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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

I 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.

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 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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

So recently this earth was torn
and ripped by bomb and shell.
The smell of death is on the air,
In these trenches, silence dwells.
From these dug pits our soldiers rose
Upon the dread command
They stepped into a deadly rain
and bled a deathly pale.
For now the guns are silent.
Men died for crown and King.
Here Tommies gave up youth and life
at this place where no birds sing.

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.”

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.

In certain lights she may appear
An apparition dressed in white.
At other times she’s like a mist;
bitingly cold on hot humid nights.

This is the room where Rachel died;
A young bride strangled by her groom.
He then committed suicide-
having guaranteed her doom.

His soul was dragged away to Hell;
He chokes forever in sulfurous fumes.
For his Bride, a different fate;
She bides forever in Rachel’s room.

Up at the head of the stairs is her room.
You may enter in daylight.
At dusk we hear her piteous screams.
No living soul dares spend the night

He did not want to join the club.
He never did apply.
When he learned about his membership,
his impulse was to cry.

With his membership came tests and fees.
The doctors bled him dry.
There were biopsies  and M.R.I's
Why me, he wondered, Why?

It seems his White blood cell count was up
while his platelet count was down.
He asked if there was any hope
but the White Coats merely frowned.

This club need not advertise
for fear that membership will drop.
New members join up every day
though all would rather not.

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.

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 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.

They swarm in the darkness of the night.
They ring my bell, they give a fright.
“Trick or Treat” They know the script.
Hand it over or we’ll pitch a fit.
My pumpkin empties as the hours pass,
It’s uncertain if my supply of Twix will last.
I dispense largesse to every tot
whether they are masked or not.
Covens gather and Mummies squeak
A sugar high is what they seek.

I’ll have the last laugh on those Trickers
I kept a fun sized bag of Snickers.

(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.

The  general was in a race with Death.
His memoirs ,if finished, some comfort would provide.
Yet a cancer was eating  at his throat.
His doctors all thought it a matter of time.

Each day he forced himself to write,
although his pain could not be denied.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at his gun,
Entertaining thoughts of suicide.

No, he thought, that's not my way.
The book I'm writing will provide
for my wife Julia in her old age;
an old age I will be denied.

With a firm command of names and dates
He spun his tale of Civil War.
Eight years in the White House He spent.
Years marked with scandals not seen before.

He had seen his share of war
Surely no man longed more for surcease.
He sent his final chapter to press.
Word shortly followed: "Grant is deceased."

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.

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.

Our present is unsettled;
we are each others foe.
Ignorance  grows exponentially
and tolerance grows low.

Our Past and Future are both at risk
in our current culture war.
Twixt You and me I can't decide
which one I  pity more.

His battles now are over, his earthly struggles done.
We place him in a body bag; a Mother’s only son.
We do not speak of “Sacrifice” or patriotic pap.
Such thoughts deserted long before our third tour in Iraq.
Some will say our eyes are hard that will not shed a tear
For the promise of his future that abruptly ended here.

We who serve know differently; Our wounds you cannot see.
His helmet, gun and empty boots remind us of his Calvary.
So thank him for his service; spare us the other crap.
Just play the anthem for doomed youth;


a simple tune called Taps.

I looked in the mirror and what did I see?
A rapidly aging simulacrum of me.
My hair has turned Gray, such as can be found.
and a lifetime of coffee has turned my teeth brown.

The muscles of youth have shriveled. I'm told.
It all part and parcel of a man growing old.
"Old age is not for wimps " A wise aunt once told me.
That knowledge is great but it fails to console me.

Am I the same person I was when I was young?
Would he recoil in horror to see what he'd become?
Was the Buddha perspicacious when he made the call
that the self called the self is no self at all?

Some scientists say that the self is an illusion.
A purely biochemical source of confusion.
A look in the mirror has me posing this question:
Who is the victim of this selfish delusion?

Our friend Joe sure loved baseball, and his heart pumped Dodger blue
He played the game when he was young, then watched once he was through.
He’d travel around to one horse towns to scout the minor leagues.
He’d carry baseballs and a pen for the autographs he’d need.
In winter he’d watch hockey when no baseball could be found.
(I think that he was marking time time until spring came around.)
Nothing beats hearing the Umpire shouting out  ”play ball!”
How perfect is the diamond, the lush grass and the blue walls?
If we get to choose our heaven no matter what our creed,
Joe would want a season ticket; that’s all he’d really need.
He’d sit and watch his favorite team with stars from years gone by.
He’d listen as the sym-phony played in Ebbets field on high.
Now Joe is gone and tears are shed by us who toil below.
But I prefer to think that  Joe’s been called up to the Show.

Desire, must you trouble me?
For I am old and would be free
Of your base needs and idiocy.

Yes, she is beautiful and kind
with sculpted curves and laughing eyes.
Still, why should I be a fool, again, for love?
Surely I’ve left all that behind.

Ok, I yield, I see your need to live outweigh my need to die.
Like old Don Quixote, I mount my Rocinante
Shoulder my lance


And go tilting at windmills.

On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of arctic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.

Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don't make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.

She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.

Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.

Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won't pass.

Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain's choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing, put an end to fear?

No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We'll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths find honorable graves.

“When I was one and twenty, I partied every night
and still was ready for my close-up  in the early morning light.
By the time I hit my thirties this girl stayed in every night.
With the proper rest and makeup I could still get parts all right.
Now that I’ve turned forty I’ve  abandoned film for the stage.
(The poetry of youth decays into prose by middle age.)
On the boards I can play younger. In kindlylight I still get by,
But my film career is over because
The camera doesn’t lie.”

There was a quiet, then, between them
as if neither one dared speak.
One wished to be decisive
out of fear of being weak.

The tension was unbearable
The stress was off the chart.
Her crystal dream was shattered
by this Rogue's unfaithful heart

Let there be no tears in this-
time ,later, enough to weep.
We both know well whose fault this is;
Let just admit defeat.

She walked away in silence
with nary a glance behind.
He sentenced to do penance
for all the rest of time.