She still looks like herself.
They’ve removed the bandages and the drain.
They’ve moved her out of the I.C.U.
She is taking steroids and something for the pain.

Now the long battle must begin
To regain something of all she lost.
To learn to speak and to converse,
It has to happen despite the cost.

We show her pictures in a frame,
Or her wedding book from off the shelf.
In hopes that she’ll remember names;
Yes, even what she calls herself.

She knows her birthday, that she’ll repeat;
Like a captured soldier who had been trained
to give name, rank and serial number.
At least one fact has been retained.

There is intelligence in her eyes
And now she repeats what others say
It’s how small children learn to speak
Repeating what their mothers say.

She was a woman very much in control;
Gracious, kind and worldly wise.
All overthrown by traitorous cells;
If she is to live they, all, must die.

The future is uncertain
And the prognosis has been bleak.
The odds are against her.
She grows frail and weak.

Yet even should she lose this fight,
And depart this world of pills and pain,
The sweet sound of my sister’s voice
In memory echoing shall remain.

We saw the conning tower first,
in the darkness of the deep.
A robotic submersible
Found the boat on its final sweep
Some two hundred and thirty fathoms down
That’s where the crew of the Greyback sleeps.

At the end of February in Forty Four
A chance encounter brought them low.
A Betty from a carrier force
Delivered what proved the fatal blow.
The sea poured in from all around,
Trapped at their stations, the mariners drowned.
No hope of rescue would appear
as each man faced his private fear.

It’s the nature of the silent service,
The danger of their chosen role:
Never to see home port again,
on their eternal last patrol.

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.

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 have been reading about a distressing phenomenon: all over the world the oldest living things, the great trees are dying.   My poem  "The Tree of Life" is about one such species, the Baobab tree.


I have provided the poem in English, French Spanish and an African language to make it widely accessible to all.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his damaged heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished on that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

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

It was a cold night, that Christmas Eve.
Freezing in fact.
Grand Central’s hard wooden benches would not entice many,
But to the old woman, Mama Doe, it was
as close to the Ritz as she could get.

How long she had been out on the streets? Who knew?
She was old, sick and living on the margins.
The officer who moved her along
From the Grand Central waiting room
was, no doubt, just following orders.

It was a cold night, that Christmas Eve.
Freezing in fact.
Mama Doe’s Lungs were filled with fluids.
Perhaps she could have been saved.
Perhaps, if only she wore silks and furs instead of rags.
She made it as far as morning.
She crawled to her final resting place,
Bench number nine at Grand Central Station.

A little while later another officer came along
He rattled Mama doe’s favorite bench with his night stick
It was just a friendly wake up call by the standards of the day.

Mama Doe did not wake up, nor would she, until,
perhaps, the day when Gabriel blows his horn.

I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day and through
In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children's carousel
The chestnut trees
The wishing well

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

The last few customers looked, but bought nothing.
At this rate I can’t pay the rent on this place.
It’s Time to turn out the lights, maybe give up my dream.
Sales are only at half last year’s pace.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They stare at their cellphones.
They chill with Netflix

If I lose the store what will become of my treasures?
These are magical portals to all time and space.
The words of the Prophets the poets and dreamers
will wind up in a dumpster, their memory effaced.

Who buys books anymore?
Who bothers to read?
They drink Mocha lattes
They live for WIFI

Today I received in the mail the dread notice.
I will be evicted; the Marshall will come.
Shakespeare and Freud will be tossed to the gutter.
The tribe of the verb is forever undone.

There are loves that are inseparable,
loves that never leave.
Loves that can define us
This much I do believe.
I remember well my own first “love”.
A Love I brought to bed.
I brought along a flashlight too
To discern the words Love said.
When all my family was asleep
from my pillow I’d retrieve
My treasure from the Library
And I’d begin to read.
That was my first chapter book,
A mystery, I recall.
Of all the words I’ve read or writ
It was the start of all.
I like to find that book again
and hold in one more time.-
and in the touch and smell of it
Recall a simpler time.

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 when the towers fell? I’m sure you must recall.
The frame is frozen in your mind as it is for us all.
A New York City sky so blue; It seemed a perfect day;
Then came the news about a plane gone terribly astray.
That crash was not an accident, I sense everyone knew-
that moment that the second plane crashed into tower two.
We watched in shock and horror At the rising smoke and flames.
The fortunate all fled on foot; Three thousand souls remained.
Some of these perished in the flames; Years later their traces would be found
Other broke the glass and leapt; Their bodies littering the ground.
South tower was the first to fall; In ten seconds she was gone.
Her mortally stricken sister For a few scant minutes lingered on.
From every corner of the City people saw day turn to night.
Emergency vehicles were crushed like toys; our brave responders nowhere in sight.

Where were you when the towers fell? I’m sure you must recall.
The frame is frozen in your mind as it is for us all.

The waves, like a heartbeat,slap upon the shore.
The good clean smell of salt, sunlight warms my core.
With difficulty I kneel down before Pacific's roar.
I commit your ashes to the sea, to mingle evermore.

You always liked this stretch of beach; the dunes beneath the cliffs.
to feel the sun upon your face while sailing on our skiff.
You feared the coldness of the grave; a desolate destination.
You made me promise, long ago, that it would be cremation.

I cast you forth upon the waters glinting in sunlight
A much more peaceful denouement  than your final night.
Lord give her peace, free of all pain,adrift upon the sea.
The waves crash down upon the shore; the soundtrack of eternity.

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..

If, tomorrow,You ask for me
and find that I have gone.
If some unwelcome guest arrived
and joined their hand to mine.
Think of me as if I'm asleep
and comfortably at home.
Please, do not grieve excessively
that you've been left alone.
Instead remember you are loved
beyond this veil of tears.
above all else remember me
and I am ever near.

There’s a seat at the table if you’re so inclined.
Bitter herbs and fish are offered, served with bread and wine.
It’s an intimate Seder gathering, just twelve of his close friends.
He calls them Disciples. You know what this night portends.

There’s a seat at the table, for one man’s left early.
Judas seemed racked with guilt, by turns worried and surly.
Did our Host have foreknowledge, or did he merely suspect,
when he pointed out that traitor when they both dipped their bread?

Our Host is reflective; there is much on his mind
As he offers us bread and he blesses the wine.
This week has been a whirlwind of Halcyon days.
He entered by the Eastern gate to much acclaim and praise.

There was that trouble at the temple where the money changers lurk.
You never saw the Lord so angry when about his Father’s work.
Now our Seder is concluding and it has been a long day,
Will you join us at Gethsemane where the master’s gone to pray?

It sounded, at first, like two kids fighting.
Then two hard hits brought neighbors to their doors.
Her “boyfriend” splashed the accelerant upon her
then he lite fire to her clothes.

Terrified,  Screaming, she ran  into the hall,
She would have died if Not for Stan.
He got a blanket wrapped tight around her
and smothered the fire with his strong hands.

Her “boyfriend” fled, that sniveling coward,
who had tried to ****** that innocent child;
His criminal rap sheet gave no indication
That attempted ****** was his style.

They say she’ll live; that ******* fire.
Her beauty stolen; it was her curse.
The “boyfriend” ought to turn himself in.
It won’t go well if I find him first.

She speaks of marriage; does she not see
the dissolution of my life and dreams?
My family’s’ fortune was lost in the Depression.
My Guggenheim wasted on unrealistic schemes.
I’ve spent these last years drinking, scarcely writing.
In taverns and dark places I have lingered;
searching for the Love that dares not speak its name.
Once I had such Love, but the fever broke.
I don’t think Love will trouble with me again.
I am weighted down with troubles and concerns.
My Youth and promise offered up for wine.
I long for sleep beneath these churning waves
If I take the leap will anyone know or care?
One resolute step will end both pain and time.

The concert is scheduled for tonight.
I must cancel; there is no other choice.
I can’t step into those harsh spotlights
Now that I’ve lost my voice.

That golden throated baritone
Has left me, I’m afraid.
A vein has hemorrhaged in my throat
And threatens all I’ve gained.

It was the stress of all those gigs.
I never turned one down.
I thrilled to hear girls scream my name,
But my health has let me down.

Is it over?  I wonder
Do the doctors even have a clue?
Will I be able to perform again?
Is Frank Sinatra through?

The Yankees took the field and we heard the anthem played.
The air was thick that August night.
Louisiana Lighting placed his cap upon his head.
The stadium lights were burning bright.
Ron Guidry turned to face home plate
With a feeling akin to  despair
He searched in vain for the Catcher’s sign
From the man who wasn’t there.

Eight Yankees took the field that night.
The Umpire stood alone.
Collectively we felt the pain
of Thurman Munson gone.
Jerry Narron caught that game
The Yankees rallied late.
Yet all felt the vacancy
That had happened at home plate
Upon this sad anniversary
I solicit your thoughts and prayers
For the Yankees fallen Captain;
the man who wasn’t there.

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?

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.

His breathe came now in fits and snorts,
for weeks John had been ailing.
His legs were swelled up like balloons
because his heart was failing.

His eyes were glazed with cataracts
for which there was no cure.
Those eyes had seen our nations' birth
Her proud destiny now assured.

He faced death with a humble faith
in a Savior that forgives.
With his last breath they heard him say:
"Thomas Jefferson still Lives."

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.

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

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

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

Five days a week, she dons the mask.
It targets the radiation.
Together with her oral chemotherapy,
it is touted as her salvation.

Perhaps it will buy some time
in the battle against the enemy of her mind.
A forlorn hope is better than none at all.
Perhaps they are being kind.

A beautiful life; she should have sailed bravely on
through the decades and left on her own terms.
Instead, she bravely dons the mask
and suffers while the cancer burns

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.

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.

The unexamined life
passes quickly
like grains of sand
through the hourglass

Just as quickly
as the future
becomes the past or
so it seems

In a medically induced coma
The patient was divorced from time.
He wandered from room to room
in the chambers of his mind.
Memories of long ago;
things and people he’d left behind,
Competed for his attention
with all his kith and kind.
Ghosts of family, dead and gone,
came face to face at last,
with his children’s children
at a glorious repast.
He bellied up against the bar
with some friends he’d  lost in Nam.
They looked no worse for being dead
For what seemed a very long time.
They raised a glass to memory
and gave a toast to Time.
The barkeep said “its Final Call!”


and his monitor flat lined.

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.

“All Rise!”
In single file, we justices entered the court
and took our places on the bench,
before us sat the accused; these architects of death.
My eyes were drawn to just one of these men.
He looked faintly Chaplinesque.
He sat there, pale and palsied, along with Goering and the rest.
He had been captured in Bavaria. ****** had thought to flee
to his friends in South America, forsaking Germany.

Perhaps he thought the World would forget,
and thus absolve him of his crimes.
Now he faced the specter of the rope;
There was no thought of ****** serving time.
That was the likely fate of some of these men,
Men like Donitz, Speer and Hess.
Such men could age behind grey walls
And live out lifetimes of regret.

Not for ******, their Fuhrer, for him only death sufficed.
Though we would follow the forms of Justice,
Most would vote to **** him twice.
Perhaps his neck would be snapped by a rope
on some cold grey future date.
Perhaps a simple firing squad
would be Herr ******’s fate.
Perhaps he’d get a bar of soap
and a threadbare linen towel.
then hear the hiss of Zyklon B
in the chambers he had styled.

I wondered how it came to this.
He’d had the means and time.
To put a pistol in his mouth
And atone for all his crimes.
He’d been fleeing from the Russians
when he fell into allied hands.
Those soldiers had shown great restraint,
their sergeant great command.
Now the little corporal sits in the dock,
attentive to every word.
We each now have our part to play
in the theatre of the absurd.

Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And dreamed of all the great things we would do

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way
La la la la...

[Verse 2]
Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I'd see you in the tavern
We'd smile at one another and we'd say

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...


[Verse 3]
Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...

[Verse 4]
Through the door there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh my friend we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

Some say the past does not exist.
We cannot venture there.
We cannot change what happened once,
Or redeem it with a prayer.
Yet what I am today descends
From all I used to be,
And those who claims to lack regrets
I view suspiciously.
Sometimes, at night, in slumber’s depths,
A long lost face I see.
In the light of other days
A while you bide with me.
I have the memory of your kisses;
Their sweetness I recall.
Then weep when daybreak draws me back
from when we had it all.

The boys he had known were now men dressed in suits
of conservative hue and tone.
Except for those few who were painfully young
and attired in  uniform.

The girls of his youth who had been ,mostly, aloof
were adorned with some glittering stones.
He noticed one young girl with a dusky complexion
who was sitting apart all alone.
He saw upper class men, the jocks and the freaks.
then he noticed how grey they had grown.

His friends shook his hand and pounded his back.
"You are the last  to arrive.!"
The final Alum of a school long since closed
with no graduates still left alive

It's invisible,seemingly inevitable.,
but its not the price of sin.
Its a lethal air borne virus-
it's the enemy within.

Now every sneeze or sniffle
must be  greeted with alarm.
Is it just my allergies
or will I soon be gone?

It's not a visible miasma
we see wafting on the air
and if you suffer from asthma
you must especially take care.

For now there are no handshake deals.
You can forget about a hug.
Just pray for our deliverance-
For a vaccine or a drug.

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.

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.

For a long time, the only sound near Honey’s bed
Was the beep of the cardiac monitor.
Her breaths were long and labored
As breath often is at journey’s end.

No visitors were permitted to come
and gather around her bed.
Now, in this Pandemic age,
We all die alone it’s said.

Still Honey had her cellphone
And she received a face-time call.
It brought a smile to dry cracked lips
Her son, Michael, her favorite above all.

“I’ve worked up a surprise for you.
One I hope you will enjoy.
It’s a song you used to sing for me
When I was a small boy”

Michael’s German wasn’t very good
As he strummed that old guitar.
Still, lullabies are simple tunes
When sleep is not too far.

Honey’s memories hearkened back
To when she was young and strong.
To when her babe had hung upon each word
When she had sung this song.

Michael saw the light of joy
In his dying mother’s eyes.
He put down his guitar and wept
As they said their last goodbyes

Evening comes and darkness falls
Upon us, one and all.
Still, for some, twilight becomes
The sweetest light of all.

She was just a little girl with tousled dark brown locks.
Life had not been kind to her, not kind to her at all.
Her parents both killed in the war; the little one was in shock.
They placed her in our orphanage; there was no next of kin to call.

The little girl was quiet and seldom ever smiled.
She would often wake up screaming from the horrors that she saw.
She would not play with the others; Aloofness was her style.
Her gaze was like a veteran who had seen enough of war.

One day I found her drawing with a little piece of chalk.
She drew a picture of her mother on the floor beside her bed.
I observed her from the shadows; there was no need to talk
As she curled up like a fetus and slept on the floor instead.

It was just a crude chalk drawing; no masterpiece of art
But it gave the poor child comfort as she lay there in the dark
There in the safety of the womb beneath her mother’s heart,
Was a refuge from a reality that was painful cruel and stark.

Both Advance one death at a time;
Religion by the blood of her martyrs.
Science, by the death of those
who cling to the exploded
Theories of the past

Guitar practice was always down in the school basement.
I would show up for practice, my guitar case in hand
And carefully place my sheet music on a metal music stand.
There were just four of us would-be musicians that year.

We dutifully tuned our guitars as our teacher played a single note.
We progressed to practicing our chords, my fingers on each string.
I was a mediocre player; what I liked to do was sing.
I did love the cherry wood scent of my guitar.

That afternoon turned dark in the heart of this fair land.
There was a muffled announcement; then the sound of some girl crying.
“President Kennedy has been shot; they say that he is dying!”
Our class was canceled abruptly, for a reason we understood.

I never went back to Guitar class and I never played again.
For months my guitar waited, patiently, with its sweet scent of cherry wood.
My mother finally persuaded me to sell it; I said that I understood.
Camelot had vanished in the mists, and Johnny would never be good.

“We have no need of “Heroes” from our “so-called” storied past.”
So they pulled their statues from their plinths, while we looked on aghast.
The generals and the Presidents; the finest men we’d known,
Consigned to History’s dustbin until one remained alone.

Grant’s tomb was desecrated; its plea for peace ignored.
His opponents’ visage shattered; Lee reduced to shards of stone.
“Thomas Jefferson was a ****** who had children by his slave.”
Despite some feeble protests, his statues weren’t saved.

“Churchill’s bust, be gone from us!” They tossed it on the heap.
“Consign him to the flames!” they roared. It was not his first defeat.
Paintings done by Trumbull joined busts made by Houdon
Until nearly all reminders of our country’s past were gone.

Once Washington and Jefferson had joined Lee and Longstreet;
Their Paintings and their statues gone; their names expunged from streets.
They pulled “Old Glory” from its pole and consigned it to the fire,
and danced like Satan’s children as the flames leaped ever higher.

At last, they came for Lincoln to unseat him from his throne.
Of our pantheon of heroes, he, till now, was left alone.
“His fine words and speeches shall not save him from this fate!”
“He was a white supremacist too; he wished blacks would emigrate.”

What he thought of these barbarians is known to him alone.
Like Athena of antiquity, when the “Christians’ razed her home.
They went to work with relish until Abe’s statue had atoned.
For all sins, real and imagined, they left no stone upon a stone.

From age to age we gather, and we pool our ignorance.
At things we think good and moral,, our forebears would take offense.
Tolerance- the last virtue lost, as we approach a darker time.
Our civic altars desecrated; our civilization in decline.

Mel Stottlemyre walked out to the mound,
where Jim Bouton nervously kicked the rubber.
“Bulldog, the manager sent me to take you out,
You’re headed for the shower.”
“One more batter and I’d have earned the win.”
Jim Bouton said with sorrow.

“You’ll have another chance real soon”
Mel told him as they were departing,
“There’s a doubleheader tomorrow at Elysian Fields,”
“and I heard we’ll both be starting!”

The diamond needle finds the grove
and I wait for the song to begin.
I know this album almost by heart.
Every note is predestined.

If life was like a long play record
Imagine if you will; I could
lift up the tone arm with my hand
and relive a cherished day again.

Of course   I can do no such thing
My days, like these songs, have an end.
The needle hits the center grove;
only static can be heard then.

My words will live forever;
I know this for a truth
because of a poem I  once wrote
as an anthem for doomed youth.

I, alas, will nevermore
set foot upon my native shore.
I 've been  mortally wounded in France, you see,
on the very cusp of victory.

My poor parents will receive the news
that my soul among the shades now dwells-
Even as every patriot's heart
swells with pride at the peal of victory bells

Strange to see it summed up in just a few lines.
Mary Lou Marion, the little girl of Louise and Grazio.
She went to my high school, three years behind me.
She worked here then she worked there.
She wed some man I never met and had four sons.
They lived here and they lived there.
The Grandkids were born.
She never noticed the lump on her breast;
Not until it was far too late.
It was not a bad life, Ordinary perhaps.
I will not claim to know what she believed,
Only what we had been taught.
She knew the joys and sorrows
of being a woman
She fought bravely to the end
Against the cancer that took her.


Isn’t she all of us?
Just a thought in the mind of God.

Goodbye Mary Lou

Rest in Peace

Belfast is a bustling town where big muscled men make ships of steel.
Down on the Quay we come today to bid farewell and see you off.
You have your suit case in your hand. I see you wore your Sunday best.
If you were lying in your casket you could not be better dressed.
So kiss your Mum a sad goodbye and shake your Father’s hand.
You have your ticket in your pocket to take you to a distant land.
You siblings and your kin have come to wish you well and say goodbye.
To raise a parting glass with you; in truth nobody is dry eyed.
Off with you now to America, Where a young man has space to dream.
Your mother bravely waves good bye. Only in private will she keen.
*******************
M­any years later, when he’d grown old, my DA returned to his native land
To see the house where he was born now just ruins and in others hands.
We visited the parish church where he had been baptized long ago.
A Celtic cross marks his parent’s grave and on their plot the wild grass grows.
Every one he’d known and loved had passed before him as if a dream.
He wept before his sister’s grave and said a prayer for my  Aunt Kathleen.
His story yet had years to run before the day came he, too, would pass.
Then relatives would gather once again and raise to John the parting glass.