Don't lay me to rest in a burial plot
to molder alone and be forgot.
I think that I would rather be
fresh compost for a growing tree.
As a tree let me grow both tall and thin
(two things that I have never been)
There let me grow both tall and proud
and raise my limbs to worship God
Then children, rest beneath the shade of that tree
Take shelter there in my leafy bough.
Hear my voice in the rustling wind.
I'm with you. I have always been.

She had, she knew, been careless,
But what’s a girl to do?
It’s hard to watch the clock
when a Prince asks to dance with you.

At the first stroke of Midnight
She turned and fled the ball.
Other than one glass slipper,
she’d left no trace at all.

Her coach turned back to a Pumpkin.
Her rat coachmen scurried home.
Her gown turned back to homespun.
Her splendor all had been on loan.

The Prince had been heartbroken,
She was ever on his mind.
The girl who danced into his heart,
then left her shoe behind.

He knew he had to find that girl
And ask her for her hand.
She must become the princess
of his tiny far off land.

The Prince set off upon his quest,
The glass slipper in his hand
He meant to try the shoe
on every damsel in the land.

The day came when her stepsisters
were asked to try the shoe.
As both of them wore size thirteen
They simply wouldn’t do.

The wicked stepmom then broke the shoe
Before Cinderella had her chance
To slip into the slipper
that she’d lost at the dance.

As the Prince prepared to turn away
Our girl knew what to do
She slipped her hand into her pocket
and produced the other shoe.

As I wander along this lonely road
a wintry chill invades my coat.
I need this time to mediate
on the consequences of my vote.

As I gave thought of Right and Left
my footfall struck a rusty can.
I stopped and stooped to pick it up
and contemplated the object in my hand.

The can was a heavily dented can
that had been kicked down this road so long
It seemed its' second nature now
to absorb our kicks like nothing's wrong.

It once was shiny bright and new;
a wondrous work of human hand.
Now a rusty dented thing-
Its sad fate now I understand.

"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. " said Yeats.
They are a venial, grasping group of thieves
We put in charge to decide our fates.

In my short time the world has changed
in ways we scarcely understand.
We have failed to act to avoid destruction.
This road is strewn with dented cans.

He stops and starts, he drives too slow,
He turns hesitantly.
He struggles reading street signs-
That much is plain to see.

He lingers at each corner
And others can’t get by.
He honks his horn incessantly.
No one can tell me why.

The old should face a driving test
to stay behind the wheel.
Forcing him to take a cab-
That idea has appeal.

I want to give the finger to this annoying S.O.B.
but when I pull up next to him
He looks a lot like me

It was cold for early June; a pause between two storms.
The surf –rough, the water-cold, but the reception would be warm.
Our Higgins boat made steady speed taking us to shore.
For some it was the Longest Day, for many others the last they saw.

The scene awaiting us was surreal; a muck up like the worst.
The Germans kept the corpsmen busy- if they didn’t **** them first.
The leaden rain was constant as we struggled towards the shore.
Our platoon was decimated; many saw the end of war.

There were acts of heroism. Our leaders proved their worth.
We took ******’s Atlantic wall; thought impregnable at first.
I looked from the high bluff at the grey Armada just off shore.
I lost a bunch of pals today, but we’ll even the score.

We are a band of brothers encamped above this Norman shore.
I will never tell my parents of the horrors that I saw.
The air stinks of sweat and iron, and the stench of cordite from spent rounds.
The chaplains collect the dog tags from the still forms on the ground.

I listened in the darkness as” the Franchise” took the hill.
Tom Seaver, perfect, through eight innings, had retired Cubs at will.
I could barely hear Bob Murphy’s voice; Shea was packed that night.
Santo, Banks and Spangler, all went down without a fight.
Randy Hundley led off the ninth, he was victim Twenty-Five.
The stands were like a roaring sea, electric and alive.
Jimmy Qualls came up to bat, a rookie, little known.
Every Mets fan felt for sure that Tom would bring it home.
Seaver looked in for the sign; Grote called for heat.
Qualls lined a clean single and a hushed quiet filled the seats.
Seaver felt deflated as the crowd stood in ovation.
As well as he had pitched that night was it wrong to seek perfection?
Seaver finished off the Cubs that night; Qualls' was the only hit.
That night would have been perfect if that ball had found a mitt.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair.
Her prized violin was in its case by her side.
She was just come from her Julliard audition,
with the world on a string in her talented hands.

Richard Rojas was high as a kite, his blood on fire with ***
His Honda Accord he drove into a crowd.
The voices in his head made him do the deed
There were curses and screams, then weeping.

A lovely young tourist lay dead on the street.
Several others, severely injured, might never rise again.
The beautiful violinist was thought one of the lucky ones;
Her left hand merely mangled, her violin shattered in its case.

Richard Rojas was quickly apprehended.
He’ll go on trial for this thing he’s done.
Parents weep for the dead and injured,
And feel their souls dead in New York.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair
Her prized violin, which she would never play again,
left  in splinters on a street in New York,
in the gutter where her dreams lay shattered.

Two young boys had their lines cast into the water while their playmate, Diana, skipped stones across the surface.. “Stop that!” Mohamed said, “You’re scaring the fish.” Just then the other boy, Jesus, felt a tug on his line.” As he reeled in his catch, he teased the slightly younger boy. “You are just saying that because your basket is empty and mine is getting full.”
Mohamed selected a stone and hurled it high into the air over the bay. As the stone arched down to the water he said: “No matter how high the stone ascends it always submits to the will of Allah.” Jesus selected a flat stone and sent it skimming along the surface of the water before it too sank beneath the waves. “Look how the stone generates ripples of change as it passes along the surface of the water on its way to eternity.”
Diana selected a small flat stone and sent it on its way across the water. “You two are getting way too philosophical for me. I am merely playing a game. I call it skimming stones.”

“We should eat; I’m getting hungry” Said Mohamed, producing five small loaves of barley bread. Jesus gathered some driftwood from the shore and started a small fire in a pit scooped out from the sand. He took the two fish he had caught and began to cook them over the open flame.
As the three friends sat cross legged on the sand and enjoyed their lunch, they were observed by a slightly older lad, Siddhartha, who had been enjoying the day beneath the shade of a tree father up the *****. As he walked toward them Jesus greeted him saying. “Would you like to join us Sid? We have enough left over to feed a small village. Siddhartha paused, then patted his stomach ruefully, saying. “If I eat too much I will be mistaken for a small village.”

AS the sun began to decline into the western sky Diana said.” We had better get started back to the village. You know how frantic your mother gets, Jesus, when she doesn’t know where you are.” Diana shook the sand from her hair and tied it up in a neat efficient pony tail.

As the four friends made their way home across the hardscrabble towards the village the Sun cast their elongated shadows across the white sand until they reached the village and went their separate ways. The Sun cast a few final deep red rays over the surface of the Bay before descending into the waters of the salt unplumbed eternal sea. Then the only light remaining was the reflected light of the crescent moon.

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers;
your inspiring moments of silence.
Yet these do not one blessed thing
to protect us from gun violence.

The constitution guarantees
the right to lethal Weapons?
Are Life and Liberty not worthy, then,
of sensible protections?

Those diagnosed with PTSD;
The schizophrenic and Bi Polar
Should not be given lethal means
to wipe out holy rollers.

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers
We’re sure they’re well intended.
Just the same we’d like to see
These brutal massacres ended!

They are but shades who once were men.
We shall not see their like again.
Stonewall Jackson, Grant and Lee,
Men of courage, Men of faith,
honorable men from an honorable age.
In the chapel at Fort Hamilton
They met and prayed.
Let no man mute their story.

Perhaps they prayed
That their cup would pass
And that the Union would endure.
Their cup, brimming full with blood.
Would not pass,
Until every drop shed by slave was matched
By blood a soldier shed
But the Union would endure.
Let no man deny their glory.

Robert E. Lee at Fredericksburg
"It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it."

Abraham Lincoln (2nd Inaugural)… “Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

Always lurking in the shadows where fear and loathing grows,
Cancer never has a face until it takes someone you know.
You see good days and bad days, from now until the end,
When  Cancer makes a shadow of a loved one or a friend.
Platelets are important, and anemia threatens too,
as Oncologists and their ilk are radiating you.
Chemotherapy and surgery; the physicians cut and burn,
The cost of all these treatments? - Every penny that you’ve earned.
If lucky, she will make it through and be called a survivor.
If unlucky, there’s a DNR and they will not revive her.

It was easy to Love you, Columbia,
When you were young and fair.
Then opportunity was boundless;
Your land was rich beyond compare.

True you were born in conflict
And the years were not always kind.
Some say they have cause to hate you;
That to injustice you’ve been blind.

Evil men have harmed you
With their crass cupidity.
This current crop of “leaders”
Blunder repeatedly.

You do not stand as tall and strong
As when I met your first.
I see worry lines around your eyes
This year has been the worst.

Still, with all your imperfections,
None could take the place of you.
You still can take my breath away
Draped in Red white and blue.

I don’t suppose they will have a cake,
The years mean nothing now.
You’ve long since ran your victory lap,
You kept that wedding vow.
You led, like us, an imperfect life
But that didn’t keep you down.
You’ve exchanged corruptible mortal flesh
for a celestial crown.
You and Mom are together again
with your parents and all your brethren
Oh, what a joyous event it must be
To celebrate your birthday in Heaven.

My title is “POTUS” and America’s great.
My pardoning power can change people’s fate.
I commuted the sentence of a granny in jail
Who’d been locked up for years for a busted drug sale.
I Pardoned Jack Johnson long after he’d died,
for his crime of having a white ******* the side.

Dinesh D’Souza was an interesting case;
He defied crooked Hillary -who put him in his place.
His “Get out of Jail” card I granted with glee.
Perhaps his next movie will be about me.

I pardoned a sailor who’d fallen from grace;
He worked in a Sub and took films of the place.
I forgave Joe Arpaio and relieved his distress
at having a jail cell as his forward  address.

It’s True Scooter Libby was technically free;
His sentence commuted by my peer “43”.
Now Scooter’s pardoned; absolved of his crime.
It was worth it to hear liberal Democrats whine.

It’s been said that with Russians I basely connived
to secure my election to become “45”.
If Mueller should dig up some dirt on my “crime”
I’ll just pardon myself and thank him for his time.

He saw her only yesterday, this girl that he once knew.
She looked happy with her family as she passed before his view.
When he sought what most desire, relationships got in the way.
He still recalls her tear stained cheeks the day he threw her love away.
He's dressed in fine designer suits, his chauffeur is on call.
One day he'll make C.E.O. -will then he have it all?
Yes, the world thinks him a Titan, of most uncommon clay,
as he thirsts, like one in Hell, for the tears she shed that day.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
Roberta Flack


The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the endless skies

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command my love

And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love

The first time ever I saw your face
Your face, your face

Eric  Schneiderman misses the days
When Whites were supreme in this land.
He abused his poor lover for her dark skin,
and pretended she was his to command.

"Call me Master!" he said, as he slapped her around.
He beat her to make her obey.
There were several "Dead soldiers" strewn on the floor.
Eric is a mean drunk, folks say.

Now in disgrace, he resigns his high post.
Poor Eric is down and Forlorn.
Based on the accounts of amounts that he drank
I'm amazed he could even perform.

“Come on, Boy.” I rattle Bo’s leash.
My little spaniel heads for the door.
This November morning is crisp clear and cold.
We wander alone, enjoying the peace,
An old man and his dog joined by this leash.

It just seems to happen, more often than not,
That Bo and I wind up at the very same spot.
I swear we don’t plan it, but it’s always the same
We wind up in the town square near the Metro North train.

We watch and we listen as the southbound train leaves.
The slow mournful whistle echoes forth on the wind.
The train I rode for decades from here to the end.
The train I took to work but will never take again.

My former co-workers; the drinks at weeks end.
My boon companions dare I call them my friends.
They have still their careers, they still have each other
I have a small pension. I yearn for a lover.

At length and at last Bo and I turn for home.
They’ll be coffee for me; Bo will play in the yard.
I never imagined that retirement
Would ever be this hard.

The teams were bitter rivals and, judging by the score,
The Dodgers would be champions once they retired just three more.
Don Newcombe was pitching brilliantly and had a three run lead.
Surely he would slay these Giants and get the outs we need.

Then Al Dark hit a single and Mueller did the same.
(Surely there was just no way that we could lose this game.)
Monte Irvin popped-up- that’s one for our boys in blue.
Then Luckman hit a double and Newcombe’s day was through.

Two Giants on the base paths and Blue had a two run lead.
Ralph Branca got the call to get the outs we need.
Bobby Thomson was at the plate, some kid named Mays on deck.
Branca had an open base- would he simply walk the vet?
Branca’s first pitch was a strike and some gave sighs of relief.
The second pitch was deposited by Thomson in the seats.

In disgust Ralph tossed the rosin bag as Thomson made his trot
His failure made immortal by Bobby Thomson’s shot.
Dejected, Branca left the mound amidst a mad mob scene.
The number on his uniform? -A starkly black Thirteen.

Je n'ai pas honte,
Je ne devrais pas pleurer non plus.
Parfois, dans les rêves,
Les vieux souvenirs rampent.
Les photographies vont s'estomper avec le temps
plus tôt que ces rêves.
Oui, tu m'as appris à aimer
Et oui, c'était un cadeau précieux.
Je suis l'enfant de votre vieillesse.
Maintenant, de votre présence, je suis privé.
Je m'agenouille ici par ta pierre aujourd'hui
Et pense à tout ce que j'ai perdu.
Pour faire une pause un moment, réfléchir et prier
Et je vous souhaite une bonne fête des pères.

From the first time I encountered AL, AL became my closest friend.
When my other buddies weren’t around on AL I could depend.
AL was always at my house or with me in my car;
a constant presence in my life, AL was  never very far.
When work or school caused me distress, AL would understand.
I always had the time for AL and AL was close at hand.
My other friends might disapprove, but what did they really know?
I was my best self when with AL, when I’d been feeling low.
Some tried to keep us two apart, but they could not succeed.
Having AL with me always was both a want and need.
Then came the day I crashed my car and cost my girl her life.
The police report blamed my friend AL for the death of my young wife.
I tried to rid my life of AL, but AL didn’t want to go.
My guilt, my grief, my misery made my dependence grow.
So now I sit on a wooden chair in the basement of a church.
For, you see, my “friend” named ALhas left me in the lurch.
I need to learn to love myself and deal with deep regret.
I rue the years I’ve wasted, AL; I wish we’d never met.

Dictionaries are wonderful things.
Spell-check, I’ve always admired.
My brand new tattoo
has misspellings of two
Of the words for which
you were hired.

Now I’ll wander through life
As an object of scorn
As this ink artist failed to reflect
That it’s “E’ before “I”
When “C”’s not involved
I mean, really, how could he forget?

There’s a ship that won’t sink
On my chest, done in ink,
With the slogan of
“Ankors Awieght”
I was drunk at the time
But you ought to be fined
Or at least give me back
What I paid.

Ten years have passed, Ten, to the day,
Since Cancer took her breath away.
We survivors, left forlorn,
consoled each other as we mourned.
That day a Father lost his child
and was never after seen to smile.
Faith was tested on that day
as each in turn would kneel to pray.
Time, inexorable in its way,
sought to efface our tears away,
as snow and rain and biting wind
efface letters incused in stone.
Time has failed, we can’t forget
the loss of our beloved Jeanette.
We who survive, recall the day,
It’s stifling heat, the lack of air.
The horror of that ringing phone
That brought the tragic news to home.
Ten years have passed, Ten years she’s gone.
Ten years we’ve had to soldier on.
This day we pause to think of then
And weep for all that might have been.

There is this very orange man
who isn’t sleeping well these days.
He has attained his heart’s desire-
and now watches as it slips away.
He’s a very angry man
who takes to twitter for a rant.
He’d like to bomb Kim Jun tomorrow
But his generals say he can’t.
His failure to repeal, replace
Convinces everyone
The man’s a crispy orange duck
Before his first term’s done.
He rants and raves on twitter
on and on about Barrack.
He is envious of Bannon-
Such flexibility he lacks.
So he must console himself
With twitter based attacks.

Would the Famine have happened if the Irish were armed?
Not with staves and pitchforks but with rifles and bombs.
Would all of their grain and their British bound beef
Been kept there in Ireland to give them relief?

We were serfs of a sort, slaves in our own land.
Against British oppression we had no chance to stand.
When our subsistence crop failed the absent landlord
Seized our pitiful homesteads and made them sheepfolds.

With the green grass of Ireland their final repast
Irish died by the thousands and their deaths weren’t fast.
Hunger, like Cancer, gnaws a man to the bone
They lie now in mass graves without even a stone.

The poor Irish Catholic was a man with no rights.
No wood for his coffin; No oil for his lights.
What “relief” was provided was cause for despair
as the hungry and  the dying built  roads to nowhere.

The coffin ships sailed and the old women weep.
Some took the soup and renounce their belief.
Such a strange Famine; it boggles the mind
That food was exported- it was sure genocide.

Then we had no rights they were bound to respect.
Their might gave them right to extort and collect.
We were then subject to their whim and decree
Till we learned to fight back and we made ourselves free.

Our 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.

Were there skeletons in her closet?
Did he meet another ghoul?
Was he in it for her *****?
Was she a loving trusting fool?

Some say she’s a gold digger,
was In it for his buried treasure.
She had no body to go out with
and relied on herself for pleasure.

Anyway, they’ve call it off,
renounced their wedded bliss.
The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak
And so its come to this

By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

First, you cry.
Cry until you cannot anymore.
Once more the grim prognosis will be read,
But no hope will be found there, I am sure.
No bargain can be made, no moments bought.
The cancer has moved quicker than we thought.

Even now, a bony spectral hand
Points across the Styx to the far shore.
Does sweet salvation wait?
Or do the Fates await to seek their vengeance?
I fear that we will all know before long.
I’ve read the Bill of Attainder :
We all face the same sentence.

Beneath the Coral Sea, located nearly two miles down,
A submersible was sent to search, and the Lexington was found.
The ship known as “the Lady Lex” had been rent by shot and shell.
For four long days she stayed in the fight until the final bell.

Two hundred and sixteen of her crew went down with her all told.
Internal fires burned white hot and ran out of control.
Scattered about the mighty Lex, her wildcats by the score,
these fighters, built by Grumman, have seen the last of war.

Men Die, Steel rusts, and memories fade of battles gone before.
Her struggle becomes legend and she enters into lore.
It is a watery grave she found beneath the Coral Sea.
But her brave crew and pilots made her mark in history.
The Japanese had been repulsed from fair New Guinea’s shore.
Within a month Midway would mark the turning point of war.

Buried on this Island in a tiny unmarked plot,
You would have been my son or daughter
but she decided to abort.
It would be nice to have been consulted,
But that’s a right men haven’t got.

You might have been a beauty
as your sister is today.
Or You might have been a scholar
if not commingled with this clay.
There is no stone where I can grieve;
No plot to kneel and pray.

Just this burial ground of paupers
I am visiting today.
It is my fault as much as hers
I do not seek to blame.
If only I could have  held you once
or given you a name.

The winter chill cuts to my core.
I feel a sense of sin.
I’m reminded the saddest words of all
Are these:“what might have been”

It began quite subtlety, a drop off of the Light.
Then faster, much faster, as day turned into night.
The summer breeze grew slightly chill
in the absence of the Sun.
Primordial fears teased at my brain
But there was no place I could run.
My intellect assures me that this eclipse will pass
That the darkness will be fleeting-
Light shall return at last.
Unconsciously I held my breath
as the moon’s shadow passed.
The arches here at Stonehenge
were bathed in light at last.
This eclipse was long predicted;
the place and hour known
I stand within the circle.
A privilege mine alone
The passing of the seasons
Are remarked by these stones
Our Ancestors who made this place
Millennia ago
Built it as a sacred space;
The soul’s eternal home.

When the fire burns hottest, often heroes will rise.
We don’t know how it started; we can only surmise.
Somebody was careless; not paying attention.
A spark became flame; thus began the convection.

I was down at the pub with some fellas I knew.
It was five O’clock (somewhere)- we were having a few.
There out in the street we heard a commotion,
But as to what was the cause we hadn’t a notion.

We threw open the door to a pitiful sight
Sure the North end of town was already alight.
Twas no use going home. My house was now Tinder.
Still now’s not the time to go off on a ******.

Jimmy the barkeep said “It pains me to say,
But fellas- the fire is coming this way!”
We all raced to his cellar for his hogsheads of ale;
determined to quench the flames; we swore not to fail.
Though some of us wept at the waste of good stout,
we wet down the walls and we kept the flames out.

All the structures around us were lost to the blaze,
But thank God and Saint George that our tavern was saved!
Though our names be forgotten, our deed lives in lore;
Surely no one fought fire with Guinness before!

The woman, Miriam, had been caught in the act,
selling her favors; making cash on her back.
She was dragged to the square barely half dressed
and everyone knew what would be happening next.

She stared at the people who all gathered around
and watched as they picked up the stones from the ground.
She reeked of her sin as she cowered, half dressed,
one word from the priest and we'd stone her to death.

One word would be needed and then stones would fly
The ***** would be battered for sinners must die.
The pavement around her would be stained with red
God would be pleased that this woman was dead.

An Itinerant  rabbi was asked by the priest
if he would pronounce sentence, let the stones be unleashed.
He paused to consider, drawing lines in the dust,
then he spoke his decision about what was just.

"Let he from among you who is without sin
throw the first stone; let fly and begin."
Stones dropped from each hand as each did consider
the sins in our  own hearts and made us forgive her.

" Does no one condemn you?" he asked of the *****.
"Then neither do I, child, go, sin no more"















9 When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman. 10 Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”

11 “No, Lord,” she said.

And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”

Some of you I saw in my crib; those brightly colored shapes.
Who knew how close we would become through words and printed page?
How clever these twenty six close friends seem to me  right now.
They can answer my every question; be it when, where, why or how.
Near infinite is thy variety in your mix of shapes and sounds.
In you every Indo-European language can be found.
Like a linguistic DNA you take on varied forms
From age to age you morph, through slang, until you are reborn.
You are like the Phoenix rising glorious from the ash.
You are a friend to Every man who journeys to the past..
You are printed, you are digital, you are spoken on the stage.
Without you Love itself is mute and blank remains this page.
You have proven all good friends to me. I hope I’ve served you well.
(My punctuation is sometimes questionable but I’ve mastered how to spell.)

It is dangerous for a poet who is lyrically inclined
To even think a word like orange should be included in a rhyme.
Although it’s fruit is succulent and it’s juice is sweet,
The word is something of a loner, one whose
Rhyme you’ll never meet.
It is borrowed from the Sanskrit whose lands gave us the fruit  
Any cunning linguist will confirm I speak the truth.

It seems the Universe has made
all the stars it can.
Black holes gobble up
ribbons of gas
to frustrate any star making plans.

So, Not today and not tomorrow,
but someday, bye and bye,
we will look up at  the cosmos
and see a nearly empty sky.

For, like us, stars are mortal;
They are born they live, then die.
Their nurseries are  nearly empty.
Only God could tell you why.

Aletheia looked into my eyes
and I could not avoid her stare.
Her silence a grim accusation
as I shifted uneasily in my chair.
No words escaped my lying lips.
No words could change my fate.
All men are confronted by the truth
Be they small or great.
Aletheia, you see, would be my judge;
such was my despair.
I looked again to see her face
and saw mine own image there.

Washington and Lee were both proud sons of Virginia.
Both men were brave, intelligent and resourceful.
Both men were relatively a-political.
Both were generals leading armies in a revolutionary war.
Both men were beloved by their troops.
Both men were slave owners in an era of slavery
Lee won most of his battles, Washington lost most of his.
Washington won his war, Lee Lost his war.
Washington received financial and military support from
the French.
Lee fought on alone, with no foreign support or recognition-
Often the odds against him were two or three to one.
Washington, as a subject of King George the third,
was a traitor to that allegiance and would have been hung had he lost.
Lee, as a citizen of Virginia, was loyal to his home state.
It is an active question whether states have a right to secede.
Lee and his officers were never tried for treason.
The case against them was weak, that’s why.
We honor Washington because he won his revolution.
We dishonor Lee because he lost his revolution.
Lee’s decision to surrender rather than resort to guerrilla warfare
was a major factor in healing the wounds of a hard war
Both these men command my honor and respect.

He lived in a far distant land, surrounded by the sea,
far away from the masses of his fellow humanity.
He’d venture out upon that sea to fish or ride the waves.
He lived at peace with nature and with eternity.
His favorite time of every day was to see the glorious Sun
setting red beneath the waves on the far horizon.
I heard today that he is gone, departed out of time.
He has closed his book of verse and written his last line.
I promise to remember, friend, for you were good and kind.
Every sunset I have left will recall you to my mind.

Once upon a time in the land that is down under,
There was a feral pig whose heart was set on plunder.
While wandering the outback he chanced to chance upon
A group of unwary campers and lo, their beer was gone.
The pig was feeling happy, having put away a case,
And he wandered through the bushland with a smile upon his face.
As he staggered through the wilderness he chanced upon a cow.
The poor cow was soon set upon by this drunken sow.
A battle royal then did ensue but our pig was out of luck.
The feisty bovine bested him and tossed him in the muck.

That’s where the pig was sleeping it off when found by this reporter,
Who, at first glance, had mistaken him to be a Trump supporter.

So long she was disconsolate,
her only son was gone.
Years had passed and still she mourned,
while everyone else moved on.
Pictures in an album
brought pain as she recalled,
still, gradually she took solace
from the fact he'd lived at all.
We all bear psychic scars
from those we've loved, then lost.
It's the burden of existence
and we all must pay the cost.
She hopes, upon an astral plain,
to meet him face to face.
A place where sorrow turns to joy
and all tears are erased.

When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned

The City of Light wears a blanket of white
As snowflakes and darkness, in tandem, descend.
I walk her streets, alone, with just your memory as company
The old bookstore that we loved to shop
Has made its last sale and closed for good.
Our favorite restaurant is still here, open for business,
but new people have it now.
It, too, is changed.
In happier times we sat at that outside table
And watched, together, the subtle shades of light
refracted on the waters of the Seine.

In your company a simple crust of bread
And a bottle, or two, of calvados seemed a feast.
In your absence the finest foods are, to me, chaff and straw.

Years of living in your love
has not prepared me
For this life alone
I watch the snowflakes falling down, down.
through the cold dark of this Parisian evening
and envy them their resolution that I cannot yet share.

El ejército se había rebelado y la República estaba en peligro,
Pero éramos solo una pequeña ciudad, ¿qué teníamos que ver con esto?
Mi padre, Manuel Robles, era un sindicalista.
Algunos lo llamaron comunista; solo ahora lo entiendo

El ejército tenía una lista de hombres cuya lealtad era sospechosa
Y cuando estalló la guerra civil vinieron por ellos directamente.
Lo llevaron a él, y a otros, y los alinearon contra una pared.
Fue entonces cuando oí la descarga y vi a mi padre caerse.

Verificaron su trabajo, no puedo olvidar la cara
Del oficial que usó su pistola para dar el golpe de gracia.
Apilaron los cadáveres en su camión y, riendo, se alejaron.
Todos fueron enterrados en una fosa común para esperar el día del Juicio.

Miré con mudo horror el suelo empapado de sangre y sediento
y en las marcas de viruela en esa pared causadas por algunas rondas malgastadas.
No hubo juez, ni jurado, ni veredicto, ni decreto.
Mataron a una docena de hombres desarmados; esa fue su victoria

Asesinaron a mi querido padre sin pensarlo dos veces.
No iría tan fácilmente; hay otros, también, que lucharon.
Ahora Franco tiene mi país y he tenido que huir de España.
Mi corazón está con los huesos de mi Padre. Continúo su nombre.

I’ll call it a day when I die.
I’m the boss, I don’t plan to retire..
As long as there’s breathe in these lungs
I’ll sing till my body’s past tired.
For music’s a sweet occupation.
and mine is a lyrical line.

Saint Andrews cross on a Crimson field
was borne by Pickett’s men that  day.
When Union canister, like a scythe,
swept Proud Virginia’s men away.

A handful reached the “High water Mark”
Armistead was one of those who gained the Copse.
Their heroism was beyond question
But here the gray line broke and stopped.

Ordinary men in extraordinary times
are called to do extraordinary things.
Mortal flesh becomes translated
into legends that a Bard might sing.

I stand where Cushing’s battery stood
On that third day so long ago
Here Stars and Bars met Stars and Stripes
Flags fly forever; friends now, not foes.

If he prefers a bitter brew and takes his coffee black
You my friend had best beware; you ought to watch your back!
A scientific survey says that of all people on the street;
those who prefer the bitter to the sweet,
have psychopathic tendencies revealed by what they eat.
If he loves eating Brussel sprouts, but passes on the butter
He might be the sadistic type with issues about mother.
If he takes his coffee black but eschews the use of sugar.
It’s a good predictive marker that your colleague is meshugah.
So pay attention to the habits of your most near and dear,
because their choice of what to eat makes their intentions clear.

This is my last year teaching, here, at Columbine.
I’ll be leaving Colorado and these bad memories far behind..
The kids come into homeroom and each year it’s the same.
The seat where Eric Harris sat is one that’s never claimed.

I guess, as High School massacres rank, others , since, were worse.
We suffer notoriety because we were the first.
The names and faces of the dead still haunt me in my sleep.
I had the charge to keep them safe; a charge I failed to keep.

Eric was intelligent; in a different place and time,
He might have found a better use for his creative mind.
But he was often bullied; I had  failed to intervene.
Some say he thirsted for revenge both brutal and obscene.

On April twentieth of Ninety nine, he and Dylan came here late.
Eric warned one friend to flee; to stay was a mistake.
I heard the first shots fired and saw bodies hit the floor.
They headed for the library.  I hid and locked the door.

I confess I was a coward; I was no hero born to save
Those young and beautiful children destined for an early grave.
I hid, as many others did, and cringed at every blast,
As youthful dreams were shattered and this day became their last..


In the end they died as suicides. Their crude bombs had failed to blow.
Had their plot been a complete success- we’d all have died, I know.
Instead I’ve lived with my regrets, my shame and my despair;
haunted always by my guilt and Eric’s empty chair.

My Facebook friend does not like Trump,
While I despise Chuck Schumer
We post opposing clever memes,
Insults, innuendoes and rumors.
He’s not a bad soul, I suppose,
(Just terribly one sided)
There’s no convincing him or me
That our opinions are misguided.
I see him daily in my feed
He’s never been “unfriended”
Our “arguments” will continue on
Until one life is ended.
So we agree to disagree
And that with me is fine.
I will not to the choir preach;
That’s the ghetto of the mind.