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!

Butterfly kisses upon my lids aroused me from my slumber.
A spectacle of vibrant hues confounded me with wonder.
The Horizon shimmered with summer’s heat
As Psyche herself darted, to and fro, in moments beyond number.
Away, away, she flew away; beyond my grasp and reach.
Never to return no matter how much I might beseech.
That summer, too, has quickly fled. The air is growing colder.
I feel her loss most keenly now and nevermore will I hold her.
But, sometimes, late at night, when in the manner of repose;
I imagine she lies next to me, her eyes being also closed.

I'm in a special chamber which deadens every sound,
I began to grow more anxious with no decibels around.
I've spent my life connected, on the web and on the phone.
to be cut off without a dial tone; I've seldom felt this all alone.
I am lost, without a signal, uneasy in my skin.
I'm wanting to be anywhere except the place I'm in.
Was it like this for my mother? she lived stone deaf for years.
I was foolish to think blindness worse than deafness in my fears.
There are places were a body floats without the sense of touch.
The tests' subjects hallucinate,I wouldn't like that much.
Noise is fun, noise is good, I need noise, it appears,
to distract me from those whispered truths I do not wish to hear.

I am widowed and my children are all grown.
They are busy with their own families.
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.
The house is quiet and I wait in hope
That the phone will ring or some friend might stop by;
Anything to end my isolation

I hear the mail slot open and the thud
of magazines and junk mail on the floor.
The letter carrier, gone without a word,
walks briskly in the outside bitter cold.

The radio is on and comforts me.
a chance, at least, to hear other voices.
They prattle on about terrorist threats;
venial Politicians and celebrity divorces.

Another year reaches its anticlimactic end.
I’ll watch the ball drop and prepare for bed.
It is for others to make the New Year Ring-
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.

I lost my Left leg at Bull Run and came home from the war.
With a peg I managed farm work; unfit for battle; not for chores.
My neighbor, Reid, did also bleed in that War Between the States.
His right leg was mangled below the knee- they had to amputate.
Now, each year, we go into town and buy one pair of shoes.
My neighbor, Reid, wears the same size and likes the boots I choose.
We’ve become fast friends, the two of us; our children something more.
My son has bought a ring to give to the girl who lives next door.
In wartime we were enemies; fighting for the Blue and Gray.
Now our womenfolk make plans for our children’s wedding day.
Here, in the autumn of our lives, all enmity is defused.
Each has learned to know and love his foe- by walking in his shoe.

Three Klicks from the ruins we found him: face down.
Thirsty sand drank his blood which had darkened the ground.
He may once have been handsome, but now there’s no trace-
A large caliber slug exited through his face.
He had been an interpreter in the second Gulf war.
When the Americans left he was needed no more.
There were signs he’d been tortured; burns on his bare chest.
His arms tied behind him; that’s how he'd been left.
He’d been tortured and murdered to settle some score.
Only the dead see the end of this war.

Breakup *** is oft the best.
That last time you see your Love undressed.
A few last moments to grab for joy.
No time for subtlety or being coy.

I remember it like yesterday,
though forty years have come and gone.
The last time I sampled of your charms
when last I held you in these arms .

The Love triangle I so rued then,
has come to nothing in the end.
We both wed others in Life's comic play
and consigned our Love to yesterday

Un vieil homme noir, dans un mois chaud et sec,
assis à l'ombre du Baobab.
Les prairies autrefois verdoyantes
étaient secs avec la sécheresse,
victimes des vents du changement.

"Vieux, ils m'appellent vieux." Il pensait,
"Mes soixante-dix étés m'ont rendu gris,
mais cet arbre baobab est devenu grand et fort
Quand les légions romaines ont passé par là. "

Le vieil homme mâchait le fruit du baobab
et a coulé dans un état de transe comme.
Il était dans un état d'esprit;
Pas tout à fait endormi, pas tout à fait réveillé.

Il a entendu une voix: "J'ai soif".
Bien qu'il soit sûr qu'il était seul.
Cela ne semblait pas une voix humaine:
un monotone sec et sans discernement.

"Pour les générations, les hommes comme vous
J'ai cherché mon abri du soleil,
Mais maintenant c'est fini; la terre est desséchée
Et je meurs, mon petit.

Le vieil homme a pleuré pour entendre ces mots
Car quand ces arbres meurent, comme ils le doivent,
Ils s'effondrent sur le sol stérile
Donc, rapidement, ils reviennent à la poussière.

"Le monde a changé pour vous et moi,
Les vents sont secs sous le soleil.
Je pardonne au monde des hommes
Car ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils ont fait. "

Le vieil homme s'est réveillé avec un début
et s'est soulevé avec sa canne.
Il a pleuré de penser que cet arbre mourrait

mais les larmes ne peuvent pas remplacer la pluie.

October 12, 1870, the last surrender

There it is again, that old familiar pain.
It is clutching at my chest as I feel my color drain.
I reach my favorite chair and I struggle for each breath.
I place a pill beneath my tongue and just hope for the best.
Ever since Antietam it has hunted me just so.
It is like my old opponent, Grant, an unrelenting foe.
I am approaching Appomattox, my struggle nearly done.
I hear the cheers of boys in Blue for it is they who’ve won.
I could not ask more of the Grey for they had little left.
Now I too am about to fall to this traitor in my breast.

It would be the oddest prom night this land had ever seen;
The dance hall would be deserted and there would be no King or Queen.
No Chaperones would be required and the band would play no sound
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

They might have all been beautiful; some members would be wise.
For all we know they might have all  been  angels in disguise.
The silent generation died before they took a breath.
This reverses nature’s course wherein birth occurs, then death.

In truth, they never played the game. They never learned a word.
Their departure from existence went largely unobserved.
They said no word in their defense before they were put down
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

On every college campus they would fill each empty chair.
Our stadiums would rock with sound, if only they were there.
If they were born America would be a touch less gray,
But the silent generation never saw the light of day.

To a family that had nothing a wondrous gift was given:
A free home with a garden!they moved in and started living.
Their new home had an orchard a stream and a modern well.
Their benefactor, name unknown, gave them  paradise to dwell.

It's sad to see that place today, the garden overgrown.
The water scarcely fit to drink, the structure falling down
They picked all the low lying fruit and they befouled their nest.
They thought they were entitled, they forgot they were but guests.

If the benefactor returns one day and sees his former home
He'll weep for Adam's children and be crying all alone.

We all come to our final play,
our last Touchdown, our last score.
When we reach the realization
We can’t do it anymore.
For most, our age will dictate
when we leave the field or floor,
but to one athlete dying young
one last game means much more.
Lauren Hill loves basketball.
She was a High School Star.
Her cancer is inoperable.
She stumbles now and falls.
She knows how little time’ she’s left,
before the last leaves fall
On Sunday next she’ll take the court
to feel the Love once more
.
She’ll hear Our Anthem one last time
Ten Thousand throats will roar.
Lauren Hill, for all of us,
will make her final score.

My Altar is a table set upon a naked stage.
While waiting for the memorial to begin
I watch from the wings as students and alumni
In clots of twos and threes come shuffling in.

Poor Mary lived just nineteen years.
A dark depression did her in.
She was my student, I knew her well;
These tears I shed are genuine.

Ours is not an age of Faith;
Our thoughts and prayers are platitudes.
I look out  upon the faces of her friends
who’ve forgotten the beatitudes.

Her body rests in the cold hard ground,
interred two weeks ago today.
Some claim she is an angel now.
So I do hope but who can say?

What then can I say to salve these souls
who have forgotten  how to pray?
What cold comfort is my funereal black
on this bitter grey December day?

Her youth and beauty have been overthrown;
Persephone has been by Pluto wed.
How wise he was, the poet, who observed
The folly of being comforted.

Memorial Day Parade

The fog that day at Arlington, the thickest I ever saw.
The only thing that could compare would be the fog of war.
From the marshes and the gardens of old Marse Robert’s estate
The dead rose from their hallowed graves in numbers small and great.
There were scarecrows dressed in butternut, and ghouls in tattered blue.
Some had battled for old Virginia; the others Union true.
They all formed up in lines of four; right smartly they arrayed.
Side by side they began to march in columns on parade.
These men, who had been foes in life, now seemed to understand
That they were brothers, joined in death, and bound by Love’s command.
One hundred and fifty years had passed since last they saw the sky.
I watched fascinated as this ghost army shuffled by.
No word of command was spoken; these men knew what to do.
Proudly they marched together; these veterans, Gray and Blue.
Then they melted back into the fog; I watched in shock and awe.
These men had seen the last of Earth and had had enough of war.

El pintor de palabras se recostó con su café
En el viejo y maltratado sillón de color burdeos.
Deseó estar bebiendo borgoña
En una silla de color café, pero los mendigos no pueden elegir.

Ser un pintor de palabras no es tan lucrativo como lo era en el pasado.
Sin embargo, en el lado positivo del libro mayor, nadie era probable
Para pedirle que nade el Hellespont
y arriesgar su vida por la independencia griega.

¿Qué, entonces, debería escribir hoy?
Pensó en ella que una vez había usado su anillo.
Pensó en una niña encantadora, bronceada
Con mechones ***** azabache
y ojos latinos vivos.

Extraño, no había pensado en ella en bastante tiempo.
Bueno, pensó, después de todo, hoy es su cumpleaños.
“Feliz cumpleaños a mi querida Barbara Jeanne.

Me enseñaste lecciones de amor y pérdida
y me dejó con solo el toque de un poeta.

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.

As our solar system moved through space
It chanced upon a region where
A cloud of dark matter, like a shroud,
was wrapped around our Earth so fair.

It blotted out the stars of night
It dimmed the light of Sun and Moon
Crops grew stunted or not at all,
Mankind faced its mortal doom.

Rigel, Sirius, Vega gone?
Blotted out of Human sight?
Arcturus and Capella too
fail to pierce the veil of night.

Ignorance of every stripe
Began to fight for center stage:
Ignorance both Left and Right
spilled blood in their righteous rage.

I looked true North in the night sky
and saw Polaris still on station .
The darkness began to dissipate.
Tranquility returned to our Nation.

Some few thanked God
with praise and Prayer
More raised their eyes to Heaven’s bowl;
grateful to see the stars still there.

Dark deeds; Dark times, and desperate schemes,
We had been put through Hell by them.
Now bright sunshine warmed our days;
At night we saw the stars again.

Once he floated; now he stumbles, he struggles for each breath.
It’s like the rumble in the jungle but Ali has little left.
His opponent is relentless, stalking him around the ring.
Is it Liston? Is it Foreman? Who has come to box the king?
Judging from the foe’s ferocity – is the specter Smoking Joe?
Ali does his best to counter his opponent’s crushing blows.
His eyes are nearly swollen shut, but the boxer never cries.
Who thought that Death would come for him in this macabre disguise?
He tries to dance but falters; feeling weakness in his knees.
He feels the K.O. coming as he’s succumbing by degrees.
Ali tumbles to the canvas, he hears the count begin.
but in the bout with Death you never hear the man count "Ten"

He lies unconscious on the bed; his breathing raspy and uneven.
She is ever at his side, always there, still believing.
The monitor is the only sound; irregularly it counts the beat.
He has battled long and hard, only now he’ll face defeat.
The morphine drip is merciful; this man’s proud heart begins to slow.
This year he’d had dementia, what he feels we cannot know.
She holds his hand in both of hers and whispers there a silent prayer.
When she looks up at his face again his spirit is no longer there.
In private, she allows a tear, she had stayed strong; she was his rock.
No matter how prepared one is, this final moment is a shock,

The poor you will always have with you-
We incent them to make more besides.
Then too, there’s the risk of inbreeding
as collective I.Q. starts to slide.
It started when life got too easy
and so many made Lazy their way.
Why bust your ***** and hustle?-
Others sit on theirs home every day.
It’s been noted that Democracy’s shelf life
is limited from its first day.
It begins to collapse when the people
elect demagogues who give stuff away.
People who vote for a living
outbreeding those who work for pay?
The results aren’t going to be pretty,
This tragedy ends just one way.

A good life is much like a good book.
It engages and enthralls
the mind and senses.
The Life, like the book, has a narrative and episodes
like the book has chapters.
Both are meant to be savored and enjoyed.
Too good in the telling to ever
tempt one to skip to the end,
even though one could.

A good life , like a good book
will long be remembered
and treasured by many.

enjoy each page.

The little skiff drifted at the mercy of the tides.
Out beyond the breakers, just off the shore.
It sole occupant, unconscious, curled in a fetal pose.
How long had she been like that? Perhaps Heaven knows.

The sail was torn and tattered so it could not catch the wind.
No chance, then, of reversing course. Going back to where she’d been.
Her sunburned skin, her parched cracked lips, her worn and threadbare wear
Gave mute witness to her suffering and her unanswered prayers.

I think it was a kindly moon that made her voyage end.
For sure  a strong insistent tide had brought that wrecked bark in.
That’s when we saw it on the beach; Saw the body, felt alarm.
I went to her, checked for a pulse, then told my mate “She’s gone.”

“My crown is hollow without a son. My kingdom cannot bide uncertainty.
My Lady Anne would be my wife, but never will my mistress be.
The papal legate on my case is a master of delay..
Wolsey wants to be a Prince but Rome is very far away.
I can’t depend upon the Cardinal to accomplish what I pray..
I need a quick and legal way to disavow my Spanish Queen,
Then wed and bed my Lady Anne and sire sons of lordly mien.
I am convinced by Holy Writ that marriage to Catherine was a sin.
My gentleman of the Privy chamber; Please show Thomas Cromwell in.”

There once was a man from Gibraltar
who was deathly afraid of the altar
Then a girl, sweet and round,
by Cupid was found.

Now she leads him around with a halter.

The Cop stood in the doorway
With his handkerchief held to his nose.
A young white male, the tenant,
had died in this apartment.
This must have happened three days ago at least.
It had taken that long for the smell
To permeate the building;
before someone thought to summon the law.


From the looks of it, another overdose-
Another young victim of a cruel epidemic
That takes the young and leaves the old to grieve.
Those who choose to ride that particular horse
Need rodeo clowns with Nar-Can standing by.


Was it an a accident or a suicide?
Perhaps the M.E. could make the determination;
a fine distinction between blurred lines.
There will be need to notify the next of kin
to claim the corpse and make the final disposition.
Then soon, perhaps next week-

a studio in Williamsburg for rent.

Private Henry Tandey,
in the service of his King.
had his chance to make a difference
at the battle of Marcoing.

A wounded German corporal
came into his line of sight,
Henry raised his rifle
and would have had him dead to rights.

But Henry was war weary
From his time in No man’s land
Who was it Henry didn’t ****?
Adolf ****** was that man’s name.

The Corporal gave his head a nod
And hurried on his way,
Henry Tandey spared his life
to the entire world’s dismay

After the burial service
and after the meal for the guests.,
The old man returned home.
He felt badly in need of a rest.

He entered into the room they had shared
for all their years before.
It was faintly redolent of her favorite perfume,
but his Love wasn't here anymore.

Alone in their room,  the old man shed some tears;
He had shown a brave face to the World.
Now, all alone, he permitted his grief
to pour out for the loss of his girl.

He fell down on his knees by the side of their bed
but all efforts at prayer were undone
when he saw  on the wall a photo of her,
back in the days they were young.

That night he slept in the room down the hall.
The room they has saved for a guest.
There were too many memories in their marriage bed
for the old man to get any rest.

In his sleep he had dreams  of an ancient Greek myth
when the gods gave an old couple grace:
To spare death and mourning they were turned into trees.
There together both firmly rooted in place.


His son came the next day to see how he was
For his dad hadn't answered his calls.
He found Death had answered Dad's prayers
There in that room down the hall.

Love is a gift and Life is a challenge
Charon gives rides shore to shore.
The old man was blessed to have passed in his sleep
and was joined with his love evermore.

Sixty Seven years they were together,
until only death did part.
It is difficult for Him to deal with:
Death rends asunder human hearts.
Until this happened his mind seemed clear
in spite of his advancing years.
Then his daughter got the call
That nearly broke her grieving heart
Her Father asking for her mother’s number-
He’s lost Gemma’s number and needs to talk.
He needs to hear her voice again.
To tell her  that his love is true.
Through tears his daughter answers back;
“ I ‘d give you  the number if  I knew.”

Here, in the depths of winter, when the earth is bare and brown,
You will notice, if you look carefully, depressions in the ground.
My guide told me that here there are about one hundred men
who served beneath the Stars and Bars and gave their lives for them.

The Union line was well entrenched up there upon the hill.
Hard shot and double canister rained down on the Rebs at will.
If Ewell had thought it practical, on the first day of the fight,
results might have been different had his soldiers seized these heights.
When he forfeited his advantage, the Stars and Stripes held sway;
Union forces would repel his sorties the next day.

So, with careful measured steps, we walk above these men,
Who loved, not wisely but too well ,the cause for which they bled.
Do not disturb this hallowed ground; leave them at rest I pray.
Until they hear the trumpet’s call upon the Judgment Day.

I will never forget the sound
of their bodies as they hit the ground.
How the gutter ran red with their blood
when no other escape could be found.

Our ladders were too short, you see-
They were eight floors from the ground.
All these young factory girls
like bundles of rags falling down.

I will always remember the screams
Of one girl with flames in her hair
who appeared at a window one moment,
then in the next , wasn’t there.

I walked through the ashes soon after
trying to make sense of things.
We counted three dozen more victims
and discovered a number of rings.

It started here on the eighth floor;
a stray ash from a last cigarette.
There was plenty of fuel for the fire
That this city will never forget.

Once upon a time in America
the Sons and Daughters of Liberty
faced down the dragoons of a distant tyrant
and won freedom for themselves and their posterity.

Once upon a time in America
A President held forth for human rights
and freed a people who had been held in *******
after five Aprils of costly, ****** strife

Once Upon a Time In America
brave women rallied to be suffragettes;
No more content to be second class citizens,
They won the vote and haven't looked back yet

Once Upon a Time In America
The teeming masses set out for our shores
They were greeted by the lady in the harbor
who raised the torch of Freedom ever more

Once upon a time in America
we raised brave men the equal of their time;
They spent their prom day storming Norman beaches
and didn't stop until they reached the Rhine.

Once upon a time in America
Men with the "Right Stuff" could still be found
to circle the Earth and reach the nearby moon
returning back here safely to the ground.


That was once upon a time in America.
before the dream was sold and spat upon
Before they pulled the ladder up behind them.
For most of us the dream is dead and gone.

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.

What images swirl through the dying mind
of a man who’s been peppered with shot?
Does life pass in review, as some have claimed true?
Is he judged and found wanting? Then what?


Or does he embrace and take leave of this place
as life’s’ blood empties out of his veins.
Is the thought of her face the one instance of Grace
When only a moment remains.

We all remember the nursery rhyme
with its pockets full of posies.
All together we would cheerfully chime,
our incomprehension showing.

Now, one by one, it is coming true,
Our fingers lose their grip.
The Reaper comes to claim his due.
To Death's tune we're forced to skip.

One by one they slip away.
We commit our loved ones to the earth.
Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down
Its scant comfort at best, that nursery rhyme verse:

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down

“Cigarette? “ He held out his pack.
“Sure”, I said.” I don’t see any harm in it now.”
My recent foe, now friend, was dressed in Wehrmacht Grey.
I wore Khaki as I had in life, stained in the front around the heart.
His coal black helmet bore proof of his fatal blow.
Other than being dead we were both none the worse for wear.
We watched without passion the play before us:
the waves of boys in Khaki Green, breaking against the Atlantic wall.
Such Courage was shown on both sides this day.
I confess I had felt only fear. Terror as bullets tore into my heart.
My new friend felt the same. We were both glad our deaths were quick.
The alternative was here upon display.
Soon we must head above, or below, as the gods decide.
But we had decided for just a while to stay
And watch the action on this Longest Day

On Spring Street in SOHO I worked in a bar
The Manhattan Bistro, since closed down, I hear.
In its basement what remains of a well can be seen;
the scene of a ****** that still haunts my dreams.

The Winter solstice was, once again, drawing near,
its night, cold and dreary, the longest of the year.
What brought me downstairs, I cannot now tell.
It was there that I saw her, the woman from the well.

Her long tresses hung down; limp, lifeless and dead,
and an old fashioned hair comb she wore on her head.
Her muslin dress was archaic, with bustle and lace.
She seemed lonely and listless, a sad look on her face.

In life she’d been lovely, a pert Twenty two.
Yes, Elma Sands, I’d heard all about you.
As I stood in stunned silence, another appeared.
A malevolent Specter of a man passed me near.

He throttled the girl till, unconscious, she fell.
He tossed her, still living, down the depths of the well.
Then like vapors they vanished- to Heaven or Hell?
Someone called from the Bar and it shattered the spell.

Few heard her pleas on the night that she died.
When she first was discovered it was thought suicide.
Rumors spread quickly back in Old Dutch New York.
Surely that girl was murdered, such was the talk.

No doubt killed by a Lover who wanted no Bride.
Levi Weeks was arrested. The charge- Homicide.
Rumors were spread that he’d promised they’d wed,
That they planned to elope- but he’d killed her instead.

The Lawyers he hired were both men of renown;
Hamilton and Burr were both heroes in town.
The mob wanted blood; they screamed Levi’s name.
The jury declined to convict, just the same.

The facts of the ****** may never be known.
What man followed Elma, and found her alone,
In a meadow deserted on the outskirts of town?
What man took her life, which was not his to take,
when she bravely refused to consent to her ****?

In the heart of our city, her ghost finds no peace;
Two centuries later and still no release.
Venture down to the cellar on Spring Street if you dare;
On the Solstice her ghost will appear to you there

This morning was cool
and the sky just as blue.
I remember where I was.
I suspect you do too.

A moment for Silence,
the ring of a Bell,
Hearts still in agony
remember too well.

In Memory still green
Eleven years on
A day to read names
of those dead and gone.

We stand here together
in memorial park
between two dark pools
where the world came apart.

That morning was cool
and the sky just as blue.
I remember where I was.
I suspect you do too.

After all the crowds had gone, we came to the Rotunda where
Our murdered President lay in state, resting in his coffin there.
We shuffled in with our winds and woods to play a requiem for him.
Leonard Bernstein, with his grey tousled mane, motioned that we should begin.
Our fingers danced upon the strings as wood winds sounded sad and low.
In Life he loved to hear us play and we had loved him too you know.
Notes flowed in the November air, up to heaven for all we know,
Music taking the place of prayer; for many of us its long been so..
We’ve played before Thousands in New York and in concert halls around the world,
But this night we played just for him,

for Massachusetts favorite son.

We played Mahler’s requiem

for an audience of one.

Something there is that doesn’t love a rose;
The biting wind, the unrelenting rain,
The first hint of the coming winter’s chill
That will not suffer flowers to remain.

Something there was that did not love our Rose
The renegade cells whose blood destroying will
Seeped into the bones and her soft tissues
and on the warmest day left our Rose chilled.

Now our Rose lies still in her Sunday best
Her hands composed for prayer and ever sleep.
Something there was that didn’t let Rose live.
A circumstance that makes a grown man weep.

The Judge decreed that I must die
for my “crime” of self-defense.
I’ve spent five years in prison since
abused in every sense.
When I have done my final dance
And the hangman cuts me down.
Please donate my organs.,
Don’t consign them to the ground.
Let one blind see with my eyes.
Let my young heart beat free.
Give others a new lease on life
Don’t say the gift is me.
Better that than to become dust
as you wear black and mourn.
Death is not the end of Life
So do not be forlorn .
Don’t consign me to the ground
That would be a waste and sin.
Consume with fire what is left
and give me to the wind

They were scattered, here and there.
Some were in pieces, some intact.
Some were strapped into the wreckage;
Others lay upon their backs.
These were staring, sightless, at the sky;
That place from whence they came-
They had been headed on vacation
when a missile struck their plane.
The Western World roars outrage
and Dutch folk weep their tears.
“Give us back our children
that your hatred scattered here.”
“The world is filled with churlish men;
Who stole our children’s years.
The innocents have been slaughtered
But no Savior yet appears.”

Some time ago, I planted a sapling,
a non-fruiting pear tree,
in the back garden of my home.
I planted it to take the place
Of an older tree lost in a storm.
I have watched it wax
As I have waned.
I know someday it will give its shade
To others of my kind
Who are to me unknown.

We slept last night on satin sheets.
Reluctantly we rise.
In air-conditioned luxury
we wipe the sleep from bloodshot eyes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Upon exiting from the shower
we don our matching silken robes.
The Bloomberg totes our rising wealth
and tells of Donald's latest woes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Eggs over easy and crusty french bread,
consumed with dark roast coffee seems
a perfect way to start our day.
We live better than Kings and Queens.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

We dress in fine designer clothes.
You should see the shoes she wears.
They cost two thousand dollars each
and she owns two dozen pairs.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Below our penthouse in the sky,
anger simmers on City streets.
An angel with a flaming sword
approaches even as we speak.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

In some long marriages
the couples complete
each others sentences

In all others
each serves their own.

Born to Run




I’ve seen him play a dozen times,
watched him strike that familiar chord.
He’s never lost the joy of youth
as he starts, again, his song.
Others might go through the motions,
bored to death with the hits they play
Springsteen lives within the moment
until the last notes fade away.
Like Derek Jeter on the base paths
Or, if I might steal DiMaggio’s line,
Springsteen plays on for the fan
who’s seeing him for the first time.

Time passes, Things change.
Nothing, it seems, remains the same.
Except, of course,
your stone hard heart-
The unmoved mover,
Alone, apart.
For so it has been-
and so it remains-
as things pass
as Times change.

The old man grabbed his knee with his hand
and held it stable to allow him to stand.
He reached for his blackthorn stick that served as his cane
and stared out in despair at the down pouring rain.
For weeks it’s been like this; his crops now would fail.
That’s life in the North Hills outside of the Pale.
Once he’d been young, handsome and strong;
Now he walked Stooped over and his sons all were gone;
to England and Canada, some  to the States.
He had infrequent letters to keep track of their fates.
Well, the cash from the quarry had not all been spent
And he owned this place clear; he owed no landlord rent.
It’s just him and his second wife, several pigs and a cow,
All the children had left them long before now.
“There’s no future for me here!” one son had enlisted
That boy died on the Somme and his Father still missed him.
He thought, too, of his favorite, his daughter Kathleen,
Who died of the Flu back in nineteen- nineteen
He reached for his fiddle and rosined his bow;
He sat for a bit, played a tune sad and slow.
This old place was his life, in the hills near Strabane
He had so longed to travel when he’d been a young man;
But those days are long gone, over and done
You are only permitted to dream when you’re young.

James Bond was a dissolute youth
who spent his nights drinking Vermouth
I was shaken, not stirred
when they gave me the word
that his blood test came back ninety proof.

Look at you in your best blue suit.
Look at you in your power tie.
They’ve given us this last moment all alone,
a final chance to say goodbye.
When last we spoke I had no time.
I was busy on the phone.
I hurried you off to your bed
Where, as Fate had it, you died alone.
You were kind of heart and wise.
I am the child of your old age.
I chide myself for being brusque
just as you exited the stage.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
one of omission on my part.
Death has stolen the warmth of Love away
And left you with a cold clay heart.

Once, in a jungle preserve in Tanzania, there were two elephant herds. One was headed by a wise old matriarch of sixty seasons. The other had a much younger matriarch who had never experienced a severe drought.  When a terrible dry season came to the preserve she kept her herd in place, trusting the water hole would not dry up. The older matriarch knew to move her herd  beyond the preserve boundaries and found a second water source. The herd that stayed suffered severe loss of numbers some literally dying of thirst.   In times of crises experience makes all the difference. This is true of elephants and among men.