving cut me far too deep to care.
Yet her eyes search mine as if to question
If an ember in the ashes smolders there

There is nothing to be done, nothing anyone can say
that will salve old Pedro’s heartache and take his grief away.
Three generations of his girls died in the tragic crash.
Their tickets all read “Dusseldorf” but they all died in France.
The old man sits dejected with his head hid in his hands.
A senseless act has claimed their lives, this much he understands.
A church bell tolls the call to prayer in Barcelona Spain.
They pray for all the victims of a pilot gone insane.
He forms their names upon his lips. It is a soundless cry.
His loved ones fell to earth they say out of a clear blue sky.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he scurried up to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we endeavor to hide."

""We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."

"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."

"Our graduates cheat and suborn
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and all learn to prevaricate."

"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some Coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
telling lies in an endless loop.

There were quotes from
the Koran and Bible
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The people must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."

I said, barely moving my lips.

Crawl into my bed
The way you creep
into my dreams.
Let hands and tongues
Explore as if
We were
two wanton teens..

Your long brown hair
frames your loving face
as you savor every taste.
Then take my lips
Between your hips
to tongue tease
your secret spot.

Hold me tight
in your embrace.
As I probe and explore.
Till I recall
You’re moonlight..
A memory….
nothing more.

Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.

My eyes, unblinking, are raised towards the sky.
I’m just a man in an ordinary suit.
Thirteen stairs for me to climb,
Thirteen steps till I wear the noose.
I’ve been condemned for the crimes of others.
This is my sacrificial feast.
My emperor lives and reigns in splendor.
This war ends in a bitter peace.
My loving wife had predeceased me.
I am resigned now to my fate.
As the hemp rope chokes my life out
I hope, my Love, to see your face.
Thirteen steps, I must not trip.
A stumble here would be disgrace.
I face my death with calm and courage.
This day will bring no loss of face.
I was just a man in an ordinary suit
In the wrong seat, at the wrong time,
in the wrong place.

He was not from these parts; a big city teen.
At Five – Six not imposing, he was barely fourteen.
A big city teen with a bit of a mouth,
which was bad for a black man in the heart of the South.

A warm summer day in an old country store,
The white girl was a looker; that much was sure.
Emmitt Till whistled for he was impressed
With how good that girl looked in that tight fitting dress.

That girl had a husband, a big burly man.
He was a bad man to cross for he rode with the ****.
He and his cousin sought out Emmitt Till.
If a man can die slowly they both swore this one will.

The two held Emmitt captive in an old wooden barn.
They strung him up with barbed wire and broke both of his arms.
They gouged out one eye for the pleasure of pain
Then they dragged out to the river his mortal remains.

His poor mother wept when she saw what they’d done;
How they’d tortured and murdered her beloved son.
She mourned, open casket, and word soon got out
How Black men were killed in the Heart of the South.

The law found Till’s killers and brought them to court.
But the jury was friendly (or else they were bought).
The two killers went free, smiling, down the court steps.
But their sins lit a fire folks here won’t forget.

After Till’s death Civil Rights was the cause
There were marches and protests; the movement changed laws
The ****’s hold would be broken; of that do not doubt,
And, slowly, things changed in the heart of the South.

We cannot, must not, judge your act.
We didn’t share your pain.
You’ve left this life on your own terms-
How many wish the same?
We weep for that which might have been;
a happy heart and home.
When that proved to be impossible,
the choice was yours alone.
For those of us who linger here
In doubt and groundless fears,
We respect your heart’s decision
and the life within your years.

  
    x

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



Only leave me with the memory

Of the day we kissed goodbye

Perhaps not much for me to live on

But please forgive me if I try.



This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were doomed to fail eventually.



I am not a poet,

I can barely hold a tune

Still, I vividly remember

Lying breathless in your room.

  

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



So leave me with a memory

Of the day we said goodbye

Maybe someday I’ll stop loving you

But it will be the day I die.

I must have been out of my mind-
vacationing in Palestine.
It was temptingly cheap to make the trip
And hotels on the Gaza Strip
Are affordable to all,
- Just three hours’ drive
from the Wailing Wall.
I’d rent a car but I’m out of luck.
No, I do not wish to rent a truck.
With streets so cratered I understand
Why folks call this the “holy Land”
This land where swarthy men in sheets
Hold daily protests in the streets.
This land where nightly rockets roar,
There are no bars or package stores.
I should have checked the Michelin guide!
For now I have to run and hide
Next year I will avoid this war
And stay back home on the Jersey shore!

A most peculiar thing,
this annonymity-
Sometimes i seek it,
but mostly it finds me.

The day was clear, a touch too hot. Summer’s end was drawing near.
Sidewalks vendors were making their pitches, selling their artisanal wares.
That was when I saw my girl, a vision in a pale green dress.
Blood red lips, a fair complexion and long black tresses framed her face.
Where and when could it have been that I had seen her like before?
Thought took me back to Hunter Mountain, late in the summer of Seventy four.
Back then I saw one just like this, a beauty with a special grace
With blood red lips and fair complexion and long dark hair that framed her face.
She wore the tartan of her clan as she competed in the dance.
Pipers played and tenors sang; it was the substance of romance.
A rare beauty, ripe for taking, if one was brave enough to chance….
The memory was broken then, my daughter touched me on the arm.
“There you are Dad, where have you been? I was sent to look for you by Mom.”
We had lingered at the fair, wandering separately among the stalls.
It’s Time now to sit down to our meal and share good wine as darkness falls.

I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.

I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race

I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.

By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.

I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.

I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.

We are different, you and I.
You are so focused and contained.
I am loud and unrestrained.
You are never not on time
while I’ve been known to trail behind.
You are practically fashion’s slave
while I am grunge and barely shave.
How did we stick, what is the glue,
That inseparably binds me to you?
It is Love that stakes its claim
for two friends cannot remain
Two friends and still stay sane
If they are not accepting of
The failings of the one they love.

Once, on a Sunday morning, we were 1500 strong.
Then the bombs began to fall and the world we knew was gone.
Our ship, the Arizona, was among the first to sink.
A thousand men, our brothers and friends, perished in a wink.
The war years took too many more, old age has claimed its due.
Now, at this last reunion, we are seven surviving crew.
Old and weak and wheelchair bound, nevertheless we come
to raise a toast to fallen friends long hidden from the Sun.
Our ship became a graveyard on that day in Forty one.
One day we’ll be interred here too when our enlistments done.
With tear filled eyes we drink a toast with vintage dry champagne.
Then pour out a libation so our dead may do the same.

It has come to our attention and you need to be aware
That there’s a home invader out tonight and you must be prepared.
On the street he’s known as “Nick” and self-described as merry,
He’s five foot six , three hundred pounds and his cheeks are red as cherries.
His modus operandi is to enter via flue
And there are unconfirmed reports he’s bearing gifts for you.
He’s fond of blended whiskey so you’re wise to leave a drop
and some carrots for his caribou who wait on your rooftop.
If your kids find it hard to sleep tonight I well can understand
It’s said this creep is keeping book on every lass and lad
If you catch him near your Christmas tree, you’d best stay out of sight
Or he’ll wish you “Merry Christmas” and to all a good night

We the People have an enemy
But it isn’t who you think:
It is not the Liberal Printers
with their paper and their ink.

It is not protestors in the street
Who wear pink p*ssy hats-
No, the enemy of the People
is not as obvious as that.

The enemy of the people
is no social media link.
He’s not some homeless vagabond
adorned with tattoo ink.

He is the oaf who took an oath
To Preserve ,Protect, Defend
The very basic liberties
He would subvert and suspend.

So if you seek the enemy
You vain and pompous ***
You will very likely find him
In a West Wing looking glass

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.

The silver mustang was aflame, her pilot young, gallant.
They were spiraling towards the steeple in the village of Les Ventes.
With his last strength, that dying man pulled hard upon the stick
and willed the plane beyond the town out where the woods were thick.
He may well have already died before his plane hit down.
The flames shot high up in the air and scorched the fertile ground.
The villagers all recognized his act had spared their lives.
They honored he who died so that his memory survived.
His name is on a village street and flowers are piled high
Upon the grave where Billy slept when he tumbled from the sky.
His wife of six weeks never knew, til now, how Billy died,
but, ever faithful, she remained, no one else’s bride.
Fair France bears faded wounds of war, wounds she cannot hide.
Les Ventes recalls a hero’s death and warms his love with pride.

“Did you see the High Priest’s face,
When Judas came back through the door?
When he threw down the price we paid,
Thirty Pieces, on the floor?”

“He was wild eyed, a bit insane,
as he tossed blood money at the Priest.
He’d been the Galilean’s friend
up until the Pesach feast.”

“They found him later on a tree,
with bulging eyes and blackened tongue.
The High Priest’s servants cut him down
But Judas was already done.”

“So now I’m charged to take his fee
and buy a modest piece of ground-
Where those like Judas can be interred
Who die unloved by anyone.”