Rice, Potatoes, Wheat and corn-
All starch and sugars, I contend.
They go right to your bottom line,
contributing to fat rear ends.

Those sugary drinks you gulp in gallons,
And all those meals you eat in haste-
Contribute to your lack of tone,
those rolls of fat about your waist.

Ancestors on arboreal plains
walked all day in search of meat.
We drive to the convenience store
to keep the weight off our sore feet.

Exercise some sort of will
And don’t resort to diet pills.
Eat lean protein, please don’t scoff
when your talking scale says “Please get off!”

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?

On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.

Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.

The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.

The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.

This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.

The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.

Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.

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.

The crops are drooping in my fields.
No rain again today.
My precious topsoil, dry as dust,
threatens to blow away.
It makes a farmer feel like Job
to be afflicted in this way.
No rain dance I can do will help.
I lack the words to pray.
We’re victims of a climate change
which makes the land too dry.
Nor is hope on the horizon
from the high blue, empty, sky.

It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.

It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins the ultimate game

It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.

It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.

Unless you happen to root for the Mets...

In the last year of Trujillo’s reign, the Dictator decided
to eliminate three sisters and then plausibly deny it.
Patria, Maria and Minerva were the victims of the plot.
Once the three were dead and gone, He‘d make sure folks forgot.
On a lonely country road, they were ambushed by his men.
They forced the sisters off the road. That’s how it began.
The girls must not seem martyrs; Trujillo had made it plain-
nothing quick and merciful, like a bullet to the brain.
The men used bats to knock them down and smashed their faces in
so they could not be recognized by their own next of kin.
They placed the bodies in the car and pushed it off the road.
“The butterflies are free!” they mocked; “Those girls reaped what they sowed.”
In the Dominican Republic, the wheel, if slowly, turned.
Trujillo met a ****** end and freedom was regained.
The truth was slowly brought to light, the murderers were named.
The Maribels were honored and their martyrdom proclaimed.





   h

We were cleaning out the attic
For the estate sale when we found
My fathers’ letters to my mother
from Vietnam, near Khe Sanh.

The pages old and yellowed,
The ink, in places, faded.
written in a boyish script,
with dried tear stains on the pages.

These were written from a battle
in a long and costly war.
They hold a tale of love and longing
For his wife and the child she bore.

My father was a Seabee
On the airstrip at Khe Sanh
By the time the siege was lifted
He was already gone.

The letters end abruptly.
He never made it home.
My mother set aside the letters
and lived the rest of life alone.

I never knew my Father
He never held his child
Still he found a way to touch me
with his letters from Khe Sanh.

This loss is very hard upon his mother:
Enduring first his birth and then his death.
The time between -scarcely a generation-
But in that short span of time he proved his worth.

They are too few, the proud who wear the emblem,
And fight our countries battles in our stead.
When they found him, his position was surrounded
By the bleeding bodies of Jihadist dead.

Enroll his name among our Countries’ heroes
Remember him for all of time to come,
But put away the medal they awarded-
I need no medal to recall my son.

My brave strong son who first fought in Fallujah,
and battled militants in Kandahar.
He joined the fallen as his tour was ending
Hearts can't be mended with a golden star..

In the dark days that now will be our portion,
I will ponder certain questions in my mind:
Was this sacrifice truly required?
Is our suffering random or by design?

The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.

The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.

In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.

I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”

The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.

We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.

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.

The verdict has been rendered
And George Zimmerman goes free.
(I still would not bet money
On his life expectancy)
There is anger in the streets this night
in our divided land.
One mother’s son was shot and killed
by this George Zimmerman.
The Jurymen have heard the facts
and ruled it self-defense.
Far too many in the streets
Take acquittal as offense.

Long ago, in Boston town,
were British redcoats tried
for the ****** of six colonists-
“A massacre!” folks cried.
John Adams got the soldiers off
with a plea of self-defense.
He must have had great courage
and, in Justice, confidence.
How difficult it must have been
To face his neighbors’ angry cries
The principles he fought for live
Unless we let them die.

This human I’ve adopted
at first seemed rather sad.
Her meals were all unhappy
in Golden Arches paper bags.
She seemed so sad and listless.
She lacked a vital spark.
That is until I convinced her
to go walking in the park.
I next began to teach her ”fetch”-
it became her favorite game
Her arm grew strong with every pitch.
She was really glad we came..
At dusk we’d walk the promenade
to watch the sun go down.
I’ve got her trained to buy for me
the finest puppy chow.
(It’s gotten so she reads my mind
without me saying “Bow”)
Yet recently I grew concerned-
she’s taken in a stray.
I think she said his name is Dave
and they hope to wed one day.
They say they both love chocolate Labs
that I brought them together.
I guess walking in that park
wasn’t altogether clever.

Libyan Rebels ring the town,
poised to make their final ******.
The defiant wait with loaded guns,
The butcher tallies up the cost
Is this the Arab Alamo?
Defeat presaging victory.
Or just another episode
Of “I **** you and
You **** me.”

The world waits

In ****** anticipation

For their oil to be

Delivered

I woke up that Christmas morning,
that year that I turned five.
Everything was blurry
due to an infection in my eyes.
The Christmas tree with colored lights
cast an aura in the room.
A half warm teabag on my eye
gave some relief from haze and gloom.
My brother set up his Lionel trains
on a wood board on the floor.
Any other brother might have resented
that I had so much more
than he did when he was little
growing up in times of war.
We all heard Mass at nine o’clock
at Saint Ann’s on the Hill.
Then back home to break the fast
Presents would have to wait until.
Simple gifts were cherished then,
not all bought in a store.
My parents were the working class
we had enough, not more.
The gifts may have been simple
but love came brightly wrapped.
Before sleep my father told me stories
as I nestled on his lap.
I’m thankful for the memories
which remain  undimmed by time.
but my eyes still get a little blurry
when I think back on Fifty Nine

In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before;
those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore.
Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right?
Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight?
There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain.
If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame.
Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise;
an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies.
I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis
that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this.

Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame;
As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same.
Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.;
A “friendly Legislature insures profitability.
The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws.
It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.

On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
I will not hear those notes again
for Sandman’s gone away.

With one out still left in the ninth
Two men approached the mound.
Jeter said “It’s time to go.”
The ballpark roared with sound.

Was there a dry eye in the house
when even Hall of Famers weep?
That night, Mo’s opponents cheered,
for the man who spelled relief..

For when a game was on the line-
Foes threatening to score;
One man, one pitch was all it took
as Rivera barred the door.

On that crisp September night
I heard the music play.
They will not play his song again
for Sandman’s gone away.

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

Karma finds you eventually,
Sometimes while drinking a fine Chablis.
George Zimmerman is back in the news,
with sour grapes that left a bruise.
His girlfriend wouldn’t kneel to play
so he bopped her with un Beaujolais!
His poor girlfriend, clad in a slip,
He christened like a navy ship.
Aggrieved assault is the charge he’ll face
since cops were called out to his place.
He can’t resort to “Stand your Ground”
His prints were on the bottle found.
Off to jail, George, where, they say,
You’ll meet your true love every day.

Just a simple scrap of paper, stained with his blood, dried red,
It was picked up by a passer- by. It’s author newly dead.
The victims in the towers had been pulverized by stone.
And now could be identified by DNA alone.
For about a decade after, his note was saved, unread,
The M.E. was too busy, bones took precedence instead.

Reflecting pools, the well of souls, are where the towers stood.
There’s a garden of remembrance and that’s all well and good.
His widow and his daughters hung his picture on the wall.
It was like a wound reopened when they finally got the call.

She thought he had died quickly; the second plane had struck his floor.
He worked in the South Tower way up high on eighty four.
“We identified this by the blood, it matched his DNA.”
She stared numbly at the note he wrote that sad September day.

You may view the blood stained note and the message that he wrote
In the Nine Eleven museum in Manhattan
When he'd spent the time we're given,
paper saved him from oblivion.
Now his tragic end will never be forgotten.

The sunlight, like a mother’s touch,
lies gentle on the water’s face.
The last warm breath of summer past
Not ready yet to yield its place


And you and I walk, hand in hand,
Around the long and winding path
Past where fledging Mallards stand
And weeping willows sweep the earth.


From beyond the rushes comes
the soulful melody of a horn..
All else is still, no sound intrudes
upon the bassist and his song..


Above us Ninja squirrels fly
And bomb the path with acorn shells
If they should hit me do not laugh
Odds are that they’ll get you as well.

I’m glad we came to Oakland Lake,
To watch the waterfowl at play,
And have a quiet conversation
about a nearly perfect day.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
Their youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters voices
and that star that shone like gold.

Hard rubber plate there in the dust
and just beyond, a mound.
With difficulty Catfish turned
and paced the muddy ground.
Even with the walker
these few steps were hard indeed.
Shoulders weak, steps faltering
from Lou Gehrig’s sad disease.

The blue sky stretched above him
so infinite and vast.
With difficulty Catfish reached
back, deep into his past.
He did not think of trophies
or recall his perfect game.
Not at all about the millions
he once got to sign his name.

He was pitching for the Yankees
against men in Dodger Blue.
The World Series game on the line
some whispered he was through
His mind recalled each move he’d made
Each strikeout pitch he threw.
In Memory the fastball’s song
still sang out loud and true.
Like an old dog fast asleep
might dream that He’s still young.
Catfish thought about the night
His last Series ring was won


Soon, too soon, he’d be relieved
of ball, of life, of game
He’ be a plaque upon the wall
down at the hall of fame.
A few more weeks
and he’d be gone-
a casualty, nothing more.
The object now of whispered prayers,
This man fans once adored.

Corruption ruled the County
And the rich man owned the town.
The citizens were desperate
for a solution to be found.
The Sheriff seized the ballot box
And shot a black man down.

Mister Cantrell and his minions
Wouldn’t pay the people heed.
They would stuff those ballot boxes
With the numbers they would need.
In Athens there were veterans
just returned from foreign war.
What went on in McMinn County
Wasn’t what they had bled for.

They got weapons from the armory
And they faced the sheriff down.
They blew the jail doors from outside
Bringing justice to the town.
No longer would the Cantrells
Hold the county in their fist.
The right to bear arms had prevailed
May it be ever thus.

Like a treasured heirloom painting
dulled by passing time,
its colors, sadly faded,
this tricolor of mine.
Once crimson red, now cinnamon,
The blue an aqualine,

When Liberty was naked
We draped her in its folds.
The boys in blue held this high
in times that try men’s souls.
Let not the flag of freedom drop
nor linger in the dust.
Let faded glory be restored-
In Liberty we trust.

The drummers play a muffled beat
As I climb the scaffold stairs.
A long faced priest awaits me there
to say my final prayers.
Maternal blood has been my curse;
I ‘m Edmund De La Pole.
A Yorkist and Plantagenet
By the emperor bought and sold.
My head will never wear the crown
To which it was entitled.
The headsman whets his cold French steel
And fat Henry is delighted.
I kneel before a block of wood
A heart fit for a throne.
Now and at the hour meet:
For ambition I atone.

Embedded in Afghanistan
were the General and the Blonde.
It gets lonely in those mountains
and she was close and warm.
She was his biographer
and he her primal source-
When he offered her "full access"
Her reaction was "of Course".

Their spouses both were far away
in another land and clime
Why not steal a kiss or two
is it really such a crime?

For this betrayal of our trust
Petraeus now must pay.
He placed his privates in command
and now he rues the day.

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

At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.

The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.

Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.

With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John

He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.

Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.

Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms

He was leader of no country.
King of no Sceptered Isle.
He never led his folk to battle.
It just never was his style.

The history books we have
recount the foibles of the "great"
The cannon fodder mass of men,
in these tomes, never rate.

He died,and, like a coral,
lent his bones to form the reef
that stands between the tidal plain
and the waters of belief.

One hundred and fifty travelers each day
Arrive from West African climes.
While its clearly insane to let them board planes
They can travel on scheduled airlines.
If they’re asymptomatic, they enter our ports.
Is the government out of its mind?
With dishwashers and Laundries our first line of defense
Ebola will spread over time.
Airline and hotel stocks are selling off big
Pharmaceuticals ought to do fine.

A nurse who watched Duncan as he sickened and died
Flies to Cleveland and back to big D
Her temperature was merely ninety nine point five.
“.Oh, you’re fine.” said the C-D-C.

At the Empire's fringe
A woman and man
Traveled by night
over oceans of sand.

The woman, quite pregnant,
rode their sole beast of burden.
Her time; near at hand,
Her child's fate; uncertain

They saw a light in the distance
from a sheepherder's ranch
The couple was fearful
but saw it was  their best chance

an abandoned outbuilding
on the outskirts of the spread
It had a tin roof
and some straw for a bed.


The blankets they carried
Jose lay on the straw
He then helped down Maria
who could travel no more.

The empire has watchers
with guns and night scopes
on the watch for illegals
there to frustrate their hopes.

Maria was panting
Jose said” bear down!
The baby is coming
I can see it, the crown"

The watchers were coming
in their camouflage Jeep.
They pulled up near the ranch
to that garage they would creep

Looking in through a window
they saw the birth of the child
one of them swore
but the other just smiled.

The birth of that child
on American soil
would serve as an Anchor
for that man and his girl.

The couple thanked God
that their child had survived.
That the boy they named Jesus
in this new land would thrive.

I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.

The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.

Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite cancer's indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.

She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I 'd been just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.


She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.

I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”


We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.

I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.

“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”

She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.

“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”

I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a  warm and humid  night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.


I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.

I was working the suicide hotline
that Friday night her call came in.
She sounded hyped up, frantic,
toying with the ultimate sin.

Her boyfriend had just left her
and she had no cash for the rent.
In the background a baby was crying,
The last of her patience long spent.

She rambled about her existence
as I passed a note to an aide.
When she told me how much she had taken
It was the first time in years that I prayed.

Blue angels with sirens were coming
for the girl with the tracks on her arms.
She increasingly grew incoherent,
Then, silence, I knew she was gone.

That weekend, I read in the paper
How an “Accident” claimed her young life.
A pretty brunette, about twenty,
all done with life’s struggle and strife.


That Tuesday, I stood in the distance
as the hearse brought that girl to her grave.
I wept then, overcome with sorrow,
for the young life that I failed to save.
.

Nothing in life
was as sweet as your kiss.
So soft, so yielding, so fine.
Nothing so warm as your
cherry chapped lips.
That I savored when,
once, you were mine.

I paid my respects
at Your wake yesterday.
The morticians are good at their art.
You, sleeping princess, beautiful still,
through the decades that we've been apart

Except for your lips
which so oft I had kissed;
The beautician left them
grim tight and dry.
Both of us know they were
nothing like that.
That's when I let myself cry.

My gleaming white constellation class Starship
(My ***** white Chrysler K car)
was out on patrol near the neutral zone
(I was driving back home from the bar)
It was then I received a distress call
(I urgently needed to ***)
Some Klingons decloaked in proximity

(I sped past a cop car or three)

I called for more speed from the engine room!

(My transmission started to shake)

Klingons pursued in the neutral zone

(They motioned to me HIT THE BRAKE!)

“What seems to be the Tribble, Officer?”

I said to the humorless Gorn.

That Klingon impounded my vehicle

(They caught me exceeding Warp Nine)

If Kirk faced this “no Win” situation

He’d probably get off with a fine.


Dam Klingons!

November of  Sixty-five, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.


this poem is written in honor of Captain Ed "Too Tall" Freeman. the action for which he received the Congressional Medal of Honor was the battle of La Drang, Vietnam which is the core of the Mel Gibson film " We were soldiers" the action takes place on 11/14-15/65

Now where were we, Wolfie
before the woodsman intervened?
Your hot fetid breath upon my neck
suggesting things obscene.
I was eager and no innocent
to try new things, I’m Keen.
That woodsman fellow was such a bore
thinking that he could keep me pure.
I knocked him out, then I made sure
he won’t disturb us anymore
So paw my scarlet robes aside
and see the treat that waits inside.
For one night only with no repeat
find out if I am good to eat.

The enemy of my enemy
Is not, necessarily, a friend to me.
Sectarian based enmity
In Syria abounds.
Cruise missile strikes certainly
Will be followed by the I.E.D.’s
As surely as boots on the ground
Will result in stone topped
Grassy mounds.

Once, upon the Salisbury plain,
the English Elms stood stately tall.
Sergent's paintings leave us memories
for there are now few left at all.

Perhaps when you were young you spent
Long summer days beneath their shade.
Then a fungus left them bare
and horticulturists were dismayed.

In Canada's far North remains
examples of the old Elm Trees
In Amsterdam they cultivate
Elms resistant to disease.

So in our children's children's time
I pray that we might live to see
once again on Salisbury plain
Elms such as live in memory.

Jolly? or pejorative?
It's really hard to say.
They work the streets by night.
He flies upon a sleigh.
They quicken old mens hearts,
He gladdens children's days.
They both can lighten wallets
in direct and derivative ways.
Like the poor, they're always with us-
Those girls who play for pay.
Santa isn't like them
He gives it all away.
Will they get coal in their stockings
from that jolly rotund Guy?
He's coming Christmas Eve
They just pretend to, being sly.

Mario Draghi is a stimulating guy,
To rouse a dead economy,
There’s nothing he won’t try.
He’ll lower rates and lower rates
then lower rates again.
Til the exchange rate for the Euro
reaches parity with the yen.
When he eases quantitatively
Then stocks you ought to buy.
Still, It won’t be pretty in the end
when money comes to die.

Some Asian folk revere the Tao
the way of Yang and Ying.
Others worship ancestors
and of Confucius sing.
Buddhists seek a one way trip
with no wish to return.
Hindus think we're born again
just not in Christian terms.
Some follow in the steps of Christ,
this life, their cross to bear.
Others say Carpe Diem
and just don't give a D*mm.
Islamiscists eschew alcohol
and never lunch on ham.
This place has many faiths and creeds
to suit our every mood.
The voodoo that you do so well
is with suspicion viewed.
The foodists are the latest cult-
a blight upon the land
like Joey chestnut at buffets
consuming all they can.
To them no cow is sacred
and wine just slakes their thirst
They walk among us and they breed
and I don''t know which is worse!

Elizabeth, the ****** Queen, left vacant the English throne.
Her Scottish Stuart cousin came and claimed it for his own.
Two nations with one monarchy joined in the Union Jack.
The Scottish lost their nationhood and now they want it back.
Saint Andrews’ Flag of Bonnie Blue will have to be unfurled
if Scotland votes to take its place among nations in the world.
Quebecois and Basques today are eagerly looking on
to see if Scots will vote to tell the English to be gone.
Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where their dominion ends.
Remove your subs from Scapa Flow; your lease is at an end.
There still remains a problem which, just now, occurs to me.
If the English take their Pound with them, what is our currency?
It’s true we’re rich with North Sea oil and better off than Spain.
Yet how do we do business if the Sterling won’t remain.
We need a new “Gold” standard based upon the single malt!
Who needs pounds when we have ounces stored in barrels and in vaults?
So pour me a “MacCallan” on the day the rent comes due.
Hand me a glenfiddich and I’ll purvey food to you..
Our creditors will be well pleased with hints of bog and peat.
We won’t dilute our currency as Scots men drink it neat.

Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick.
He’d always been so full of life and song.
She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick.
until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone.

The very day they put her husband in the ground,
a Jet black Lab with no collar or license
that she took to calling “Pepper” came around.
“He must belong to someone.” was her sense.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab.
No one in town had seen the dog before
the day they placed her man beneath the sod.

Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side
They took long walks down Beachcomber Way
Only Pepper heard the tears she cried
and stayed by her till the sadness passed away

Three winters they passed in that little town,
a town that made its living from the sea.
Eventually she felt strong enough to work
and re acclimate to life and company

As Spring’s warmth dissipates the winter gloom,
Sadness cannot forever shadow hearts
The heart is a perennial and so will bloom
as soon as the snows of sorrow will depart.

Then, on the anniversary of the date
the day they placed her husband in the ground,
She called and called but Pepper didn’t come-
The Jet black Lab was nowhere to be found.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find her dog again.
but no one ever saw the Lab in town.
The stray will go where he is taken in.

Detroit is a mess, eighteen billion in debt
But you can’t stop a loser from a double down bet.
The transit she has runs deep in the red
Half her acreage is vacant and her tax base has fled.
So now they plan a streetcar, the M-1 light rail
They boldly go forward with a plan doomed to fail.
Detroit’s busted budget is out of control
Their schools are the worst, spending’s out of control.
But if we build a streetcar then all will be well?
More cash down the rat hole! Don’t ask and don’t tell.
Three billion dollars it’s projected to cost-
half for the rail line and half for the Boss.

I dropped you off at Kindergarten
wasn’t it just yesterday?
You clutched at Mother’s tailored suit
Loathe to turn away.
Your teacher came, a kind young girl
and took you off to play.

You’re Twenty two, a man now grown
dressed in tailored Grey
We wave bye at the window
when your cab takes you away.
I remember that first parting
wasn’t it just yesterday?

I was younger back then
than my youngest is now.
(Impossibly young, it would seem.)
There I first did encounter
the fig newton girl
so lovely, languid and lean.

I fancied myself a writer of tales
back when I was fresh from my teens.
Blank pages taunted me
right to my face..
They haunted the sides of my dreams.

I remember fig newton girl
reading her poems.
(Bee stung lips
and bare minimum clothes.)
She had our attention -
so sweet was her sound.
while I fought my
struggles with prose.

" Close your eyes
You could be anywhere.
Even next to one
whose eyes are also closed."

Those were her last lines
and they've stayed in my mind.
(Impossible though it may seem.)
When I close my eyes
she is next to me yet-
the fig Newton girl of my dreams.

Ganjgal, September 8, 2009


They had a job to do that day
in the Valley of Ganjgal.
Afghani and Americans
walked into a metal hail.
An ambush had been laid for them
as they approached the town
Every light was darkened
Taliban held the high ground.

One squad was pinned
Behind a wall and
was taking Casualties.
The gunny Sergeant
for sure was dead
and perhaps the other three.
Corporal Meyer on the radio
called for suppressive fire
but was denied because brass feared
to rouse the natives ire.

With no air support available
and the situation looking grim
Corporal Meyer told his Sergeant  
They should take the Humvee in.
They drove into the ambush zone
time and time again
Engaging with the enemy
and rescuing their friends.



Corporal Meyer killed one enemy
at close range with his M-4
He then engaged with a machine gun
and killed or wounded several more.

When air support, at last, arrived
and held the foe at bay
Corporal Meyer entered the killing zone
to take the dead away.
He came across four bodies
that had been stripped of guns and gear
All four had been shot at close range
the  postmortems make that clear..
On his broad shoulders he bore a friend
Who’d paid the price of war.
He ran between the bullets
until he had retrieved all four.
Disregarding his own safety
and heedless of his Shrapnel wound
He displayed great personal bravery
without which our cause is doomed.

Corporal Meyer wears an honor now
that few men living bear
The Medal of Honor on his chest
for conspicuous Gallantry there.
He will tell you he’s no hero.
He just had a job to do.
A proud United States Marine
to their motto ever true.

The world is full of good ideas
And rules we really need.
Signs ensure that drivers won’t
Exceed the posted speed.
Plus we have laws restricting drugs-
So nobody smokes ****.
Chicago’s ban on handguns
Has produced a bumper crop-
Of people full of bullet holes
Legislation failed to stop.

It’s clear to me obesity
kills more than bullets do.
Look at your friends and neighbors
And you’ll realize this is true.
Its burdensome to carry them
To their final resting place
Once they’ve spend several decades
stuffing Stuffing in their face.
It’s past time we got serious
It’s time to walk the walk.
I’m introducing legislation
That aims to ban the fork.