I can recall a simpler time
when just spelling was the problem.
But now D.C. has doubled down
and is really scraping bottom.

What did the humble Potato do
To draw Pelosi’s ire.?
Why are white potatoes banned
From school lunches I inquire?

Sweet Potatoes are welcome still
on school kids’ lunchtime plates.
But Idaho’s may not be served-
That makes Michelle irate.

Baked, mashed or fried There’s good inside
the humble white potato.
Potatoes of color are welcome too
upon my dinner table.

The Tuber is a starchy treat
with vitamins and fiber.
Whatever will the Irish eat
If you toss it in the Tiber?

The Bells of Notre Dame called out “Come fill my Center Hall”
“Come Catholic, Muslim, Hindu and Jew; Come with no faith at all”
The Mothers of the Murdered came, united in their grief.
For bullets and I.E.D’s cannot sort us by belief.
One woman in a hijab had come here from Verdun.
Like the Protestant beside her, She had lost her only son.
Both were strangers to this place, Unfamiliar with the prayers
But, having no place else to go; They found some comfort there.
The Highborn and the famous came with those of low estate
Some came here to find peace of Soul; to put an end to hate.
Some sought shelter from the world; to find sanctuary.
But the figure on the Cross proclaims we all face Calvary.
We all face the same sentence; all perish in the end.
We know this evil must be stopped but know not how or when.
The Bells of Notre Dame call out
“Let us begin again.”

Lawrence Davis was a veteran
who died without a next of kin.
He's buried in the cardboard box
That the V.A. shipped him in.

Being dead, he cannot tell
cardboard from Mahogany.
We, the living, take offense
at the insult to this man's dignity.

Some men lie still in foreign fields.
Some sailors sleep beneath the waves.
Larry got a cardboard box
from a 'grateful' nation he helped to save.

Grandfather built, with his own hands
The house we children called our home.
A fine expanse of stone and brick,
a castle that was ours alone.

That was before the threatening storm
turned us into refugees
The howling wind, the battering surge
Let loose the Ocean’s enmity.

Of our fine home scant trace remains:
Some stone and the foundation walls
Keepsakes and memories long displayed
Sadly we have lost them all.

No loss of life, no death to weep
But still a sense of loss pervades.
The certainty of Youth is gone
And fallen trees can give no shade.

We’ll build again with our own hands
The house our children will call home.
I think, perhaps, on higher ground,
Where Ocean waves do seldom roam

There we will make new memories
Those things we lost will matter not.
We have each other, that is enough.
We’ll build our heaven on this spot.

A simple kiss upon your cheek,
A gentle, loving kiss.
Not amorous or passionate,
Not connoting love remiss.
Thirty years ago
we were an "item" as they say.
I broke your heart
with my callousness
when, hurtfully, I strayed
I'm not proud that I hurt you.
Sad that it comes to this-
To kiss you like a stranger
feels like the Judas Kiss.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he scurried up to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we endeavor to  hide."

""We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."

"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."

"With our Graduate course in lying
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and must learn to prevaricate."

"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some Coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
telling lies in an endless loop.

There were quotes from
the Koran and Bible
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, barely moving my lips.

Love is an accident
Waiting to happen
Despite all precautions
It catches us napping.


Sometimes it sneaks up
On innocent youth
Or blindsides some victim
Who‘s long in the tooth.


It lurks in our schools
But prefers crowded bars
(It’s occasionally found
in the back seat of cars.)  


It often times chooses
a boy and a girl
Except in the Village
That’s a whole different world.

Love is an accident
Like you see every day
But you know how that is-
You just can’t look away.

Imagining the perfect girl
Is a fantasy of mine.
Every feature perfect
in proportion by design.
I’d have to start with
Elizabeth Taylor’s
captivating eyes.
Anne Hathaway has perfect skin
and is the perfect size.
Emmy Rossum’s flowing hair
Attracts some envious eyes
J-Lo is most bootyful.
Sweet Scarlett has nice thighs.
Mila Kunis gams are fab
And she is worldly wise.
To make her warm and welcoming
Add Julia Roberts’ smile

Of course this perfect girl of mine
Would want some change in me..
Six inches taller would be nice,
Then I’d be six foot three..
I’d then be perfect for my weight
The abs would come with time.-
I’m sure they’re somewhere buried
underneath this flab of mine.
I’d have to dye my hair for her,
to hide the tell tale gray.
Some dental work to fix my smile.
And keep bad breathe at bay……

It seems a lot of work to me.
I’d not enjoy the rack.
I’m better off right where I am
than having to deal with that!

His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.

In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.

He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.

The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.

The champ was unbeaten.
He ground his foes down.
They'd be down, looking up
at the Champ looking down.

How then to cope
with an unbeatable foe?
This cup would not pass
even if he wished it so.

He was not getting younger,
This was his last shot.
Would he be one more challenger
that history forgot?

He was no timid soul,
avoiding the chance.
He'd go down swinging.
No regrets, he would dance.

He stepped into the ring
and they stood toe to toe
They touched gloved hands together
When the bell rings, you go.

On my fingers, on my tongue-
Your taste a sweet and pleasing one.
I unwrap you greedily
And nibble on you speedily.

Milk chocolate, I can't resist-
in miniatures or in a kiss.
Three musketeers are worth the fee-
all for one and one for me.

In a pudding or a bar
I enjoy you in my home or car.
In drink, you warm my winter day
once my shovels been put away.

Intoxicating like fine wine,
Your antioxidants are all mine.
I sneak away with you, my treasure,
an old fat man's one guilty pleasure.

The young woman struggled,
she pushed and bore down.
She was covered in sweat
when they first saw the crown.

The doctor, with forceps,
Tried to coax the newborn
Into the light from the
womb dark and warm.

What came next was amazing,
a wonder to see.
The obstetrician so shocked
He nearly dropped the baby.

A cute baby boy-
There no cause for alarm-
and his miniature wings
Merely add to his charm.

This cuddly cherub
hovered feet off the ground.
The umbilical cord
All that kept him earth bound.

His wondering mother
Was clearly perplexed,
For none of her lovers
had been winged’ sexperts.

True, one was named “Angel”,
her Swedish masseuse,
but, apart from good hands,
he’d been of little use.

Perhaps that old goat
With the lengthy Greek name
Who muttered “by Zeus”
Every time that he came.

Not that it much mattered
Not here or not there
Still there’s no denying
Her boy’s got a pair.

The young woman struggled,
she pushed and bore down.
She was covered in sweat
when they first saw the crown.

The doctor, with forceps,
Tried to coax the newborn
Into the light from the
womb dark and warm.

What came next was amazing,
a wonder to see.
The obstetrician so shocked
He nearly dropped the baby.

A cute baby boy-
There no cause for alarm-
and his miniature wings
Merely add to his charm.

This cuddly cherub
hovered feet off the ground.
The umbilical cord
All that kept him earth bound.

His wondering mother
Was clearly perplexed,
For none of her lovers
had been winged’ sexperts.

True, one was named “Angel”,
her Swedish masseuse,
but, apart from good hands,
he’d been of little use.

Perhaps that old goat
With the lengthy Greek name
Who muttered “by Zeus”
Every time that he came.

Not that it much mattered
Not here or not there
Still there’s no denying
Her boy’s got a pair.

She danced for Herod shamelessly;
She smiled and flashed her *******.
Herod looked on, helpless not to,
as each veil dropped to join the rest.
The look of lust was in his eyes.
He wanted her in bed.
Salome wanted something else-
she wished the Baptist dead.
He was helpless to refuse her wish
so was the order given-
The Baptist's head upon a plate
as proof he'd left the living.

As she shared her trophy with her mom
I overheard what Salome said.
" You can say what you want about Herod,
but he always gives good head."

In the time of the Caesars
The Emperors played god-
although some of them were
most exceedingly odd.

The man on the street,
was dependent, for bread,
on the grain dole that started
ere Julius was dead.

The unemployment problem
in Rome was severe
- at recessionary levels
for year after year.

How to keep happy
those unemployed masses?
Put on a circus
and give all free passes.

There were Lions and Tigers
and men with black faces.
Gladiators were drafted
from men of all races.

Roman blood lust was sated
with violence and wine
and all went home content-
having had a good time.

That which made Rome great
by then was a memory .
But, thought too big to fail,
Rome didn't lack for an enemy.

There's a lesson for us
in that circus and wine.
Empires fall
and its just about time.

As militant Mullahs mutter and pray

And plan their Mosque near ground Zero

Protesters march and people say:

“This isn't right! They'll have to go.”



But let's demur and make no noise

No tears, no threats, no signs approve.

It would profane our civic faith

To tell the Mullah he must move.



The Towers’ fall brought harm and fear

Men reckon what that did and meant;

But building a “cultural Center” near

Though demonized, is innocent.



Dull couch potatoes of the Right

Those ditto heads who can't admit

Tolerance, cause it doth reprove

Those thoughts that have them in a snit.



But we, my love, are so refined

that we ourselves don't care one whit.

Let them build it, come what may

But build a brothel next to it.



Two buildings place there, cheek to cheek:

the Mosque and “Annie’s House of Pain”.

One dealing with things spiritual,

The other deals with things profane.



In both, salvation is for sale

It seems to me a perfect fit.

For do not both invoke God's name?

-and both, I fear, use whips a bit.



students at the Madrasah may

hear the cries of Joy next door

on her mattress, hard at play

While they use prayer mats on the floor.

.

Will they too prove as tolerant?

Live and let live, for now- they say

When they enforce Sharia law,

The folks next door will learn to pray.

It was something of a medical miracle;
First, an acid attack had destroyed one girls face.
Then another young woman died and
her parents donated her guise
so the first girl's could be replaced.

It was a delicate operation,
detaching the face of one dead.
It became  as pale as a Kabuki girls'
It looked like a death mask they said.

How strange then was the sensation
when the patient was UN-mummified
To see someone else in the mirror;
The face of a stranger through her eyes.

She was glad to once more appear human
though the donor was somewhat older  than she.
She would live out her days in the face of another-
but then, We are all wearing masks- aren't we?

Moonwalker

We said goodbye to him today,
the man who walked first on the Moon.
We commit his ashes to the sea
as pipers play a mournful tune.
He'll feel Selene's pull in the deep
Until, in time, his urn dissolves.
Then, everywhere and nowhere
He will ride the Ocean tides.
Once, on a very different sea,
Armstrong brought his spacecraft down
At a place they called tranquility .
the Eagle landed, strong and proud.

In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore

Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word

In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.

With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames

But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near

Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I  hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?

The simplest word is hard to say
once blood has leaked within the brain.
The internal fires of life have died,
though the exterior seems the same.
He struggles saying yes or no,
He suffers visibly with pain.
His family, sadly, watches on
As the patriarch plays his endgame
Its like a cosmic jeweler tried,
To make a brilliant diamond cut;
If successful, it would have shone-
But he missed his mark and
  marred the stone

I hoisted myself on the parallel bars
(in itself a remarkable feat)
Determined this day
I would go all the way.
As if I was some student athlete.

My gym teacher sought to encourage me
As he knew I’d fallen before.
“imagine your crossing
A rope bridge in the jungle,
hungry crocodiles roaming the floor.”

I inched myself forward across the beam
My arms bore incredible strain.
I made it half way
Then my arms gave away.
My best efforts had all been in vain.

I admire the gymnast on balance beams
Those who soar on the parallel bars
But I’m short and I’m fat
So that put paid to that
So, mostly, I travel in cars.

George Johannesen isn’t dead
though the State claims he’s expired.
His driver’s License they cancelled
though he still had four good tires.
George, at first, thought to complain
about this twist of fate.
Then he came to realize that
Death is a tax free state.
Five hundred thousand dollars
Were paid out to his “next of kin”
Paid to one with the same name
Who looked a lot like him.
He accepted philosophically
the wage of sin is death.
If the alternative is taxes,
he assumed its for the best.
George enjoys the “afterlife”
on the Island of Majorca.
Where he chases younger women
And he doesn’t need a walker.
Only George, of all his friends,
has managed to retire.
He enjoys his afterlife
While the state thinks he’s expired.

The town of Fukushima
is a place where few will go.
Since the reactor breached
containment
it has a sad, unhealthy glow.
The mice and bees and butterflies
Did not make their escape
High radiation levels
lead to DNA mistakes
The butterflies have shrunken wings
and other gross defects.
The high incidence of mutations
has Leipidopterists perplexed.
When they talk among themselves,
as they do from time to time,
Some blame evolution,
Some Intelligent Design.

The time is now upon us
where I, once more, see your face.
Yet of your wit and wisdom
I cannot detect a trace.
You makeup, carefully applied,
your lipstick, fever red,
but all of the embalmers art
can’t disguise the fact you’re dead.
Your mother who had nurtured you
And cared for you at birth
Was still alive to cradle you
the day you left this earth.
I take your husband’s hand in mine
but have no words to speak.
The handkerchief concession
will do very well this week.
For tears will flow in rivulets;
Unbidden, still they come.
Yet the sea we cannot fill.
There’s nothing new beneath the Sun.

She was careful that she was not seen
There, in the graveyard,
deep in the night.
A single rose in her left hand
A bottle of Cognac in her right.
She knew the path to his grave by heart,
How could it be otherwise?
The two of them had shared one heart,
Now in his tomb the Master lies.
Libation poured upon the stone.
She wets her lips with Hennessy
He, of course, Edgar Allan Poe
She, of Course,his Annabelle Lee.

The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.

They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.

Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.

Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.

Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..

Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.

The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..


They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.

The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire

Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.

When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.

For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.

Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.

Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.

Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.

In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.

The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.

With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.

At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold ****** man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.

Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.

Some marriages last many years,
some, a shorter time-
but a love that lasts a lifetime
is truly hard to find.

Joseph, knowing what he was to lose
His love and fate embraced.
He died when bullets pierced his heart
while in a state of grace.

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 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.

Love is Love
so do not tarry.
If Tom loves ****
then they should marry.
If Anne loves Becky's
lovely ****,
No more beating about the bush!
But what of Harry's secret flame-
The love that dares not bleat its name?
Ewe'll have to wait another round
of defining deviance down.
If you think this all *******
please don't quote
the King James' version.
Lines at random from Leviticus
can make you seem
a tad ridiculous.

She’d liked their life the way it was;
their Pied de Terre above Broadway.
Now her lawyers indicate
It must be sold, there’s tax to pay...
His daughter seldom ever calls.
since her father’s burial day..
She would be someone to share the loss.,
But motherless she prefers to stay.
Jane sits before her mirror and
brushes back a wayward strand.
He used to love to brush her hair.
back when she still had her man.
She’d thought herself the luckiest girl-
She was his angel, heaven sent.
Photographs and memories
Now are all that she has left.
Gone two months, not even two,
Shrapnel killed her Marathon man.
He never reached the finish line
And now she’s living
Après Vous

The Universe started, or possibly not,
(It may oscillate from now to forever.)
Everything perfectly fine tuned for Life,
the Almighty is awesomely clever.
Eleven dimensions! Billions of stars!
Multiverse now without end!
Scientists strive to explain everything,
much to theologians’ chagrin.
They teach about Adam, not atoms as such,
A story of serpent and sin
The “Big Bang” by contrast, doesn’t invoke
a serpentine tinged origin.
There are still known unknowns
And unknown unknowns
In explaining how Life did begin.
Preachers will cling to the gaps in the String-
call it their “Prophet margin.”

in the High School cafeteria
there was horror on the menu;
A loner with a pistol
seeking victims and a venue.

Three times the pistol fired
and kids began to fall.
It might have been a massacre
if not for old Frank Hall.

Frank Hall was the football coach
with a short and stubby frame.
While others fled, he charged towards
this criminal insane.

Frank Hall didn't stop to think
he didn't have the time.
As he charged towards the gunman
His life was on the line.

The gunman fired once at Frank,
the shot rang high and wide
It caught a fleeing coed,
put a flesh wound in her side.

The gunman turned in panic
as the first responders came
He fled into the nearby woods,
just some kid named T.J. Lane.

Three teenagers lay dead inside
one more would never stand.
Many more lives had been spared
by the courage of one man.

He comforted the dying
as the ambulance came late.
The moment found the man-
was it providence or fate?

Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.

"Faith can move Mountains."
I've read in some book.
Now mind over Melon
can be done with a look.
Hooked up by electrodes,
a test subject's brain
exploded a melon
and fried some plantains.
The Watermelon trick
sure excited the crowd.
The comedian, Gallagher,
truly was wowed
He's been in the hospital,
truly heartsick.
Physically unable
to keep doing his Schtick .
Soon, with his brain,
He'll resume his pursuit,
popping jokes while exploding
some innocent fruit.

It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.

For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!

Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.

Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.

So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.

Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.

They’re a militant group of foodies of whom we live in constant dread.
They’re not ones to be satisfied with bribes of jam and bread.
They’re like a plague of locusts, descending on Food Mart.
Soon not a Twinkies left alive, just wrappers in the park.
They started out as teenagers staring at an open fridge.
The concept of “leftovers” they view as a sacrilege.
They’ll eat you out of house and home and leave you not a crumb.
You thought your cookie stash was safe, but now you’re feeling numb.
How did we let it get this far? Should the government intervene?
Hear their cry “Aloha Snack-bar” It makes me want to scream

In Atlanta Victoria is red faced, her secret a secret no more.
A shoplifter made off with her *******, merchandise worth an eye catching score.
How one shopper could nab all those garments- it simply beggars belief!
Her “Angels” will now go “commando” Unless someone fingers the thief.
The crook was observed on surveillance with stuffed shopping bags leaving the store.
She didn’t get Victoria’s miracle bras so police think she’ll come back for more.
This sort of heist has happened before, although, thankfully, it is still rare.
The shoplifter may be a black woman, but its certain that she has a pair.

When first we met, I thought it cute
that I was sought, you in pursuit.
Your wide eyed look once seemed Divine
Till you told the Western world you’re mine
and then you sang, a bit off key,
That girls should keep their hands off me.
Plus I find it a tad obsessive
When you sewed my name in all your dresses.
As first dates go, ours wasn’t great
So what makes me your lifelong mate?
What once was flattering, I confess
has turned into an awful mess.
When I went Wendy’s for a burger
You heard the name and threatened ******.
We must break it off, I think it wise
that we both start seeing other guys.

I brought you roses in the Spring
The evening of our senior prom;
A rose corsage upon your dress
and you, a vision, on my arm.

I brought you roses, then, in June,
the day that was our wedding day.
How lovely did you look in White
and in your arms a rose bouquet.

I brought you roses then in Fall,
A day remembered well and best;
A celebration of a birth,
our newborn baby at your breast.

I bring you roses one last time,
my spirit caught in Winter’s grasp.
You lie there still as if you slept.
I brought you roses, dearest Love,
For a promise made is a promise kept

The air was chill and darkness fell as bells rang and the rabble gathered.
A British sentry had struck a lad; some said his jaw was shattered.
Some four hundred Bostonians were milling about his station.
Eight Redcoats, each with rifle cocked, tried to defuse the situation.
The crowd was in an ugly mood; they would not let this slide.
The soldiers were pelted with rocks and snow, but as yet no one had died.
Private Montgomery was knocked down And muttered “**** you, Fire.”
He discharged his weapon into the ground, and that shot provoked their ire.
Captain Preston never issued the command, but a ragged volley was fired.
Eleven colonists were hit, three of them expired.
The crowd in panic then dispersed, and the troop of men retired.
A black man, Crispus Atticus, was among those who had died.
The mood was tense in Boston and those troops were charged and tried.
John Adams won acquittal, he was brilliant in defense.
But the crowd still felt injustice, and there's been no peace since.

Who can stand against the wind
That Tornado Ally blows?
What is within a people,
Who naught but hardship knows?
A force like an atomic bomb
Has visited again-
The great Plains own apocalypse
in the roaring of the wind?

Moore is, more or less, destroyed.
No stone upon a stone.
Amidst the wreckage, children’s toys,
That none will claim to own.

I have witnessed as the fires burn
among the fallen walls.
as first responders sift through stones
in search of living souls.
A playground, where no children laugh,
Now a bleeding open sore..
Mothers, weeping for their children,
Because they are no more..

She had a book of Sorcery,
that vile and evil crone.
She had no gift for Prophecy
or she wouldn’t have stayed home.
They caught her selling magic veils
and liquid in small jars.
(She was magically recycling
the contents of a mini-bar.)
She was caught with these potent potions
by the Saudi Faith police.
(Like the Spanish Inquisition
They’re not expected in the least.)
She was condemned for Sorcery
Her head forfeit to the Crown.
The price of magic veils just rose
if any can be found.

Keeping with the wedding theme of today.


The ***** swells as bellows fill.
The wedding march begins to play.
The bride is beautiful in white
All eyes attend her on her day..
He in black Tuxedo waits,
With the best man and the priest.
..
A pledge, a promise and a vow.
A ring , a kiss, a camera pose.
Two optimists race down the aisle
What fate awaits them?
God only knows!

I used to love that
perfume you would wear:
Pavlova, by pavot.
The name rings a bell.
In the post ****** heat
I remember it well.

Mandarin Orange with
raspberry ,musk,
Jasmine and Hyacinth
all that came between us.

Now the scent is redolent
of another place and time.
It returns me to our youth
in that summer of sixty nine

It of course has no such power
to make me, once more, twenty three-
but its subtle hints of citrus
gives rise to my

memory.

No brother's love could
match my love,
my poor dead girl, Virginia.
You filled your pockets
full of stones,
then waded into the river.
You drowned your
troubles and your fears
In an Ophelia like allusion.
Leaving me to be,and not to be.
until my own conclusion

In a far land known as Pakistan,
in the little town of Prym
Impiety was criminal,
And blasphemy a sin

A Christian woman stood accused
Of impious words and deed-
Did her words insult the Prophet?
Or did her neighbors hate her creed?

Tried and condemned for Blasphemy
in the little town of Prym,
The Christian woman waited,
for the stoning to begin.

The townspeople all gathered round,
pious Moslems one and all.
They chose their weapons from the ground
and awaited Imam’s call.

When suddenly the sky grew dark
The Sun obscured from view
A Nickel Iron stone from space
One, without sin, just threw.

In the place where Prym once stood
is a crater deep and wide.
There is no more impiety.
and no more fratricide.

Take to heart the lesson
Let hatred be unknown
Or next time He who is without sin
may cast a larger stone.

The starters' pistol sounded once
and sneakered feet churn up the clay-
Fame and fortune they pursue
Four hundred meters ahead, gold, lay.

Muscles strain and lungs may burn
inspired by Olympic fire
Faster, Higher, Stronger, yes-
The Motto does serve to inspire.

The race is run and some excel
Others just happy they took part.
Those fastest, on the podium stand,
to hear their anthem, hand on heart.

Obama has a different dream:
He'd make those Medals Lead, Tin and Clay
If no man makes his own success
why give the precious stuff away?

Never mind the countless dawns
they rose to run in rain or heat.
The weights they lifted in the gym.
How hard they trained on blistered feet.

If no man makes his own success
and government is the source of all
Explain to me, Barrack Hussein,
How did the Soviet Union fall?

She starred with Bogart, Douglas, and Victor Mature.
The Smokey voiced blonde whose motives weren’t all pure,
Lisabeth Scott was the last of her line;
Femme Fatales of film Noir, you know her kind.
In the forties and fifties she was in her prime.
She was the subject of scandal of a ****** nature
When the tabloids discovered that no man would date her.
Like Garbo and Stanwyck, stars in their own stead
Lisabeth preferred a brunette in her bed.
For her men had their uses, Men had their places
But she found herself drawn to soft feminine faces.

Their eyes locked glances at the club
and both knew that, very soon,
their horizontal Mambo starts
back in his suite of rooms.
A hot, slow dance,
One night's romance,
a glass ( or two) of wine.
He's first ballot Hall of Fame
and she is very fine.
Avoiding Paparazzi
they slip out a back door
The famous baseball player
and the girl called Belle Dejour

The crystal face is missing from this witness to the deed.
It doesn’t have its’ seconds hand, there is no longer need.
The date displays “11”. That it always will
to remind us of the day on in which fanaticism killed.
I look upon Todd Beamer’s watch and experience a chill,
realizing that while Time truly flies, it also can stand still.