For men of a certain age,
who recall when  Emma Peel
was all the rage.
No one can  ever take her place;
those dangerous curves, her beautiful face.
Who could forget
the scent of  her perfume and leather?

There's this dance they do in Washington
whenever Debt's head rears..
It's called the "Fiscal Chicken"
They've performed it now for years.
With a Jiggle to the Right
and a wobble to the left
They kick the can on down the road
I can't say that I'm impressed.
The rotund in the Rotunda
Scream and shout and hop about.
Some claim that they will hold the line
deceiving the devout.
Don't let their moves distract you-
We all know whose Ox gets gored-
As Mister Ryan postures
and as the Donald roars.
If we manage somehow to save
they want it in their paws.
Like inebriated White men
They flail and shake their rears
The only moves they have result
from drinking too much beer..

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.

In her majesty's prison hospital
The patient slipped in to a coma.
For two months he had led a fast
in solidarity with his brothers.

The men of ‘H” block wouldn’t don
Such clothes as thieves might wear
They were  brave Irish Republicans;
Politics put them there.

They dressed in sheets and blankets
When denied their clothes to wear
In this time of the “Troubles”
the “Blanketmen” prepared.

No warder's food would they accept.
No uniforms would they wear.
The world was focused on Long Kesh
and the brave lads dying there.

Bobby Sands was comatose;
His breathing shallow; his pulse was weak
This Native son of Antrim
Nevermore would speak    

Just Twenty Seven years of age
As he slipped into the past
Bobby Sands was the first to die,
But he wouldn’t be the last.

It was by accident I found it, in a box of odds and ends;
A short eight millimeter film my father made back when.
It’s Grandpa’s house up on the lake. I’d been just three or four.
The flickering images speak to me as from a distant shore.
The people who I knew and loved, who long since have passed on,
were shown as I remembered them from a time long since gone.
It is, of course, a silent reel and the colors fade a bit
but memories fill in the gaps as I remember it.
It was a perfect summer’s day, out fishing on the lake.
I imagine sunshine on my face as I view that scenic take.
My grandpa was a kindly man and, with infinite care,
He taught this headstrong little one about how we should share.
I’ve had my fill of tragedy, life isn’t always kind,.
but I know this made me smile, this serendipitous find.
Soon I must get back to work, resolving Mom’ estate.
But I’ve found a piece of Heaven here; all else will have to wait

by
Gordon Lightfoot


The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well
And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night
Her long flowing hair came softly undone
And it lay all around
And she brushed it down as I stood by her side
In the warmth of her love
And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And we played a game only she could win
And she told me a riddle I'll never forget
Then left with the answer I've never found yet
"How long", said she, "Can a moment like this
Belong to someone?"
"What's wrong, what is right, when to live or to die
We must almost be born"
So if you should ask me what secrets I hide
I'm only your lover, don't make me decide
The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well
And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And we played a game only she could win
And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night
Songwriters: Gordon Lightfoot

“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.”

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

Un viejo *****, en un mes caluroso y seco,
se sentó a la sombra del árbol Baobab.
Las praderas una vez verdes
estaban secos con la sequía,
víctimas de los vientos del cambio.

"Viejo, me llaman viejo". Pensó:
"Mis setenta veranos me han vuelto gris,
pero este árbol Baobab creció alto y fuerte
Cuando las legiones romanas pasaron por aquí ".

El viejo masticó la fruta del baobab
y se hundió en un estado de trance.
Él estaba en un estado mental;
No completamente dormido, no completamente despierto.

Escuchó una voz: "Tengo sed". Decía:
Aunque estaba seguro de que estaba solo.
Parecía que no era una voz humana:
un monótono desapasionado y seco.

"Por generaciones, hombres como tú"
He buscado mi refugio del Sol,
Pero ahora está terminado; la tierra está seca
Y me estoy muriendo, pequeño ".

El anciano lloró al escuchar estas palabras
Para cuando estos árboles mueren, como deben,
Se colapsan sobre el suelo estéril
Tan rápido regresan a Dust.

"El mundo ha cambiado para ti y para mí,
Los vientos están secos debajo del sol.
Perdono el mundo de los hombres
Porque ellos no saben lo que han hecho ".

El viejo se despertó con un comienzo
y se levantó con su bastón.
Lloró al pensar que este árbol moriría

pero las lágrimas no pueden reemplazar a la lluvia.

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.

Il faisait froid pour début juin; une pause entre deux tempêtes.
Le surf -rough, l'eau froide, mais la réception serait chaude.
Notre bateau de Higgins a fait une vitesse constante nous emmenant au rivage.
Pour certains, c'était le jour le plus long, pour beaucoup d'autres le dernier jour.

La scène qui nous attendait était surréaliste; une boue comme le pire.
Les Allemands ont occupé les corpsmen s'ils ne les ont pas d'abord tués.
La pluie de plomb était constante pendant que nous nous sommes battus vers la rive.
Notre peloton a été décimé. beaucoup ont vu la fin de la guerre.

Il y avait des actes d'héroïsme. Nos dirigeants ont prouvé leur valeur.
Nous avons pris le mur de l'Atlantique de ******; pensée imprenable au premier abord.
J'ai regardé depuis le haut bluff à l'Armada grise juste au large de la côte.
J'ai perdu une bande de copains aujourd'hui, mais nous allons même marquer des points.

Nous sommes une bande de frères campés au-dessus de cette rive normande.
Je ne dirai jamais à mes parents les horreurs que j'ai vues.
L'air pue la sueur et le fer, et la puanteur de la cordite des rondes passées.
Les aumôniers recueillent les étiquettes de chien des formes immobiles sur le sol.

It raged across five Aprils, killed 600,000 sons,
but now, there was a chance for peace, if Johnston wanted one.
Some urged a guerrilla war, a game of hit and run,
but Johnston saw a suffering South and knew this must be done.
He called a truce with Sherman to surrender his command.
In truth, I think he would have rather shook the Devil’s hand.
The defeated kept their horses, and were paroled back to their homes.
This land once more united, its prior sins atoned.
For every drop of blood that had been spilled by blow or lash
had been matched, drop for drop, in every ****** clash.
On the ninth of April 65’ Rebels tore their battle flags
and little strips of colored cloth were given to each man.
The flags were not surrendered to become the spoils of war.
They fraternized with men they would have killed the day before.
Now all who had survived the war, all but one, would live.
Good Friday night would claim the last that Lincoln had to give.

An old black man, in a hot dry month,
sat in the shade of the Baobab tree.
The once verdant grasslands
were dry with drought,
victims of the winds of change.

“Old, they call me old.” He thought,
“my Seventy summers have turned me gray,
but this Baobab tree grew tall and strong
When Roman legions passed this way.”

The old man chewed the baobab fruit
and sank into a trance like state.
He was in a state of mind;
Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

He heard a voice: “I thirst.” It said,
Though he was sure he was alone.
It seemed not a human voice:
a dry dispassionate monotone.

“For generations, men like you
Have sought my shelter from the Sun,
But now it is finished; the land is parched
And I am dying, little one.”

The old man wept to hear these words
For when these trees die, as they must,
They collapse upon the barren ground
So quickly they return to Dust.

“The world has changed for you and me,
The winds are dry beneath the sun.
I forgive the world of men
For they know not what they have done.”

The old man woke up with a start
and raised himself up with his cane.
He wept to think this tree would die

but tears cannot replace the rain.

I’ve been an Oceanographer for forty years or more
But what’s happening here in our north west I’d never seen before
From Santa Barbara to Alaska, all along the shore,
The sea stars are all dying, melting into gore.
We’ve noted small white lesions and weirdly twisted arms.
We’ve seen whole populations die and we’re sounding the alarm.
The ecosystem’s dying, there’s a virus on the loose.
I’ve brought up buckets of remains to help search for the truth.
There’s a killer lurking off our shores, one, as yet, without a name.
If there’s any consolation- dying sea stars feel no pain.
Our oceans are in trouble from pollution from the shore.
Vast swathes gone anaerobic can’t support life anymore.
When all the stars are gone then barnacles will spread unchecked
We’ll race with time to find a cure before the shore is wrecked...

You know my face yet forget my name,
but then, it’s for my roles I’m known.
I’ve spend a lifetime in the game.
Now, in the shadows, I am alone
I’ve lived perhaps a hundred lives-
on film, yet failed to live my own.
A stranger to my flesh and blood
whose children won’t pick up the phone.
I remember that it used to ring
Back when my acting won acclaim.
For years the star was on my door,
I slept with starlets, drank Champagne.
Now my Cancer bites within
and I take pills to mask the pain.
There will be no more roles for me
Though I could make a passable Lear;
Hear me raving in the storm
but it’s a waste with no Fool near.
For me there will be no happy ending.
Each painful breath is such a chore.
I won praise for my “authenticity”
But Love wound up on the cutting room floor.

Let us now ****  famous men
for their low morals and cruel cunning.
This witch hunt is different from all the rest;
now the witches hunt and the men go running.

From out  of the woodwork the women come;
victims, opportunists or jilted lovers?
Forty or fifty years have passed.
Their denouncers are mostly young grandmothers.

Now Garrison Keillor has joined the ranks
of venial men obsessed by lust.
He has been banished from Lake Woebegone
Where the women are Strong, the children are bright-
and the men look no better than any of us.

The cows of California produce methane from green grass.
They are causing global warming every time that they pass gas!
The assembly has determined that this simply cannot stand.
(The cow pie situation is completely out of hand.)
A researcher from down under has devised a clever method
To reduce methane production which is utterly impressive!
It seems that when Australian cows munch seaweed for their fodder.
Their farts smell so much sweeter and the Earth will not get hotter.
I hope this satisfies the “Greens”, but I fear it’s just a start;
Next they’ll demand that **** plugs be installed in us old farts!

My darling, sleep, and never wake.
though it may cause my heart to break,
The morphine drip is a kinder fate
than that which would befall you.

Swollen limbs, incessant pain,
The Doctors think just days remain.
When life is only life in name,
No joy remains before you.

So hold my hand in your tight grip
as when our youngest child was born.
I promise I won’t let it slip
Until it is no longer warm.

You gifted me with forty years.
In health and sickness, we were a team.
Now, at last, you are at peace,
Sleep my love, perchance, to dream

When police were called it was too late, he could not be revived
Peter Cronkite, just twenty two, had committed suicide.
He was a natural athlete, handsome and well bred.
He fell victim to the demons that were screaming in his head.
His whole life lay before him: he’d been dealt a decent hand.
He chose a common grave instead- for reasons we can’t understand.
In life we all make choices and young Cronkite has made his,
As Grandpa Walter often said: “And that’s the way it is..”

That August night, too hot for even a sheet,
the only light the red glow of
Your post ****** cigarette,
A strand of red hair strayed across your face..
The valley of your ******* was sweet with sweat.
This last time we would ever be together.
We would not make an occasion of regret
We were both more silent than usual that night.
Each knowing that to speak would break the spell.
In time we would forget each others flaws.
Choosing to remember just the Love
But this is where we kissed and said goodbye
And left for separate cities where we dwell
On nights like this I’ll muse what might have been
But wanting what you have is just as well.

I have never been a big fan of hospitals, yet here I sat.
Wordlessly, I held my Grandmother’s hand, listening to each breath.
She was somewhere north of ninety as she neared her journey’s end.
She was lucid intermittently, she spoke of departed friends.
She told me of her adventures; the mountains she had climbed.
Sunsets she’d shared with lovers who then parted by sunrise.
She told me of her voyages on Homer’s wine dark sea.
“ I leave this life with no regrets.” She whispered, soft, to me.
Those were the last words that she spoke though her heart kept on some time.
It waited for her spirit to resume her final climb.
A final lesson for her grandson; the good life requires chance.
A life lived too conservatively is no subject for romance.

A most remarkable woman; she parted here with no regret.
She experienced the best of Life from sunrise to sunset.

What happens in Vegas won’t stay there this time,
It’s the scene of a terrible, unspeakable crime.
From high up above in the Mandalay Bay
Bullets rained down as the musicians played.
Carnage and horror. Screams in the night
People were trampled as others took flight.
The gunman is dead but the questions remain.
Was this act one of terror or was he insane?
Fifty Eight are dead, It doesn’t seem right.
Vegas, our playground, has been bloodied this night.
The Morgues overwhelmed and the E.R. is full.
The shooter had come well equipped for the ****.


Is it time to restrict weapons sold in our nation?
Surely it’s time we had that conversation.

His eyes are glazed with cataracts; these days he seldom speaks.
He’d choke if not for thickeners his nurse puts in his drinks.
The Amyloid has run amok, like weeds that spread and climb,
His intellect is overthrown; He’s trapped within his mind.

Alzheimer’s started subtly. He’d forget a place or name.
He’d wander through his rooms at home, uncertain why he came.
His wits became befuddled; he gave up his keys to drive.
He’d wander off without his coat; it’s a wonder he’s alive.

His world grew gradually smaller, snared in a web of fear.
Frustrated by his loss of self, he’d shed many wordless tears.
Now he is in hospice and he hasn’t got much time.
His body, too, is failing him. He’s already lost his mind.

Old memories are stirred in him, treasures he can’t speak.
He imagines himself young and strong; not old senile and weak.
His lips curl in a toothless smile and I can only pray
That in his tangled mind he’s found the door to yesterday.

I write in praise of forgotten men
who died before life disappointed them.
They rose before dawn in June of the war
on the sixth day back in Forty four.
Packed like cattle, ferried cross water,
to a beach in France where so many were slaughtered.
These men, boys really, never fathered a child
or Loved or were loved in the usual style.
Was it for love of country? A misplaced sense of pride?
That encouraged their acts kin to suicide?
Omaha beach ran slick with their blood.
Each of the fallen was some mother's son.
The objectives were taken. The battle was won.
The beachhead secured by the set of the Sun.
Dog tags were retrieved from the necks of the dead.
but all of the focus was on the Generals who led.
For the rest there was space in the Green fields of France.
In rows of white crosses there's no second chance.
They rest here forever, the true heroes of war,
from Omaha Beach back in June Forty Four.

At the present we've a POTUS
who is of a "sharing" mind.
He'll "share" whatever I have
with his  voters of like mind.
So it strikes me as peculiar
that wealth disparity still grows.
That the fabled one percent
keep looking at us down their nose.
The Banksters stole our Billions
yet not one spent time in jail.
Do you think they told the President-
"The check is in the mail"?
Those high hogs keep getting fatter-
the buffet has them in thrall.
Just like hogs they'll be surprised
when the slaughter starts this Fall.

Two college students, strangers really,
locked eyes across a crowded room.
She was there with someone else
But he knew it was meant to be.

Another place, another time,
The two met while on line at school.
The stopped for coffees, exchanged shy glances,
And knew that it was meant to be,

They shared their Love, they built a life,
They earned honors and degrees.
They had a home and three fine children.
They knew that it was meant to be.

He came back to their darkened house,
sitting Shiva with dark despair.
He drowns in words that fail to comfort.
He knew this too was meant to be.

I’m not ashamed,
Nor should I weep.
Sometimes, into dreams,
Old memories creep.
Photographs will fade with time
sooner than these dreams of mine.
Yes, you taught me how to love
And yes, it was a precious gift.
I am the child of your old age.
Now, of your presence, I’m bereft.
I kneel here by your stone today
And think of all that I have lost.
To pause a moment, reflect and pray
And wish you happy Father’s Day.

Michael O’Rahilly was leading the charge, a hopelessly wasteful foray.
The English were waiting behind barricades as the Gaels made their desperate play.
Rifles at the ready; they charged up Moore Street, the O’Rahilly leading the way.
Like paper consumed by a flickering flame, their manpower melted away.
O’Rahilly lay dying, but the British just laughed, no aid would they give to the foe.
The cobblestones reeked of the blood on the street as the bodies were laid in a row.
Heroes perhaps have a touch of the poet, a dram of unreason besides,
but everyone knows of the charge of O’Rahilly; Everyone knows how he died.
It was, he well knew, a magnificent gesture, the English be dammed and despised.
He lingered, tis said, for nineteen long hours, immortal or not, he expired.

The day was dry and hot,
with not a breath of air.
His uniform was loosely fit,
The pinstripes, number 4.
Lou Gehrig was the “Iron Horse”
but an iron horse no more.

ALS had robbed him of his strength,
and now moved in for the ****.
Most thought, at first, he would not speak.
That he didn’t have the skill.
But all there remembered what he said
And I think I always will.

He considered himself “the Luckiest man”
Despite the” bad break” he got.
An immigrant’s son who hit it big
and shined in the spotlight.

Lou passed away within two years.
The Stadium, too, is gone.
We’re not the Country we were then
America has moved on.

But on this Independence Day
I’ll stand where Gehrig stood.
There used to be a ballpark here
and a hero kind and good.

Eyes dilate and look distant as Will puffs upon his pipe.
The distinctive scent of Cannabis commends itself tonight.
Each puff makes him mellow and his imagination soars.
He dwells not on the tragedies his future has in store.
He dreams on Fairy Kings and Queens, Young lovers showing pluck.
“What fools these mortals be.” I’ll give that line to Puck
His shrew wife will have none  of it she only scowls and scolds.
“His blood!” Will thinks, she needs a puff of what this clay pipe holds.
He likes it well, this gentle herb that lulleth him to sleep.
He will awaken ravenous and need something to eat.

His sin sits heavy on his soul, an illicit lust the source of shame.
He’s registered offender now with no means to redeem his name.
Now as he walks the streets of town he studiously avoids all eyes;
those harsh accusing glances from the men and women passing by.
His work is menial and part time. He often moves from place to place.
He had once been a Catholic priest before he fell into disgrace.
I’ve seen him waiting there outside; his collar turned against the cold.
I’d often wondered what had caused his blue grey eyes to look so old.
People whisper; women talk.  A yellowed newspaper explains.
Invisible to all but him; his forehead bears the mark of Cain.


Some say the past does not exist. We cannot go there. It can’t be changed.
What would he say, I wonder, if he were asked?
He, whose life is burdened with regrets.
Does he still pray to the Carpenter’s Son,
whose sacrifice repays all debts?

I remember the flowers you wore in your hair
when you were my bride at nineteen.
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some boys to despair
on the day that you married with me.
Your sweet song of youth left no need for a proof
Of how happy together we’d be.

I remember the flowers you held in your hands
On our tenth anniversary day;
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some men to despair
to think that your hand wasn’t free.
The red blush of your lips as you turned for a kiss
Said no man was more happy than me.

I remember the rosary they placed in your hands
On the day that Death took you, I keened.
It seemed but a moment since you were my bride
And I was a groom of nineteen

All the flowers so rare that they piled on you bier
Both my sisters said they were lovely
I scarcely saw colors with eyes filled with tears
And the blooms held no fragrance for me.

I tend now the flowers that grow by your stone
Their fragrance reminds me of you.
I long for the day the Lord calls me away
And I’ll be reunited with you

You cannot see my wings and my true visage would cause sorrow;
In my hands I hold the key that would destroy all your tomorrows.
I stand nearby the President; I’m at his beck and call.
In Life I’m a nonentity, in Death, the Lord of all.
Some think of me as “friend”; my existence your protection.
In Truth I’m just the agent of your mutual destruction.
I am but one of many who carry this dread weight;
the codes for Armageddon that may spell your planet’s fate.
As I keep my silent vigil, the clock ticks towards midnight.
Ignorance and arrogance define your awful plight
I am the fearful Seraphim at the gate of Paradise;
That place from which you were expelled and cannot enter twice.

The day of execution loomed
And Valentine awaited.
(Just how he'd roused the Emperor's ire
will always be debated.)
His jailer's daughter loved this man,
so saintly and so kind.
Tis said his prayers restored her sight;
she who had been born blind.
Upon the day he was to die
He heard creation sing
The birds were paired up in their nests
To enjoy the life Love brings.
"Please do not weep, my dearest one,
That I have run out of time.
Remember me in your heart and prayers.
With Love, your Valentine."

When all we count as friends have passed,
and we alone remain- Will this grey world
seem beautiful? Or will it just seem strange?
Like the last rose of summertime,
encountering the frost-
Will our beauty be remembered
or will it be simply lost?

I was then but middle-aged, established in my world.
She was a young ingenue, a lithe and lovely girl.
she knew about the ring I wore, the promise it contained,
but we were both the worse for drink and passions were inflamed.
I should have left here at her door, my lusts I should have tamed.

Her perfume was enticing, unlike what my Lucy wore.
I stepped back to admire when her chemise hit the floor.
To hold a warm girl in my arms; to kiss those lips of flame.
I felt my youth restored to me when she whispered my name.

Her mystic rose was delicate; its subtle nectar sweet.
She raised her hips to meet my lips, the conquest was complete.
We both were lost in pleasure, her fingers urged me on.
We surrendered to our yearnings, all inhibitions gone.

Some say that Hell is a fiery pit with fierce unquenchable flames.
Others say its lined with ice and the cold drives you insane.
For me Hell was a woman scorned and a co-respondent named.
I was crucified in the press; such is the cost of fame.

I am older, wiser now. I never touch a drop.
See, if you never drink the first no one need tell you stop.
I have been a fool for Love but I will not pretend
that I don't miss her passionate kiss I'll never have again.

In the summer before the world went mad
Einstein summered at Peconic bay.
He walked the beach in shorts and sandals,
He was quite bohemian in his way.
Soon he would write that letter to Roosevelt
And the atomic age will have begun.
But, for the moment, he was just
A middle aged man
enjoying his last peacetime Sun.
The stars are more numerous than
The grains of sand
And space more infinite
That the sea.
His best days were, by then, behind him,
But happier he would never be.

When the painter first entered the room
He’d noted the walls drab and bare.
It appeared an unpromising canvas
and he had little time left to spare.
So forgive if he audibly sighed
as he spread out his drop cloths and paint.
His knees ache when he climbs on his ladder;
His swearing would trouble a Saint.
Still he made the best use of the light.
Sure his efforts would please and surprise;
The ceiling made a virginal white
And the walls the same green as her eyes.
It was dusk as he finished his task
and gathered his brushes and cans.
He’d have loved to see her reaction
when she’d witness the work of his hands.

The reenactor looked a little warm in his woolen Union blues.
A forage cap perched on his head; spit and polished were his shoes.
He waited for the group to settle down, then gave his practiced speech
about how Sickles lost his leg in an orchard ripe with peach.
The air was still and warm as when, there, on the second day,
Sickles’ insubordination caused the Union lines to fray.
The great grandsons of the North and South were gathered here around.
The heirs of slaves and immigrants stood upon  the sacred ground.
We were not far from the spot Abe gave his famous speech;
where neat spaced rows of honored dead have learned to keep the peace.
Yet the hatreds of the past run deep, the events in Baltimore
Make me wonder if they died in vain; the soldiers from that war.

In fear of saboteurs, we parked planes wing to wing
which made them easy targets from the air.
While relations were uneasy with Imperial Japan
up to this point war had not been declared.
Peace ended when we heard the drone of their incoming planes
and saw a row of Hawks go up in flames.
Wheeler field was target rich and their pilots were well trained,
They bombed and strafed, destroying all they found.

In the lull between the waves of the onslaught of their planes,
We got a dozen war hawks off the ground.
We twelve angry would be heroes
had little chance against their Zeros
but we struck a blow and shot some bombers down.

Ford Island was half hidden by the smoke and flames that rose
from the stricken battle-wagons on the row.
It was dangerous to remain flying any sort of plane
as the sailors there would shoot at friend or foe.


The attacking fleet made sail and returned back to Japan.
They had hurt us but they left their job half done.
Our fuel farms were still here and facilities for repair;
We’d raise our ships to fight the rising Sun.

The bar was nearly empty as the barman cleaned a glass.
This establishment is closing. Its glory days long passed.
The jukebox sat in silence; A regular nursed his beer.
Before too long they’ll put another drugstore chain in here.
My Uncle and my father both worked here and tended bar.
Its heyday was in the 50’s when the boys came home from war.
A friendly local tavern; an essential spot in life
Where you came to drink with buddies and escape your scolding wife.
This place of refugee now succumbs. We all know that its true.
Cold beers are in less demand when opioids get you through.
With the cost of the insurance, the wages and the rent,
It’s been run as a nonprofit for so long that all’s been spent.
The awnings lights extinguished. One last toast for old times’ sake.
Let there be tears of joy and sorrow; This is an Irish wake.

Her face is the face of an angel, if angels, as such, there be.
Her hair is a crown of platinum gold and she sang her words softly to me.
Her eyes are twin pools of cerulean blue; her lips wear a pink coral hue.
She offered her hand; we embraced in a dance as timeless as Heaven must be.
To possess such a treasure you would sell all you owned, for she is the pearl of great price.
Her Love is a treasure that never will rust; I’ve no need for another’s advice.
My heart’s own desire I held in my arms; we embraced in a passionate kiss.
The power and glory of all the world else is as nothing compared to this.

The men of Massachusetts were falling back in disarray
They had held their line for hours on this hot and humid day.
Nathan Allen bore the tricolor when they were ordered to withdraw
But he turned and charged the rebel line because of what he saw.
The regimental banner had fallen to the clay
The rebels too had eyed the prize and they were on their way.
The bullets sang their song of death as from his friend’s dead hands
He bore the colors back to where his unit made their stand.
The honor of the regiment was wrapped up in their banner
To Nathaniel Allan, more than his life, that mattered.
He was cited for his courage; all had seen what he had done.
Upon his grave they placed a star, the honor that he won.

Seated, secured, awaiting our ride;
Brave on the outside, frightened inside.
The old wooden coaster cranks and it creaks..
It lifts us towards heaven, pushed back in our seats.
The first drop, deceptive, elicits few cries
Then, at a gallop, we’re hurled down from the sky.
Over and under we’re shaken and stirred.
We regret having lunch but we don’t say a word.
I’m glad you’re beside me, my most faithful friend
The ride comes to a stop and we both say “Again!”

For its joys and terrors few rides can compete.
The Rye Dragon Coaster has seldom been beat.
Some are newer; some faster; if you wish you can try
Still, first Loves are special and must not be denied

Yes means Yes, and No means No
It has not been forever so.
Once Yes meant Yes and No meant Maybe
(But that oft resulted in a baby.)
If your fling was started in a bar
You’re judged a ****** by Cali law.
As guilty, per this legal muddle,
As if a struggle came before the snuggle.
If your date has had one glass
That’s an illegal forward pass!                                                                                                           Higher employment I foresee
At the bureau of Sexuality
Before you can couple legally,
File these forms and pay a fee.
Regulatory overkill
assumes young Women lack free will,
Young men are safer watching ****
and curse that Brown was ever born.

The ugly scar straight down my chest has begun to heal, and the pain is less.
Each week I walk a little more at least back and forth to the corner store.
On hot days I get short of breath and I must be careful to take my rest.
Still, I lucky and can’t complain about a scar and a little pain.
I’m back at home with the ones I love best

All thanks to a gift from a dead man’s chest.

Too young! Well, yes, isn’t that the way
It seems to us when we hear a friend is gone.
The scythe swept close yet we ourselves remain
to drink our coffee and put on mourning clothes.
We’ll gather in a place we loathe to go.
We will see familiar faces in those folding chairs.
We’ll kneel before a casket made of bronze
And offer an inadequate childhood prayer.
In time, we all come to terms with our grief.
Experience has taught us nature’s way-
Our memories are like sand the tides subsume.
Not gone, exactly, submerged, hid from the light.
to surface like a dream in the dead of night.
Our friend was our companion on this journey,
Good company, a source of strength and humor.
Our paths diverged in a dark stretch of woods.
Our friend has reached the destination sooner.

She paints her lips in earthy tones.
Her dress whispers seduction.
Her curves give promise of earthly bliss
while mine need liposuction.

A fleeting glimpse, all she allows,
must serve for inspiration.
The other ninety nine percent?
You guessed it- perspiration.

A beautiful smile and flawless skin; Youth is a gift, we’ve all been told.
Your sparkling eyes, your jet black hair are blessings of nature to behold.
Your gentle temper and modest dress do both enhance your loveliness.
You’re “picture perfect” so strike a pose for images do not grow old.
Still, the dance of Time won’t end for these pretty ladies from ** Chi Minh
until Time robs them of this and more. I’ve seen that thief steal youth before.

Like those daughters of Zeus of old,
Three graces now I see before me.
I’ll call you Beauty, Joy and Mirth;
It’s my good fortune to behold thee.

The oldest has a beauty rare;
She is pale white with raven tresses.
Like her sisters, she’s clad in lace
and those are some exquisite dresses.

The middle sister loves to sing;
Like a songbird she can warble.
A lovely smile, warm to the touch,
Like nothing ever done in marble.

The youngest has a cheerful mien;
witty bright and full of laughter.
The pity is I’m old; they’re young-
My money must be what they’re after!