Perhaps they had tried to escape,
or else done some petty crime.
These three would not be gassed or shot-
The rope would serve just fine.

Two men, one boy with nooses fixed-
condemned but never tried.
The nooses tightened on their necks
as they kicked the air and died.

Except the boy, he was too light
He lingered when they died
“Where is God?” one man muttered
“Where is He?” others cried.

They made us all march past the place
Where those three in judgment fell
The boy in his slow agony
still endured his private Hell.

The path we walked was ash and bone
Of former inmates made
Those gassed and buried in the air
These were their sole remains.

“Where is God? Where is He now?”
Some muttered as they passed.
I thought- if He’s not hanging here
More than likely He’s been gassed.


( based on an entry in a Auschwitz survivor’s memoir)

By
MEG ELISON


I am the very model of a modern-age millennial,
I’ve got no cash, no house, no kids, and student debt perennial,
I know the rules of Tinder, and I’m not sold on monogamy
(For what it’s worth I think that stems from troubles ‘tween my mom and me)
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters on the gender front
Myself, I am nonbinary; your labels I so do not want
Been disillusioned by my expectations with a lot o’ stuff,
The skills with which I am equipped for life are frankly not enough

My job prospects are hobbled by insistence on a living wage
Compete at entry level with some washed-up folks at twice my age
In matters of identity, employment and such petty ills
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial
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On Monday I killed Applebee’s, on Tuesday I axed country clubs
I’ve never bought a diamond and I have no use for cashmere gloves
I quote dank internet memes in lieu of sharing actual thoughts
For earnestness has been passé since sometime in the early aughts
Still advertisers flail and fail to capture all my buying power
(The sum of which amounts to renting GIG cars by the paltry hour)
I’m subject to the bleak nostalgia of Generation Xers
And YouTube sensibilities adored by web-savvy youngsters
So I get to the take the blame for our country’s tanked economy
While fighting for my basic rights and ****** autonomy
In short I’m ****** in matters from the vital to the trivial
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial

In fact, when I know what is meant by "social justice warrior”
When I can tell at sight a fascist MRA conspirator
When such affairs are treated as unsolvable new mysteries,
I shake my head and wonder if the Boomers studied history
When I have learnt what progress has been made and then just flushed away
My generation’s best bet looks like playing Fortnite drunk all day
In short, if you’re angry right now and spewing aged white vitriol
Remember you created me: the modern age millennial

For I’m the generation raised upon the game Monopoly
You’re hoarding all the wealth and jobs and mock me for my poverty
So now I’m skewing socialist with discourse quite ungenial
Please check your local ballots for the modern-age millennial

“Mister Whitman, I am thankful that you have consented to give me some of your time so that  I can finished my article about you for the Gazette.”

“Please, Call me Walt. Everyone else does.”

The famous poet is just a little shorter than myself, his hair and beard grown quite Grey..  His study is modestly furnished. While he is certainly comfortable there is nothing about this room that speaks fo great wealth.

“Do you enjoy living here? It must be so calm compared to New York and Washington.”

“Camden is a good enough place to retire.  After all that I have witnessed, I am content to rest in my modest little house. The Widow Davis, my friend and housekeeper, keeps the place neat enough and permits me to keep on at my work. Sadly, the words no longer come easily to me. For you see, Son,  I had a mild stroke, some years ago, and afterwards the voice of my muse which used to sing loudly to me became a still tiny voice that I had to be very attentive to hear. Most of the time my muse is drowned out completely by the noises of human existence. Camden has grown considerably since the War Between the States. Even before Mother died, it was on its way to becoming a modern town, although not so grand as Philadelphia or Washington.”

“Walt, I’ve brought you and your guest some coffee and a Couple of those Butter cookies that you love.”.
“Thank you, Mary, that is most kind.”
“I’ll leave them here beside your desk on this little table. I am going out now to visit Anne Walker and I have to make a trip to the store for tonight’s dinner.”  I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“I probably don’t actually need the butter cookies, but I was brought up to be polite. At least with Mrs. Davis out and about this afternoon, it will give us quiet to finish up our interview. The light on these winter afternoons fades a little after Four O’clock and I find myself growing tired and sleepy along with the dying of the light. In my whole long life I have never been a man who loved winter. I have always been one to rejoice at the coming of spring.  I would make an exception only for the war years. During the War the killing slacked off a bit in the Winter, except in 62’ when that fool Burnside attacked St Mary’s Heights and ordered so many to their deaths.
Our hospital in Washington was busy after Fredericksburg. All those fine young men, boys really, some missing an eye, most a limb. The worse were the ones who were gut shot and a long time dying. For them there was nothing that we could do except to offer them some Morphine for the pain.”
“How did you get involved in the abolitionist movement?
“For several years after I left off teaching on Long Island, I edited and published newspapers. The work took me, for a time, to New Orleans before the war. The sight of the slave’s misery on the auction blocks and the way they were treated by their masters convinced me that Slavery had to end. I left that place and came back to Brooklyn to publish a Freeman’s Journal. That is what lead me to become a Republican and support Mr. Lincoln in 60’.”

“How did you become involved in the War effort as a volunteer Nurse?”

I was a abolitionist before and during the war. At first, I made it my mission to visit the wounded in the hospitals.  When it was my brother who was wounded, I travelled to Washington to nurse him back to health. It was there that I found my true calling; tending to the Union maimed and dying. I was not formally trained in the caring profession of Nursing but I learned by watching and then doing. I became proficient in tending to the sick and relieving the suffering of those about to die.   I have seldom been commercially successful with my writing, other than the one edition of Leaves of Grass which enjoyed strong sales after the war and earned me enough to buy and maintain this townhouse.  During the War and for several years afterward, I clerked in the Department of the interior.”
“How did it come about that you left the department?”

“It turned out that my immediate superior was not a fan of my poetry, and, once he found out that I was the same Walt Whitman who was the author of that scandalous book of verse; my employment was at an end.”   “It was all for the best, really. Mother was doing very poorly by then and my brother was not up to the task of caring for her.”  

“Do you think you will ever publish another book of verse?”

I will certainly try. It is just that as I told you previously, the words don’t come as easily as once they did.  For those ten years before during and after the war I was on fire with the pure bright flame of inspiration”. Now I don’t know if the world changed or I did. Both, I suspect.”

“The passions that excite us when we are young grow cool. They become replaced with tiredness and resignation.”
“Well Walt, for me your verse never grows old. It has been an honor to me you and I hope you enjoy my article when it appears in the Gazette.” “If I can successfully decipher my shorthand, I should have enough for a thousand words.”

Mister Whitman bade me farewell at the door.  As it turned out we would never meet again, unless it be on the streets of Heaven. His housekeeper found him the next morning.  He had passed in his sleep, perhaps from another stroke.  My editor helped me redraft my article and it became the obituary of a great American. The memory of our brief meeting remains seared in my memory.

I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****,
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.

Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.


Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!

There once was this maid in Gibraltar
who was proud of the ******* in her halter-
so she flashed them around
to the boys of the town
who all took her to bed, not the Altar

It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.

He itemized his medical bills,
Maxed retirement deductions.
He's given cash to charities
and Democratic functions.
This scion of the one percent
knows its his cash they're after.
Manipulating tax returns
will keep him the last laugher.
A death this year is profitable
before tax cuts expire.
While he'll probably miss his parents
Still he set their house on fire.
He hates to see the old place go
but still he watched it burn
while thinking of deductions
for the Estate tax return.

It is a pleasant place to lie,
amidst a copse of Olive trees.
The tears of muses, never dried,
have effaced the writing from your stone.
These hills about once knew your step,
your strong and confident poet’s stride.
Robert, the Royal Fusilier,
Once thought dead, but you’d survived.

Your home is a museum now,
Your Black Cordoban hangs on the wall.
I step into the little den
where you finally said farewell to all.
Looking out your window I
Espy a naked maiden flee.
Skin starkly white with Golden hair-
The White goddess? Could it be?
At any rate, a comely lass,
Beauty to whet a poet’s pen
I’ve heard you were inspired thus
by lovely muses, now and then.


Your domestic arrangements
Were quite strange;
celibate infidelity.
I’ll admit that’s one I haven’t tried.
Nor would I like to, honestly.
But your genius can’t be ignored.
by honest literary men.
I’ve spend hours in Ancient Rome
transported by your fertile pen.

Farewell Robert, Beryl too
You knew he’d be yours at the end.
Muses fuel a poet’s pen
But cannot love as wives may do.

I came with the wind,
with the wind I will go.
It has always been thus
And will ever be so.
For the wind is his breath
And the Rain is her tears
The sunlight, their glory,
And the darkness, their fears.
More worship the Sunrise,
It seems so to me,
than the fiery Sunset
As it sinks in the sea.
Yet, in truth, both are equal
In pure majesty.

A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?

The admiral of the U.S. fleet
was staring towards the shore.
A mob of people jammed the wharf.
He thought we were at war.
The good Mayor Paulo, of Monterrey
was waving with the rest.
He saw our large Pacific fleet
And, doubtless, was impressed.
The commodore made cannons roar
The impact shook the ground
By miracle no townsfolk died
And not one sailor drowned.
“Perhaps they are saluting us!”
The puzzled mayor said.
But when we put marines ashore
Such thoughts soon left his head.
That day we captured Monterrey
It was quite the feat of arms
We lost just one or two marines
to some Senorita’s charms.
The State Department soon put an end
To the splendid little war
And erstwhile foes departed friends
from the Mexicali shore.

The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.

To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.

In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They’ll dress the house in Black tomorrow.

His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he’d be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion

He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war’s last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..

There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of  shore.

Remember our high school finals-
the proctors, attentive, alert.
They roamed the aisles like policemen;
on the lookout for cheaters and flirts.

I was an enigma to them;
in some classes, first honors, hands down.
In others I ranked near the bottom;
acting, you’d say, the class clown.

I mention those long ago days
as I’m facing a final of sorts.
I’ve taken the medical tests-
Now I wait in my robe and my shorts.

This new proctor gives me the creeps
with his scythe and his hooded black gown,
but he’s sure to command my attention
when he tells me to put my pen down

The Sun in Sudan is unkind.
There beauty withers into dust.
The people there are primitive,
Their ways are alien to us.

A Christian woman, eight months pregnant,
Has been condemned to lash and rope.
convicted by Sharia law.
Our outrage is her earthly hope.

For Meriam refused to yield,
In Jesus she maintains her trust.
She would not convert by force
To a cult that seeks control of us.

A modern day Antigone,
condemned to death because of faith.
A prisoner of Conscience, she,
Like the Lamb, endures their hate.

She is not clothed as with the Sun.
The child she bears, no Savior King.
She’s labelled an adulteress
though she wears her husband’s ring.

Her faith provides no easy path,
that often is the way of things.
Like all those Martyrs who came before her,
She puts her trust in Christ the King.

A learned scientist opines
in outer space there are two lines:
Proteins that would mirror mine,
and sugars of a non digestible kind.
On Earth “Left handed” proteins rule
at Barrows base right up to Thule.
“Right handed” sugars fuel our race
“left Handed” sugars have no place.
In our earthly reality
We have homochirality.

Still, somewhere in the cosmic dust
might be the opposite of us.
On a world no meteor ever scored
Might be space faring dinosaurs!
Intelligent, cunning and with big teeth-
Suppose they come to disturb our “peace”
Velociraptors with ray guns
might be as nasty as they come.
Thank God the U.S. has Marines
to blow those “Saurs” to smithereens.
Then, after they have taken their licking
We’ll find out if they taste like chicken.

I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****,
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.

Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.


Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!

The woman paid money-
Three hundred it’s said-
To help change her life
But she ended up dead.

A voodoo priest promised
To alter her fate,
but all he accomplished
was speeding up her due date..

The candles were lit
on his bedroom floor there.
The priest and the woman
Shortly after went bare

“Oh, Father!” she murmured
“You’re sure looking swell!
Now come do that Voodoo
That you do so well.”

As they bounced on the bed
A candle placed there
Fell down and ignited
Clothes piled on a chair.

The supplicant woman
And the priest, now defrocked,
At first didn’t notice
while they were hip locked.

But first they smelled smoke
And then they saw fire.
They had no clothes and no means
to extinguish their pyre..

The voodoo priest’s roommate
Was ironing pants
When he heard the commotion
It didn’t sound like romance.

When he opened the door
To go to their aide
A strong gust of wind
Added fuel to the flame
A blazing inferno
engulfed the whole room
what had been their temple
was shortly their tomb.

The tenants all fled
As the night burned bright red
They had only the clothes on their backs
Reports said.

When you next do the voodoo
That you do so well
Skip the part with the candles
And you may live to tell.

She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.

She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.

So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.

I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as  the stroke of midnight fell.

Her fingers deeply  in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.

She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.

In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.

As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.


She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.

I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.

“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”

Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town  Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.



It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"

The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.

Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."

I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.

I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.  










.

“I thought you said that they would come. “Ray said it with a sigh.
Outside the ballpark Chaos reigned as another city died.
At Camden Yards a game was played; no fans were let inside.
Terry sadly eyed the scene and fought the urge to cry.
For baseball represents the best that America could be,
until hatred triumphed teamwork, forging chains of misery.
The inner harbor is in flames and they’ll not soon subside
The bitter angels of our nature ruled as another city died.
In time the final out was made and the players left the field.
The home team lost, no save was made

And no one’s wounds were healed.

She was on a crowded Uptown "A",
with one hand holding on.
In her other hand, a paperback,
dog eared, its cover gone.

Hamlet and Polonius
were with the player King
Bed-Sty might well be Elsinore-
when the plays the thing.

There were plots and counter plots-
to do young Hamlet harm.
"My money is on Fortinbras-
I said, then I was gone.

The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.

When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.

A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.

Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.


Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.

The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.

Dark draped the Ferry in confusion
on its final, fatal night.
Survivors spoke of a collision.
They knew that something wasn’t right.
A class of students on a trip
Bound for Jeju from Incheon
The Ferryman said to stay below
but he debarked and they’re all gone.
The ferry Sewol began to list
and water poured in through her ports.
Will anyone present forget the screams?
Souls in torment fill their thoughts.
Search and rescue soon became
a sad and grim recovery.
Their final moments were caught on cellphones
recovered from the silted sea.
The Ferryman has much to answer
About those students left behind
Perhaps in dreams he will be haunted
as young  drowned faces flood his mind.

Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary….

When books are replaced with Kindles and Nooks,
and content resides on the cloud.
It is relatively easy to delete certain works
at the whim of the haughty and proud.

If libraries falter, wither and die
The poor will lose access to the printed word.
Ten percent of the market will quickly dry up
and the price of a book gets absurd.

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.

The pleasure we had in turning each page
as our minds raced ahead to the end.
Short battery life never hindered our quest
when ****, Jane and Spot were our friends.

A storm on the Sun bringing ionized rays
and digital files are undone.
and force us to search yellow crumbling pages
for rumors of Kipling and Donne.

Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.

Was Bradbury right? Should we all memorize
the words born of our favorite pen?
Imagine reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet by heart
so that silence won’t win in the end.

I went and bought a "Smart" house
in a stylish part of town.
It cost me a cool million
but its features did astound.
I can control the lights and locks
with apps on my smartphone.
I can view cam every room
to make sure no ones home.
The shutters and the blinds will rise
or drop at my command.
I can start the fireplace
while flying from Milan.
The automated kitchen
can prepare a gourmet meal.
and place my grocery order
making sure I get good deals.
In my den a giant wall
is a high res LCD
It shows me sports
and other sorts
of lovely greenery.
You'd think this place is perfect
and you're nearly right of course.
I'd still like to lose the talking scale
that says "Get off, You Horse!"

Unseen and scene,
Of both composed;
these aery heavens,
this solid globe.
Will roused my Sire’s
ghost from the grave.
Will would, for
that’s the part
he played.
What is Will’s will
I next should say?
Will I best Laertes
with my foil today?
Will the villain, Claudius,
be undone
by his victim’s
vacillating son?
What is Will’s will
regarding Mum?

Unseen and scene,
Of both composed;
these Aery heavens
this solid globe.

Now I lay dying,
and Fortenbras comes.
Let my tale be told
in every tongue.
“The rest is silence”-
Thy will be done.

Pygmalion beseeched Aphrodite:
"Goddess, please answer my plea:
Give life to my dear Galatea,
that she may live always with me. “

The goddess, in a generous mood,
animated your figure Divine.
Your *******, generous in proportion,
Your bubble **** one of a kind.

Your skin is a fine alabaster;
Like marble, but warm to the touch.
Could your sculptor have done any better?
No, I’m sure there is only one such.

With golden, shoulder length tresses
and lips, apple red, candy sweet.
It’s not much of a mystery, really,
That Pygmalion was swept off his feet.

The dikasts had cast their votes,
and their votes had sealed my fate.
I serve as scapegoat for my city,
which has been in decline of late.

Banishment would have been death,
a lingering one for me.
So I managed to persuade them
to vote for the death penalty.

So now friends I become
a Hemlock connoisseur.
Others favor wines and liquors
but my poison is more sure .

To be sure, the juice was bitter,
and I drained it down in haste.
It is not the sort of beverage
for which one acquires taste.

I am, in truth, no Democrat
and My gods were not their gods.
My constant questioning annoyed them
which is why we were at odds.

The chill has reached my *****
and soon now I will sleep.
but one thing on my mind
requires that I speak:.

“Crito, we owe a ****,
to Asclepius,.
Make sure it is paid
please do not neglect it.”

I cover my face over
as my heart slows and stops.
A mystic fog envelopes me
as the boatman’s ship departs.

His mother goes there every day.
His dried blood stains still mark the spot.
She gets down on her knees and prays.
Such grief will never be forgot.

Her son was murdered for his phone.
A single bullet to the head.
A single gold shell case was found
not far from when he was found dead.

He was his mother's only son
coming home from work at night.
Police came and took his Dad-
for victims must be identified.

Such suffering must one's heart bear
remembering that final day
to see him silent on a slab.
over and over it replays.

So numerous are Urban youth
like drops of water in a stream.
Still each drop is a human life.
Every droplet bears a dream.

His mother goes there every day.
A gentle rain begins to fall.
His girl left some carnations there.
She struggles to accept it all.

If Father Mychal Judge gave you a hug, it was something you would not soon forget. It was not a burly bone crushing sort of bear hug that you could get from anybody. It was a delicate gentle hug as if he knew he was dealing with someone exquisitely fragile.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Mychal Judge had felt called to a Priestly vocation since his days as an altar boy. He was also a celibate gay man and a recovering alcoholic. He attended A.A. meetings in the basement of Good Sheppard Episcopal Church and was as an apostle to the gay community when elements of the mainstream church often turned their backs upon them. The Franciscan priest had a special care for the New York City fire department and was one of five Catholic Chaplains assigned to the Fire Department.
His frame was small but wiry. He had a shock of white hair that stood out in a room and a lovely tenor voice that would bust into a favorite Irish air at the drop of a hat. A member of the New York Irish diaspora, he loved to spend his spare time listening to Irish and Irish American folk music in the clubs and dives of Manhattan.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001, dawned as beautiful of a fall day in New York as any would ever see. Father Mychal was up early and went to vote in the primary, then briefly stopped back at the Franciscan friary for a morning cup of coffee with the brothers. There was a radio on in the background and that was when he first heard news of a commercial jet crashing into the North tower of the world trade center. Father Mychal knew that his boys would be going in harm’s way to fight those flames and he immediately rose from the table and set out to the scene.
Even before he arrived, a second commercial jetliner came crashing into to the south tower. The flames on the upper floors were so intense that many trapped office workers chose to leap to their deaths below rather than be consumed alive by the flames like some latter day heretics.
One of Father Mychal’s firemen had been mortally injured just outside North tower by one of the leapers. Oblivious to his own safety Father Mychal knelt down beside the dying man and gave him the last rites of the church. Father then got to his feet and, in the company of several firemen, entered the lobby of the North tower. They were heading for the emergency command center on the floor above the lobby when there was an unearthly roar as the stricken south tower collapse upon the streets of Manhattan. The world inside the North tower grew dark with smoke, soot and debris. Fearful that the North tower was coming down the men scrambled for shelter in a stairwell, all except for Father Mychal. A flying shard of metal stuck the Padre just after he had been heard by some to say “Sweet Jesus, make it end now!”
In the dark and flaming ruins of the North tower command center, it was difficult to breath and impossible to see clearly. The survivors of the group emerged from the stairwell where they had taken refuge and stumble across the beloved Padre’s body on the steps. Not wanting to abandon him in death, they placed him in a plastic chair and fire strong men lifted him up and carried him out of the dying North Tower, mere minutes before it too would collapse.
On the sidewalk of Church and Vesey streets, two catholic firemen said prayers over the body of their fallen companion, for no Priest was available to give Father Mychal the last rites of the church. Then he was brought to Old Saint Peter’s church and laid upon the Altar, his fireman’s helmet placed upon his chest.
They sent an ambulance into the devastated streets to retrieve the body of their fallen comrade. They bought him back to the house at Engine 1 Ladder 24 and placed his remains in the first of over two thousand body bags that would be used in the days and weeks that followed. That is how a humble priest who never put himself first in life came to be victim 0001 of the Twin towers disaster.
Hundreds of brave firemen and police gave their lives on that tragic day, the toll in the firehouse of lower Manhattan was especially heavy as you would expect. Time passes, lives end, and eventually there will only be the films the photos and the artifacts to remind the children of our children of that beautiful, terrible day in September.

Holy Child Parish had seen better days
in the century recently closed.
The passage of time and societal change
had emptied out each wooden row.
The caretaker moved, a little bit slow;
The empty church echoed each step.
There! From the manger; a weak little cry:
A sound he would not soon forget.
A babe in the manager, a live baby boy;
A towel was his swaddling clothes.
His mother had left him, believing him safe.
Safe as anyplace else she supposed.
The school nurse was sent for, to care for the child
who was otherwise healthy, just cold.
Parishioners called him a miracle baby;
found asleep in the crib of the Lord.
The Press soon descended, the media Magi,
to give homage like Pilgrims of old.
On tape and in print the good news went out.
The story was told and retold




It made people smile, for the times now are grim
and good news has been in short supply.
They’ve named the boy John, for the prophet of old;
In the wilderness hear one voice cry.

The businessman was on the prowl
that soft night in September.
He was looking for a bit of strange
and a night he would remember.
She need not be a ****** queen
but he didn't like them jaded.
A rose bud opened, deeply blushed,
surpasses one that's faded.
Caveat emptor stills applies
He'd do well to remember-
Curvy vendors lay and lie
to those who seek illegal tender

You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.

Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.

These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.

Curves and ice cream swirls can be
****, yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.

To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”

I am fleeing from Proscription,
half heartedly at best.
I view death with some ambivalence,
as perhaps a welcome rest.
I would die here in the Country
That I have, so often, saved.
The constitution predeceased me.
The Republic is enslaved.

A Freedman has betrayed me.
I see soldiers block my path.
Like some fallen Gladiator,
I’ve turned thumbs down on in the past,
I will not draw back in fear,
I stretch my neck out to the sword.
By the gods, this man’s a butcher.
My neck is hacked and sawed.

It’s an interesting perspective
as my head rolls in the dust.
They are hacking off my hands
My voiceless lips mouth my disgust.

I have loved this time of year since the moment of my birth;
Its panoply of colored leaves that flutter down to earth.
I’ve loved the cool and bracing breeze, the fruits of harvest grown,
the sight of geese in Vee formation winging their way home.
My treks out to the cider mill for a warm mug or glass.
The times I’ve spent reflecting upon this year just passed.
I raise the collar of my coat against a sudden chill.
I feel cold winter’s icy breath drawing nearer still.
Please delay the Christmas tunes another week or two.
Oktoberfest is barely done, so sit and have a brew.
****** me not with chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Winter just means shoveling, the snow piled ever higher.
Its days: short, dark, and dreary. Its nights are long and cold.
So I mourn Autumn’s passing with its gifts of red and gold.

I woke up on the gurney
with pain that robs my breath.
Broken ribs and a row of sutures
running down between my *******.
Strange to still be breathing
when my heart is dead and gone
In my chest Abio-Cor
stubbornly pumps on.

Was it really just a week ago
sitting with my friends  in class
when first I felt the stabbing pain.
when each breath came as a gasp?
My teacher called an ambulance
He saved my life, friends say.
A muscle killing virus
caused my pulse to fade away.
One hundred over forty
I was quickly losing ground.
I would need a donor transplant
but none compatible was found.

I’m a high school girl, just seventeen
-I should be college bound
Not fighting for each breath and
destined for a plot of ground.
The surgeon asked my parents
if he should try Abio-Cor
an artificial heart replacement
in which researchers placed great store.
My crying parents, grasped the straw
consenting he should try.
They would operate immediately-
delay would mean I’d die.

So now I’m in recovery
with my artificial heart.
My fiends call me the Tin Girl,
because of my replacement part.
It will be a long recovery-
seven weeks if fate is kind..
I share my feelings with a heart
still learning to be mine

All seems quiet, peaceful,
as I flit across the meadow.
Yet, even now, the sun upon my wings
is overtook by shadow .

The wind grows strong and menacing,
and the day turns dark and odd.
Raindrops fall from heaven
like the weeping of some god.

I am a frail but living thing
determined to remain.
I must find shelter from the storm-
that much, at least, is plain.

Some say the flapping of my wings
gave birth to this mighty storm..
I’m no instrument of Chaos,
surely those who say it must be wrong.

Its far more likely that the storm
will cause my being to cease
than that the flapping of my wings
would ever mar the peace.

Was my end in my beginning?
Such thoughts are far beyond my ken.
But if my wings can cause such things
in my beginning was my end.

Five thousand Pounds of steel,
rising from the ground,
in a rusted, twisted state
at the center of our town.
The names of us who died
are inscribed around the base.
Our names are spoken yearly
and have been given pride of place.
Yet please don’t call us victims-
People taken unawares-
Recall us rather heroes
for we chose to climb those stairs.
We were fire and policemen
first responders, one and all,
In the war waged against terror
we were just the first to fall.

to contemplate your beauty
is this poets' guilty pleasure,
but, as we're taking separate trains,
this joy won't last forever.
The play of light upon your face
as you read some Lovers' twit
gives you an aspect of Kabuki
in the station's dark abyss.
Your perfect, doll-like, features
painted porcelain by the light
An oasis of sheer beauty
amidst the station's urban blight.
Too quick, the moment passes.
I board and you remain.
For, you see, I'm headed Westbound
aboard the downtown train.
You reminded me of one I loved
in another place and time.
The girl who is forever young
and never far from mind.

Taunt, firm, ***** and pleasing fair
and warm amidst the cool night air.
A drop of breast milk is expressed
to please the one who loves it best.
He who waits with undisguised pleasure
to **** upon it at his leisure.
Relax, this is no **** spawned prattle
Just baby Rob and his Two A.M. bottle.

He still is strong and handsome
as he was in his playing days.
He can enjoy a game of golf
on challenging fairways.
Still he knows that somethings gaining
and he dare not look behind.
Even Michael Jordan knows
you cannot outscore time.
It doesn't seem that long ago
he wore a champion's ring.
Now Lebron is all the rage
and commercials are his thing.
No longer can he rise above
the rim, or run and hide.
Time just posted 50 up
and it isn't on his side.

Bonn Prostitutes working the streets
now pay twice for displaying their treats.
Not content with the tax they extort,
for plying the world's oldest profession.
Now Politicians, ****** of a sort,
want more money despite the recession.
Now to make the sin tax yield sweeter
Certain streets now have ******* meters.
Six Euros a night is the rate
for these girls who have more than one “date”
So if your “dame des abends” says “Antreiben! ”
as the clocks ticking down on the evening.
She has a legitimate worry
in telling her"boyfriend" to hurry.
In Bonn, the meter is running
and only the meter maid’s coming!

Jeudi, 21 Février, 1788, NYC

Il a été dit que la science progresse un décès à la fois. Pour Jeune Docteur Richard Bayley, professeur aspirant des études anatomiques, ce fut littéralement le cas. Il avait besoin d'un approvisionnement constant de cadavres récemment décédés pour ses recherches, et ce fut la raison pour laquelle il était là, la négociation avec les trois voleurs de corps dans le sous-sol de l'hôpital de New York.
"Il ya une jeune femme, Margaret La Stella, décédé jeudi dernier, et qui repose dans le complot de sa famille dans le cimetière de l'église de la Trinité." Ceci est le corps, je dois, pour ma recherche, et je suis prêt à payer le taux en vigueur pour vos services. "
Quel improbable trio étaient ces hommes debout avec lui. Leur chef, James, était un géant d'un homme robuste, près de six pieds de haut, ses deux compagnons étaient des nains par comparaison, à peine cinq pieds chacun. "Rafe ici est un bon pour crocheter les serrures sur les portes de fer et Alfie est rapide avec une pelle en bois. Il les ressuscite dans une hâte: «Je vais pousser le corps dans une brouette et de vous rencontrer de retour ici pour livrer la marchandise et récupérer notre argent. Vous aurez à payer un peu plus que vous le feriez pour un pauvre ou un nègre ".
Il était une négociation rapide et le docteur assez rapidement convenu à son prix, laissant James à se demander si il aurait dû demander plus. Eh bien, une bonne affaire est une bonne affaire, et une médaille d'or chacun Guinée était bon salaire pour un travail obscur de la nuit.
Ils défilaient sur puis, laissant le jeune Richard à ses pensées. Bientôt, très bientôt, il serait de nouveau afficher Margaret. Bientôt son corps allait abandonner ses secrets pour lui et il serait apprendre la mort avait pris celle qui avait été si belle et si jeune. Il n'y avait rien à faire pour lui maintenant, sauf à attendre. Il est assis avec une tasse de thé et a tenté de se distraire avec le journal du soir.
Body Snatchers, ou Resurrectionists, comme ils préfèrent être appelés, sont en mauvaise réputation en cette année de notre Seigneur 1788. gens souhaitent en général tourner un oeil aveugle quand le corps de certains pauvre a fini sur la table de dissection. Un bien faire femme blanche avec une famille était généralement prévu pour se reposer tranquillement. Encore James et ses deux petits complices connaissaient leur entreprise et vous faire le travail rapide de celui-ci sur cette nuit.
James arrêta son cheval et le chariot bien en deçà de la Trinité, ne voulant pas porter trop d'attention à eux. Il serait monter la garde à la porte du cimetière avec une brouette tandis que ses deux complices petits glissa à l'intérieur et fixés au corps.
Trinity Church cimetière était à côté du site de l'ancienne église qui avait brûlé dans le grand incendie de New York du 76 '. Le doyen actuel de l'église avait accumulé des fonds destinés à la construction d'un second, plus grandiose église de la Trinité, mais encore la construction avait pas encore commencé. L'absence de l'église physique devrait signifier pas de gardien et un cimetière qui serait totalement déserte sur une nuit la mi-hiver froid. Avec seulement une lune décroissante pour l'éclairage, les trois hommes étaient dépendants de lanternes à main qui ont donné peu de lumière et à côté de pas de chaleur lorsque les vents du sud de Manhattan serraient à la gorge comme un spectre vengeur.
"Et c'est parti. Rafe se rendre au travail cueillette de la serrure, tandis que je l'aide avec Alfe la bêche et les couvertures. "
«Je vais avoir besoin d'une longueur de corde, trop mate, à nouer autour du corps et le faire glisser le long de la tombe."
Ils ont été surpris par le cri plaintif d'un grand corbeau noir qui a été perché sur la porte du cimetière de fer et qui semblait être en regardant leurs activités avec curiosité et méfiance.
«Je dois la porte ouverte, allez, Alfe, je ne veux pas être là plus longtemps que je le dois."
James regarda les deux hommes petits happés leurs lanternes et des outils et ont disparu dans les ombres du cimetière de Trinity.
Ils ont trouvé la tombe récemment fini de la fille La Stella rapidement, et Alfe commencé tout de suite avec sa pelle de bois pour creuser le cercueil de son lieu de repos temporaire. Il a travaillé tranquillement, mais ses travaux ne vont pas complètement inaperçu.
"Mate, Prêtez-moi un coup de main et nous allons la faire sortir d'ici. Jetez la corde ".
Rafe a fait comme il a été soumissionné. Il a également ouvert sa lanterne et l'agita en un signal à James que le travail était presque terminé. James n'a cependant pas été le seul qui a vu le signal.
Comme le corps a été exhumé une lueur d'or attira l'attention de Alfe. Je t avais un anneau sur les cadavres quitté l'annulaire.
Grave voler était considéré comme une infraction plus grave que trafic de cadavres, mais sûrement pas l'un allait remarquer petit anneau d'or disparu. Quoi qu'il en soit ce corps allait retrouver tell disséqué et articulé, il avait entendu on fait bouillir la chair de l'os de fournir un squelette complet pour l'étude. Personne ne les payait pas assez d'argent à son retour ici quand le bon docteur avait fini avec son travail.

Était-ce juste imagination- de Alfe ou fait froid main morte des cadavres lui semblent se battre pour l'anneau avant qu'il arracha libre. Immédiatement, cependant, toutes les pensées de l'or est devenu secondary- il y avait des problèmes en cours de réalisation
"Vous là, montrez-moi vos mains!" Il y avait un garde dans les motifs de la chancellerie, un peu de malchance qu'ils avaient pas compté sur. Rafe, pas un héros, sa réaction immédiate a été de tourner et courir. Il lâcha la corde et le corps de la jeune fille se laissa retomber dans le trou, près de piégeage Alfe dans une étreinte indésirables.
Alfe bondit de la tombe ouverte et renversé le grand mince tombe garde qui semblait un peu plus d'un squelette lui-même. Il a entendu le crieur public dans la distance la sonnette d'alarme. Alfe a abandonné toute idée de récupérer le corps de la jeune fille et avait l'intention d'évasion. Comme il sauta de la porte, il pouvait entendre la garde frénétiquement essayant de charger son fusil. Alfe besoin de plus de distance. Il a dû se rendre à James à la porte.

Un fusil à âme lisse est une arme la plus fiable et à beaucoup plus que 100 verges pour atteindre un succès était plus de chance que d'habileté. Alfe entendit à peine la décharge de l'arme, mais la douleur dans son dos était difficile à ignorer. James l'a attrapé avant qu'il ne tombe, mais il est vite devenu évident pour les deux que Alfe ne fallut pas longtemps pour ce monde.
James et Rafe ont travaillé rapidement pour obtenir Alfe dans la brouette et le roue de l'écart. Le gardien tentait de recharger mais la distance et l'obscurité devenait leur ami. Il ne serait pas obtenir un deuxième coup avant qu'ils ont fait à la voiture.
Pour le docteur Bayley il semblait que les Resurrectionists étaient de retour plus tôt que prévu il, mais le corps dans la couverture était pas le corps qu'il avait prévu de recevoir.

«Il y avait un garde posté à la chancellerie en face du cimetière. Il faut avoir vu l'un de nos lanternes et est sorti pour enquêter. Il descendit un coup à nous pauvres Alfe obtenu dans le dos. "
Richard regarda par-dessus le corps de Alfe, le nouveau sujet du Royaume des morts. «Combien voulez-vous pour ce corps?" Ils ont conclu rapidement leur affaire, James ne fait pas tout à fait aussi bien qu'il aurait pour le corps de la jeune femme, mais divisées deux façons il serait suffisant pour obtenir de lui un endroit pour dormir et nourriture et la boisson en plus. Alfe allait être un homme difficile à remplacer, mais il y avait beaucoup d'hommes durs bas près des docks qui feraient le travail et ne pas trop parler aux mauvaises personnes.
Il pensait qu'il ne serait pas bientôt d'accord pour ouvrir la tombe d'un dame. Les corps des pauvres ne sont pas si étroitement participé.

Bientôt Docteur Bayley avait le corps d'Alfe déshabillé et lavé et prêt sur la table. Dans sa vie relativement brève ce corps avait rarement eu assez à manger et trop de gin à boire. Les dents qui lui restaient étaient jauni et il y avait des signes de maladie des gencives. Richard était sur le point de faire la première incision dans la poitrine quand il a remarqué une lueur d'or dans la main droite crispée.

Il était un anneau; il était la même bague qu'il avait donné sa Margaret quelques semaines avant. Juste quelques semaines avant la mort l'avait prise de lui. Il ne savait pas qu'elle avait été enterré avec lui. Richard a tenu le petit anneau dans sa main et a commencé à pleurer amèrement, dans la connaissance cruelle qu'il ne reverrait jamais son visage, pas dans cette vie ou la prochaine.

There once was a girl from New York
and boy, could that little miss talk.
She'd chatter all day
I heard her beau say:
" Please, God,
someone give me a cork!"

There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.

It was quiet in the park,
after lunch, the crowds are few.
Here the statures live in terror
because of what we pigeons do..
We’re adept at carpet bombing.
pets and people feel our wrath.
Our bowels are like loose cannons-
Don’t dare venture in our path.

Now, below, I see a poet
with pen in hand composing.
Intent upon the songbird’s tune
or perchance he’s merely dozing

His senses lulled by cricket’s song,
He perspires in the heat.
My calling card left on his suit.
says chose a different seat.

fifteen hundred Starbucks shuttered
by a maintenance miscue.
How will I face this morning
without their bitter brew.
Their water filter system
was due for an overhaul.
Now this forced decaffeination
has me climbing up the walls.
Where's my choc o-mocha latte,
topped with whipped cream
cooled with skim?
Without those extra calories
I'll soon be down a chin.
I miss my blonde barrista, Jill.
and her great good morning smile.
Rakeesh at Dunkin Donuts'
lacks her figure and her style.
I'm reduced to getting coffee
from a roadside hot dog stand.
why he doesn't have free WI-fi
I'm at a loss to understand.

Without the wind, without the rain
The stone of Earth would stone remain.
Did not the breath of Boreas blow
to form the canyons here below?
If not for Kymopoleia and her waves
Would there be underwater caves?
Imperceptibly, drop by drop,
The tears of heaven can conquer rock.
Turn stone to sediment by degree
And make its way back to the sea.
So too, my tears will work their art
Upon thy adamantine heart
And, in their final victory,
carry back your love to me.

Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!

In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.

Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.

Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.

In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.

A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.

One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.

We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.

We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.

The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.

Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.

I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.

We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.

Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!

Some people call them toe-mae- tos.
They’re toe- mat -toes to other folk.
Monsanto has patented versions
that may poison us and leave us broke.

Their genetically modified brand
belongs neither on plates nor in cans.
Their health effects may include cancer
In some other countries they’re banned..

They are touted for being resistant
To herbicides, thus reducing toil-
But herbicide residue is persistent
How quickly it poisons the soil.

If farmers, each season, must purchase
Genetically modified seeds
Monsanto will corner the market
For supplying nutritional needs.

How many Monsanto execs
infiltrated the executive branch?
With so much political sway
Its no wonder that they get their way.