In the flat where William Butler Yeats
had ridden the Gyre of mind,
Sylvia, with son and daughter,
came to spend the last of her time.
An angel, Ariel, visited
and spoke such lovely lines.
Sylvia hastened to write them down
though her pen froze at times.
Her doctor was concerned for her:
Her depression was profound
Despite the drugs that he prescribed
Her soul gyrated down.
Her husband had abandoned her
and their two babes besides.
A darker angel came to her
and whispered “suicide.”
Three days before St. Valentines
in Nineteen sixty three.
Her nurse received no answer
there at number twenty Three.
Fearful for the children,
the nurse had to get inside
Police where called and
the door was forced, but
sadly, not in time.
The smell of gas, pervasive,
in the room where Sylvia died.
Her two little ones were rescued-
Her death ruled a suicide.

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.

Twelve thirty five
three shots ring out.
The Presidents been hit.
He's dying, no doubt.
A ghost stares down
at the Motorcade.
Another clutches his throat
as lifesblood is splayed.
Their drama plays out
at Dealy Plaza
Without the blood
or the Dura mater.
A great Man murdered,
A vision gone
November twenty Second
Fifty Years on

The call went out
It meant one thing.
Death in the line of duty

Women keen
and Grown men weep
at the loss of youth and beauty.

The empty locker,
The owner-less gear,
silence that is a presence.

Brave Liam lies dead.
The fireman’s friend
Pity the parents their loss

The owner less toys,
The master less pets,
How to make sense of it all?

The image is indelibly
Engraved in my mind’s eye-
Like the black and white
photography
of the night that Bobby died.
Bobby, lifeless, bleeding out
upon the kitchen floor.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Where is the rule of law?
There were then two Americas
They too were black and white.
Evil times bred evil men.
Do you recall the night?
That summer there was rioting
And violence roiled the land.
It might have been much different
with a Kennedy in command.
The saddest words a poet writes
And lets escape his pen
Is that sad speculation
That asks what might have been.

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.

Good friend, for Heavens’ sake forbear
to pluck the rose that’s growing here;
For many a season there was none:
too much rain, too little sun.

Enter this garden as a child would,
In life’s morning, all seems good.
Let wonder wander where it may.
Scarlett roses bloom today

Good Friend, for Heavens’ sake forbear
To pick the rose that’s growing here
her velvet robes will come undone,
if you should steal her from the sun.

For roses are in short supply,
These bloomed the day my mother died.
If you should take these, I’ll have none
This late in season, no more will come.

A Blossom fell
To the breast of earth,
Not ever knowing
its true worth.

A blossom fell.
It made me weep,
That beauty
is not ours to keep.

A blossom fell,
and tears like rain
could never make
it whole again.

A blossom fell
from hand to bier
accompanied by
my bootless tears.

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mornings are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mondays are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

Eric  Schneiderman misses the days
When Whites were supreme in this land.
He abused his poor lover for her dark skin,
and pretended she was his to command.

"Call me Master!" he said, as he slapped her around.
He beat her to make her obey.
There were several "Dead soldiers" strewn on the floor.
Eric is a mean drunk, folks say.

Now in disgrace, he resigns his high post.
Poor Eric is down and Forlorn.
Based on the accounts of amounts that he drank
I'm amazed he could even perform.

A candle in the window is a warm and welcome sign
of an accommodating spirit with a thirst for the Divine.
Our ancestors lit candles in the Ireland of our past
To let a persecuted Padre know that there he could say Mass.
Our native tongue was under siege and in time was nearly lost
as the Crown tried to grind Ireland down no matter what the cost.
We are a charming people, sweet and witty are our ways,
stubborn in our faith that man is most uncommon clay.
So on this coming Christmas Eve before the feast begins
Put a candle in the window and welcome Jesus in.

They found her, blue and lifeless, a red scarf around her neck.
She was , in life, a designer; head and shoulders above the rest.
Women loved all her creations; her faultless sense of style.
Her Life seemed charmed and perfect, at least for a little while.

She tied the scarf around her throat when she decided it was time.
Medication for depression may have placed these thoughts in mind.
Her vision blurred, her heart beat raced until it came full stop.
Her housekeeper found the body- the poor woman's still in shock.

The police came to investigate and photograph the scene.
In death there is no dignity, the process is obscene.
They found the note, devoid of hope, that Kate had left behind.
People who know nothing spoke about her state of mind.

Her estranged spouse sits in silence with the little girl she left.
He struggles to make sense of it. He's sad, perhaps depressed.
He wonders what to do with the red scarf in which she died.
It is a hated, despised thing, this accessory to suicide.

The night is still and cold and clear
As Christmas Day draws ever near.
I hear the church bells start to ring
And hear angelic Choirs sing:

“Peace on Earth, Good will to men,
This day a Savior is born for them.”
A child is born to be a King,
This is the essential thing.”

A tree adorned with lights and glitter
in two weeks’ time will just be litter,
Wrapping paper, ripped and torn,
will be in landfills before too long.

Concentrate upon the star,
The guiding light to who we are.
Never, Never condescend
To live in darkness
once again

We met, quite by accident, at the concession stand.
Some forty years or so have passed
since last I was your leading man.
Those years have dealt you kindly; Just a touch of grey.
Surely it was fate that had us attending this same play.
I see in your face your mother but with kinder gentler eyes.
You are, its true, still the girl I knew, just in a mature guise.
When we were closer to birth than death I thrilled to hold your hand.
In our beginnings are our ends; I thirst to understand.
It brought a smile back to my lips when you touched me on the sleeve.
Time, sufficient to heal all wounds, has passed, I do believe.

A child is born
to her ***** mom.
The ***** donor
has fled and gone.

The road seems hard
when walked alone,
but she has you
to depend upon.

You have family to help.
You have courage and grace.
A dependent to nurture
and the future to face.

Your tale is common,
but sadly so.
For bad boys come,
and bad boys go.

They lack the virtues
that define a man.
Who would be a father
and become a Dad.

That's why your own mom
held your hand
as you bore down
again, again.

Rewarded with a cry,
her song.
This morning early
A child is born.

I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles  enroute.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head.
I remember where I was exactly that day
for I am a Child of Then.

Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
for I am a Child of Then.

Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head.
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles  enroute.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head.
I remember where I was exactly that day
for I am a Child of Then.

Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
for I am a Child of Then.

Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head.
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles in route.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head
I remember where I was exactly that day
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

When you are old like me
The sports page isn’t the first one
That you check.

It was just a modest notice,
If I hadn’t checked the obits
I’d have missed it,
I suspect.

Karen L., an entertainer,
She sang and played
Guitar.

In the eighties
I’d be there most nights
When she played our local
Bar

Mostly she sang others’ songs.
Her own lost on the wind.
Still and all I was a fan.
If you suspected we were lovers
I wouldn't tell you if you're wrong.


Her alto voice
was smooth and strong.
Her brown hair streaked with grey.
A little Simon
A little Guthrie
Those were her kind of song.

She made a modest living
As she turned breathe into song.
Others might have grown discouraged
But not her;
she was strong.

We lost touch ;( my fault)
some years ago.
Life dictates what must be.
Like River water our paths diverged
and flowed on
separately.

Her old guitar is silenced now
No nimble fingers play.
I’ll be along in just a while
Dear friend
My water of life
Will empty soon
Into the selfsame sea.

I found a place where we could talk
undisturbed, an hour or two.
A verdant grove, a treasure trove
of colors green and blue..

It's been so long since we had shared
some time like this alone.
I cannot blame you, Mother Dear,
-it was I who chose to roam.

It's true that I'm kept busy-
what with school, my job, my home.
Still that is a poor excuse
to leave one's Mom alone.

I see the changes time has wrought,
Those times that saw me stray.
The Spring is missing from your step
Your visage has grown gray.

You have been patient, loving, kind,
through the Autumn of my years.
I've heard your cries in winter winds
In April storms, your tears.

I hope there's time to make amends
for all the wrongs I've done
To dance once more beneath the Moon
as radiant as the Sun.

From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stake his prey.


“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.


She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final ******
And she folded in a swoon.

He grabbed her purse which was the prize
And left her in the courtyard, dead
Her name was Kitty Genovese
A pretty girl, the tabloids said.

A moment in a City’s life-
Not a source of civic pride
Glad she was not a child of mine
Did you watch the night that Kitty died?

The General stood looking in the mirror
Perfectly attired, Cap a Pied.
He turned to me and said
"We must not delay this,Mister Marshall.
This bitter cup that fate has handed me"
I handed him his sword in silence.
We'd be fighting in the hills
Were it up to me,
but even I knew that our men
were starving, Surrounded,
there could be no victory.

Traveler was mounted in an instant
Few looked finer on a horse than
Our Robert Lee.
Under flag of truce we rode
to the McLean House,
there to await the modern Ulysses.

Grant rode up dressed in a Sergent's uniform,
mud splattered,
His shoulder straps the only hint
of rank .
He looked more like the man
who had been beaten
Than General Lee who had to play that part.
He took Lee's white gloved hand, offered in greeting
both men's faces  etched with suffering, I saw.
They reminisced  about their other meeting,
when both served Scott in the Mexican  War.
Then General Lee asked Grant
to state terms of surrender.
They sat down and, in short order,
ended the unpleasantness of war.

The Victor was generous to the Vanquished:
No Rebel would be tried, or lose their home.
The men permitted to retain their side arms
Rations fed to men of skin and bone.
We'd Stack the drums and cannon in the field
Give our parole despite our internal pain
There were troops still in the field but it was over
April Ninth, a dark day without rain.

The soft blue glow of his smartphone screen
Attracts him like a lover.
He looks intently at the “feed”
and snap chats with the others.
He photographs his dinner plate and
shares it with the web.
He plays no sports, he stays inside
He plays VR instead.
His neck is permanently bent
from looking at the screen.
He’s not much for conversation.
He’s a solitary teen.
He’s getting fat and growing soft
from long stretches of inaction.
He needs an intervention-
He’s addicted to distraction.

Lillian Caine was the young lady’s name.
She was a romantic at heart.
She was painfully thin with a wart on her chin,
and stood tall at the end of the line.
Little Jim Coke was a short little bloke,
A cherub like smile his chief charm
He soon won her heart, they were seldom apart,
They looked like a “10” arm in arm.
Lillian thought they were destined to wed;
Her dear little Jim thought the same.
When they wed they became,
by their hyphenated last name,
Mr. & Mrs. Coke-Caine

It was windy that night, all those questioned agreed,
when the woman was struck by some falling debris.
It was here on West 12th Street,at the corner of Seventh,
by the condo they’re building on the site of Saint Vincent’s.
A section of plywood had chanced to fall,
driving “Tina” Nguyen head first into a wall.
She fell to the pavement and she struck her head.
They rushed her to Bellevue, but she was already dead.
Was it chance? Was it fate? Was it some Divine plan?
Her death was so random, so hard to understand.
We walk these same streets, so I think you’ll agree
It could have been you. It might have been me.

The eightieth lash had found its mark
when the prisoner crumpled to the dust.
Her hide, a mass of welts and cuts,
the lash, cruel as her ******’s touch.
What was her crime, why did she die?
This young girl had reported ****.
Religious courts reject such tales
when no males will corroborate.
Adultery, her **** was called.
One hundred lashes, her public fate.
For blessed is the prophet’s name,
The law is holy and God is great

As I wander along this lonely road
a wintry chill invades my coat.
I need this time to mediate
on the consequences of my vote.

As I gave thought of Right and Left
my footfall struck a rusty can.
I stopped and stooped to pick it up
and contemplated the object in my hand.

The can was a heavily dented can
that had been kicked down this road so long
It seemed its' second nature now
to absorb our kicks like nothing's wrong.

It once was shiny bright and new;
a wondrous work of human hand.
Now a rusty dented thing-
Its sad fate now I understand.

"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. " said Yeats.
They are a venial, grasping group of thieves
We put in charge to decide our fates.

In my short time the world has changed
in ways we scarcely understand.
We have failed to act to avoid destruction.
This road is strewn with dented cans.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t right; I don’t care what they say.
My dog was more than a pet to me; I lost a friend today.
Though I did the kindest thing, and stayed with her to the last.
I come back to a quiet house, now that my friend has passed.

The unused leash, the ownerless bowl, I survey through my tears.
Meg was my boon companion. Far too few were her years.
The vet gave me a cherished poem that I’ll read tonight again.
It promised Meg will wait for me just beyond the rainbow’s end.

The souls of Dogs are gentle which is why it takes less time
Before they achieve perfection and are ready for the climb
To that place across the rainbow, to the place where journeys end-
where the roses bloom forever I will always have my friend

A Prehistoric Dragon Fly/ Encased in amber, on display/ Caught my eye as I passed it by/

                                    in the museum yesterday.


Encased in amber, as if time/ itself was stopped and held at bay./ You will never know decay

                                    Or another summer's day.



                                    You in amber, me in time

                                    Both are trapped and on display.

                                    You in resin are enshrined,

                                    while I am seen encased in        
          rhyme.

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

Pleasure is fleeting, but  enduring is my  pain.
I would that it were otherwise; but that is not the game.
Perhaps in a mirror Universe
they enjoy perpetual pleasure
and would not know what to make of pain
when they experience it never.
Now if such folk are curious
and fear they're missing out
I'd gladly take their Elysian state
and let them have the gout.

Every year, on Christmas Eve
we gather at her parents' home.
That has been our tradition
since before I married Joan.

First, the traditional feast of fish,
Lobster and scungelli.
Some pasta shells for Judy
cause fish makes her stomach queasy.

The Men took turns as Santa Claus
when all the kids were small.
I needed pillows way back then,
I've since grown into the role.

My only son, when he was young,
could not say Santa's name.
but boy was he excited
whenever "**-**" came.

The years fly past. We all grew old
the Children all grew tall.
The little ones are College bound
the oldest works on Wall.

This year was sadly different-
"The patriarch has died
It’s Dolores’ first Christmas
without him by her side.

But if he's not there in the flesh
to joke and beam with pride
I'll put his portrait on a chair
placed near the fireside.

Then when all gifts are given,
and third desserts have been declined.
I'll say, “Christmas is over"
because that always was his line.

We cannot, must not, judge your act.
We didn’t share your pain.
You’ve left this life on your own terms-
How many wish the same?
We weep for that which might have been;
a happy heart and home.
When that proved to be impossible,
the choice was yours alone.
For those of us who linger here
In doubt and groundless fears,
We respect your heart’s decision
and the life within your years.

  
    x

Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look so tasty
Chocolate eclairs 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

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

by
Gordon Lightfoot


The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well
And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night
Her long flowing hair came softly undone
And it lay all around
And she brushed it down as I stood by her side
In the warmth of her love
And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And we played a game only she could win
And she told me a riddle I'll never forget
Then left with the answer I've never found yet
"How long", said she, "Can a moment like this
Belong to someone?"
"What's wrong, what is right, when to live or to die
We must almost be born"
So if you should ask me what secrets I hide
I'm only your lover, don't make me decide
The perfume that she wore was from some little store
On the down side of town
But it lingered on long after she'd gone
I remember it well
And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And we played a game only she could win
And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night
Songwriters: Gordon Lightfoot

Its Mother’s day today and flowers, in their bright array,
are popular gifts to give to Mom on this her special day.
While they still thrive the air is sweet; redolent of both rain and Sun.
Eventually their beauty fades though a Mother’s beauty never does.
They are a small enough return for the gift of a Mother’s love.
They are symbol and remembrance too, for those whose Mothers rest in peace.
In their petals, soft like her cheek, lurk remembered fragrances
Stirring memories which make us weep

When I was a child of five I bought a flower for my mom.
It was a fragile little thing but I was glad that she seemed charmed.
The years of our shared lives flew fast, like decades of her rosary.
She is resting now beside my Dad; for now and all eternity.
Some photographs and books are all I have of what she left to me.
Imagine how I felt today when I found this in her breviary-
Pressed petals of that long dead rose; a cherished gift from her young son.
It made a grown man weep for words unsaid and deeds left undone.

Its Mother’s day today and flowers, in their bright array,
are popular gifts to give to Mom on this her special day.
While they still thrive the air is sweet; redolent of both rain and Sun.
Eventually their beauty fades though a Mother’s beauty never does.
They are a small enough return for the gift of a Mother’s love.
They are symbol and remembrance too, for those whose Mothers rest in peace.
In their petals, soft like her cheek, lurk remembered fragrances
Stirring memories which make us weep

When I was a child of five I bought a flower for my mom.
It was a fragile little thing but I was glad that she seemed charmed.
The years of our shared lives flew fast, like decades of her rosary.
She is resting now beside my Dad; for now and all eternity.
Some photographs and books are all I have of what she left to me.
Imagine how I felt today when I found this in her breviary-
Pressed petals of that long dead rose; a cherished gift from her young son.
It made a grown man weep for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.

I was then but middle-aged, established in my world.
She was a young ingenue, a lithe and lovely girl.
she knew about the ring I wore, the promise it contained,
but we were both the worse for drink and passions were inflamed.
I should have left here at her door, my lusts I should have tamed.

Her perfume was enticing, unlike what my Lucy wore.
I stepped back to admire when her chemise hit the floor.
To hold a warm girl in my arms; to kiss those lips of flame.
I felt my youth restored to me when she whispered my name.

Her mystic rose was delicate; its subtle nectar sweet.
She raised her hips to meet my lips, the conquest was complete.
We both were lost in pleasure, her fingers urged me on.
We surrendered to our yearnings, all inhibitions gone.

Some say that Hell is a fiery pit with fierce unquenchable flames.
Others say its lined with ice and the cold drives you insane.
For me Hell was a woman scorned and a co-respondent named.
I was crucified in the press; such is the cost of fame.

I am older, wiser now. I never touch a drop.
See, if you never drink the first no one need tell you stop.
I have been a fool for Love but I will not pretend
that I don't miss her passionate kiss I'll never have again.

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.

From the first time I encountered AL, AL became my closest friend.
When my other buddies weren’t around on AL I could depend.
AL was always at my house or with me in my car;
a constant presence in my life, AL was  never very far.
When work or school caused me distress, AL would understand.
I always had the time for AL and AL was close at hand.
My other friends might disapprove, but what did they really know?
I was my best self when with AL, when I’d been feeling low.
Some tried to keep us two apart, but they could not succeed.
Having AL with me always was both a want and need.
Then came the day I crashed my car and cost my girl her life.
The police report blamed my friend AL for the death of my young wife.
I tried to rid my life of AL, but AL didn’t want to go.
My guilt, my grief, my misery made my dependence grow.
So now I sit on a wooden chair in the basement of a church.
For, you see, my “friend” named ALhas left me in the lurch.
I need to learn to love myself and deal with deep regret.
I rue the years I’ve wasted, AL; I wish we’d never met.

When a heart's rhythm is out of rhyme
drastic measures are oft applied.
Two Cardiac inversions in one week
were needed to give her heart a tweak.
After that an I.V. Drip
to ensure no need for a third trip.
Now my sister is home
but feeling weak,
having died twice, so to speak.
My sister cheated the Reaper twice!
"Play the lotto!" is my advice.

It had been some years
since you and I
had shared any stage and time
but here we are
in another's garden.
Strands of silver now showcase
your still pensive lovely face
You played Rosalind with me
in William's Arden.
Our theater borne romance
never really had much chance.
I know I hurt you
and I seek your pardon.
Never again to know that touch
which we both enjoyed so much-
It's true with time and age
positions harden.
Still, you tempted, and I ate,
and with that we sealed our fate.
That was long ago and
in another Garden.

She was ninety seven; arthritic, nearly blind,
when a madman with a rifle took her life before her time.
She was praying in the synagogue and, with her dying breath,
She performed a Mitzvah- one that we must not forget.
She fell victim to a hatred that won’t seem to die out.
In Russia there were Pogroms; in Germany, Kristallnacht.
If we thought such hatred was extinct; that the ovens had gone cold
We underestimate the hatred that still smolders in men’s souls.
It sparked to life in Pittsburgh;Eleven lives it claimed.
Antisemitism's ugliness is now our nation’s shame.
As she lay there bleeding, awaiting her own end,
She whispered with her dying breath;

“No Lord, not again!”

Twelve years; has it been as long as that?
I’m conscious of the grey that streaks my hair.
She, however, seems just as I remember
As the day before that day she wasn’t there.
There are no ties that bind me to this woman.
There are no banns that tie her to this man.
This was, of course, an accidental meeting.
Her leaving cut me far too deep to care.
Yet her eyes search mine as if to question
If an ember in the ashes smolders there

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..

They stood together for a photograph; Aunt Bessie and Irene.
One the aging matriarch, the other still a teen.
Irene’s hair was a fiery red well matched with eyes of blue.
Bessie’s days are numbered now, life’s journey nearly through..
Bessie’s one hand held her cane, the other Irene’s arm.
Irene was a vision, heading off to senior prom.
One has all her life before her, for the other just a past.
Irene looks much as Bessie did,  when Bessie was a lass.
I have seen old photographs, creased and Sepia toned
When Bessie was  Belle of the ball and stood beside some crone.

James Holmes awaited news of his fate. (Would his madness be held to mitigateHis terrible sin, his awful crimes; Life or Death, How to decide?)
What is Justice for multiple homicides?
He murdered twelve and injured more; Now what would the verdict hold in store?
A lethal injection, A Lover’s pinch, was that the outcome he devoutly wished?
Else he would get the world and time to contemplate his awful crimes.
He’d be Locked away from the world of men; never to be free again.
Haunted by souls he condemned to death; who had cursed him with their dying breath.


Life, the jury has decreed, as punishment for his awful deed.


He'll be locked in the prison of his mind; an awful penance is this gift of time.