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.

The plain lies before us,
shimmering in the heat.
The lance is heavy in my hand
My ancient Armour creaks.
Rocinante lets out a snort
and gives the reins a shake.
Is that a giant that stands before us
or just this ancient ones mistake?
We are both old and past our prime;
My faithful horse and me.
I spur old Rocinante forth.
and trust my lance for victory!


Alas, I'm unhorsed by my powerful foe
The windmill has made short work of me.
My pride has been bruised but nothing is broken.
We press onward to destiny.

We knew of your use of Holinshed; that you “borrowed” from Plutarch’s Lives”
We suspected you dredged for characters in various bars and dives.
Now scholars have discovered your main source of “Richard the Third”
From which you borrowed liberally, and sometimes word for word.
Macbeth, King Lear, the gang’s all here -you scene steal-er you!  
(You rummaged Marlowe’s “The Jew of Malta” for your Venetian Jew.)
Sophisticated software has snared you in its trap;
As you read North’s manuscript, bet  you never thought of that!


Since you are my favorite dramatist, I’m inclined to let this pass.
If you were a college Freshman- I’d be seeing you after class!

We had traveled here to Canton to the football hall of fame.
I made the pilgrimage with my brother; He’s a student of the game.
There were many fine exhibits, photos in my mind ingrained:
Y.A. Tittle, his blood gushing, was kneeling in a world of pain.
Ameche flying towards the goal in Football’s greatest game.
As our visit was near an end, we stood before a plaque.
It read Walter J. Payton; Chicago Bears (great) running back.
We read the records he had held; some since have been surpassed.
They play more games now in the NFL than they did in the past.
“Numbers aren’t all that matter.” My brother patiently explained.
“Not the true measure of this man and how he played the game.”
“True he was his team’s heart and soul and ranked among the best;
it was for compassion towards his fellow man that he is called “Sweetness”.”
Payton died still a young man. I’d know that much before.
It was only then I noticed he was born in Fifty Four.
I’d started my own journey then; now he’s gone and I remain.
I’ve never been the man he was and I never played the game.
Imagine what one man can do with his time here on earth,
“Sweetness” valued everyone above what we are worth.

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.

Farewell, Aunt Jemima,
Goodbye uncle Ben!
It sure was nice to know you
but these stereotypes must end.

Now, about that Pillsbury dough boy-
He shames people who are fat.
Why does he still get a pass?
What is up with that?

Is Captain Crunch a fascist?
Is Tony Tiger really tame?
Will they ditch the Leprechaun?
I know I'll never look at Betty ******* quite the same!

I think that kindly Quaker is the cause of my confusion.
At least its good to know that he's committed to inclusion.

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

Ooh I’m feeling sick, a little sick
Fevers up a tick
Are you gonna get me, you vile Corona?

Ooh you make my fever spike, fever spike
I cough and sneeze, I'm up all night
Nothing 's gonna make this right, Corona,

Is it ever gonna stop, full of snot, I kid you not
Fevers going up I got a touch of that vile Corona
That Vile, Vile, Vile Corona

Because I never wash my hands,, here I am
Staring death in the face was not my plan
Now I’m in a quarantine, quarantine
Delirious in this bad dream
You Vile Vile Vile Corona

Soon Sears will be history
J.C. Penney is all but spent.
Even mighty Hudson Bay
Sells their building and pays rent.

Here at Macy's flagship store
Friday was black indeed.
They couldn't process payments
at close to normal speed.

Jeff Bezos is a billionaire.
Brown boxes flood the mail
Clicks beat Bricks is the news at six
Is it lights out for retail?

He started out by selling books;
lost cash on every sale.
Barnes and Noble bled a ghostly white.
His competitors turned tail.

Competition is the rule
All change comes through disruption.
As catalogs give way to clicks
some stores need extreme unction.

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.

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 Otto Frank returned to his city
He knew, already, that his wife was dead.
Of his girls, Margot and Ann, he had yet heard nothing.
The silence gave birth to foreboding and dread.

On the day that he learned of his families’
fate;
That day that he learned both his daughters were gone.
Frank took on the mission of finding the traitor:
Who informed the Gestapo? Who raised the alarm?

He once again walked the streets of his city,
Free to enjoy the warmth of the Sun.
Reliving the same day over and over;
The day they were taken at the point of a gun.

Which smiling face? Which former employee
had hated the Jews in the depths of their heart?
Why did the food that he ate taste like ashes?
Why did his girls die just a few days apart?

One man in one lifetime could not find the answer
Otto Frank died still not knowing the truth.
Who had betrayed them, the man and his family?
Who was it who stole away beauty and youth?

“It is time” the Priest said.  I nodded, being well prepared.
My last confession had been heard, as well as my unanswered prayers.
Tom Clarke and Tom Mac Donagh would, shortly, join me in the yard,
where a line of British Soldiers would dispatch us off to God.

The light, grey and uncertain, the air was cold and raw.
A plain grey concrete wall would be the last thing that I saw.
My hands secured behind my back; a blindfold on my eyes.
A sacrifice both right and proper; for Ireland I will die.

I’d dreamt of an Ireland brave and free. To that I did aspire.
I hear the bolts of their enfields click and their captain shouted “FIRE

“We will never forget!”  I heard them all say.
“The eleventh of September was a very dark day.”
How united we were! How our flag proudly waved
O’er the trade center ruins that smelled of the grave.

Then each year thereafter we gathered at the site
To recall those sad moments when day became night
Their widows and children spoke the names of the lost,
And we all vowed to remember, whatever the cost.

This year we have nothing; no gathering planned.
We’re united no longer. This is a sick land.
No words will console us; no beams light the sky.
So soon we’ve forgotten how Two thousand died.

Now people can riot amidst a pandemic
Its surely their right say the proud academics.
“But we can’t light the beacons- someone might get sick!”
We are weak and pathetic and our Mayor’s a *****.

He’s an old man in a wheelchair, who sometimes hobbles with a cane.
His handgrip is amazingly strong; He has a wiry frame.
On his lap he holds an artifact; it’s a precious relic too.
It’s the flag from the Missouri, her old red white and blue.
He still recalls, quite vividly, that cool September day
When his battleship dropped anchor, right in Tokyo Bay.

“We accepted their surrender, They, our victory.
I still can hear MacArthur's voice. It was all surreal to me.”
We spoke on for a little while, he seemed glad that I came.
He spoke about his comrades and wept about how few remain.

We spoke about war’s folly, its death destruction and its pain.
We spoke no word of glory, that’s a politician’s game.
When his nurse came to get him, he knew it was time to rest.
No longer the scared young man who saw the world, but never at its best.

I later heard on that same night; Death came to stake his claim.
A day slips off into history, just ”Old Glory” still remains.

My ears are still ringing.
My left arm hangs uselessly at my side.
Perhaps I am lucky,
so many of my friends have died.

I await the surgeon's attention.
I pray they have some brandy left.
I hear their hacksaws singing loud
a man is of his leg bereft.

This day we stood, we held the line
the round top still in Union hands.
The Rebs have not yet moved off.
They await Marse Lee's commands.

God, would I anywhere but here.
but no, I will accept this cup-
If I should die that men be free
my sacrifice is not too much.

I sit in Dad’s old Adirondack chair
And observe the setting Sun.
Upon the lake the ducklings glide
Alive with the joy of the young.
It is peaceful here at this time of year
Before all the tourists come.

The gentle wind is just enough
To urge the water to kiss the shore.
A yellow cardinal is perched nearby;
Something I’d never seen before.
I breath in deep clean mountain air
and I make to myself a vow:
To Keep Dad’s cabin here at the lake.
It’s Heaven enough for now.

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.

Once his kind were ubiquitous; Men and their ponies herding live beef
from the prairies of Kansas and Texas to the slaughterhouses North East
It was a hard life, but good, nights out under the stars; amusing themselves with a song.
There was beans and good coffee shared at the fire; The prairie wind blew sweet and long.
Then the trains came and life wasn’t the same and the cowboys all faded away.
Old Tex was the last of that vanishing breed; He’d tell me tall tales of those days
when he and his crew battled rustlers and snakes to see the herd safe to their doom.
His skin was like leather from the wind and the sun; his big hands arthritic and gnarled.
A roll your own cigarette drooped from his lips and his speech sounded more like a snarl.
Tex passed on last night, a blessing they say, to die in his sleep with no pain.
No churchyard for Tex, he will rest ‘neath the sod just out beyond the old grange
He was the last of a vanishing breed; a man to his quarter horse wed.
The land that he loved will keep changing above, but the wind and the stars never change.

Joan of Arc gets all the credit;
everybody knows her name.
Agnes was not nearly as famous
but a least she avoided the flames.

Joan was Charles' warrior Priestess,
Agnes ,his mistress, of sorts.
She was undoing his virtue
While Joan was besieging Brit forts.

Agnes was the lady of Beauty,
That's  the castle Charles put in her name.
Her Decolletage  was her chief attraction;
Her cleavage put all others to shame.

In art she was  depicted as Mary,
her Breast bared for the Savior to ****.
Joan of Arc was depicted in armor,
her breastplate was spattered with muck.

Joan took inspiration from Heaven
Agnes from a feather bed's down.
Together they made Charles a monarch
In the city of Rheims  he was crowned.

I first saw her at the coffee shop;
a pale white girl with long black tresses.
Her legs tucked up beneath her on the chair
wearing one of those fashionable peasant dresses.
I would see her, time and again,
studying out on the Quad on a sun filled autumn day.
She never bronzed burned or tanned;
She was most remarkable in that way.
Her skin was always like new fallen snow
in the glow of a full December moon.
Her voice was comforting, simply lyrical.
As for me; I could barely hold a tune.

“Her name is Laurie” her roommate told me.
“it’s time you introduced yourself,
instead of lurking around like a love sick puppy.”
So I did; and it turned out to be
one of my better decisions.

Sans le vent, sans la pluie
La pierre de la Terre resterait en pierre.
Le souffle de Boreas n'a-t-il pas soufflé?
pour former les canyons ici-bas?
Si ce n'est pas pour Kymopoleia et ses vagues
Y aurait-il des grottes sous-marines?
Imperceptiblement, goutte à goutte,
Les larmes du ciel peuvent conquérir le rock.
Transformer la pierre en sédiment par degré
Et retournez à la mer.
Alors aussi, mes larmes vont travailler leur art
Sur ton coeur adamantin
Et, dans leur victoire finale,
ramène ton amour à moi.

Here's a gentle reminder, in case you forgot.
Pajamas are forgiving but blue jeans are not!
It's hard to lose weight so please don't stuff your face
while you're wearing pajamas and sheltered in place

There’s a troubling trend in the land of the “Free”.
Many things go unspoken; they’re just not “P.C.”
Crimes are committed and no one is shocked
when they go unpunished and lips remained locked.
To speak truth to power is to risk mockery.
You’ll be labelled a racist; that’s just not “P.C.”
So much as gone wrong In the land of the “Free”
It would bore you to list the whole sad Litany.
If ever you wondered just what you would do
In a time when great evil was threatening you?
You need no longer wonder. You didn’t stand tall.
On the sad road to silence you said nothing at all.

It was cold, it was wet and a cruel North wind blew
as I walked at the edge of the shoreline with you.
At our feet- dying starfish, several thousand all told.
They lay dead on the beach from the unnatural cold.
There were some ***** and lobsters and anemones.
Some could survive being cast from the sea.
For the rest shock and death was their imminent fate.
(At least they were spared winding up on a plate.)
These are strange times in Britain; so much ice and snow
and the Ocean so cold with such strong undertow
that thousands of starfish were cast out of their Eden.
There’s a message in this that we need to be heeding!
This planet is dying and, unless we repent,
our fate is another extinction event.

The atmosphere was troubled at the end of that July.
The sounds of distant thunder rolled as lightening streaked the sky.
Though the weather had been warm, the woman felt a chill.
She prayed for her sailor son to live, if it be God’s will.

Her Homer was a specialist. He wore the Navy blue.
His ship was the Indianapolis. That was all she knew.
He never wrote about his work or told his port of call.
Loose lips sink ships so secrecy was sacred to them all.

Her animals seemed unsettled; something spooked them on that day.
As twilight fast descended the outside world turned grey.
Then came a flash of lightening and she saw it plain as day.
The face of her son Homer, then, just as quick, he slipped away.

Her heart was sorely troubled by the vision she had seen.
She sensed he was in danger, he’s’ just a boy, Lord, just nineteen.
She stared at the spot in silent shock. She seemed to lack all will.
Her heart was beating rapidly though all the house was still.

For weeks she had heard nothing; no letters of reply.
Civilians were told little; it was brave boys who fought and died.
It wasn’t until the doorbell rang that she knew the worst was true
She numbly read the telegram “We regret to inform you…

The path to Suribachi’s top was paved by brave marines
But the first flag that they planted there was too small to be seen.
The fight to take this vantage point had seen so many die.
To rouse the spirits of our men a larger banner now must fly..

From the fleet came the flag that we would raise this day.
A star spangled banner visible to  the ships at sea.
Six pairs of hands bore her up on high.
(Three of those boys were shortly to die)

A photographer from the associated press
Took the photo we love best.
Six pairs of hands would forever raise her high.
Our flag was the object of all eyes.

More than another month would pass,
ere Iwo was pacified at last.
The image now lives on in Bronze
to honor those brave souls, now gone.

By crises, character is revealed.
Their courage overcame their doubt.
So long as men would not be slaves,
So long our flag will proudly wave.

Nothing lasts forever without ceasing.
For every laugh, somewhere a tear drops down.
When you lose someone your steps feel so uncertain.
No longer do you trust the solid ground.
For so it chances in the lives of men
That day comes when their fathers go before.
The flesh and blood becomes a ghostly presence.
The veil has dropped between them ever more.
When dialogues become soliloquies,
The things you meant to say mean that much more
because they will forever stay unspoken
save to his stone in moments spend alone.

Consider the quark both charmed and strange,  
From which all matter has been arranged
If position be known, momentum cannot be
That’s a certain uncertainty.
For if we knew both speed and spin
We’d have no notion what place it’s in!,
    It can be puzzling, tis true
    And two quarks can be entangled too,
    As I would wish for me and you..

OH, at some distance I have admired
The secret object of my desire  
But though I orbit at close distance
Our opposing charges cause resistance.  
Though you are up and I am down  
I’m strangely charmed and hang around.
    When you are bottom, I am top
    Our entanglement must never stop.

For to abandon my rotation
would be the source of our damnation.
For if we twain should ever meet
We’d dissipate in light and heat.

The battlefield was a moonscape; craters here and there.
They were grateful to find cover, what with snipers everywhere.
Jack and his buddies hunkered down despite the cold and wet .
Time to share a cigarette and give voice to their regrets.

Jimmy  left a girl back home he'd planned to make his wife.
Arthur came from money; once home he's set for life.
There was this one small problem; the foe still in the field.
Human flesh cannot resist the penetrating steel.

Jack imagined being home, once the war was through.
His girl was not some beauty Queen, but at least her heart was true.
All around their sinecure the guns, like thunder, roared.
Jack felt the terror clutch his throat, and he'd been scared before.

That was where we found them, in that cratered pit.
At least they all died quickly, slaughtered by a lucky hit.
Our Sarge would add their dog tags to others he had found.
Western Union made a nice  profit here upon this battleground.

We waited on Saint Marye’s heights behind a fortified stone wall.
We were brave Rebels, one and all, and many of us hailed from Erin’s shore.
The boys in Blue from Maine and Michigan we had repulsed with heavy loss.
Now we saw the green battle flag raised by Meagher’s boys from New York.
We raised a cheer for Erin’s pride which was cut short when our captain said:
“ I do not care if they are brave, I only care to see them dead.”
They set out smartly up the heights, through the ranks of dead and wounded.
We saw the proud Green banner wavering, caught up in a gust of lead.
A red head lad sprung to retrieve it. He saved their banner lest it fall.
One brave sergeant took five bullets, falling ten feet from the wall
The shattered remnants of Meagher’s brigade fell back from St. Marye’s heights.
Darkness came early with biting cold as that it cruel December’s way.
We gave a mighty Rebel yell; Old Marse Robert fared well this day.
Through his field glass he surveyed the field, the hill a writhing mass of blue.
“It is well that war is so terrible, James, or we should grow too fond of it.”
Marse Robert said that, I tell you true.

I have been like some shipwrecked mariner,
adrift on the friendless sea for many days,
who looks upon the celestial lights
as they play on the water’s surface
and deceives himself by thinking
he beholds the stars themselves.

Just so have I self-deceived in thinking
That I have known my Love’s true essence
Yet never having experienced
more that your faint reflection

No night is so dark as the night of your death.
A truth every mariner knows.
They were caught up in a storm
and it could not be long
as the brave ship and crew took hard blows..
They stayed at their stations, for hours they fought,
their iron ore freighter to save.
The waves crested high and the wind whipped on by
whispering of a watery grave.
The religious ones prayed to the god of the storm
in hopes that this cup too might pass.
The heathens among them beheld only gray sky
and they reckoned this day was their last.
The old girl gave a scream as lake water poured in
Her pumps were no match for the waves.
Her lights winked, then died, said observers on shore
And she plunged to a watery grave.
In church families gathered to weep for their men,
Who had set sail in spite of the peril.
The Sun never reaches Superior’s depths;
Never reaches the Edmund Fitzgerald.

He’d first seen war in Africa; again in Sicily.
He’d been present on the road to Rome
and followed our boys to victory.
His columns and his articles told of our Men at war.
Sometimes funny, often poignant,
Ernie Pyle reported all he saw.

He went to the Pacific on a transport with Marines.
They were not yet hardened killers,
just a bunch of frightened teens.
Ernie had grave premonitions
But still he took the chance.
He never hid behind the lines-
With the boys he would advance.
He had to see his mission through
To end what he’d begun.
He’d endured five long years of war;
the man without a gun.

In April, nineteen forty five, he went forward in a jeep;
On the island of Ie Shima he had promises to keep.
He himself became the Headline before that day was done
A ******’s bullet found and killed the man without a gun.

Pen and Ink, which was your sword
to keep the Demons held at bay.
I remember how you calmed the Tempest
When King was murdered and hate held sway.
Wisdom borne of suffering then
You knew first hand of what I speak:
Of pain that drips, drop by drop
Upon our hearts while we yet sleep.
Then, barely two months afterward,
When your brother’s legacy seemed in your grasp,
An assassin’s bullets pierced your brain
And your night of Triumph became your last.

There were reports of a shooting
Someone called Nine -one -one.
Another young man dead-
all because of a gun.
I heard a woman weeping
as I ran to the scene.
She held her dead son in her arms
She held the death of his dreams.
Dusk was yielding to darkness
on this unholy night.
As she keened for her child
in the yellow streetlight.
As the warmth left his body
She refused my pleas to yield
As if holding him to her
made his dying not real.
The thought crossed my mind,
as I heard his mother moan,
That I had seen this once before,
as a sculpture in stone.

Sam Adams beer masters see there’s trouble brewing:
This governmental shutdown is nothing of their doing.
Still, their beer is piling up in barrels on the floor.
For without Federal approval beer cannot be sold, by law.
They crafted a delicious brew for bottles and for cans,
But, due to the political climate change, they must make other plans.
They’re stuck with vats of golden brew, the nectar of the gods
But this shutdowns ending no time soon, per the bookies who quote odds
To prevent their beers from going stale while the politicians clash
They’re paying the workers by the ounce in lieu of paying cash.

Vanilla is the flavor that I most adore.
I know that all you chocolatiers consider it a bore.
Vanilla bean for ice cream has long been the favored taste.
and Vanilla butter cream is the icing on my cake.
I love it in a yogurt though some may find it bland.
I eat this bean’s derivative at every chance I can.
Now don’t call me  an elitist ( as I like chocolate too).
I’m just a hungry white man with a different point of view.

Our Earth is but a pale blue dot
When seen from Saturn’s rings.
Voyager took the photo
which I found among my things.
Our Earth is a fragile sapphire
in the immensity of space.
I think we should take care of it
For we have no other place.

In the beginning it was subtle,
And thus went unobserved.
He’d be reading a good article
And he started missing words.

Of course he was intelligent
And his mind filled each Lacuna,
But I wonder, could we have saved him
Had we only noticed sooner?

Eventually whole paragraphs
began to escape his grasp.
A mental fog enveloped him,
He’d forget what he’d read last.

Every day he tried to work
Was like the day before.
Until he had to admit
He couldn’t do it anymore.

A subtle dyskinesia
Like a seaquake in the brain
Left the poor man terrified
Of things left unexplained.

Perhaps it was a mercy
when dementia settled in,
I hope he lacked awareness
of the Hell he’d entered in.

When his vital signs began to fail
I found I could not cry.
The one I loved had vanished
Long before the day he died.

A canister of tear gas was lying on the ground.
In my dumb incomprehension, I first heard the rifles sound.
Then there were screams and curses; weeping and lament.
There were bodies lying silent, bleeding out on the pavement.

Our protest wasn’t peaceful although “Peace” was on our signs.
We had thrown rocks at the guardsmen; they responded now in kind.
Tensions had escalated and passion outraced sense.
The crackle of the rifle fire ended the suspense.

Now I am an old man; we’ve moved on to other wars.
To that wall of names in Washington I’d like to add four more.
The rain has washed their blood away. The memories fade with time.
The old guard has passed; now all that is left is the enormity of their crime.

Manhattan looks magnificent in the moonlight,
especially from my penthouse on this eve.
I sense the young girl’s apprehension;
She’s only just arrived in the City of Dreams.

She wonders about the price of her admission.
What will I demand? What will she do?
Just nineteen; she’s the same age as my daughter.
Her vocals are an Angel’s; her complexion too.

I make a joke and am rewarded with her laughter.
She gratefully accepts a chardonnay.
The days of Harvey Weinstein are now over.
Young women no longer need to pay to play.

I look forward to her appearance on the screen.
I’m grateful for the part I had to play.
If I feel just a little bit in Love
I remind myself I’m old and look away.

The world is full of good ideas
And rules we really need.
Signs ensure that drivers won’t
Exceed the posted speed.
Plus we have laws restricting drugs-
So nobody smokes ****.
Chicago’s ban on handguns
Has produced a bumper crop-
Of people full of bullet holes
Legislation failed to stop.

It’s clear to me obesity
kills more than bullets do.
Look at your friends and neighbors
And you’ll realize this is true.
Its burdensome to carry them
To their final resting place
After they’ve spend decades
stuffing Stuffing in their face.
It’s past time we got serious
It’s time to walk the walk.
I’m introducing legislation
That aims to ban the fork.

Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.

A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.

Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.

Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.


There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.

There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.

My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.

It began with the work.
He was the brilliant author; she his secretary.
They were racing against time
To pay a debt that must be paid.
Her nimble hands matched his nimble mind.
Her fingers flew to record his thoughts.
Four weeks, a mere four weeks,
to finish his novel; to rescue himself from debt.
Each night she worked, by feeble candlelight,
To transcribe his thoughts
While thoughts of love engendered in her breast.

At last the work was done, his time redeemed,
Yet he could not let go of one so dear.
Shyly, Dostoevsky proposed they wed.
She consented to become his wife, so dear.
She was not beautiful in the conventional sense
But became his muse, in fact his life and death.

When I was one and twenty, my mother said to me:
“Life is short, Dear Son, don’t waste it on frivolities.”
But I was one and twenty; I thought I knew better than she
Funny how none are so blind as those that will not see.

I had good times in college in those days when Love was “free”.
I did a modicum of work and avoided STDs.
I saw some sadness in her eyes when my paper chase was through.
A window closed, though I knew it not when I was twenty-two.

I worked ten years in government, which left me a bit depressed.
I threw away a woman’s Love, Why is anybody’s guess.
My youthful promise dripped away, my greatness was denied.
I entered another decade with a bottle by my side.

When I finally hit bottom; when all else had been tried
I tried the ten-step program in lieu of suicide.
In a drafty old church basement,we sat on creaky wooden chairs
and confessed our self-debasement to the fellow sufferers there.

Last spring, my saintly mother died. I came too late to say:
“Mom, you were so right, I’ve thrown too many years away.”
For Life is short and, now and then, it takes us by surprise
when another window closes on the loved ones in our lives.

Love is a gift freely given,
Without chance of recall.
Those who expect otherwise
Have never loved at all.

They pile up ******* around my feet
As to the stake I’m chained.
I murmur a prayer unto my God
before they light the flames.

The city folk gather close around
to watch the heretic burn.
I pray the fuel is dry, not damp
As I await my turn

My fellow human torches argue
Whose is the martyrdom..
I pray my suffering will be brief
before the Lord will come.

A soldier bearing a burning torch
Lights the fuel there at my feet
I scream as flames dance up my legs
Oh God please bring me peace.

The earth eclipsed the moon tonight
and turned that orb blood red.
The Sox just swept the Cardinals
and Bambino's curse lies dead.

Old Da had rooted Eighty years
but never saw them win.
Of Buckner, back in Eighty Six,
he never spoke again.

So first I went and bought us beers,
I got Sam Adams best.
Then I crept into the graveyard
where old Da takes his rest.

I poured his drink upon the grave
and raised my bottle high.
We beat the hated Yankees, Da!
Next year our banner flies!

All around me here and there
were Red Sox fans, my peers-
All celebrating with their Dads
and wiping back the tears.

If you have a fever
aches and pains and a chill,
its beyond disputation, my friend you are ill!
It might be a virus perhaps it's the flu.
My God , it just struck me
it might be something new!

The tests cost three thousand,
but that's money well spent,
To detect viral agents
that the Chinese invent.

I thought I was ill
but my Doctor opines
that I suffer from a
hypochondriac mind.