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!

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.

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.

If Life gives you lemons,
Do not be dismayed.
It’s the hand you were dealt
You’ve a say how it’s played.

Some entrepreneurs might
start lemonade stands .
-or lighten dark age spots
on the back of your hands.
You can use them to clean
or to brighten a ***.
You can use it to cook.
You can do quite a lot.

Far too many people
Are a sour faced lot
Because life gave them Lemons
And they all took a bite.

At Seventeen, a girl might buy a dress and look towards her prom;
music and dancing through the night with a Beau upon her arm.
At Seventeen the night might end in a gentle tender kiss
As couples watch the Sun rise as it gives the waves the slip.
At Seventeen, a girl might think of college and career.
She might listen to loud music and maybe sneak a beer.


For a victim of progeria, life holds no such charms;
At Seventeen, her time is short, too soon she will be gone.
At Seventeen, in human terms, this girl was ninety-five;
every day a battle in the struggle to survive.
Like a comet burning brightly coming too close to the Sun
Hayley, wiser than her years, burned brightly and was done.

“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
parishioners
who then fled.

The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
go
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.

He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.

The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.

He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.

He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.

He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.

As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
“Mother!”
and fell, senseless, on the floor.


His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.

The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.

Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.

Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
Never to see home once more.

Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The ***** that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.

Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From ******’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide

My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The campaign ribbons on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.

Against the sands of Clontarf
You can hear the Ocean roar;
And, within the waves, a whisper,
of men in battle and in lore.

Brian led the men of Munster
that Good Friday, Ten Fourteen.
His opponent was the brother
of his good for nothing queen.

The men of Leinster were allied
with Vikings from abroad.
Mael Morda, king of Leinster
Was the leader of their horde.

Five thousand men of Munster
were arrayed upon the heights.
The foeman came in Dragon ships
And here began the fight.

Brian prayed for victory
as his six sons led his side.
The slaughter was tremendous
And blood red ran the tide.

The Viking, Bodir, found Brian
Kneeling, praying, in his tent .
His battle axe laid Brian low
And soon his life was spent.

The Viking ships were scattered
By the angry, raging sea.
Thus many of their men were drowned
in their attempt to flee.

It was a famous victory
retold in verse and song.
Both sides were decimated
So many brave sons gone.

Our national identity
Was born of this shared past.
Nine centuries were still to come
ere Ireland would be free at last.

The people crowd the entrances
at Malls all over town.
To seize the choicest bargain deals,
They’d gladly knock you down.
The retailers all hold their breath
as shopping gets in gear.
Will Santa fill his sleigh as hoped?
-or lay off more Reindeer?
There are plastic toys from China
colored with suspicious paint.
Whip out your last credit card
(-when you see the bills, you’ll faint.)
“The children must have Christmas! ”
No request will be denied.
Never mind your youngest child
has just turned thirty five.
Down forget a gift for you
Don’t you deserve the best?
Shopping is such good therapy
for the financially depressed

When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched,regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
in many homes in Dixie Land.

At Seventeen
Janis Ian


I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "Come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
And the rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
When dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call and say, "Come dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Songwriters: Janis Ian

On a cold, grey Bronx September day, an old man stood on the Courthouse plaza.
His palsied hand reached out to touch the monument to his life’s sole drama.
He’d just turned nineteen when the A.E.F. had been ordered to assist the French.
Near Chateau-Thierry He helped hold the bridge without the safety of a trench.
“We Marines fought like devil Dogs” He whispered softly to the rain.
“The Germans came, wave after wave, but only the stars and stripes remained.”
“Paris was spared and the foe was impressed by our Marine’s defiant dogged defense.”
“My best friends died, but I survived to keep them in remembrance.”
“We stopped the Germans at the Marne.” He felt an old familiar pain.
Some might say that the old man cried, but he would say it was just the rain.

The girl from New Delhi (Limerick)

Did you hear of the girl from New Delhi?
How she turned any guys knees to jelly?
She'd wiggle and jiggle
she'd laugh and she'd giggle
while shaking her **** and her belly.

The tourists mill about on weary feet,
seeming clueless of their final destination.
It appears, at least, they've had enough to eat,
as their clothes can barely cope with new inflation.
I wait, impatient, for the street to clear.
I resist the urge to honk my horn or more.
These beefy bon- vivants from foreign shores
move like the sacred cows of Bangalore!

Famine had come to our shores
The poor and weak it claimed.
It was our staple, the potato, which failed.
There was no lack of grain.

The landlords were exporting crops
While they watched their tenants bide.
A crueler death than Cromwell gave
Back when he let God decide.

The Wealthy were the Protestants,
centuries in the ascendant.
The victims, mostly Catholic,
of native Celts descendant.

Starvation is a lingering death.
It is not quick or kind.
Green Grass was, for many,
the last meal on which they dined.


When our neighbor, Kitty Kelly, died,
too proud to take the soup.
We boarded ship for old New York
And left behind our youth.

Red and long stemmed,
beautiful, true.
They were sent to her office
with no card and no clue.
A secret Admirer, or an
FTD stalker?
The long stems were lovely-
but none was a talker.

She made a few calls to find out
who had sent them.
It seemed obvious there must
be a romantic intention.
I was surprised by her call,
but not at all sad.
We’d broken up last spring
but nothing too bad..
I said I hadn’t sent them,
but I wished that I had.

Those words led to coffee
and coffee to drinks..
Those words led to vows
and connubial links.
Our life and our home and
two kids in the yard;
all the result of that unsigned gift card.
Swept up in the currents
of time, past recall-
Our lives would be poorer
with no roses at all.

A widow took a stranger to her bed.
This woman was denounced before the law.
She numbly stood and heard her sentence read.
Though I suspect she knew her fate before.

She knelt, silent, in the center of the square.
No neighbor wished to be the first to stone.
At length, the foreign fighters of Isis
Grabbed the rocks and drove the lesson home.

The body, dressed in black, was dragged away.
a streak of red remained the only sign
of the price the law had made a woman pay
for the fleeting pleasure of a lovers arms.

But what of he who joined her in her sin?
He did not share her fate who shared her bed-
a “cooperating witness” for the law.
Strangely just the women wind up dead.

“Sweet Kiss” was the horse and Frank Hayes was his rider,
Both destined this day to gain fame.
Frank was a stable boy on his first stake horse;
The horse too was a novice, but game.
This pairing went off at 20-1, but was well worth the risk of a “fiver”.
Sweet Kiss won the race and the bettors were stunned
for his jockey fell off, a cadaver.
Frank suffered a heart attack on the last turn
and the horse was the only survivor.
Frank Hayes, undefeated, was interred in his silks.
“Sweet Kiss”, undefeated, retired.
Jockeys are short but have memories long-
None were willing to be her next rider.

Do not label me impure
for being, somewhat,a ******.
Who, among you, would skip the chance
to take a peek, to steal a glance?
Her bodyguard of Lies dismissed,
her robes discarded, herself revealed.
She stripped and naked-
of course I looked.
She was comely, but aloof,
this maiden known
as the naked truth.

Grandfather John, my mother's dad,
remarried later on in life.
When he passed on his vast wealth
passed largely to this second wife.
Thus did her children benefit
from the bulk of his estate.
My mother and my Uncle John
relatively little, sad to state.
Sometime after the internment date
a piano was shipped to our home.
A piece Step- Grandma didn't want
She didn't play and lived alone.
When my mother was a child
living up in Marble Hill
She'd learned to play the instrument
that now she merely wished to ****.
In mortal rage she grabbed an axe
and like a batter swung away
It was a fair bit of exercise
(She had played baseball in her day.)
Such sounds that spinnet then produced
were likely never heard before.
such atonal melodies
as she ripped and smashed its core.

the Axe concerto was concluded
when only splinters still remained
She went and stored the axe away-
After than she never played

When you’re hanging by the neck
until your life is nearly done.,
It might almost seem a blessing
when the hangman lets you down.
They then spread you on a table
Then the real torture began.
They cut away the man parts
from their sacrificial lamb.
Then your core is cruelly opened
and your ****** entrails rise
in the hands of he, your butcher
displayed before your dying eyes.
Your brain supplies an image
of back when you were a child
and you greeted good Queen Mary
in fine ornate Latin style.
Mercifully shock set in
as death transfixed your eyes.
Sweet Jesus’ name was on his lips
as the recusant dies.

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
the trio we know as “the Fates”
Were discussing the fate of some poet
while calmly ******* on dates.

“At best Sisters, he’s merely adequate.
Sure, he knows his rhythm and rimes.
But when they compile an anthology
will his poems merit  more than three lines?”

“Some of his verses are Humorous”
“You’ll grant me that, Clotho, at least.”
“Other times he takes himself too serious,
and behaves like some priggish high priest”

“Atropos, where is my measuring rod?
All too soon he’ll meet us face to face.”
“Here is the fate I have chosen.
Take your shears and mark well the place.”

The fruit made Atropos’ grasp slippery
A lock of hair fell in her face.
The poet got more than allotted
It was sheer dumb luck in his case

The Ding Dongs at the T.S.A.
decided as of yesterday
frosted Cupcakes aren't allowed on Board
flights domestic or abroad.

They employ the dumbest of the dumb
To harass us as we go and come.
Miss Liberty must be dismayed
to be prodded, strip searched and X-ray'd.

Thus the Empire extends its claws
through privacy invading laws
They won't repeat Marie's mistake
encouraging people to eat cake.

My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.

In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.

Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.

At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.

As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.

Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.

When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.

I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.

A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.

Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.

These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.

I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.

He is a mover and a shaker
And he’s certainly no Quaker!
Donnie Trotter from Chicago
is his name.
Whatever was he thinking?
This man from the
land of Lincoln.
When he tried to bring a gun
aboard a plane?
He’ll pontificate when pressed
(Just to get it off his chest)
How guns are bad
And people shouldn’t buy them.
His acts are against the law
He himself had voted for-
I wonder if the State
Will charge and try him.
Were he Conservative and White-
Not a Liberal, Black as night-
Voices would be raised
that we should fry him.

It’s Hypocrisy at its best
And this man has failed the test
In Chicago guns are banned
And for good reason-
If the victims could fight back,
What would be the fun in that?
Only criminals have guns
This hunting season.

After two weeks of fracking shale,
We needed to unwind.  So we
went down to the  Black Hawk
in search of a real good time.
My Buds picked up some “Ladies”
and they disappeared up stairs.
I sat down to play poker
at the gaming tables there.
An old guy sat across from me,
gin and tonic on his mind.
Two guys who looked like brothers
were seated side by side..
I had a decent pile of chips,
(I’m paid well for my time.)
I’m also a pretty fair player
and lady luck seemed on my side.
My pile of chips kept growing
as blue twilight turned to dark.

The old guy at my table pulled
at his tie in search of air.
He started going faint and pale
as he slid down off his chair..
I leapt up in a panic and
raced to the old guys side.
No one else in the casino seemed
to care if he lived or died.
I grabbed my phone, dialed
Nine- one- one and told him
to hold on. But when the
E.M.T’s arrived, the poor old
man was gone.

It was then I saw my pile
of chips was vanished
from my place.
Of those two brothers
who sat in with us
I couldn’t find a trace.
A girl smiled sadly
at my plight
as people often will
whenever age and treachery
Trumps over
youth and skill

I'm really quite not busy
with all the things
that I'm not doing.
I barely have much
time to wake.
with the things
that I'm eschewing.
Once again I won't be climbing
up the Matterhorn my dear
Its really not a challenge
Why that is remains unclear..
I'm not preparing gourmet meals
for folks who aren't coming
Instead I'm eating taco belle
and messing up my plumbing.
I should rotate my tires
but surely there's no fun in that.
I can just call the Triple A
when i chance to get a flat.
You won't catch me at Pilates
or my yoga class this year.
I just achieved a state of bliss
by sitting on my rear.
So you go do triathlons
and do work up a sweat
Can't you see I'm busy sitting here
composing my regrets?

The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
I am dazed and confused
with parochial views
of those " know better" folks in D.C.

He gave us "healthcare"
"It's no tax, this I swear"
But the Court said a tax it must be.
It hires an army of I.R.S. men
to perform fiscal prostectomies.

In my city and state
one can't  go off half cocked
They frown on us having a gun.
The outlaws don't care
They're all well armed, I swear.
The rest of us call 9-1-1.

The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
I am dazed and confused
with parochial views
of those " know better" folks in D.C..

They take from the workers
to feed those who don't
and call it a democracy
Combined with inflation
and forced confiscation
the buck ain't what it used to be.

The President says there is
no better party
than the party his happens to be.
He'll spend half a billion
in ads on T.V.
to say he knows better than me.

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.

I wonder how they dug the graves
and shoveled in their young.
When grass was your last supper
your reserves are clearly done.
My forebears wouldn't" take the soup",
they wouldn't sell their souls.
So perhaps determination, then,
gave them strength to dig those holes.
To starve in the midst of plenty
was the saddest sight on earth,
but to their London Landlords
Irish serfs held little worth.
It's known that a potato blight
was the famines primal cause,
but I still blame beef eating men
and the cold uncaring laws.

There was only one question on their final exam.
“Are you a Christian?” The perturbed man inquired.
The Buddhists were wounded, the Muslims were spared.
To deny Christ; so easy, to bear witness; so hard,
What would they answer; those about to meet God?
Would they lie to be “saved”? or lie down in the sod.
Nine souls were dispatched with a shot to the head,
before police shot their interrogator dead.
Nine people bore witness to the Cross at their death.
They wouldn’t deny Him with their final breath.
American Martyrs bore Him witness, you see.
If you took this exam what would your answer be?

Call no man truly happy
until after breath has fled.
for a  legacy may be tainted
by things left undone, unsaid.
The accomplishments he treasured,
that left us all in awe.
These may be overshadowed
by what his minions did or saw.
Had he left this life a  year before.
It might well be said:
“He was great on and off the field.
Our beloved coach is dead.”
Now knowing that he failed to speak
when children were at risk
casts dark shadows on his rites;
How did it come to this?
Its like the Attic poet said
Millennia ago:
“Call no man happy until he’s dead.”
Until then you never know.

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel,
the mayor of our fair Chicago town
The people here are stuck with you I fear,
Unless another candidate appears.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell



You came, so well connected from on high,
and never let a crises go to waste;
To us the path of knowledge show,
by closing schools and letting teachers go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel
the homicides are rising by the score.
Guardsmen called to enforce civil law
In places where police will go no more,
Rejoice Rejoice Emanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come Barrack Obama’s right hand man,
From prosperity you will deliver them
That trust your mighty pow'r to save;
They’ll re-elect you with votes from the grave
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell


Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
In Chicago folks stay home at night ,
for fear of death and that ain't right
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
don’t deviate from the party line
til all Chicagoans are left behind.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

I boarded the train at the rush hour peak.
like hundreds of others at the end of the week.
Darkness came quickly at this time of year
It was Pearl Harbor day and Christmas was near.
Dark was my skin and dark was my heart
and dark was the drama in which I’d play my part
In a brown paper page I carried my gun
with enough ammunition to **** the white ones.
Out near Merillon Station, I stood up from my seat.
Whites had ruined my life and revenge would be sweet.
Like a deadly conductor I walked down the aisle
punching everyone’s ticket, high caliber style.
Their screams were my music; their fear was my meat
I served it up raw with blood on the seat.
It took three to subdue me once I emptied my gun
If they hadn’t overwhelmed me I’d have killed everyone.
Six dead, nineteen wounded, some trampled they say.
as the whites in the car started running away.
I sit here in prison with no hope of parole
in this place I am known as the conductor of souls.



( Colin Ferguson and the L.I.R.R. massacre 12/07/1993)

Short is our tenure
on this beautiful Earth.
As brief as the grass
In winter’s cold breathe.
Death, the implacable foe,
Bids us yield.
Faith is our Armor,
our Carapace, our shield.
Denial, our method
of avoiding the shroud.
When Donne is not done,
Death be not proud.
A tenuous tenor may
Give voice to fear.
Yet, turning to face him,
No one is there.
The prize is our self
And possession is all.
All else is but vanity
To hang on a wall.

Each day I drive the Belt to work
with a million other slobs.
We pilot cars a decade old.
We're lucky, we have jobs.
Being stuck in traffic is no fun
so my eyes search for distraction.
Your bumper- stickered Civic
offers motorists didaction.
You've no shortage of opinions,
you're a child of hope and change.
gay women for abortion rights?
forgive me, that seems strange.
You're all for education ,
and it seems you're down on God
Your promotion of vasectomy
strikes me as rather odd.
We creep along at walking speed
in the misnamed morning rush
I smile at one old sign that reads:
"Lesbians against Bush"
I change lanes and creep up beside
this most amusing creature.
Shock and awe is what I felt-
She is our children's teacher!

No terms of endearment, no shy wistful glance,
No overt affection, no hint of Romance,
Can either remember when was their last dance?
Like two sled dogs running Iditarod races-
Each day starts the same and the view never changes.

No terms of endearment, no frank lustful glances,
He ponders his Journal, she devours Romances.
Can either recall when they last took a chance?
Their everyday lives are no walk in the park;
Bound by inertia and missing the spark.

"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.

I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."

I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.

My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.

My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.

The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.

The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.

The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.

With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.

I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.


* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."

" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.

When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched, regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
around hearths in Dixie Land.

The Swedish Tax Authorities
were sure they had their man.
He owed a lot of kroner
They saw through his crooked plan.
When he got out of intensive care
He wouldn't get too far.
No one escapes the tax man.
Like death, their grip is sure.
The suspect's heart was failing
and no replacement could be found.
It was either a jarvik Seven
or he was destined for the ground.
Doctor's worked for hours
His life was in their hands.
He had the cash to pay them
about one hundred grand.

An artificial heart was placed
in his chest cavity
to replace his own
which had been starved
of the oxygen hearts need.
The tax man thought to nab their prey
as soon as he came around.
His attorney said " Unhand him,
a loop hole I have found!"
"Per Swedish law a man is dead
when his heart has ceased to beat.
You are barred from prosecuting
a man who is deceased."

While the Tax men sorted out
this novel defensive line
The man fled to a haven
where he enjoyed the fruits of crime.
He dined out on the novel tale
of how he and only he
outwitted death and taxes
and obtained immunity.

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
We named you inoffensively.
Your boughs have been de- Christianized
Rededicated to mankind
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
takes all denominations

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
Enjoyed by Jew and Pagan.
You twinkle with a million lights
like the Universe of Carl Sagan.
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
Takes all denominations.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
No Creche beneath your branches
Atop your pine- No Star Divine
instead a golden dollar sign
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
takes all denominations

When she saw brown dots upon the rug,
and more upon a chair.
The poor housewife was certain
several mice resided there.
“I’ll need a cat. Or perhaps two,
quite possibly I’ll need four.”
“This quantity of **** demands
a feline killing corps.”
Just then her rotund husband
opportunely wandered in.
with a bag of Nestlé’s morsels
and brown stains upon his chin.
She watched him munch a handful,
several dropping to the floor
Hard to believe someone that fat
had ever missed his maw.
No killer cats were needed
if spouse droppings was the source.
What the housewife really needed
was a lucrative divorce.

“Let no man write my epitaph.”
The defiant rebel said.
'Let no woman eulogize me
After I am dead.'

'I give my life for Ireland-
An Ireland strong and free
An Ireland that‘s united,
One free of tyranny.'

'When my country takes its rightful place
Among nations of the world.
That day I will not live to see
When our banner is unfurled.'

'On that day, and only then
Let my suffering be recalled-
and that I died for Liberty-
The sweetest death of all.'

I ran my race,I did my best.
I'm not the champion,I'm among the rest.
After twenty six miles I'm scant of breath.
I push myself but there's not much left.
I search the crowds on Boyleston Street.
for the friends That I'm supposed to meet.
I see an upraised friendly sign
that marks my race's finish line.
Then thunder, fire, billowing smoke.
The air is acrid and I am choked.
The starter clock reads Four oh Nine
as I fall across the finish line.
I think of him from ancient times
who ran a race as long as mine
To Athens he sped from Marathon
to bring good news in a troubled time.
My news is evil, I scarce can speak
of what I saw there in the street
A loud report, a second bomb,
A portion of the grandstand gone
A blur of color, the flag brought down
I see the picture but there's no sound.

The first time that they two entwined
her passion nearly blew his mind.
Never had she known such bliss
from each and every orifice.
The lust went on for months, not weeks;
two ****** athletes at their peaks.
Thereafter it somewhat declined
pressing business, lacking time.
Yet while it wasn’t “off the charts”
It satisfied two loving hearts.

Sometime after they had wed
routine crept in their marriage bed
children came and there went sleep.
Their eyes, like Raccoons,
with circles deep.
Though they dearly loved
both boy and girl.
There was something missing
from their world.
Too much to do from nine to five.
They barely made the evening drive.
A hour after kids were abed
They likewise drooped their sleepy heads.
He gave a wink, she gave a yawn
They did not stir from then till dawn.
If I were to chart the sad progression
they now did nothing worth confessing.
First Night and Day
then from time to time
then I’d rather sleep
If you don’t mind.

In the German town of Shtuping
Something clearly was amiss:
Town name signs were disappearing,
The good townsfolk were nonplussed!
“For years tourists have sniggered
At our name when driving by
As its Yiddish for activity
A girl does with a guy”.

Some people want to keep the name
That makes the tourists come.
Others are ashamed to say
That Shtuping’s where they’re from.

When the townsfolk vote to change the name
It will cost a pretty penny
To change the signs from "Shtuping"
To the new: "Notgettingany".

It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.

Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in ******’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.

My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****.
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.

I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..

We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******.
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.

He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.