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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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 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 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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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

It’s no one’s idea of paradise, this land of dust and wind.
Yet this is where God spoke to man and he  first conceived of sin.
The land is dry and stubborn, like the people of the Lord.
Even now I see them turning their plowshares into swords.
Ever since the Maccabees revolted against Rome
(Rome did not understand those Jews who worshiped God alone.)
This land of Dust and wind has known no peace
The men wield blades and staves.
In such a place the only peace Is the quiet of the grave.
How I long to comfort them, but where would I begin?
The people here have lost their way and lost their sense of sin.
The dispossessed now live in camps and old hatreds here still simmer.
It’s hard to parse the difference between the righteous and the sinners.

for Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF            
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.

Black ground crews kept them in the air;
black flight surgeons kept them alive;
the whole Group removed their headgear
when another pilot died.

They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?

If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.

In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.

They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.

It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.

            My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
            The funny thing about me and Starks
            was that my air mattress leaked,
            and Starks’ didn’t.
            Every time we went up,
            I gave my mattress to Starks
            and put his on my cot.

            One day we were strafing a train.
            Strafing’s bad news:
            you have to fly so low and slow
            you’re a pretty clear target.
            My other wing-man and I
            exhausted our ammunition and got out.
            I recognized Starks
            by his red tail
            and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
            He couldn’t pull up his nose.
            He dived into the train
            and bought the farm.

            I found his chocolate,
            three eggs, and a full fifth
            of his hoarded-up whiskey.
            I used his mattress
            for the rest of my tour.

            It still bothers me, sometimes:
            I was sleeping
            on his breath.

It happened in a darkened room where many strangers sat nearby.
The ceiling was a field of stars, an image of the Fall night sky.
along the walls, in bas-relief, minarets of a Moroccan town.
I crunched my Popcorn and slurped my Coke, impatient for it to begin.
Now all grow quiet as we gazed in wonder at the

Technicolor


Storybook of dreams

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The stadium is empty now; just cardboard fans sit in those seats.
Old Bob Sheppard sits at the mike, clears his throat, and begins to speak.
One by one, He calls their names: Larsen, DiMaggio, Rizzuto, and Berra.
One by one they doff their caps; these heroes of the golden era.
The vacant ball-yard in the Bronx that the current Yankees call their home
Is silent on this sacred day, save for that rich baritone.
The specters gather on the diamond; these fabled heroes of yesteryear.
It would have been old Timer’s day today
These sights? these Sounds?
Only I , alone, can hear.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

There is a place in boundless Space
where constants are not so.
Where entropy runs in reverse,
There Time must backward flow.
Imagine two parallel railroad tracks,
Set across the arc of space.
Our train is bound forever West,
headed towards that sunset place.
Now imagine that I could disembark
at a station on the way.
Eastbound tickets would be expensive
but I’d sure be glad to pay.
I’d buy a seat for Epsilon
and watch the past flash by
like the memories a brain recalls
in the seconds before it dies.
I’d de-train the day before you left,
knowing what I knew not then.
Then we would have another chance
To enjoy what might have been.

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.

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.

AS I stare down the bottle
deep into the murky past
I see the home I used to own,
the love that did not last.

I think of the two little ones
we had before my fall,
but I'm too drunk to be with them
and they no longer call.

I miss the man I used to be
before I fell in love with drink.
In my rare sober moments
I'm amazed how far a man can sink.

I mourn the loss of wife and home.
Its painful to recall
Back before I was a drunkard
You might think I had it all.

It's Just you and me now two buck Chuck
We've had a real good run.
I am the wine Traveler;
my goal? Oblivion.

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.

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 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 only lives three hours at a time,
most often in a dark and crowded room.
He is haunted by a sense of deja-vue-,
As if he knows he’s racing towards his doom.
He rests, between incarnations, like the rest
in dots of ink upon a printed page.
Three hours at a time he lives, not more,
within the walls of Castle Elsinore.
If only like a crab he could go backwards
Perhaps Polonius could evade the tomb
But, no, alas, its all predestination;
A poisoned foil will lead him to damnation.

We will live and die and be forgotten;
That is the fate of all us common clay.
But Prince Hamlet with outlive this generation;
He lives in every moment of his play.

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.

Were the great and the small impressed in the least,
when Mark Chapman from the shadows emerged?
In the dark shots rang out and John Lennon was shot,
The gun always has the last word.
Do you remember where you were when you heard
the news that John Lennon had died?
In the back of a cruiser his light was extinguished.
The poor, deluded Chapman faced prison.
Such fame he obtained-  The wrong kind.

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.

We dressed up in our bulky suits
to stroll across the Luna mare.
Old friend of Earth is this rocky orb
both captives of one nearby star.

We walk together glove in glove
until our base is out of view.
We marvel at the sign of earth;
her greens, her browns, her ocean Blues.

Our ancestors in times gone by
On strolls like this beneath Earth’s sky
Could hold each other’s hands and then
Kiss each other on the sly.

On Luna’s vast and dusty plain
Our helmets touch but it’s not the same.
We long to kiss and to embrace-
So we turn and hurry back to base.
Then, with kisses deep and slow
You’re no longer Terra incognito.

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 ever you feel lonely and unloved,
and even  hope evades your desperate grasp.
Remember there are people here who get you.
Supporting all  those who post here to the last.

No mute inglorious Milton need you be.
At this site you will be both heard and seen.
Spin your tales of heartbreak love and loss.
We only ask you keep the language clean.

You poets in the trenches are our heroes.
Star shells burst as you cross no man's land.
You marshal verbs and set he line of battle
with every sibilant syllable you command.

Forty Seven hit us hard, we peasants had little to eat.
Famine stalked our Island, even as landlords exported Wheat.
Death was a constant companion then; starvation the usual cause.
Out in the hills the Banshees screamed and the next death might be yours.
Some Auld woman with long silver hair and half out of her mind
Keening aloud for the family she’s lost and the share hold left behind.
The sound of her shrieks would fill hearts with fear.
The sight of her filled us with dread.
For we’d become certain that she was a sign
By nightfall someone would be dead.
For she was no kindly fairy or sprite;
The banshee was nobody’s friend.
The harbinger of death and despair
And many a  journey’s end

It's been two years since my uncle passed,
his estate ******* in litigation.
Now that the matter's been resolved at last
the old man's bar is my destination.
It must be cleaned out and prepped for sale.
I drew the short straw, thus begins my tale.

The place was a time capsule of that past
when three ball clubs called New York home.
What to keep, what to discard?
These choices I must make alone.
In my mind's eye I see him here;
holding court behind the bar.
On tap were seven kinds of beer
and bottles on ice if you wanted more.
There was top shelf liquors of every description
He was glad to dispense them without a prescription.
In the back was the kitchen
where my cousins made
Sandwiches for the construction trade
My uncle owned a double store
A bar with a billiards room right next door.

near the back is a pay phone booth;
these use to be everywhere in my youth.
Out of habit I jammed my finger in the slot
in search of change someone forgot.
Just then that ancient phone did ring-
a most extraordinary thing!

"Hello", I said, then, on the other end,
His brogue unmistakable across the years,

was the voice I thought I'd never hear again.