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.

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.

They always liked Charlie.

Charlie was tall and, good looking.
The quarterback of our high school team.
That one of us whose life was perfect;
The Guy in the arms of the homecoming Queen.

Until of course, that fatal day.
The senior trip none can forget.
They took us all by bus to Rye.
Where ten of us had come to die.

Charlie was a moody sort.
We saw him on the rides alone.
The Queen was with her brand-new Prince.
His highness, Charles, had been dethroned.

It happened as the day wound down
Just before the bus would take us home.
Charlie emerged from the tunnel of Love
Curiously, he was alone

Back in the darkness of the ride
The tunnel of Love was filled with smoke
We heard our classmates muffled screams,
Like dammed souls devoid of hope.

In all ten died that horrible day
Several others suffered smoke inhalation
The tunnel of Love was a substandard ride;
A deathtrap disguised as an assignation.

There was of course an investigation.
Some evidence of arson had been found.
Curiously, no one was ever arrested
The cops  all said “insufficient grounds.”

But they always liked Charlie

I didn’t know what the excitement was all about; being just a boy.
I thought my mother was taking me to see some harlot,
caught in the act of adultery,******.
Instead we left the city gates and climbed up Golgotha,
where three executions were taking place.
The sky was grey, foreboding, the wind tasted of rain.
I looked upon the three condemned, engaged in a cruel game.
Hanging, arms outstretched on crosses ,struggling to rise to take each breath.
I saw this was a losing battle; soon fatigue would stake its claim.
My mother said that two were thieves, caught in the act , condemned.
The other was a blasphemer; a crown of thorns upon his head.
(Strange for the Romans to take an interest in him,.
stoning to death a much more usual remedy for sin.)
The condemned were naked to the sky as they struggled and began to die.
The one they called the Rebbe called out
In words that gave my heart a chill.
Then he slumped in Death’s embrace
And all about was still.
The sky grew dark and the Earth beneath us shook.
My mother hurried me away from there then.
I didn’t stay to see his friends take his body down from the cross
But yes, yes, I was there the day they crucified my Lord.

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.

Once more she finds herself in a Nashville hotel.
She does things here for money that she’d rather  not tell.
She came To music city with her battered  old guitar.
But dreams without luck never get you very far.

The streets here are crowded with others as well,
Whose voices were lacking or whose  tunes didn’t sell:
Her friend Bob drives the tour bus all the day long
Telling tales to the tourists; where did he go wrong?
He came here to write and he joined BMI
Now his hair is receding as the years pass him by.

She herself dreamed of performing in the old grand oprey,
But the call never came and her rent isn’t free.
So now she performs nightly in the finest hotels
For small select audiences who pay her well.
It’s not the sheet music that she had in mind
As she gives voice to a tune as old as mankind.

It was wrapped in tissue paper, a simple golden ring.
It had belonged to my grand-aunt, it was a treasured thing.
She herself had bought it; that itself was extraordinary.
As was everything about that night and the man she was to marry.

Joseph Plunkett was condemned to die at dawn, that rebel with a cause.
The night before they two were wed in accordance with the Laws.
They never had a wedding feast; theirs was no bower of bliss.
Just a hurried ceremony sealed with a simple kiss.

In the chapel at Kilmainham jail, the two exchanged their vows,
knowing death would part them in a few short hours now.
Could you blame him if he held her tight in an extremity like this?
They put the meaning of their lives into a single kiss.

Grace stood outside the prison walls and heard the fatal shot.
The dear sweet man whom she so loved was gone but not forgot.
Grace lived on for many years in a faith that would not fail.
She knew her Love awaited her at the old Kilmainham jail.

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.

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.

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.

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
How quick I disassemble thee!
I check each cranny and each nook
for every ornament and hook.
I pack each carefully- Heaven knows
None of our snowmen must lose his nose!
I roll the garland in a ball
And take the lights off last of all.
Then I put you upon the shelf
Next to that small mischievous elf!
When I was young our trees were real
and while that memory holds appeal,
To **** a live tree every Yule
Would be the action of a fool

There is a mountain we all must climb.
Some  scale up quickly, most take more time
There are many paths to the top you see
and you cannot choose my path for me.
It's an arduous task to reach the peak,
much harder still if you are weak.
As you clamber up high you'll find
crushed bodies that Life has left behind.
Most of these failures had never known
you do not have to climb alone.
We need each other, I've found it true
to achieve the heights and enjoy the view.
Then, like a child, to say "Again"
when we have reached our jouney's end.

I saw her just the other day, a most familiar sight.
The Lady in the Harbor, holding her torch alight.
At her feet a poet’s words; some sentiments concerning Liberty:
a welcome to all immigrants yearning to breathe free.

These days we take a different tack, the welcome is withdrawn.
That Lady in the Harbor grows distant and forlorn.
The grand-kids of the immigrants she greeted in her day
Have hatched a plan designed to keep such Riff- Raff far away.

Then this morning I looked out and Liberty was gone,
Her place of honor empty: just her pediment of stone.
The Lady has returned to France; the reason? Sadly clear:
Liberty has figured out she’s no longer welcome here.

My children both tell me I drive like an old man.
I own up to it proudly for that’s what I am.
I keep cars “forever”, much longer than stocks,
replacing, as needed, brakes, tires and shocks.

Little kids are a handful; let parents take heed.
They need to be monitored due to their speed.
I was driving to Citibank to take out some cash-
from  between two parked cars a little girl dashed

I thank God I saw her dart to and fro.
I also am grateful I was driving so slow.
I stepped on the brake and heard the discs grind.
averting a tragedy, barely, in time.

Her beautiful mother, her eyes close to tears,
retrieved her young daughter, soothing her fears.
Our eyes locked a long moment as our hearts settled down.
Then, with a nod, I relaxed and drove on

Sunday morning on a dusty local diamond,
We gather together around about nine.
We try to recapture the glory of our youth
With bodies that, decidedly, are well past their prime.

I strike a line drive between two chubby fielders
By the time I reach third I am gasping for breath.
The coach waves his arms to encourage me home
But what I need now is an oxygen tent.

Charlie got sunburned and Eddy got drunk
Johnny went hitless and James split his pants.
When the last out is made we have lost ten to seven.
We all dreamed of the Pros, but we hadn’t  a chance.

We repair to Shenanigans to have some libations,
Some burgers and brews will ease aches and pains
We share dubious tales of our former glories;
When talent has faded- illusions remain.

Its Mother’s day today and flowers, in their bright array,
are popular gifts to give to Mom on this her special day.
While they still thrive the air is sweet; redolent of both rain and Sun.
Eventually their beauty fades though a Mother’s beauty never does.
They are a small enough return for the gift of a Mother’s love.
They are symbol and remembrance too, for those whose Mothers rest in peace.
In their petals, soft like her cheek, lurk remembered fragrances
Stirring memories which make us weep

When I was a child of five I bought a flower for my mom.
It was a fragile little thing but I was glad that she seemed charmed.
The years of our shared lives flew fast, like decades of her rosary.
She is resting now beside my Dad; for now and all eternity.
Some photographs and books are all I have of what she left to me.
Imagine how I felt today when I found this in her breviary-
Pressed petals of that long dead rose; a cherished gift from her young son.
It made a grown man weep for words unsaid and deeds left undone.

His head droops low beneath a mocking crown.
His last breath spent in calling to the wind.
“It is finished” were the words onlookers heard.
Mary grieves; the Son of Man has died
Nicodemus and old Joseph ask for John to help
to climb the ladder and take the Rabbi down.
Old Joseph has a rough hewn tomb of stone;
There they will lay the body in the ground.
The day grows dark and windswept;
large drops of rain, like teardrops, coming down.
Mary has only the comfort of the Magdalene’s embrace
As the men, with a hand drawn cart,
Struggle to take the crucified one away.
No carrion bird, no wild dog
shall feast on the King of the Jews.
The other two were not so lucky.

The Russian master hunched over the board,distressed by what he saw.
This Fischer fellow had smoked his gambit  out,
and now he was contending with a fierce counterattack.
A stalemate would be preferable to  defeat and resignation.
It seems  that there was no way out from this unpalatable situation.
The endgame had commenced and the outcome seemed assured.
His last bishop the latest casualty in this miniature  of war

She stood with her sister by the edge of the sea.
The song the surf sang was of eternity.
She thought back to the times they had come here before;
as children, with their mother here down at the shore.
The cry of a gull made her look to the sky
and the thought of their mother brought a tear to her eye.
She held in her arms the urn filled with ash,
Here to honor the wish Mom had made in the past.
She knelt in wet sand at the edge of the shore
And the cremains were scattered on the foam evermore.
The leaden low cloud cover then yielded to the sun;,
The warmth dried her tears and she felt overcome.
Never more would she enter her mother’s embrace;
Never more hear her voice or behold her kind face.
Sister offered a hand and she favored one knee,
as the waves took her offering into the sea.
The waves roared their blessing, but all she heard there
were only the echoes of her unanswered prayers.

It is a very old photograph, yellowed with age.
It was made from the light of a century ago.
My grandparents sit in their brand new Ford
with my mother and my uncle.
They have sat there stoically watching
Though years of war and peace,
prosperity and ruin.
They have been mute witnesses to the births and deaths;
the joy, the tears, the laughter.
The subjects themselves are all gone now:
my grandmother first; my mother last of all.
(I think the Ford got traded for a Hudson.)
The accumulated light of those ten decades
effaces all away.
The images are fading, some features barely can be seen
But I still recognize my mother’s determined stare
as her nine year old self
faces down the photographer.

A wealthy old American, perhaps like you or I
Lay down to sleep in his comfortable bed
And, in the darkness, died.

Imagine his shock and his dismay,
This man who had it all and more,
To find himself an immigrant
Cast up on heaven’s shore.

The cherubim and Seraphim
All cast disdainful glances
At this importunate immigrant.
They didn’t like his chances.

“Heaven is quite full enough!”
The elect, in unison, said.
“We’re sure you’ll find a fit in Hell
Perhaps try there instead””

The poor man looked from face to face
But no mercy could he find.
Treated like a ******* sort-
Ignored and cast aside.

He wandered, homeless, cloud to cloud,
But no rest did he find.
An illegal tossed between Heaven and Hell
Bereft of Kin and kind.

For those who sit in judgement here
May find the tables turned
When they themselves are supplicants,
When it is they who yearn..

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

Rain, heavy at times,
concealed my own tears,
and obscured the grief
of  my loneliness.

She attracted his attention on the bleak deserted street.
Her skit was short ,revealing; three inch heels upon her feet.
She reminded him of someone with her  long lush auburn hair.
Someone he'd killed and buried, but he'll never tell you where.

As she became aware of him, she quickened up her pace.
This was the part he'd always loved; the challenge of the chase.
He fingered the silk scarf he wore and would use as a garrotte.
He would steal the poor girl's breath away- unmourned and soon forgot.

As he closed within ten feet of her, his pulse began to race.
A migraine pounded in his head and blood rushed to his face.
He started seeing double, his body slumped down on the street.
His prey escaped his clutches; he acknowledged his defeat.

Behind a two way mirror the observers were ecstatic.
The implants in the killers brain had caused his pulse to go erratic.
Their  experiment was a success, the first one of its kind.
No need for bars and concrete when the prison is the mind.

I wasn’t meant to be like this.
I wasn’t born this way.
I started out an optimist,
Not one draped in shades of grey.
But Cynicism settled in
as I reached middle age.
My youthful enthusiasms dimmed
And I sadly turned the page.
I became the man Wilde once described
In “Lady Windermere’s fan”
I didn’t want to be like this,
I trust you understand.
I lost the simple joy of youth;
The innocence and longing.
I know the price of everything
But of their Value, nothing

The scene at the graveyard in Louth was a circus;
The press was out in force with their cameramen there.
The grave, freshly dug, covered with a green carpet.
The smell of wet, fresh turned, earth filled the air.
As for the deceased: there were varied opinions.
Some called him a sinner; some thought him a Saint.
He was politically savvy but yet had done ******.
An angel corrupted by a simian taint.
None could dispute he had made his life matter.
The head of his party; His words carried clout.
Nevertheless, he died here in hospice.
His brothers in arms have carried him out
The power and glory he laid down and exchanged
for a plot and a stone in this graveyard in Louth.

We could start drinking but it never ends
As long as we're gone, we may as well
stay in-
quarantining
Staying six feet apart

You said it's easy but who's to say
That we'd be able to keep it this way
But it's easier
Staying six feet apart
You’ve been avoiding me right from the start
From all we’ve heard that’s probably smart
You know I'll never go
As long as I know
We’ll stay six feet apart

I'll see you on the street -you’re wearing your mask
and If I’m not- you’re gonna take me to task
Quarantining
Six feet apart

Six feet apart
Got to keep us six feet apart
So infection has no chance to start
You know I'll never go
As long as I know
We’re staying six feet apart

Where were you in eighty two on some hot summer day?
We hear that you had had a few and were in the mood to play.
Where and when was this exactly? Your accuser can’t recall,
But we have to believe her so you have to take the fall.

The presumption of your innocence we will dispense with first.
Teen age boys are predators, they all suffer Adam’s curse.
She’s a female, therefore honest, believed as a matter of course.
Like the woman who accused the boys who played for Duke Lacrosse.

A woman three years older has emerged to add the charge
That you organized her gang **** and you should not remain at large.
Yet she kept attending  parties even after this occurred.
She drank the punch she saw you spike until her speech was slurred.

Brett Kavanagh your past is littered with beer cans, this is true.
The phrase “as sober as a Judge” must not apply to you.
In prep school and in college you were drunk out of your mind.
Is that why you were still a ****** at the age of thirty nine?

The New Horizons spacecraft, after more than a decade in space,
came upon Ultima Thule- the far point, to date, in the race.
She’ll be sending back photos and data to mission control here on Earth.
Then she’s off to explore and, possibly, learn how a primordial dust cloud gave birth.
It’s an excellent use of our money, exploring the Heliopause.

Just be sure to call home when you’re out there alone
and obey any posted speed laws

They’re closing all the bars tonight!
At eight O’clock they all must close.
That’s not much time to tie one on,
Thou, for some, t’will do
I do suppose.

It hardly time enough for some
to obtain sufficient anodyne.
To insulate themselves from care
As viruses spread and stocks flat line.

I’m guessing some fights might ensue
As we all belly up to the bar.
Then stagger out in blue twilight
In a vain attempt to find our cars.

The plain girls I feel sorry for.
There’s insufficient time, I fear.
For their swains to have consumed enough
To make their inner beauty clear.

Saint Hilary's day, the coldest of our year,
when snow and ice enshrouded London town,
was the day the Prince of Poets died.

His home in Ireland had been pillaged and torched.
His wife and young son murdered that same day.
The Irish were hot for English blood;
some said the O'Neil accepted Spanish pay.

He was not young, yet not particularly old,
when death arrived to place him under arrest.
His hostess found him lying on the ground.
His body cold; no sign of pulse nor breath.

His friend, the Earl of Essex, had decreed
The Prince of Poets be mourned by all his kind.
Edmund Spencer beside Chaucer would lie down.
and be eulogized by poets of renown.


Ben Jonson came ; the young John Donne as well.
Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman and sweet Will,
followed his hearse, then bore him to his tomb.

There in the nave, the poets did him homage.
Reciting there their hastily written lines.
Each man than dropped his poem into the grave
Each poet's pen dropped in the grave besides.

I knew a girl who wore dark clothes,
Who would not, could not, speak in prose.
She could, of course, declaim in rhyme,
For many hours at a time..

No thoughts prosaic or profane
Had anyone heard her exclaim.
Just poetry poured forth from her like wine;
a vintage nuanced and sublime.

She did not gossip, curse or tweet.
In matters of the heart, she was discreet.
I was her muse, she said. She, mine.
Her love for me, a gift divine.

We danced in silence without a word
To music only we two had heard.
She charmed my heart with every rhyme
In English, French, or American sign

Was this a talent? – Or a Curse?
I married that girl for better or verse.

I boarded the train a long time ago, back East,
in the company of good friends.
We had good times on our journey.
Those days were invariably pleasant.
I recall bright sun and skies, mostly, blue
At each stop along the way there were
some exits and entrances.
At first they did not touch me.
Then;
I remember this most painfully-
The day you told me that we had reached your station
That place where you could accompany me no more.

My surviving companions did what they could to console me.
The train proceeded determinedly west.
The terrain was mostly flat, the skies now grey and wet.
We knew that the Mountains loomed ahead;
massively real; to us passengers yet  unseen.
We traveled the rails laid down by others’ hands.
We passed through snow-capped peaks
through darkness into the  light.

I have had a wondrous journey,friends.
But, excuse me , my stop is just ahead.
I step out to a golden promised land.

It would not be long now, his doctors knew.
Initially they thought the taking of his arm
would save his life.
They didn’t count on the infection.
Now Stonewall teetered on the fine line
between the living and the dead.
In his fever and delirium
At last he spoke:
“Let us cross over the river,
And rest in the shade of the trees.”
Then Stonewall Jackson was no more.

His sentence had been pronounced by Nero.
Paulus of Tarsus would die at dawn.
His race would soon be over; he had fought the good fight.
So many souls for Christ he had won.

Peter had been crucified; Paulus, as a Roman,
would not be tortured like a slave;
The executioner would take his head
for his preaching about the Son of Man.

We prayed with Paulus; he was not alone.
We smuggled his last letters out.
His words would stir the pilgrim church on earth.
His Faith  would inspire all those devout.

A good God fearing woman, Lucia,
Promised Paulus that his remains
would not be fodder for the wild dogs.
She would entomb him on the Ostian way.

They came for him then; he showed no fear.
The master had prepared his Heavenly home.
He bared his neck to the axe man’s blade.
His crown was won by Faith alone.

It's my near constant companion;
sometimes short and sometimes tall.
At dusk's approach it seems to grow,
At midnight not at all.

Peter Pan once lost his,
until Wendy sewed it back.
He was really lost without it
and was glad to have it back.

It figures oft in mysteries
and in film noir I suppose.
Those ***** deeds done in the dark?
Just ask- the shadow knows.

One shadow often haunts my thoughts
It's been frozen on a wall
at ground zero in Hiroshima,
Its owner?  gone beyond recall.

Hatred left a shadow
of one  human life  it seems
Where shadows became substance.
Where nightmares ******* his  dreams.

When a heart's rhythm is out of rhyme
drastic measures are oft applied.
Two Cardiac inversions in one week
were needed to give her heart a tweak.
After that an I.V. Drip
to ensure no need for a third trip.
Now my sister is home
but feeling weak,
having died twice, so to speak.
My sister cheated the Reaper twice!
"Play the lotto!" is my advice.

(On a railcar siding outside Oswiecim, Poland 12/11/1943)



Our captors did not care that we had nothing left to eat,
No blankets or warm clothing locked in this boxcar with no heat.
My old father’s face was turning grey; his hands and cheeks felt numb.
He needed somehow to get warm or else he would succumb.

Everything we had, they had taken from us, for we were “Untermenschen”.
Our tabernacles are overthrown; A disarmed people couldn't prevent them.
We had no great illusions of what our fate would be:
We would be starved and worked to death for ******’s Germany.

Something in my soul cried out; I cannot reason why.
Somehow I was determined that my father must not die.
I set about to warm him; I massaged his hands and feet.
To keep his life’s blood flowing I knew I must not sleep.

Grey morning dawned; still bitter cold, as sharp as any knife.
Our companions had all froze to death, each yielding up their life
Only we two survived the night to see another dawn.
With some envy, we surveyed our friends who now were dead and gone


Somehow I survived the camps until the Russians came.
Out of all my family, I, alone, remained.
In time I immigrated to this land, a place considered free.
Be vigilant, my children; beware repeating history.

These woods are strangely silent now.
No star shells burst to light the scene.
The earth has binded up her wounds.
No rats feast here, no wounded scream.

I walk upon the souls of men
They were sent here for the fight.
They lived like moles entrenched in earth
And rose to fall upon first light.

I still can hear those whistles shrill
My minds eye shudders at the sight.
I saw my friends, my brothers fall
While somehow I survived the fight.

My fingers are gnarled like the Hawthorne’s branches
My eyes cloud over in bright light.
I alone of that brave company
Have seen a century of nights

Forgive me now my brave companions
That I remain and you are gone.
Soon enough I’ll come and join you
The last of those who fought the Somme.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
    —Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
    Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
  Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
  Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
  And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Pleasure is fleeting, but  enduring is my  pain.
I would that it were otherwise; but that is not the game.
Perhaps in a mirror Universe
they enjoy perpetual pleasure
and would not know what to make of pain
when they experience it never.
Now if such folk are curious
and fear they're missing out
I'd gladly take their Elysian state
and let them have the gout.

The doctors all were taken aback
They had never seen a case like his.
They suspected a stroke had laid him low,
but knew not what to make of this.
His eyes were bloodshot; his pulse raced.
At times his breath was like a sigh.
As he declaimed in a strange foreign tongue,
They sent him off for an M.R.I.

Emeralds green are my lover’s eyes.
Her hair is golden as the sunrise.
We spread our blanket upon the earth
and joined beneath the bowl of stars.


Was this disease communicable?
Was it airborne or spread by touch?
They watched as the patient resumed babbling
In a strangely musical Gaelic tongue:

Furtive kisses are most sweet
as we hid from the world away.
Surely moments like this are why we live.
We were not born only to kneel and pray.

No sign of a lesion on the brain,
Nor a concussion could explain
Why  a man who knew no Irish
Spouted poetry  in the same vein.

Soft whispering and heartfelt sighs
Join with your all-consuming kiss.
The stars above wink their approval
As we surrender to our bliss.

When we awakened the sun was high,
The sound of birdsong was in our ears.
I drink my fill of your pale beauty.
It never fails to give me cheer.

“We must start quarantine right away
if containment will have any chance.”
Alas, it was too late, for all of them
as the nurses began  dancing the River dance.

Emeralds green are my lover’s eyes.
Her hair is golden as the sunrise.
We spread our blanket upon the earth
and joined beneath the bowl of stars.

Furtive kisses are most sweet
as we hid from the world away.
Surely moments like this are why we live.
We were not born only to kneel and pray.

Soft whisperings and heartfelt sighs
Join with your all-consuming kiss.
The stars above wink their approval
As we surrender to our bliss.

When we awakened the sun was high,
The sound of birdsong was in our ears.
I drink my fill of your pale beauty.
It never fails to give me cheer.

In every human life there are some aspects of regret:
The chances that we failed to take, the places we will never get.
Now, as we approach the end of our ‘pas de deux’ with time,
I whisper softly in her ear “you were never one of mine.”

All men are created equal, if we take Thomas at his word.
Yet we all have different talents, at least that’s what I’ve observed.
Some are smarter, some are faster, some are foolish, others wise.
Yet we are all worth many sparrows in our Creator’s eyes.
I have witnessed great performances involving winds and strings,
Although I too love music there’s a mystery to those things.
I love to watch ice dancing; to view artisans on ice.
Yet when I’ve strapped my own skates on I‘ve fallen once ( or twice).
I love the game of baseball; it’s by far my favorite game
But once more the draft is over and they didn’t call my name.
It is good that we’re unequal; that only few can pass the test,
But let not that excuse anyone from trying for their best.

The two of us, both friends,
were both interested in the same girl:.
A slender slip of a miss
with bold red hair and wonderful eyes
eyes a cerulean blue.
He hesitated and was lost.
I drove that angel home.
I parked across from her parent house.
We were finally alone,
It was a night in springtime
redolent of magnolia.
I leaned in for that most memorable
first kiss.
For we were not yet lovers.
I think she liked my confidence.
I adored her upturned face,
as we shared a long and loving kiss
in an affectionate embrace.

Some forty years have come and gone.
I've long since been replaced.
Still I have not forgotten her;
Those eyes, those lips, that face.

The young resent us oldsters, we seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.

They gathered in the upper room; they locked and barred the door.
They were fearful of their fellow Jews; afraid of Roman law.
Like sheep who’d seen their Sheppard killed and torn apart,
Their confidence was at low ebb and they were faint of heart.

They were startled when they heard the sound of knocking at the door.
Had Judas sold them also?  Did his treachery demand yet more?
Then they heard the Magdalene’s voice its music heartened them.
She proclaimed excitedly that death is not the end.

At first they did not believe her; who can blame them for their doubt?
They had seen loved ones entombed and none to date walk out.
The Magdalene bore witness; Yoshua’s mother did the same.
Something had happened at the tomb both wonderful and strange.

John and Peter were deputized to go and see the tomb.
The other nine stayed hidden, waiting in the upper room.
John, the younger, ran ahead; he arrived then paused,
For Peter to arrive; For both to see what Mary saw.




The Roman guards had fled the scene.
The Stone had been rolled away.
They who grieved saw and believed
on Resurrection day.

Some say I have your eyes; I’ll vouch for the thinning hair.
I often say things that you would say if you were still here.
As I age my hearing starts to fail; you faced the selfsame test.
Yes, I now wear glasses too, for reading and the rest.
Some say I have your temperament; I’ve heard time and again;
That I have your listening heart; there could be no better friend.
Your patience and your kindness was exceptional but then
-You were an Irish mother dealing with your Irish men
I loved you for your courage when cancer gave a scare.
You suffered it in silence with the help of faith and prayer.
You were summer’s final Rose who outlasted your cohorts
You have been gone a dozen years, but are ever in my thoughts.
When we heard that you were failing, we hurried to your side
But as we came off the elevator, the nurse said that you had died.
You lay there, still, beneath white sheets, with dignity and grace.
You left us on a breath of air bound for a better place.

The table is set and the guests are arriving.
Tom Turkey is brown and your uncle's imbibing.
"Please pass the biscuits." my Aunt Edna said,
while blithely ignoring my drunk cousin Fred.
Don't talk about politics, Religion or Fate.
Don't wear a red hat; keep your eyes on your plate.
You can survive this; I'm certain you will.
Just pile your plate high and eat what you will.
There are six types of cake here and Nutella pie.
If you don't take your statins it is likely you'll die.
But should you survive and avoid your demise
We'll send you home weighed down with three kinds of pie.

You'll have gained fifteen pounds and you're not very tall-
The folks at Weight Watchers are expecting your call.