It’s unique in jurisprudence,
this case I must decide.
Child custody is disputed
between a woman and her bride.
One spouse supplied a fertile egg,
The other gave it womb.
Deciding custody is a challenge
in the absence of a groom.
Was one woman just a donor?-
having no parental rights.
Was the birth mother just a surrogate?
It’s keeping me up nights.
To which mother should I give the child?
Which one will I turn away?
I cannot cut the child in half
to let each have their way.
Its tragedy when Love had died,
leaving children in its wake.
I gave birth mother custody-
Have I made a bad mistake?

It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.

She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?

A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..

If the killer was male- was he impotent too?

The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended  John Bowne, a high school nearby.


Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.

Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.

Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.

A Blossom fell
To the breast of earth,
Not ever knowing
its true worth.

A blossom fell.
It made me weep,
That beauty
is not ours to keep.

A blossom fell,
and tears like rain
could never make
it whole again.

A blossom fell
from hand to bier
accompanied by
my bootless tears.

Soaring on the updrafts
From the canyon far below
My silhouette is made a shadow
by the evening sun’s red glow.

Between heaven and earth suspended
I hover in the sky
My eyes searching intently
as my dinner scurries by.

I pitch myself into a dive
My talons slash and ****
Hunting from the evening sky
Has never lost its thrill

Thinking about the end of the World
should not keep you sleepless at night.
If predicted correctly, you’ll never get credit-
So what does it pay to be right?
To wrongly predict the end of the World
will make you the **** of derision.
As Harold Camping found out
To his shock and dismay
when reality triumphed his vision.
We know not the day or the hour my friends
when Gabriel’s trumpet might blast.
With kindness and patience so live this life
You will not be ashamed of your past.

The shadows creep towards the mound.
The late September air is crisp.
No bunting will be hung this year,
Our team is old and in eclipse.

In the box the batter waits.
His knees are sore, his bat grown slow.
In his time he was a champion.
In his heart he knows it’s time to go.

How quickly do the seasons change
from youthful promise to aged despair.
You start out as a diamond star
And end up in a rocking chair.

Baseball is an old man’s love,
each Spring bringing hope of glory.
Yet it is not an old man’s game.
That’s quite a different story.

The stadium this day, half full,
and ready for the wrecking ball.
Mickey Charles Mantle has flied to right
and joined the legions of the Fall.

From long time friends to bitter foes;
From boon companions to friends estranged.
The cute little redhead accomplished that.
but it was nothing she'd prearranged .
So delicate, so beautiful,
with eyes a deep Aegean blue.
Of course I made a play for her.
She wasn't going home with you.
Yes, her kisses were as sweet
as you imagined they must be.
The reality was better still
warming an autumn evenings chill.
I was the first to take the risk,
that’s why I was the one she kissed.
My actions weren’t the least bit shady,
but faint hearts never win fair Ladies.

I went and bought a "Smart" house
in a stylish part of town.
It cost me a cool million
but its features did astound.
I can control the lights and locks
with apps on my smartphone.
I can view cam every room
to make sure no ones home.
The shutters and the blinds will rise
or drop at my command.
I can start the fireplace
while flying from Milan.
The automated kitchen
can prepare a gourmet meal.
and place my grocery order
making sure I get good deals.
In my den a giant wall
is a high res LCD
It shows me sports
and other sorts
of lovely greenery.
You'd think this place is perfect
and you're nearly right of course.
I'd still like to lose the talking scale
that says "Get off, You Horse!"

I’ll sleep within these woods tonight,
That much, at least, is plain.
I’d hiked for several hours
And not much day remained.
The shadows on the ground grow long
As it’s that time of year
when leaves on branches are few or none
and shadows sinister appear.
There is a clearing up ahead;
A friendly glow is seen
A solitary camper sits
beneath an Evergreen..
His smile is warm and friendly
He bades me to remain
with gestures warm and welcoming
Speech lyrical and strange..
I share with him a simple meal
Of pan fried fish and beer.
The meal seems like a miracle
As I know of no lake near.
Dark night has come and both are glad
To spread our bedrolls down
I sleep the night like one who’s dead.
I wake, and no one’s near.
No sign of my host or his tent
No sign that he was here.
I shake my head in wonder
And pack my roll to go.
What the Evergreen has witnessed
is not for me to know.

His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.

Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.

Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.

At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.


A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.

Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.

Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.

Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.

A cowboy in love with his horse
was convinced they should marry, of course.
They’d spent quality time roping cattle
And he was happiest when in the saddle.
“Love is Love, the high court has opined,
So why should folks deny me mine!”
The neighborhood blondes he found silly,
So he went for long rides with the fillies.
While he flirted with Pintos and Roans,
the Palomino he loved as his own.
Such idylls they spend in the bower
That he threw her a nice bridle shower.
He rented a barn as the hall
and invited his friends one and all.
While Mendelssohn is favored by most
He chose the “Call to the Post”
For their first dance he hoped they could play
“The Run for the Roses” that day.
All his plans came to naught, sad to say
When the love of his life answered” Neigh”
If an animal is your “one and only”
Better make it a sheep, not a pony!

Last night they checked my garbage can.
It’s a good thing that I have a shredder.
My cell phones records are of interest-
I’ve made calls to known “tea baggers”.
Warrant-less “burglaries” have been made,
then I find my screen door broken.
The I.R.S. just called again
my case has been “ reopened”.
On every airline trip I take
I’m “Caressed “by the T.S.A.
I’m almost ready for a cigarette
after they’ve had their way.
Such harassment is “kinder spiel”
compared to what comes next.
They have a “brain wave” scanner
that can translate thoughts to text.
So I wear a cap of aluminum foil
whenever I’m on American soil.
To protect my ideas before they find them
I always make sure to copyright them.

For every aging boomer
There are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.

Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.

Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent


From the walls of Hue to Cam ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.

The lucky ones who did come home
Recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.

In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.

Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.

A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.

What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.

In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.

If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.

Like a modern Diana the Huntress
Emma exuded appeal
She wore liquid black leather outfits
designed to reveal not conceal.
As a member of TV’s Avengers
She was her partner, John Steed’s, ideal.

Emma Peel in a Mini was fetching
Her clothing set fashion and style.
Leaving little to imagination
it made many a teenager smile.

In time she would leave for theater
and do a film as Mrs James Bond
Linda Thorson paled in comparison
but at least she was not a dumb blond

I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
When ***** chancellor ****** rose,
after the Reichstag fire.

I remember a November night
with a million shards of glass.
I never felt more all alone,
that night my lover passed.

After that, I had no rights,
I was forced to bear this sign:
A pink Triangle swatch of cloth,
by this I was defined.

I remember some with David's star
would look down their nose at me.
We were under the same sentence-
had not our deaths all been decreed?

I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
Before mein Fuhrer dug for me
my grave up in the sky.

I was taken by surprise
when her Dad handed me the keys..
“I have a meeting in the City,
Could your drive her to school for me”
That day I had not thought to drive,
My own “K” car was in the shop.
I was having the rear brakes replaced
because sometimes I like to stop.
My car was an econobox
but for my purpose fine.
His car was a Red Firebird-
Top down, top of the line.
The day was clear and drenched with sun-
The perfect top down day.
We waved goodbye as Barb and I
pulled out and on our way.
We heard something from Stravinsky
On her father’s Classics station
As we drove across the Bridge
to her college destination.
The Cross Bronx, unexpectedly,
was light of cars that day.
Traffic on the Bronx River
seemed to yield us right of way.
I pulled in near Bathgate Avenue
And gave my girl a kiss.
I would have liked to linger
But that final she couldn’t miss.
The engine gave a gentle purr
on my return trip down.
I met up with her father
And he dropped me off back home.
With both hands in my pockets,
I watched as he drove off.
The car would prove a classic,
The girl proved, alas, aloof.

For many years he'd traveled far,
a merchantman by trade.
His Mom passed on while he was gone-
she sleeps there in the glade.
Now he is home with tales to tell
of his trek on the Ocean Blue
but the one face he longed most to see
is not there to tell them to.
So he sat down on his duffel bag
beside her well tended grave,
and spoke his stories of the sea
when others might have prayed.
He left a white carnation there
upon her bed of clay.
It was well watered by the tears
he shed for her that day.
He said his last good byes to us
and turned back for the sea and the shore;
He'd search for peace on Neptune's deep
for Home wasn't home anymore.

I saw her just the other day,
But, not knowing what to say, I turned away.
For she has lost her only son,
off fighting in the war.
A bootless war that lingers on
Like a chancre sore.
There are others like her;
Gold stars in windows shine-
For brave boys brought home in boxes
for “no one’s left behind. “
There’s no word that refers to her
Who has lost her only child.
A remnant who lingers here
the last one of her line.
I’ve seen her tend his graveside
like she once made his childhood bed.
She keeps the flowers watered,
trims the grass above his head.
In her Living room, a folded flag
A grateful nation’s gift
To remind her of one she loved so
Whose death left her bereft.

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down.
My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound.
A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey.
I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground.
“******” I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound.

Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe.
He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow.
I served in France in Forty –one; before   these Russians were our foes.
I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes.
I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there
my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man.

My soul is black for I’ve done some things;
  for which I once would have been ashamed.
I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe
as I placed them in a common grave.

This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command.
He is clever, this one, he waits his chance.
Either its him or me that’s dammed.
The drifting snowflakes hide his breath.
But He’s still out there this I know.

My Captain lies still upon the earth
and is slowly covered by the snow.

We are soldiers who risk our lives.
We sacrifice for the Fatherland.
We dream of a woman and a warm bed
Never of Death’s cold clammy hand

My men cry out, the fox is flushed
The ****** has at last been found.

It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you;
I never even heard the sound.

The deceased was seventeen years old-
An enlarged heart, the coroner claims.
A basketball player on the court.
his team trailing in the game.
Their perfect season was at risk
when he shot and made a “Three”
He then collapsed upon the court
midst shouts of victory.

Hearts are unromantic things
That race and slow by turns.
They simply pump
While we run and jump
And prance about life’s stage.

We take for granted our own hearts
As we wander through our days.
Our faithful friend who never sleeps
So we can laugh and play

And when hearts fail we feel the pain
Of songs now left unsung.
That’s why we’re haunted by the tales
of Athletes dying young.

When Dorothy trod the paths of Oz
Her companions were deficient:
One lacked Courage,
One lacked brains,
One was heartless, but
Ax Proficient.

She was an illegal alien,
from Kansas, of all
places!
Imagine, when she and
Toto came-
the look on people’s faces.

Still that was seventy years ago.,
In another place and time-
Just before we went to war
against evil personified.

If Dorothy, today,appeared
with a similar convocation
The Wizard might mistake them
for a Congressional Delegation

For lack of brain and heart and spine
Our Congress is more than sufficient-
Some lack Courage, some lack brains
Some are heartless but
tax proficient

I had a sister once
She had sunshine in her smile
She was everybody’s friend
For you she’d gladly walk a mile

When I see her in my mind’s eye
Jeanette’s forever young
When we lost her to the monster
She was only 41.

So that is why tomorrow
I’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if my step should falter
As I am no longer young
Her ghost will run beside me
Until my race is run.

Perhaps you have a sister too,
Or someone that you love
Perhaps she’s a survivor
Of a battle bravely won

We must celebrate the victories
Each year there are still more
Until what was a feeble cheer
Becomes a mighty roar

So that is why tomorrow
You’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if your step should falter
For you are no longer young
Your survivor friend will pace you,
Until this race is won.

Gather at the starting line
Young and old together
The sisters and the daughters
And survivors feeling better
There may be 20,000 here
The organizers say
They fail to count the shadows
Who will run with us today.


So that is why today we’re here
All  racing for the cure.
Family , friends and lovers
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if our steps should falter
For we are no longer young
Our dead will bear us forward,
Until their race is done.

The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.

The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)

It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.

Ray Lewis, your spokesman
is ripped and he's lean.
He's built like Adonis
and, by rep, very mean.
If I use "old Spice" body wash
as per his advice.
The ladies will swoon
as I'll smell so **** nice.

I'm short fat and Jewish-
a Nebbish at heart.
In intimate settings
I'm quite prone to ****.
So I bought "Old Spice" body wash
and lathered it on.
Then I entered the bedroom
and said "Babe, bring it on!"

Olive, my lover of many a year
was less than impressed
when I deigned to appear.
A giggle, a chuckle and then a guffaw
My confidence sagged
like my double chinned jaw.
"Darling, it may be you smell like Ray Lewis
but when my eyes open
You're short fat and Jewish."

The ad was misleading
and I feel like a fool
Not a mensch, more a reject
from a shallow gene pool.
Bad enough that the store
on my refund is reneging.
foreplay now requires
two hours of begging.

It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
where the Patriots and Sea hawks will meet,
and all that folks are talking about
is Bill and Tom’s softball deceit.

It’s cold up North this time of year
when the Patriots made their playoff run.
Snow and ice require gloves;
If footballs slip, they’d be undone.

“Taking the air out of the ball”
Once referred to the running game.
Deflated ***** are easy to grip
But it’s cheating, that much is plain.

It seems the ***** that Brady used
spiraled nicely through the rain.
When you ***** are small and soft,
Like Brady’s, it’s a different game.

When Tom was asked about the scheme
He laughed at first and wouldn’t tell.
The truth about Tom Brady’s *****
is closely guarded by Gisele.

The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.

Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..

Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the **** snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.

He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s cheek.
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.

Five by five they entered in
to the foreboding cave.
There they knelt for benediction,
the kind that pistols gave.

The cave became a charnel house
Each man shot in the head.
It reeked of blood and excrement
Flies feasted on the dead.

The carpenter fell once or twice.
Can blood for blood atone? .
His killers coveted his coat
and forced him to disrobe.

By now they had grown sloppy
with drink and hate and fear.
The first shot missed completely
The second grazed his ear.

In seconds live eternities
He said his final prayer:
“Forgive them, Father, even this
done out of hate and fear

several shots rang out just then
each found his noble head
they shot him once more, in his side
to make sure he was dead.


Explosions rocked and sealed the cave
With tons of rock and stone
They didn’t think to post a guard
The grey trucks drove back home.

The Race


An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.


I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean  a scholarship for me.


Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.

A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.


I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.

A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.

I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..

I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.

I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.


Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me


I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.

The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains


“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.

“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm  in his brain.”


Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost

I am older now
than you were then.
That day still lives
in memory

Did you hear the rifle's
echoing sound
as you passed me
in your Limousine?

The next,
like a Zapruder film,
plays out
in my unsettled dreams.

I saw a spray of pink
and blood.
I heard shouts
and a woman
scream.

Panic filled
my childish heart
I saw fear in
my Father's face.

I am older now
than you were then
that day
the world changed.

A Comet passed too near the sun,
and was filmed  disintegrating..
Perhaps its G.P.S. was off
or just recalculating.
The solar skimming comet
surely melted in the heat.
Old King Sol, our yellow dwarf
Enjoyed his slurpee treat.
Astronomers were quite tight lipped
When asked to speak upon it
All I got from one stargazer
Was a terse” No Comet!”

The dying songbird rested
Too weak to even fly.
The virus burning through her
wouldn’t let her try.
Still she kept on singing,
Giving song full throat
She knew life is too precious
To waste a single note.

The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the  wounded men.

A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.

Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.

The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women *****, crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.

The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’





For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.

Do you really need that second slice?
Don't you dare to super size!
Guzzling down large sugary drinks-
Do you rally think that's wise?

Your hamburger is much too large
I'd cur it down to size
until its like those square ones
that White Castle serves sans fries.

I taught the City not to smoke
in that I was thought wise.
Unhand that Nathans hot dog!
It will go straight to your thighs.

I guess I'm just a Puritan,
my happiness undone
by the thought that somewhere, someone
might still be having fun.

( Written as a rejoinder to my friend's poem: "Poem written to a buxom young Lady")


You’re very tall
And painfully thin.
Your bust and waist
the same.
Your voice is high
and pitchy.
To hear it causes pain.
Your wardrobe,
much like Superman’s,
lacks all variety.
You’re an unfit
***** mother
you’ve neglected
poor sweetpea.
Yet two men
battle over you.
It strikes me
a little strange.-
but in your cartoon universe
You are the only game.
I think I’d side with Whimpy
And watch the others fight.
I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday
for a hamburger tonight.

I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?

Our house this night is full of life,
both kids up in their rooms.
We're safe and warm from the harrowing storm
with its lightening streaks and booms.
Yet soon I know, both have to go,
to school, to work, to life.
Then this will be an empty nest
with just me and my wife.


How do birds feel, when, freshly fledged,
their young depart forever.
Do they sing more somberly
when the chicks are not together?
We're creatures of habit, like those birds
I see when we're in the park.
I'll catch myself gazing up the stairs
when both their rooms are dark.

“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..

Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
singing his swan song.

He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
pausing  for his final bier..

Thank God for prearrangement
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.

He’s shuffled off this mortal coil
and brought the curtain down.
Soon he’ll be checking out the grass
from six feet underground..

Melvin has given up the ghost.
He was snuffed out in his prime.
He cashed his chips in early,
passing on before his time.

“Your loved one’s in a better place.”
The Undertaker gravely said..
“His ancestors have embraced him
in a place of light, not dread.”

Some will say he kicked the bucket,
checked out early, bought the farm.
The religious say he’s with the Lord,
The perpetual light is on.

Melvin, were he here with us,
more likely would have said
a better place for him would be
that redhead’s poster bed.

We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite, alive.

Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.

A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee stung lips.

Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.

There, of course, are impediments
I won't try to hide.
The ring on my finger,
my bride at my side.

Plus there's the issue
of fifty years gone.
My Romeo days
have packed up  and moved on.

Now our friends have arrived
and, chaste kisses exchanged,
We feast on our entrees
as wine glasses are drained.

As dessert time approaches
I sadly observe
she’'s not on the menu
Pumpkin Cheese cake will serve.

The air was brilliant, crisp and clean,
as he in walked in on a sea of green.
Kerry Woods, old 34,
at Wrigley field, his field of dreams.

Upon a time, old Cubs fans say,
He struck out twenty in one day.
He stirred some hope the “curse” was gone;
the hope that Cubs fans live upon.

The surgeon’s knife put hope to bed-
his blazing fastball all but dead.
He could no longer start in games,
As a closer he achieved some fame..

He journeyed there, he journeyed here,
At times, in flashes, it would appear,
That blazing fastball on the gun
that time and surgeons had undone.

We all come to that final day
when we can no longer play.
Upon the mound for one last time,
What would be Kerry’s final line?

He threw three strikes, the last one swinging-
Kerry had that fastball singing
When coach came out to take the ball
Cheers shook the ivy covered walls.

He held his young son in his arms
and doffed his cap to cheering fans.
Old 34 then disappeared
In the ancient clubhouse beneath the stands..

Here there be Giants,
wearing red and white and blue.
See them raise the trophy;
Eli's Lombardi number two!.
Tom Brady had a final chance
to make the winning score.
A Giant knocked the ball away
as time ran out our spirits soared!

The hats and shirts they hoped
to sell, up in Patriot nation,
now are Nicaragua bound,
to Tommy's consternation.
those perfect season T shirts
were worn threadbare after four.
Now that  you've provided new ones-
they're not needed anymore.

So Mister Brady, please don't cry
by most measures, you've done well.
Eli's off to Disneyland-
Go home and sack Gisele.

The moon shone full that fatal night
When Stonewall and his men
were returning from a scout
around their former friends.
The brightness of the risen moon
Put them in silhouette.
The pickets rose and fired;
an action they would soon regret.
Stonewall Jackson was unhorsed,
a Minnie ball in his arm.
The surgeons had to amputate.
One week later he was gone.
It marred a famous victory,
A masterpiece of Lee’s,
when Jackson crossed over the river
to rest in the shade of the trees.

“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
I know snipers target medics with
a corpsman's pouch in hand.

“It’s Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.

Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.

A ******* wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.

Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Forty eight Stars on high.

Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.

It came at night,
a howling wind,
when gentle Spring
had been expected.
Gumtree pond
Homes destroyed,
bodies everywhere,
devastated.

In the silent
aftermath
there , the sound
of a baby
crying.

Baby Elvis
had survived
when all around
folks keened
for those
who died.

Here’s the story of a guy named Eli,
Who is captain of the G men and well known.
He had a ring of gold, from the desert,
but it was all alone.

Here’s the story of a man named Brady
who was living large with three rings of his own.
He’s a hero, up in New England,
and has Gisele at home.

Till the one night when this Eli met this Brady
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch.
that Cruz would dance and Gronk would come up limping.
That’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.
Tom Brady’s lunch, I played my hunch
that’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.

He was not your average hermit,
he was not unkempt or *****.
He camped out in the woods of Maine
for years, now, nearly thirty.

He burgled food and propane tanks
when folks were not at home.
His carbon footprint was quite small
He didn’t even have a phone.

With a high school education,
He liked living off the land
He oft” shopped” at a summer camp
but was caught on security cam.

Finally they captured him
and put him in a cell.
Now with murderers and rapists
The hermit’s forced to dwell.

His distinctive “Woodsy” odor
Keeps them at bay, I swear.
This fugitive from Walden Pond is
smarter than the average bear.

Eating Brussels Sprouts may extend your life,
but it will be a long life of eating Brussels sprouts.
Be careful what you wish for!

Back in the days of Vietnam
We said: “Make Love, not war.”
No matter how many Cong we killed
Like Doritos, they made more.
Walter Cronkite helped keep score
as the toll grew ever higher.
Foes relentless as the monsoon rains
They made Nam a quagmire.
We killed them all three times at least
Surely all of them were gone.
Then shortly after we had left
They turned up in Saigon!
Now we’re in a forever war
without a likely winner.
A pity we can claim a draw
And bring the boys home for dinner.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide."
"Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside."
"We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."
"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."
"With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state."
"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
told whoppers in an endless loop.
There were quotes from
the World's Great Religions
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."

" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, without moving my lips.

The army had revolted and the Republic was at risk,
But we were just a small town- what had we to do with this?
My father, Manuel Robles, was a labor Union man.
Some called him a Communist; only now I understand.

The army had a list of men whose loyalty was suspect
And when the civil war broke out they came for them direct.
They took him, and some others, and lined them up against a wall.
It was then I heard the volley and I watched my Father fall.

They checked upon their handiwork, I cannot forget the face
Of the officer who used his pistol to give  the coup de grace.
The piled the corpses on their truck and, laughing, drove away.
All were  buried in a common grave to wait the Judgement day.

I stared in speechless horror at the blood soaked, thirsty ground
and at the pock marks in that wall caused by some misspent rounds.
There was no judge, no jury, no verdict, nor decree.
They killed a dozen unarmed men ; that was their victory

They slaughtered my dear padre without a second thought.
I would not go so easily; there are others, too, who fought.
Now Franco has my country and I’ve had to flee from Spain.
My heart is with my Father’s bones. I carry on his name.

Most never heard the killing shot,
From Bismarck, rend the air.
It landed in Hood’s magazine
and vaporized all there.
H.M.S. Hood rose in the air
The bow and stern were parted.
In ninety seconds she went down-
With her complement, she departed.
The Men aboard the Bismarck cheered,
Though their victory proved hollow:
They could not know, within three days,
The Bismarck was to follow.
The Prince of Wales made smoke and turned
to fight another day.
Torpedo planes from the Ark Royal
made Bismarck lose her way.
Three years of war had hardened hearts
But Hood’s loss caused dismay.
The tragedy in Denmark’s strait
Would make agnostics pray.