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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Iwo was a bloodbath; that fact can’t be denied.
We had twenty thousand wounded men and seven thousand died.
The fight was long and difficult against the entrenched foe.
(When the photograph was taken the fight had weeks yet left to go.)
High upon Mount Suribachi, our hearts leapt at the sight:
As “Old Glory” was unfurled, our colors caught the light.
Six young men raised her on high, to defy the rising Sun.
(Three of them were buried there before that fight was won.)
One moment in eternity that was caught for all to see.
a moment passing, even now, from living memory.
For most of those who fought and lived
are, by now, dead and gone.
The moment of their glory lives
captured here in Bronze.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

It should have been a perfect day to be sitting up in heaven.
(The weather being decidedly vernal,)
To watch the local nine suit up
on the day hope springs eternal.

A gorgeous diamond, brown and green,
with DeGrom on the rubber,
Gives fair promise of a victory
on this day that’s like no other.

I can almost smell the dogs and brats;
I can almost taste the beer.
Alas, it’s just my memory, playing tricks,
Nobody else is here.

The fans are all in quarantine,
with many unemployed.
The team dispersed to warmer climes;
No ball game to be enjoyed.

They may be back eventually,
Some time in June I hear.
Just not until the third base coach
can touch nose mouth and ear.

“There’s nothing here worth saving.”
I knew that she was right.
It ended, oh so calmly, no screaming match or fight.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,
  Call it a Night.

For many years we’d lived a lie, persisting in a sad mistake.
The only Love you get to keep is only that Love you make.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

Some folks will be surprised I guess. Others, knowingly, will nod.
The warning signs were always there; as obvious as God.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

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.

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.

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.

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

It is a raw windy April day
As the small band of mourners make their way
To the opened grave on the hill in Calvary.

Funeral services had, of necessity, been limited,
Performed by a mortuary assistant
dressed like an ICU nurse.

He had worked quickly
In constant dread of the possibility
That he too would become infected.

Now, the handful of survivors
With roses in gloved hands
Listen to the muffled words of prayer
From the masked padre.

It is a horrible lonely death
The virus brings.
Gasping, like a fish on a barren shore
No hand to hold for comfort.

The Priest finished as quick as he could.
He spoke his words of Heaven’s promise.
Fearful, that one of these few here
Might carry some trace of the infection.

Later, the essential workers will come
And fill the hole where he has been laid.
There he will remain in  joyful hope
Until the day of resurrection.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Schools and businesses closed by mandate of law!
Streets nearly empty, like in times of war.
The stock market crashed, and panic ensued
This old curmudgeon was not the least bit amused.

“In the land of the free and the home of the brave
We snivel like cowards hiding in our man caves.:
“We barter our freedom for a smidgen of safety,
And we’ll end up with nothing, so it seems to me!”

Now viral Pneumonia is no common cold,
It’s particularly dangerous for the feeble and old.
Shelter in place! Wash your hands they decree.
Those escaping infection now all have O.C.D.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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 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.

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?

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

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.

There are unsmiling faces and bright plastic chains
And a wheel in perpetual motion
And they follow the races and pay out the gains
With no show of an outward emotion

And they think it will make their lives easier
For God knows up till now it's been hard
But the game never ends when your whole world depends
On the turn of a friendly card
No the game never ends when your whole world depends
On the turn of a friendly card

There's a sign in the desert that lies to the west
Where you can't tell the night from the sunrise
And not all the king's horses and all the king's men
Have prevented the fall of the unwise

For they think it will make their lives easier
And God knows up till now it's been hard
But the game never ends when your whole world depends
On the turn of a friendly card
No the game never ends when your whole world depends
On the turn of a friendly card

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.

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?

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

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."

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...

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.

“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.

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

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.

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