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.

Twas a century ago that the last shell was shot.
"The War to end War"- but that part we forgot.
What puzzles me now is what puzzled some then-
Why the guns kept on firing right till the end?
What purpose was served by killing yet more?
Why more fodder for cannons on the last day of war?
Must all shells be used up; could not one be saved,
Were they competing to put the last man in his grave?
It didn't make sense from beginning to end
God help us if ever we do that again!

Some stars explode in the darkest night,
while others, massive suns implode and swallow even light.
Most, after ten billion years, find themselves begin to fade,
As their hydrogen exhausts itself and they are put to shade.

Thought their ends may be varied, the next results?-the same.
Another Sun extinguished, another star put in its grave.
With the snuffing of each lamp, colors disappear from view.
We share the same fate as the stars, for we are stardust too.

The past may be a beautiful place, but, correct me, if I’m wrong-
all those who try to live there cannot remain for very long.

Your long and lovely auburn hair as you turned to give a kiss;
Yes, it only is in memory, but it still can warm a night like this.

I no longer am that strong young man who held you for that kiss.
In truth we parted years ago. My fault, I must confess.

I think about you often, though, and how you brought this heart delight
As fallen leaves recess in pools of light

in the lonely hours of the night

Sometimes, in dreams, Paul sees his band mate, John.
Of course, John Lennon hasn't aged a day.
Paul, himself, has felt the touch of time.
His skin is paper-thin; his hair gone grey.

Paul reaches for an instrument to play
but alas, his dream guitar hasn't any strings.
John provides a softly lyric line
so Paul must be content to hear him sing.

Paul wakes up from his pleasant dream
hoping to recall the words that he heard sung.
Somehow he cannot recall the lyrics;
It's not easy as Paul's no longer young.

Sometimes in dreams, we see beloved dead;
projections, perhaps, of our hopes and fears.
We imagine stringed instruments that gently weep
And, doing so, mock our bootless tears.

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.

When death comes out of a clear blue sky
Despair might be forgivable:
The  peaceful calm of a September morn
Reduced to darkness visible.

The sky was filled with smoke and ash.
Nobody’s cell phones worked.
Two scared sisters were on their own
To escape out of ground zero.

Their  first thought was to walk the  bridge
To get themselves from there.
They both worked close to the trade center
And it was hard to breathe the air.


By some work of fate or Providence
They chanced to find a bus
It took them from the cauldrons’ edge
And brought them back to us.

Eighteen years now to the day
Since two thousand people were turned to dust
Memories linger in strange ways:
My wife still won’t board a city bus.

It was tough to be dumped by Lucille.
Ruby left when I was down on my luck,
but this? This I never suspected-
I’ve been left by my self- driving truck.

They had a good laugh at the Dealer
where I went to complain of my fate.
They said I forgot where I parked you.
But I’m sure that you drove out of State

I thought that a Ford was dependable.
Now I am stranded and stuck.
My F-150 ran off with my G.P.S.
I’ve been left by my self -driving Truck.

I’ve survived the blues caused by women,
who said my love wasn’t enough-
But, dogoneit!! - I’m still making payments
I’ve been left by my self-driving truck.

She looks much like an angel in her white lace hat and dress.
Her patent leather shoes are polished; her beads clutched to her chest.
She almost looks as if asleep, but, sadly, we know better.
Violence shattered an Easter morn; this child may sleep forever.

The tiniest of martyrs, who can tell the reason why
She was murdered by hearts full of hate who determined she should die.
Her little classmates are here too, awaiting the embalmers art.
A little boy in his blue suit; it’s enough to break a parents’ heart.

There first was an explosion, and then began the screams and shouts.
The Terrified parishioners were in a panic to get out.
The dead and dying left behind enveloped in a silent peace.
First responders found them there. They called for doctors and a priest.

The man of sorrows bears his cross; upon his head a crown of thorns.
His naked feet step upon the Stony path that leads to the glory of Easter morn.
His back is marred by ****** stripes; he bears our imperfections.
Remember, Christians, without the cross there can be no Resurrection

He flew with Doolittle against Japan
on the eighteenth of April in Forty two.
Eighty brave volunteers made that flight.
but their numbers dwindled down to you.

In postwar reunions these men would meet
And toast the fallen gone before
From silver goblets with their names inscribed,
these heroes of that distant war.

Then, when there were only two,
A vintage bottle was opened at last.
You gave the toast to vanished friends;
The faces and names from your storied past.

Now you, too, have been laid to rest
In old Marse Robert’s hallowed fields.
Once more you hold the bombers yoke
And lift off Hornet’s pitching deck.
You rise toward grey shrouded skies
upon a fearsome enterprise.

In the month of fourteen, everything changed.
Then names from faces became, sadly, estranged.
One whom we all love has a part of her gone.
Not anything simple; not a leg or an arm.

Her memories stolen, her speech rearranged,
by a tumor that's growing on one side of her brain.
A stroke was the first clue that something was wrong.
In the month of Fourteen, all her words came out wrong.

The music may play and she may try to sing-
but the lyric is lost in the strain echoing.
I doubt whether her life will ever be the same.
Her husband is with her but she's forgotten his name.

The wind is moaning low tonight;
the sound of souls who cannot sleep.
It is said they walk the Earth tonight,
though they are buried six feet deep.
A shadow moves across a wall,
Is it a specter of one undead?
Such childish thoughts infect our minds,
giving birth to fear and dread.
On this night, when spirits walk the streets,
some are demanding tricks or treats.
Is that some clarion call from Hell?
No, just some kids who rang our bell.

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.

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.

A songbird in a gilded cage
gave to me the gift of song.
Soft and low with gentle tones
she warbled for me the whole night long.
When I was low she gave me cheer
and courage at times that I felt fear.
Was I wrong to keep her caged?
Such spirits ought to be free range.
Today I woke and something’s wrong
The air is still, there is no song
I rushed toward the gilded cage
The latch is open
The lark has flown.

As the Priest approached the lectern,
there were sobs  and audible sighs.
The church was filled with mourners
of a friend to young to die.

Farewell, my brother, said the priest.
He comforted all who wept.
He read from the gospel about Lazarus
who the Lord had freed from Death.

Some there were surely comforted,
while others doubted yet.
It was sad for all who'd known him
from Sunrise to Sunset

It is a simple stone to honor a piece of Earth.
It asks the passerby a question.
It is a challenge
And a meditation:

“Oh, if a man tried to take his time on Earth
And prove before he died what one man’s life could be worth-
I wonder what would happen to this world.”

Yes Harry, I sometimes wonder too
But few among the living are as generous as you.

I place a smooth simple stone upon his stone
to let him know that he is not forgotten.


Thirty Eight years gone, but not forgotten.

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to **** it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liars chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
Source: LyricFind

Thank you, Lord, for the simple pleasures of this autumn day.
My morning coffee’s aroma still lingers in the air.
I sit and watch as a troupe of skiffs navigate the windy bay
And the mighty oak beside my house begins to shed its care.

I can just imagine being out there at the helm,
In that lead boat, dancing with the wind,
as it skirts the border of King Neptune’s realm.
Alas, I am old, too old now to realistically begin.

My pet dog, Shannon, sneaks his head
beneath my hand; It is his invitation to a walk.
I fit his leash with my gnarled arthritic hands.
He strains to lead and guides me to the park.

The wind is strong; I’m thankful for the Sun
who does his part to ease the winter chill.
The days when Sun is absent soon will come,
But I am happy as autumn lingers still.

She smiles for the camera;
Since a young girl she’s been taught
to show a brave face to the world:
Never bare ones inner thoughts.

She smiles for the camera
And disguises feeling blue.
She thought that she would be his bride.
She never guessed he’d prove untrue.

She smiles for the camera
With her auburn hair undone.
So when people see this image
They’ll think:”How happy this one was.”

She smiles for the camera
With a heart that nears its break.
You might think she’s doing well,
She intends that you make that mistake.

The pain and anguish she endures
Are daggers of the mind,
Concealed beneath the smiling face
Of the girl he left behind.

When I was little, as a general rule,
I’d hide neath the covers on days meant for school.
I’d lounge in pajamas all day; I swore that I would.
Mom said:” I let you sleep as long as I could!”

So I’d have to get up.   I’d pretend to be sore.
“Surely you could have let me sleep five minutes more!”
Then the sizzle of bacon and the scent of the same
Convinced me my protests would all be in vain.

“I let you sleep as long as I could.”
I disputed this always, but it did me no good.
Though I may be lazy to my spiritual core
Mom always had ways to get me out the door.

First Grade school, then High School, then College –the same,
I always awoke to that dreaded refrain.
I’ll roll out of my rack to the cold bedroom floor
Always swearing I could have slept five minutes more.

Now I am old and I wake to an alarm.
Daylight floods in and the radio is on.
I have a snooze button- should I wish to snore
That would happily let me sleep five minutes more.

But that would be cheating, not how I was raised
So I always get up. To my Mom goes the praise
She made me responsible; you see I turned out good-
because she let me sleep just as long as she could.

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.

It was a "rite of passage"
to climb those stairs
in the dark clock tower.
She went there on a dare.

A" photo opportunity"
that many attempted
once their last test was  taken
and their senior year  ended.

A beautiful girl,
a tragic misstep,
a fall from a height,
a bright future wrecked.

She was not suicidal,
she deserves  thoughts and prayers.
She took one wrong step
and the step wasn't there.

She fell into darkness
her Soul unprepared
Doctors labored to save her
but she couldn't be spared.

The Word Painter sat back with his coffee
In the battered old burgundy colored armchair.
He wished he was instead sipping burgundy
In a coffee colored chair, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Being a word painter is just not as lucrative as it was in the past.
Yet, on the positive side of the ledger, no one was likely
To ask him to swim the Hellespont
and risk his life for Greek independence.

What, then, should he write today?
He thought of her that once had worn his ring
He thought of a girl, lovely, tan
With jet black tresses
and lively Latina  eyes.

Strange, he hadn’t thought of her in quite some time.
Well, he thought, after all, today is her birthday.
“Happy birthday  to my Dear Barbara Jeanne.

You taught me lessons of Love and loss
and left me with just the touch of a poet.

Our land was born in Revolution
and we, soon after, went to war
with the children of the redcoats
we had tussled with before

We've battled our close neighbors
and fought a Civil War.
Teddy Roosevelt led the charge
in the bully Spanish war.

When war broke out in Europe
Wilson said we would attend.
His bungled Versailles treaty
caused  World War to come again.

We battled Tojo's forces
and faced the German's might.
We stalemated in Korea
when we were under Dwight.

Always certain of our power
in defense of what is true
we depopulated Vietnam
then, inexplicably , withdrew.

Now we fight a war on terror
a war that has no end.
As I race towards retirement
I'll not see peace again.

Trillions have been wasted
to fuel the cannons roar.
Weep for our poor country-
A prisoner of War.

The great man was in great pain,
beyond the purely physical.
The old lion sat and watched the waves
feeling bereft and miserable.
His mind kept imagining, over and over,
His son, Quentin, in a second rate plane,
turning to dogfight with a squadron of Folkers:
an act gallant and brave, but in vain.
His son’s Nieuport went down behind enemy lines;
The body retrieved from the flames.
He was buried with honors by his erstwhile foes
Who well knew the young pilot's last name.
His aged father wept for the loss of this son
He repeatedly whispered his name.
They say that the father’s spirit died with the news
Afterward he was never the same.

The young boy measured the distance carefully
and marked the spot of the imaginary rubber.
He hid the pink spaldeen  behind his right hip,
spreading his fingers over imaginary seams
ready to unleash his curve ball
against the unsuspecting garage door


Day after day the scene repeated.
he was out there in the early spring,
and didn't stop until November snows.
Every day strengthening his right arm
and refining his command
He played out the season in his mind.
He waited for the call to the show that never came-
there not being much demand for a short right hander
who topped out at 90

Someone,  out of kindness, might have told the boy
that he didn't have the talent for the majors.  
I'm glad they didn't
For he had found his version of Heaven
at sixty feet six inches.
God forbid that anyone
should ever  take that away.

When I was first brought here,
There was some doubt that I’d survive.
Confined by Fate to this wheelchair;
barely half alive.

The accident that shattered me
had also brought a darkening mood.
Some kind soul had suggested
Nature’s embrace would do me good.

So now on every day, that’s’ clear
I sojourn here among the trees
Whose faithful stolid company
Is medicine to my disease.

I cannot climb or pick the fruit,
I’ve two dead legs and one good arm.
Instead, I sketch and paint from Life
until the morning light is gone.

We understand each other now.
I almost hear the arbor speak
They gift me with a purpose now
And lend me strength when I am weak.

With pen and paper, paint and ink
I learn a healthier way to live
And though I can no longer run,
I accept I still have much to give.

There is puppy love and Eros,
There’s Agape, the love of God.
Then there is that sort of Love
That always struck me as odd.
They call it unrequited Love,
The saddest Love of all.
One whom passion has inflamed;
the other ,not at all.
Much better to have breakup ***
When Lust’s crude passions die,
Than wander, lonely as a cloud
and keep it all inside.
If my true Love would pine for me
I’d be more than delighted.
More likely, I will die, alone,
forever unrequited

We were in orbit around Titan
when old Sol breathed her last.
The yellow dwarf began to swell
burning off the last of her hydrogen gas.

We wept as Sol expanded out
And swallowed up her young
All the rocky planets died
swallowed by the Sun.

Everyone I’d ever loved,
In a twinkling, were consumed
And every place on Earth I’d known
shared in their day of doom.

Our modest crew, the remnant
of all Eve’s progeny.
Set our course to a nearby star
to seek our destiny.

A beautiful voice, heard ,but unseen,
called out to me from the fog draped shore.
I was captivated  by the Siren's song
that all advised me to ignore.

Odysseus, you were most wise,
to have yourself bound ere you heard her cries.
You were serenaded on the deep
yet managed  your original course to keep.  
I, less wise, diverted towards shore,
where rocks, submerged, have wrecked my bark.
Then, as a  whirlpool ****** me down,
saw the Siren laugh to see me drown.

How beautiful! How Cold! how cruel!
She shows no mercy to me, her fool.
Observe my fate and learn, dear Brother,
or the Siren's song will ****** another.

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

Despair was too simple a word for how he felt.
Despondent didn’t quite do it justice either.
Some men might have knelt to God in prayer,
But the lieutenant was not much of a believer.

He took his service revolver in his hand
and looked one last time at their wedding picture.
Tears might have helped, except he could not cry;
not for himself nor for her blighted future.

He thought of his shield mates; his fellow men in blue,
And the twenty-five years he’d put in on the job.
Anxiety had dogged him on every shift.
In the machine called justice, he’d been just a cog.

He’d left his note upon the kitchen table;
just a simple goodbye, not long on explanation.
He took the barrel between his lips and fired;
By dying he would make his expiation.

In deepest slumber, she came to me,
in the darkest hour of the night.
She was not some dreadful seraphim,
but a picture of delight.

Her skin was fair like an Irish lass
with nary a blemish to be seen.
Her hair was golden, long and straight,
With deep blue eyes so wise and keen.

With the merest movement of her wings
She moved so gracefully through the air.
I knew she was an angel, then,
for truly she had quite the pair.

I was enraptured by her gaze
which drained from me my fear and pain.
The angel of death came closer now.
Was it my time? Would she speak my name?

She smiled her sweet angelic smile
and shook her head. I must remain.
I woke with a start to find my old familiar room;
Nothing and everything was the same.

I lie in bed and silently listen to the wind and pouring rain.
Yesterday brought darkness early, I know today will be the same.
Winter has us in its grasp working to impose its will,
But, even on this shortest day, there’s cause for optimism still.
For, from now on, in our annual journey
Our lands will tilt towards our star.
Though this day be one of maximum darkness
Brighter days cannot be far

Her first few steps
on the high wire frightened her.
(Don't look down! I mustn't look down.)
Her lithe body suspended in mid air
high above the killing ground.

Step by step she inched across
to a place where freedom was assured.
Her old life she now left behind her.
Those ties that bound her she abjured.

The candy filled hearts pile up unsold, and roses go on sale.
A state of deep distrust divides the female and male.
Would-be Romeos instead watch **** and take no lover to their bed.
All complements are misconstrued and hugs become a source of dread.
It’s all too easy to lose your job for posts you made or words you said.

Our human nature is demeaned; each overture imposes risk.
Males are viewed as predators. The zeitgeist changes can’t be missed.
Before you kiss your Tinder date- get signed consent, you must insist.
If not, she might have second thoughts and your name gets added to the list.

It reminds me of McCarthy’s time when left of center was a crime
Actors and artists were dismissed; their names were added to black lists.
Another witch-hunt has begun; this time it is a war on fun.
Flirtation may lead to citation. Romance is a risky proposition.
To risk your heart seems a suicide mission.

The spire and the roof collapsed,
But at least no body died.
Stained glass melted from the heat
and priceless works of art besides.
Our Lady is open to the sky;
Her tabernacle desecrated.
A treasure of man’s faith is gone.
Can such be recreated?
An aged curate walks her aisles
Whose walls hold echoes of men’s prayers.
He looks upon bare ruined choirs
and fights back feelings of despair.
“We will rebuild” the Father thinks
as the heated stones grow cold.
“We lift our hearts up to the Lord
Who paid the ransom for our souls.”

She hailed from the port of Belfast;
The Night Ferry of the Sterna line.
She was not fast like the modern boats today,
In truth, her best days were behind her.

The Irish sea was rough and unforgiving
And the smell of diesel oil was ever present.
We were headed out to Cairnyan,
with Edinburgh our final destination.

First, we had to weather out the storm;
the worst in memory per my childish imagination.
My parents both stayed calm; they betrayed no sense of fear.
They lent me the courage I did not possess.

My seasick pills helped too,
Or I would have lost my dinner in that gale.
Finally, the ferry slipped into her berth
and was ******* to the dock.

It is a distant memory and, as such,
Half real and half imagined.

Today I came upon this word
which at first blush may sound absurd.
It means you're tookered, all worn out,
at the end of your tether without a doubt.

So if you're too tired to seek even pleasure.
Quanked is a word that takes your measure.
Exhaustion has a new adjective
If you care to comment- please, no invective!

It lives in the darkness; it feeds on despair.
Once ensconced in reason’s castle
It proclaims the brain its’ lair.
Subtle at first; then it grows more aggressive
Your memories are stolen and your words become guesses.
We cut burn and poison, but as yet there’s no cure.
A date with Death’s Angel is all but assured.
Pandora ’s Box unleashed on us a world of pain and fear.
Hope remains our lone defense for all that we hold dear.

The only lottery where I took first prize
was the  one that determined who lived and who died.
I might have been sent to Nam with a gun
had my number come up in Seventy one.
Instead our older brothers all
had their names inscribed upon a wall,
in gold leafed letters, incused in black,
that said they weren't coming back.
I have no tales to offer of battles I won,
That's because I was the fortunate son.

Our eyes met on the crowded train and we were changed forever.
I was captivated by her smile; she thought my small talk clever.
Our conveyance bucked and rolled through that cold, dark night.
We were locked inside a cattle car; no scenery in sight.

We quickly learned each other’s names and fell in love I fear.
We knew we shared a common faith; the thing that brought us here.
We could not know her time was short. We would not be together.
We spoke of our future, hopefully, and swore we’d love forever.

I have kept that promise, all these years, since she was torn from me.
She died the day we entered here, where “Arbeit Macht Frei .”
I recall the day the Russians came; our German guards had fled.
That precious day salvation came for the living and the dead.
I looked out over the little lake where they’d dumped the Jews’ cremains,
and felt my face wet with bitter tears as I whispered your sweet name.

The names of the suspects are covered in ink,
leaving us not knowing what we should  think.
Here we have Mueller, whose words were redacted,
saying sitting POTUSes cannot be indicted.
Despite spending Millions and  two years of time
No proof of Conspiracy was he able to find.
" No Collusion!!" Trump tweets time after time.
Ignoring Obstruction which may be his crime.
Imagine the scene at Biden's inauguration
when his opponent is dragged off for incarceration.
Unless he's impeached first for this offense
and we all have to suffer under President Pence.

It was already late when we approached my friend’s front gate.
The Sun was setting in the western sky.
“Our days grow imperceptibly shorter now.” He observed.
“Yes, we’re past the Solstice.” was my reply.
I put my weight upon my cane as I ascended his front steps,
And caught the sight of two old men reflected in a window’s glass.
“Our days grow shorter” I agreed.

I’m not sure if he noticed, but
I’d omitted “imperceptibly”.

My brother-in-law was a chauffeur.
He loved cars since he was a teen.
My sister Clare thought he looked handsome
at the wheel of a Lynch Limousine.
For years he drove town cars to airports.
He was courteous and impeccably dressed.
He loved New York’s bridges and byways,
And he rated among the best.
Later in Life, Tom drove Corporate.
A CEO rode in the back.
The job had appeal; Tom was still at the wheel.
And nothing was better than that.
Then, when Semi-retired, Tom drove school buses
shepherding Pre-Teens to class.
A task unappealing to many of us,
But Tom always had parents trust.
Even his hobby revolved around cars;
Tom owned vintage automobiles.
His black 40’ Chevy appeared in parades
with, as usual, Tom at the wheel.

This day, a sad day, Tom will take his last ride
In a Cadillac, polished and black.
This day another will be doing the driving;
This day Tom will be riding in back.

Dear Prince Hal has breathed his last.
He leaves behind a storied past.
Some Hits, some flops, but mostly glory,
Like” Company” and “West side Story”
He gave us” Phantom” at his height
with its sweet music of the night.
He worked with Sondheim; He mentored Weber,
How glorious was their work together.
Let the lights dim on every Broadway Marquee
To honor this, his timeless legacy.

She whispered, “it is time for me to go”.
So soft, I barely heard her words.
Her fight was gallant; these past few months,
Now she prepared to leave this world.
Each breath was labored; the morphine drip
eased her passage and her pain.
Mom had been there for me all my years.
Now only one of us remains.
Are my tears selfish? I blink them back,
As I hear her death declared
I hope she’s with the angels now
and the God who answered one last prayer.

She had one lesson left to teach;
At the end, be ready, that is all.
I finally let go of her hand,
The hand I’d held since I was small.

Sophie was just twenty-two, arrayed in prison grey,
Sentenced to death for treason; this, her final day.
She was a faithful Catholic who defied the twisted cross.
She saw through the Fuhrer’s lies; those golden piles of dross.

Her boyfriend was a medic who served on the Eastern front.
Then, wounded, he returned with some hard truths to confront.
He’d seen the mass graves filled with Jews; the horror, the despair.
Demons such as ****** require more than prayer.

When they authored their first leaflet they surely must have known
That they would be discovered and how they would atone.
With each succeeding pamphlet, they courted their demise.
Their Martyrdom a certainty; the truth is treason in men’s eyes.

One by one the White rose died; death by the guillotine.
They had committed treason; their sentence guaranteed.
When Sophie heard the guillotine sing she knew what they had found;
As she, too, cast off her earthly cross and exchanged it for a crown.