What is it with the Americans-?
With their endless cups of “Joe”
Starbucks on every corner
At least it seems that’s so.

Those who overdose on coffee
Are always on the “go”
With palpitating heart beats
And hands that shake like so.

Billions of cups consumed yearly,
The landfills awash with debris
If only my Dad had a Styrofoam mine
Imagine how rich we would be.

Chocolate is much more civilized;
antioxidant rich and sweet.
They say it’s a mild aphrodisiac
and a laxative for the effete.

Those people addicted to coffee
Wake up “Grumpy and groaning”
While those folks addicted to chocolate
can be sure they’ll be coming and going..

Dancing Queen
of youthful nights,
of crystal globes
and stobing lights.
To say that you
are gone seems wrong,
for we still have your
voice in song.

For one night only,
with no repeat,
I'd join the scrum
of dancing feet.
In tune, in time
with your talented drummer
My Queen ,you gave us
endless Summer.

The sky grew dark
and the wind full voiced
so I furled my single sail.
I battened down the hatches
fearful of the coming gale
the clouds were low and threatening
They oft are this time of year.
They made me wish I could be somewhere,
anywhere, but here.
Random bolts of lightening streaked
across the sullen sky.
Waves took and shook my little boat.
I thought that I might die.
A tingle of anxiety
I felt it in my gut
Imagine how relieved I felt
when the director hollered "Cut!"

This actually happened pretty much as I have told it. It happened on a weekday afternoon in summer on 60th Avenue in the Queensboro Hill section of Flushing, NY. The Mister softeee trucks still roam the streets to this day playing the same jingle as in my youth. For some reason they have adopted a sensible pay first policy. The Pioneer was the name of the local tavern at the foot of the street. it now serves bubble tea to the asian elite.


Our ice cream man on Queensboro hill
was a curmudgeon, to put it kind.
I'm pretty sure he hated those
who paid in quarters, nickels and dimes.

Ritchie was a "special " kid
He was a big kid for his age.
To put things gently he was slow,
Half a wit and not a sage.

We heard the Mister Softee Jingle
from a good half mile away
It must haven driven the bald guy mad
to have to listen to that all day.

Ritchie went up to the window
He got a cone then refused to pay.
Mister Softee left his station.
Ritchie made to run away.

It was like a Chinese Fire Drill
Ritchie jumped into the truck
The keys were there, the engine on.
He displayed considerable verve and pluck.

The softee truck rolled down the block
with Mister Softee in hot pursuit.
His bald head gleaming in the sun
wishing for his long lost youth.

The truck crashed into the Pioneer.
Ritchie was cuffed and led away.
Mr. softee nursed his vanquished pride.
His truck sold no more cones that day.

Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.

He was just a simple juggler
He could not read or write.
He performed his simple tricks
for children’s laughter and delight.

In return for food and shelter-
for he had little use for gold-
He travelled from town to town
until he at last grew old.

When arthritis swelled his joints
He grew stooped, his fingers cold
When at last his gifts had failed him
He turned attention to his soul.

In the order of Saint Benedict
The kind Abbot gave him place
Though he barely knew the prayers
His simple mind was full of grace.

In the chapel of Our Lady
The Juggler prayed there in the Aisle
Bemoaning his inability
to entertain the holy child.

He felt warmth in his fingers
A quick release from pain
He reached into his leather sack
for the objects of his trade.

There before the altar
The brother juggled for the Lord
It was to be his last performance
with a heavenly reward.

Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.

There are so many dentists
that the market's getting tight.
One must differentiate
to draw trade to one's site.

Being new kid on the block
especially was scary
Until, in a flash of brilliance,
he called his:"The Tooth Fairy"

With gloves and masks
and dental dams
He served his clientele-
leaving their other cavities
to those who knew them well.

His clientele were handsome
and all exercised a bit.
Some were macho, some were fey
it mattered not a whit.

What mattered were the smiles he saved,
that gave him satisfaction,
and he earned a decent living.
from the fine are of extraction.

So if you, too, seek success
it pays to find your niche.
Serve the Sado- masochists
and make them all your b*tch.

The trees outside their classroom door
so recently were green.
Now they all are bare and brown;
great evil they have seen.

I cannot, will not, speculate
what drove that youth insane:
or why he murdered children
then put a bullet in his brain.

The Season now is dreary;
Christmas greetings go unsaid;
Presents never to be opened
and even Hope seems dead.

A grateful Father hugs his girl,
Her classmates all are dead.
Their classroom is an abattoir:
Finger-painted Red.

We imagine Life sequential-
from birth until we go.
Yet, being fraught with memory,
I protest it is not so.
Our hates, our loves, our prejudice,
all build up over years.
Before we face the precipice,
we face our sum of fears.
My passionate kiss upon your neck
was learned with other lovers.
Even in the here and now
I'll speak some phrase of mother's.
Even when all my cutaneous cells
have shed and been replaced.
I continue to show the world,
what appears the selfsame face.
Every moment of my "Now"
betrays this underpinning
Only in my final breath
can I put paid to my sinning.

A Roman, noble and Patrician,
moved his Legions into position.
The morning Sun was in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
The Day was hot, they lacked hydration
as they fought this battle of annihilation.
The hot winds swept dust in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
Hannibal troops seemed to retreat,
The Legions were in hot pursuit.
The Carthaginians moved to surround
the Romans on the killing ground.
Eighty thousand Roman dead,
Mars’ thirst quenched by the blood they shed
Their arms and armor cast aside
upon the fields around Cannae.
Fortuna always smiled on Rome
before this battle at Cannae
Rome’s Senators refused to yield
though their Sons lay dead upon the field.
In the Pantheon of gods
echo prayers from the devout
to a new god born of that rout.
Some say it is the god of doubt.

He sang a tenor’s part-

No more a tenor really

Though aging cords may gamely try

It was disaster- nearly.



He lost the lyric line.

Poor fellow –must be blasted

Too much North Fork wine

Or maybe he’s just past it.



A singer lost for words

is clearly up against it.

A staircase that’s collapsing

can only be descended.



Some forty years or more have past

Since he sang at their Wedding

A rose cheeked boy with strong clear tones

He was, then, worth the hearing.



With time his talent vanishes

He cannot compensate

For lyrics he’s forgotten

And notes he cannot make.



His hopes to leave on a better note

Then disappeared completely,

Only a swan- at its last-

can be sure to sing more sweetly.

My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.

My mother forgot how to swallow.

Before that, she lost my face and my name,
erased from her memory by sickness and age.
Her nurses complained she took too long to feed
They wanted a peg and a tube for the deed

My mother forgot how to swallow


She forgot her late spouse, dis-remembered her vow.
With the loss of the past there is no here and now.
Once she read to my child, then my girl read to her-
Until all the sounds were a meaningless blur

My mother forgot how to swallow


Jesus and Mary and her patron saint
would loved to have helped her, so weak and so faint,
but she had forgotten the simplest prayer -
the beads in her hand little use to her here.

My mother forgot how to swallow


The night nurses found her while making their round
She was cold to the touch, no pulse to be found
She stared, eyes wide open, at the cross on the wall
Perhaps the Messiah had come after all.

Somewhere in the mist of time
Upon a rain swept street,
I first walked you to your door.
Our goodnight kiss was sweet.

Magnolia blossom perfumed air,
the petals on the street.
A young man in the throes of love
-Or was it Love’s deceit?

Your kiss was like a butterfly
Alighting on a flower.
Delicate like gossamer,
Was that what gave it power?

No Carnal passion then or since
Affected me that way
As those kisses from my honeybee
at the closing of the day.

The water of life can’t warm my heart
The way you did your prey-.
Somewhere in the mist of Time
Ere all was swept away.

“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.'

Padded paws prance on the living room floor.
“Chip” sports a red bow and is playful for sure.
He greets his new mistress with a lick of his tongue
This chocolate Lab puppy can wait to have fun.
He’s a little Mischievous but nobody minds
-His arrivals been longed for a very long time.
Someone tell Uncle Robert to get down off his chair
Its only a puppy, there’s nothing to fear.

When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
Just an ornate box, covered in dust.

Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks

The box was rather gaudy
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.

We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..

Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.

Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.

My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..


A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.



Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote

I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
****** wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.

Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?

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

For twenty years
they loved and bickered
She was smarter,
he was quicker.
They then divorced
In acrimony
He got freedom
She got alimony.
For ten years then
They lived apart.
But hunger grew
within each heart.
So they remarried
Made a new start
And this time only
Death did part.
What did he tell friends?
What was his take?
“We got divorced
But it was a mistake.”

A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.

The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
for Frankie’s intervention.
Frankie lived in the corner house
He was older and quite wise.
He taught me that this green cocoon
would change into a butterfly.
He bade me watch, he had me wait
to see the wonder taking shape.
We saw the Monarch first take wing
once caterpillar, now a King.

Several summers passed us by.
I still lived but Frankie died-
He was nineteen, Young and brave
A landmine put him in his grave.
He died just before Saigon’s fall
His name’s inscribed upon the Wall
Corporal Frank Evangelista Junior,
beloved by mother and mourned by sister.
He was too good, too young to die.
He would have been a butterfly.

The smell of rockets, all burned out,
lingers in the chill night air.
A thousand voices scream and shout
And slowly dwindle in despair.
I’m clinging to this upturned lifeboat-
Strong hands reached out and I was spared.
I turn to look upon Titanic
But there is only flotsam there.

My friend and I had jumped together.
He went first when I declined.
He was ****** down by Titanic;
a victim of the White Star line.
Somehow I was spared his fate.
I’m dripping wet and freezing cold.
If only I survive this night-
I’ll stay on land till I grow old.

Being kicked in the head by a horse
can be rather unpleasant of course.
My father lay stunned for a time
and for three days thereafter was blind.
He was lucky the horse was unshod
or he might have been punted to God.
As it was he spent three days abed
while his mom worked her beads in his stead.
On the third day he rose as before
with the  injury that kept him from war.
His impaired vision a fortunate curse
Time spend on the Somme would be worse.

.


Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.

The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.

The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.

The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.

“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now!”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
As Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.

It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body
before North tower, too, would go.

Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.

Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed where Angels feared to tread,
not fearful in the least

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well."

On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.

Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
Though numerous, they were lightly armed
against our spears and swords.
We burned their ships and slew their men
Their Panic turned the tide.
Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere
urging on our side.
A  Legend holds Pheidippides
To Athens then made haste
to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!”
at the end of his last race.

From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.

A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.

Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.

Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.

Pro patria mori
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
For generations
we've sold these goods
to young boys
who burn for glory.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Indeed, how sweet ,
Pray tell
Poppy covered warrior.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
How sweet was the Somme?
Such little ground
was gained with
half a generation gone.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
When weapons
far outpace the men
what an empty word
is glory.

To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.

Whether it is better in the end to suffer

The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord

Or take loans. against your future earnings

And end up owning something? In hock, for years;



Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end

The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks

Home ownership is heir to.  Reduced Consumption?

No Politician’s wish! To rent?    To lease?

To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought

For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills

Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil



It gives one pause. That’s the aspect

That makes calamity of  adjusting rates

For who would bear the years and years of debt

Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,

Buyers remorse, and the long delays.

The Questionable title and the risk

Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.

When you yourself know if you lose your job

You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.





To grunt and sweat under a heavy load

Under the threat of something worse than debt

The forced short sale, from which, once closed

No equity returns. It puzzles the will.

And makes us rather bear such debts we have

And, if necessary, refinance them still.



Compounding thus make cowards of us all.

And so our youthful promise and ambition

Is hobbled by the weight of student  loans

made by lenders judged too big to fail.

In this regard the risk is very real
we lose the house to auction.

I foresee at day, not distant,
when armed drones patrol our skies.
Where people labelled dissidents
will be killed without a trial.

In the cities of the future
walls and ceilings will be glass.
Big brother will be watching
like George Orwell once forecast.

In the future called panopticon
You never will feel free.
You will never know whose watching
and you won't know what they see.

If equality of outcomes
is your wish and fervent prayer-
go and lie down in some graveyard
You'll be sure to find it there.

Otherwise, arouse yourselves
before it is too late.
Don't be a useful idiot
to an overreaching State.

Go ask the Pakistanis
about the war that never ends
Ask how they've been treated
( and we label them our "friends")

The drones we use in Pakistan
will soon be loosed on you.
Will you enjoy a tyranny
of the many by the few?

Christ and his apostles
had but bread and wine to share.
At that Last Supper many came
to a table nearly bare.

Gandolfini came by honestly,
his girth and double chin.
The mayonnaise he relished
May be what did him in.

He enjoyed a glass, or two, of beer
He liked his King Prawns fried.
He downed a pint of Morgan’s ***
with foie gras on the side.
Two Pina Coladas for dessert.
But surely that’s no sin.
Some speculate t’was the massive tab
That led to Tony’s end.

If Rex Ryan got the nod
and was cast as Cindy’s prince.
The play would run much longer
than it had before or since.

When the royal decree went out
To the maidens of the land
To display their pedicures
Rex would be close at hand.

He would visit every maiden
and some hottie matrons too.
Caressing Paula’s bunions
And sniffing Jennie’s shoe..

And when he got to Cindy’s shack,
He’d take her feet in hand
And ease the pain she suffered
last night dancing with a ham.

“You have such pretty little feet,
I really hope its you.
Alas, I have no way to check,
as I forgot the shoe.”

The tourists will be packing bags
eager to make the trip.
Not to go and see the Broncos.
Not to go and see the Mint.
They will flood the mile high city
hoping to get higher still.
Put that in your pipe and smoke,
Denver does the people’s will.
For folks who **** on Cannabis
Denver must seem like Heaven
Me I want a franchise there,
Selling munchies at seven Eleven.

Into an uncertain twilight
I fled from the upper room.
That bit with the bread and the chalice-
He all but accused me-
How did he know?
This thing must be done
and soon.

Caiaphas has provided
the silver to seal His fate.
I know where Rabbi
prays in the gardens.
This has nothing to do
with hate.

I have the strong rope
that will bind him.
The Priest’s men with the torches appear
With a kiss I will signal our quarry.
It begins. There is no stopping here.

The decedent weighed 500 pounds.
Her shape was decidedly round.
When cremation was requested,
Her fat cells combusted
and burned the old funeral home down.

The director ought to have been wary
Of a corpse it takes ten men to carry.
He sought long, in vain,
a home for her cremains.
“A barrel, perhaps?” offered Larry.

Her overweight fatty remains
exploded when touched by the flame.
Some speculate gas
Leaking out of her ***
was possibly partly to blame.
.
So if you’re a “plus” girl or guy
And in the course of events you should die.
Choose the dirt nap, not flame
For your mortal remains
It appears Butterballs shouldn’t fry.

For years now I have lived alone
Since my marriage fell apart.
In theory we’ve joint custody
But that’s always how it starts.

I’m a salesman on the road
About thirty weeks a year..
My barkeep is the mini bar,
Room service makes my meals.

But I was in town for Valentines
And for my weekend with our girl
I took her to her favorite place
These days she’s my whole world.

All grown up at five years old
And learning not to cry..
She enjoyed the present that I brought
Cause I’m her special guy.

I’m careful not to criticize
her mom who’s now my Ex.
.She also is considerate
And I’m current with the checks.

We had a decent pasta meal
I wisely passed on wine.
As I enjoyed my night out on the town
With my little valentine.

Prince Pierre of Monaco
and several of his friends
are nursing sores
and broken jaws
They won’t party
here again

Adam Hock, a footballer,
was drinking with three friends
who looked like “Charlie’s angels”
with designer made rear ends.

The Prince, perhaps a little juiced,
and fond of  lovely things,
got over friendly with the girls.
(another sport of kings)

When Adam gave the Prince a Pop
Pierre will long recall,
His three friends assaulted Mr. Hoch
and each one took the fall.

Mr. Hoch is middle aged,
but all American.
Four French were not his equal.-
He could have handled ten.

This Earthly life is lived in the now,
between what was and what will be.
Yet the Stars above our heads that glow
might, long since, become history.

Consider, son, Orion's Belt
that dominates the Winter sky.
You can't mistake its three bright stars
or fail to find them if you try.

Alnitak in Orion's belt, a familiar
Longtime Nighttime show,
dispatched these photons we observe
about eight Hundred years ago.

A brief elapse in cosmic time
but time enough for a star to die:
Dwindle to a little dwarf or
Explode as Novae in the sky.

Still, at night, above our head
its kindly light will still shine on
Perhaps for years or decades hence
Long after Alnitak is gone.

These words of mine you now consign
as just a foolish waste of time
I hope shine forth my love of you
Long after I write my last line.

Paul Wittgenstein returned from war,
feeling half a man.
He had fought his nations’ battles
at the cost of his right hand.
The loss of an appendage
scars anyone, its true.
Paul was a pianist-.
With just one hand what could he do?

Paul Wittgenstein was fortunate
Having Ravel for a friend.
A confidante of Gershwin,
He said Paul would play again..
He wrote a sweet piano piece
To be played with just one hand.
If you close your eyes and listen
You would never guess his plan.
A composer of precision,
With a jazzy playful side,
His left handed concerto
Was one to make the angels cry

Paul Wittgenstein took to the stage
A sea of faces looking on.
He played the piece so brilliantly
None guessed his hand was gone.
Not until he left his seat
To bow to their applause
Some gasped in their astonishment,
But most just cheered and roared.



Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand is one of the most brilliant and important of 20th-century concertos for any instrument. Composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who lost his right arm during World War I, there is no way by simply listening that you would ever know its secret. Both of Ravel's concertos were heavily influenced by jazz--possibly also by his acquaintance with Gershwin--and successful performances must combine his customary precision with a certain ability to "swing" the tunes. --David Hurwitz

I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.

Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?

I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.

Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.

I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.

Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.

I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.

He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.

He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****!"
His boon companion smiled.

I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.

Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.

As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.

His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"

" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."

So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.

After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.

I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.

I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.

I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race

I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.

By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.

I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.

I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.

The people regrettably frown
on Congress men with their pants down.
Poor ****** was caught in a lie
concerning unzipping his fly.
Despite having just wed his bride
****** wanted some on the side.
Now both sides of the aisle are atwitter
that his twee-tie was a babysitter.
He gave poor Ms Pelosi a fright
when she saw that he hangs to the right.
He looks in your eyes when he lies
but I doubt anyone is surprised
He was known as a distinguished member
now a registered ****** offender

The box is fine mohogany,
the beads not used in prayer.
You kneel before my effigy,
as I'm no longer there.
I'm embracing my loved darling.
on a vast and astral plain.
Death has reunited us and we are young again.
I see the tears your grief compels you to shed.
I weep as you don't understand
the freedom of the dead.
While I still lived in nursing homes.
I was frightened and alone.
But now set free of all constraints, -
I have been welcomed home.

Today three hundred gather recalling to the World its’ shame.
They’ve come once more to Auschwitz on a more comfortable train.
The youngest, in their Seventies, were children at the time,
when Russians overran the camp and exposed the Nazis’ crimes.
If you were gypsy Gay or Jew incarcerated there
They starved and worked you unto death-
Your grave was in the air.
The walks were paved with bits of bone from those who died before.
These lives and deaths were cataloged for the ***** Chancellor.
All who remain now gather for this last and final time,
to testify to their suffering and rebuke those who deny.

Beneath a grey, forbidding sky,
as all the Saints looked on,
Kevin Barry climbed the scaffold,
by the order of the Crown.
He would not betray his fellows
to the agents of the State.
By Courts martial, they condemned him
to a common villains fate.
This morn at Mount joy jail
as the World looked on, aghast,
the hangman’s rope snapped Kevin’s neck
and Barry breathed his last.
Denied a soldier’s bullet,
Kevin hung upon a tree,
Just eighteen, but a martyr
for the cause of Liberty.
Let him never be forgotten;
As long as we have voice to sing.
He is past all trial and suffering
at the hands of Earthly Kings.

He raised his kids in a house like mine,
in a neighborhood like yours.
He believed what we believe
and obeyed our nation’s laws.

When this war came, he signed his name
and served three tours in Iraq.
When we sent him to Afghanistan
that was when our soldier cracked.

Cash was tight, and his mate took flight.
His emotions were rubbed raw.
Like many other, lesser, men,
he indulged in alcohol.

Then one night, in a drunken rage,
He held a private war.
In the village he went house to house,
killing all he saw.
He torched their homes with gasoline,
only then his rage grew still.
Only blood could satisfy
his sudden thirst to ****.

Our soldier lay his weapons down
and put his hands behind his head
He will be tried on American soil
for the attrocities he did.
When he pays for his crimes (Our Crimes)
the ultimate penalty,
will the horror and the pity fade?
Will our hands then bloodless be?

Somewhere our soldier lost his way;
He somehow betrayed the cause
He’ll never return to his house like mine
in a neighborhood like yours.

Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look  tasty
Chocolate éclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, ******* with string
These are a few of my favorite things

When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

She reigns above the grimy thoroughfare
where Gun Hill Meets Jerome.
A school house made of yellow brick
serves as her earthly home

It was built by Italian immigrants
with plaster Brick and stone.
It comforted the Irish Micks
when they felt all alone.

A sculptor found the beauty
contained in a block of stone
and carved an inspiration
for her people far from home.

The faces at her table change
They hail from different climes
The words and accents differ
in the liturgy of time.

Our lady stands as guardian
where the human meets Divine
Her school, a testament to faith,
in difficult turbulent times

While climbing near mount Nevis
A Scotsman dropped a dime.
He leaped off to recover it
So fast he dropped his line.
He seemed to fly upon updrafts
And glanced off lumps of rock
He made it safely to the ground-
The rescue squad was shocked.
He had some bumps and bruises
And was sore in both his arms
But at least he found his coin
and didn’t lose his “Lucky Charms”.

Most folks who drop a thousand feet
Would suffer death or worse.
He rode a helicopter home
Most folks would take a hearse.

The blank parchment is wordlessly taunting me
Shall I write out a Will? Or a Plea?
The troops of Santa Anna surround us,
Should I surrender unconditionally?
No! I’ve replied with the cannon!
I’m determined to here make my Stand.
My life and my honor for Texas,
My beloved adopted homeland.
Their red flag of no quarter is flying.
So far I have not lost a man.
Ceaseless is their cannonading,
“Victory or Death!”- My command.

In New York Harbor, long ago,
The prison ships rode upon the tide.
Ten thousand Patriots crammed aboard,
Starved, abandoned, and left to die.
They sacrificed sweet life you see
So we might enjoy Liberty.

When the Philadelphia ran aground,
hard by the shores of Tripoli.
We sent Marines to fire the ship
That she not fall to piracy.

Again upon Saint Mary’s Heights
at Fredericksburg, a sight to see.
Ten Thousand Union casualties:
white men dying to set blacks free.

Can you recall the names of those
who did not want to live forever?
They died in France in the Great War,.
the one that would end wars forever.

From age to age, from Gen to Gen
From falling hands the torch is passed.
It is now ours to hold on high
Let not the flame of Liberty die.

Tyranny and ignorance
And the darkest superstition
Oppose the light of Liberty
and would make this Earth a prison.

We must be ever vigilant,
despite the World's derision.
For if the light of Liberty dies,
Our faults won't be forgiven.

Everyman had many friends,
and the Sheilas loved his looks.
He spent his days at football,
with not much time for books.

Everyman in the prime of life
was a wonder to behold.
Was any man more full of life?
Could any be so bold?

Everyman came to the day
where he lost a step in speed.
His mates had settled, mostly down,
or sold their souls to greed.

The game moved on to younger lads,
left everyman behind
He, of course, remained a fan
consigned to the sideline.

Everyman began to fail,
old concussions took their toll.
He'd enter a room full of friends
and couldn't name a soul

Everyman, now in a "home",
awaits his morning tea.
Sometimes a stranger visits-
a member of his family.

Everyman sits in shadows now.
The world goes on without.
His strength and wits deserted him
and he never was devout.

Everyman begins to die
with a murmur, not a shout
Nurse Deeds stays to hold his hand
till the light of life goes out.

She was quite the looker, her eyes a cold blue steel.
Her legs went on forever and that’s just part of her appeal.
He met her in a magazine, then in a glossy print.
He painted her, from Memory, on his plane and off they went.
She flew with him into battle. She was his lucky charm.
17 bombing missions they came thru without harm.
They flew over ******’s Germany way up high and cold.
They faced fearful odds against the chance of growing old.
Then, when the war was over and her boys went home
The wings of war were mothballed; decades she spent alone.


The years of wind, sun and rain faded the old girl.
By the time I finally found her she was not long for this world.
I looked at my Grandpa’s photo of the bomber he once flew.
Despite the faded colors I was certain it was you.
The owners of the junkyard looked with favor on my quest
As I set out to battle the years of grime and rust.
Then I set out my palette to restore each shade and hue
I cannot make grandfather young but I can restore her to you
Her  legs are lithe and beautiful just as I ‘d been told
her eyes a cold blue steel,and her hair a platinum gold.