Here was age and here was beauty,
The nearly young and very old-
women standing ,stripped stark naked
there were forty in all told.
That cold Spring morn
In Sobior, the SS planned to test
Their newest means of ******
On these Jewesses undressed.
First robed of everything they’d owned,
Then compelled to disrobe-
Forced into the chamber
Where monoxide soon took hold.
First the banging on the door
That was securely locked
Screams and imprecations
Then silence borne of shock.
Ten minutes it was over
The last of them had passed
An open pit would be their grave
Their fortunes had been cast..

The path that led up from the camp
To where they breathed their last,
We Germans called the “Himmelstrasse”
For even villains need a laugh.
But on this day in Forty three
The sheep did more than mutter
They killed a dozen guards then fled.
They would not yield like the others.

Belfast is a bustling town where big muscled men make ships of steel.
Down on the Quay we come today to bid farewell and see you off.
You have your suit case in your hand. I see you wore your Sunday best.
If you were lying in your casket you could not be better dressed.
So kiss your Mum a sad goodbye and shake your Father’s hand.
You have your ticket in your pocket to take you to a distant land.
You siblings and your kin have come to wish you well and say goodbye.
To raise a parting glass with you; in truth nobody is dry eyed.
Off with you now to America, Where a young man has space to dream.
Your mother bravely waves good bye. Only in private will she keen.
*******************
M­any years later, when he’d grown old, my DA returned to his native land
To see the house where he was born now just ruins and in others hands.
We visited the parish church where he had been baptized long ago.
A Celtic cross marks his parent’s grave and on their plot the wild grass grows.
Every one he’d known and loved had passed before him as if a dream.
He wept before his sister’s grave and said a prayer for my  Aunt Kathleen.
His story yet had years to run before the day came he, too, would pass.
Then relatives would gather once again and raise to John the parting glass.

The day they knocked the Towers down
He thought he heard his nation's call
He signed his name on the dotted line.
Off he went to train for war.

Just five days into his first tour
insurgents, in a fire fight,
put a bullet in his spine
in a war commenced by George's spite.

He never after walked again.
He felt a burden to his wife.
Time and time again
he lay beneath a surgeons knife.

Until at last he said "enough"
I've had enough of this half life.
No food or drink would he accept,
his only path to that good night.

Before the soldier's "final tour"
Before he joined our honored dead.
He wrote a letter to George Bush
and this is what the soldier said:

Ten years have passed now since the day
a bullet left me half a man.
A victim of an unjust war.
Your vendetta I can't understand.

I hope someday you can accept
some blame and guilt for all your crimes.
For spending young Americans
on bootless wars in foreign climes.

Sixty Seven years they were together,
until only death did part.
It is difficult for Him to deal with:
Death rends asunder human hearts.
Until this happened his mind seemed clear
in spite of his advancing years.
Then his daughter got the call
That nearly broke her grieving heart
Her Father asking for her mother’s number-
He’s lost Gemma’s number and needs to talk.
He needs to hear her voice again.
To tell her  that his love is true.
Through tears his daughter answers back;
“ I ‘d give you  the number if  I knew.”

October 12, 1870, the last surrender

There it is again, that old familiar pain.
It is clutching at my chest as I feel my color drain.
I reach my favorite chair and I struggle for each breath.
I place a pill beneath my tongue and just hope for the best.
Ever since Antietam it has hunted me just so.
It is like my old opponent, Grant, an unrelenting foe.
I am approaching Appomattox, my struggle nearly done.
I hear the cheers of boys in Blue for it is they who’ve won.
I could not ask more of the Grey for they had little left.
Now I too am about to fall to this traitor in my breast.

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there in his new clothes.

His new Blue Suit

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there is his new clothes.

I sit in Dad’s old Adirondack chair
And observe the setting Sun.
Upon the lake the ducklings glide
Alive with the joy of the young.
It is peaceful here at this time of year
Before all the tourists come.

The gentle wind is just enough
To urge the water to kiss the shore.
A yellow cardinal is perched nearby;
Something I’d never seen before.
I breath in deep clean mountain air
and I make to myself a vow:
To Keep Dad’s cabin here at the lake.
It’s Heaven enough for now.

Condell, Hemmings, Burbage all
Have had their final curtain call
The boards they trod were burned in flames,
And not one single script remains.
The author, Shakespeare, now bones and dust
as is the fate of all of us.
Yet do not count all as defeat
As we playgoers take our seats
For Shakespeare still retains his fame.
Though all else be gone
His words remain

La ville de lumière porte une couverture de blanc
Comme les flocons de neige et l'obscurité, en tandem, descendre.
Je marche dans ses rues, seule, avec juste votre mémoire en tant que compagnie
La vieille librairie que nous avons aimé faire des emplettes
A fait sa dernière vente et fermé pour de bon.
Notre restaurant préféré est toujours là, ouvert pour les affaires,
Mais de nouvelles personnes l'ont maintenant.
Elle aussi est changée.
Dans les temps plus heureux, nous nous sommes assis à cette table extérieure
Et regardé, ensemble, les nuances subtiles de la lumière
Réfracté sur les eaux de la Seine.

Dans votre entreprise, une simple croûte de pain
Et une bouteille, ou deux, de calvados semblait un festin.
En votre absence, les meilleurs aliments sont, pour moi, la paille et la paille.

Années de vie dans votre amour
Ne m'a pas préparé
Pour cette vie seule
Je regarde les flocons de neige tomber, vers le bas.
À travers le froid sombre de cette soirée parisienne
Et les envie de leur résolution que je ne peux pas encore partager.

Most never heard the killing shot,
From Bismarck, rend the air.
It landed in Hood’s magazine
and vaporized all there.
H.M.S. Hood rose in the air
The bow and stern were parted.
In ninety seconds she went down-
With her complement, she departed.
The Men aboard the Bismarck cheered,
Though their victory proved hollow:
They could not know, within three days,
The Bismarck was to follow.
The Prince of Wales made smoke and turned
to fight another day.
Torpedo planes from the Ark Royal
made Bismarck lose her way.
Three years of war had hardened hearts
But Hood’s loss caused dismay.
The tragedy in Denmark’s strait
Would make agnostics pray.

Some think it cute when young girls twerk,
Or use cosmetics like Tammy Faye.
Isn’t it cute to hear them curse?
Childhood?- Oh, that’s so passé.
Dress them like their older sisters;
in clothing barely more than slips.
Put ****** heels upon their feet
to roll those prepubescent hips.
I pity those who think this progress.
I put the ball back in their court.
The taking of innocence, I find appalling.
It makes childhood nasty brutish and short.

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.

Debt be not proud, though lenders label thee
useful and powerful, for thou art not so.
For those poor souls who take your ready dough
Pay not Principal, just interest and the fees.
Unlike cash wealth and true liquidity
Which, in sum, denote prosperity,
Your burden would enthrall them where they go
And collection agents nightly tell them so.
Your rates are slave to a data dependent Fed,
and you are a poison consigning men to Hell.
Cash wages are what we need to slumber well,
Free of this debt incurred with the stroke of a pen.
One more loan payment and we 'll eschew your fee.
Then Debt shall be no more. We’ll be debt Free.

It has come to our attention and you need to be aware
That there’s a home invader out tonight and you must be prepared.
On the street he’s known as “Nick” and self-described as merry,
He’s five foot six , three hundred pounds and his cheeks are red as cherries.
His modus operandi is to enter via flue
And there are unconfirmed reports he’s bearing gifts for you.
He’s fond of blended whiskey so you’re wise to leave a drop
and some carrots for his caribou who wait on your rooftop.
If your kids find it hard to sleep tonight I well can understand
It’s said this creep is keeping book on every lass and lad
If you catch him near your Christmas tree, you’d best stay out of sight
Or he’ll wish you “Merry Christmas” and to all a good night

A learned scientist opines
in outer space there are two lines:
Proteins that would mirror mine,
and sugars of a non digestible kind.
On Earth “Left handed” proteins rule
at Barrows base right up to Thule.
“Right handed” sugars fuel our race
“left Handed” sugars have no place.
In our earthly reality
We have homochirality.

Still, somewhere in the cosmic dust
might be the opposite of us.
On a world no meteor ever scored
Might be space faring dinosaurs!
Intelligent, cunning and with big teeth-
Suppose they come to disturb our “peace”
Velociraptors with ray guns
might be as nasty as they come.
Thank God the U.S. has Marines
to blow those “Saurs” to smithereens.
Then, after they have taken their licking
We’ll find out if they taste like chicken.

When making arrangements for ending it all
be sure to consume the right pills,
for the medicine chest contains many things
They prescribe now to cure other ills.
He’d said his goodbyes and he’d written the note
On the day that he thought was his last.
When he saw he’d O.D’d on Cialis instead
he was taken back and aghast.
For Cupid, not Thanatos, had answered his call
leaving him hard as dried plaster!
Though his wife was impressed-
And gave it her best-
He still throbbed on the edge of disaster.
Two pros they then called
To give it their all
To deal with this “gift” that keeps giving.
Despite their best efforts
He rampant remained
And he thought to himself “This is living”.
His medical doctor had just the thing
to keep Priapism in check.
When he finally went slack
There was no turning back
They at least kept it out of the Press
Upon further reflection
the hope of resurrection
Made him rip up his note and go on
For Life is worth living
with a wife so forgiving
of a spouse with a four hour bone.

She was a young girl, just fifteen,
when the wondrous deed was done.
Behold, a ****** had conceived;
It was foretold she’d have a son.

She was promised to an older man,
a joiner of wood, simple and plain.
Many a man might have demurred;
exposing her to the stones of shame.

In his troubled sleep, he had a dream,
revealing all that God had done;
Joseph took Mary to be his wife
As the Roman census had begun.

Mary considered these things in her heart
As the infant grew and thrived.
He was strong in wisdom, kind of heart.
Though Herod pursued Him, the child survived.

Three years he traveled these ancient hills;
In synagogues and Temples, he taught.
Until, betrayed, he was arrested,
and brought before the Roman court.

How hard for Mary to behold
her only son upon a cross.
She heard Him cry out to the sky
and yield His spirit when all seemed lost.

It seemed he was in Satan’s power;
When even gold appeared but dross.
Then Joseph of Arimathea came
to claim His body from the cross.

Hope is a slender reed;
enough to build a dream upon.
She, too, beheld the empty tomb.
The stone removed, the Master gone.

My naked skin glistens
with strenuous sweat.
My name on your lips
urges me faster yet.
The Whip in your hand
is applied to my back.
I jump in my tracers
to the head of the pack.
As we round the last turn
To hollers and cheers,
I look forward to oats,
My Jockey , to beers

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Our City teetered on collapse as pimps and prostitutes worked Times Square.
That long hot summer of Seventy five, ere Disneyfication happened there.
When fear ruled these streets and crime rode the subway trains.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Fun City’s last mayor had packed and left, the sad faced accountant now held the reins.
Along the Bowery vacant eyed drunks panhandled passersby for change
And squeegee men collected tolls on all the bridges.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Working and Middle class New Yorkers fled the mounting crime and social strain
Open enrollment disrupted schools as educational standards went down the drain
And FALN placed a bomb in Fraunces Tavern.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Then real estate sold for a song; there were so many vacant lots.
Fires up in the Bronx had consumed whole City blocks.
That year the Yankees played their games in Queens.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Gerald Ford told the City to drop dead when Beame went to him hat in hand.
Midnight cowboys plied their trade, strangers in a stranger land.
In Yonkers, a deranged young man was taking cues from a black dog.

In the presence of the enemy
He split his force in two.
His red coated invaders
displayed contempt for the Zulu.
How else to explain their failure
to fortify the camp?
Twenty Thousand warriors
Put them in a deadly clamp.
It was a fearsome slaughter
redcoats falling by the score.
Thirteen hundred swept away-
No prisoners of war.
assegai thrusting spears struck home
The Sun would shine no more.
The Thin Red Line was broken,
each man fighting his own war.
With ammunition running out
They fought with blade and ****.
Until knobkierrie clubs struck home
And stabbing spears found gut.
The officers with horses,
without honor, fled the fray.
Escaping only with their lives
No storied heroes they.

A orange tufted dotard and a tubby rocket man
got into a ******* match and said: “The world be dammed!”
One spoke of fire and fury while the other threatened Guam.
The World looked on in disbelief-“Who gave these morons bombs?”

Enter Dennis Rodman, a baller of renown,
His hair dyed blonde, his body inked, dressed in a wedding gown.
“Hold on there! Mister President. Don’t press the button yet!”
“Don’t give your naïve voters yet more reason for regret.”

So Dennis traveled to the East to see the Hermit King.
They drank in Karaoke bars; he heard the dread Lord Sing.
They Joked about “The Interview” They compared tattoos.
They ate Korean barbecue and listened to “The View”

Kim had so much fun with him all bombing was delayed
They went out for a quick massage and afterwards got laid.
The seventh fleet remained offshore with no invasion plans.
“A bullet was avoided. Dennis Rodman is the Man!”

I was waiting on the platform,

waiting for a westbound train.

I was thinking about you

but I didn’t know your name.

I had seen you at the wedding-

You were playing bass guitar.

I didn’t at the time yet know

How wonderful you are.

Amazingly the train was late,

delayed because of rain.

You came with that umbrella.

I forgot about my plane.

I somehow found my courage

to finally ask your name.

In time we would share sorrow

But first we’d share romance.

I’ve no regrets that we two loved-

just grateful for the chance.

Someday I’ll tell our children

How we met there in the rain

How a shared umbrella

brought us close

While waiting for a train.

I’ve played it out of habit, bought the tickets, stood in line.
I’ve called the game “the stupid tax” at least a hundred times.
I’ve dealt with all the nay sayers who tell me I can’t win.
They’ll all be here with their hands out the day my ship comes in.
For on that day Champagne will flow and I’ll be of good cheer.
Bankers and accountants will all vie to have my ear.
All the long stemmed lovelies who ignored me heretofore
Will be slipping me their numbers and hoping they can score.
That day I’ll dress in bespoke suits and watch the Wall Street ticker.
They’ll call me “top shelf Johnnie” for my discerning taste in liquor.

Even with my new found wealth, I hope some things will linger.
I’m still with my first wife you see; I’ve never been a *******.
Through these years of losing tickets she always stood by me.
That day that she said yes was when I won my lottery

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to **** it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liars chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
Source: LyricFind

His mother goes there every day.
His dried blood stains still mark the spot.
She gets down on her knees and prays.
Such grief will never be forgot.

Her son was murdered for his phone.
A single bullet to the head.
A single gold shell case was found
not far from when he was found dead.

He was his mother's only son
coming home from work at night.
Police came and took his Dad-
for victims must be identified.

Such suffering must one's heart bear
remembering that final day
to see him silent on a slab.
over and over it replays.

So numerous are Urban youth
like drops of water in a stream.
Still each drop is a human life.
Every droplet bears a dream.

His mother goes there every day.
A gentle rain begins to fall.
His girl left some carnations there.
She struggles to accept it all.

Look into her eyes where kindness keeps
Or else a jealous dragon sleeps
Her eyes will tell if she’s true and fair.
Are you saved or dammed? The answer’s there.
Her words may dissemble and lips oft lie.
Those curves may distract as does her smile.
No, her eyes are where true beauty lies.
The sooner you learn this the sooner you’re wise.

The path I tread is difficult, the grade, in places, steep.
Condemned by the gods, I follow it without surcease or sleep.
I push my rock before me like a slave beneath the lash.
My sentence is forever and this is my fated task.

My hands are callused from hard work maneuvering the stone.
I do my work in silence; my thoughts are still my own.
The gods will not hear me complain as I struggle to gain traction.
I am not weak and will not give those ******* satisfaction.

The stone moves as my muscles strain to roll it towards the height
The stars are very beautiful and I’m working by their light.
At last the apex is achieved, a feat of strength and will.
Once more I hear Dis snickering as the stone rolls down the hill.

I take a breath to clear my lungs and then proceed below.
My stone waits on me patiently for yet another go.
Well, I am game if you are game-my unspoken reply.
We resume our pas- de- deux beneath the cold uncaring sky

Vile stubby fingers invading all my holes,
You take my body in your chubby hands.
You swing me in an arc along your side
And violently heave me in the air.
I crash down on a track of polished wood
And dizzily set off for parts unknown.
I smash into a bunch of wooden pins-
The seven and the ten I leave alone.
A spinning wheel prevents me from escape
And launches me back again to where you wait.
Though you will try your best I’d have to bet
The split I left is not one you can make.

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

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

No night is so dark as the night of your death.
A truth every mariner knows.
They were caught up in a storm
and it could not be long
as the brave ship and crew took hard blows..
They stayed at their stations, for hours they fought,
their iron ore freighter to save.
The waves crested high and the wind whipped on by
whispering of a watery grave.
The religious ones prayed to the god of the storm
in hopes that this cup too might pass.
The heathens among them beheld only gray sky
and they reckoned this day was their last.
The old girl gave a scream as lake water poured in
Her pumps were no match for the waves.
Her lights winked, then died, said observers on shore
And she plunged to a watery grave.
In church families gathered to weep for their men,
Who had set sail in spite of the peril.
The Sun never reaches Superior’s depths;
Never reaches the Edmund Fitzgerald.

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

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

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

If, tomorrow,You ask for me
and find that I have gone.
If some unwelcome guest arrived
and joined their hand to mine.
Think of me as if I'm asleep
and comfortably at home.
Please, do not grieve excessively
that you've been left alone.
Instead remember you are loved
beyond this veil of tears.
above all else remember me
and I am ever near.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

I held a rose without a thorn,
I say with certainty.
Every other rose has thorns;
every one save she.
There are other kinds of rose:
Long stemmed, hybrid, tea.
Still it was the thornless rose
that I kept close to me.
Perhaps I held a bit too tight
and her love began to wane
Sadly, I relaxed my grasp,
vainly hoping she'd remain.
We parted as the best of friends
as she got up from my bed.
I looked down, dumbly,
at my hands
and wondered why they bled.

I knew a girl who wore dark clothes,
Who would not, could not, speak in prose.
She could, of course, declaim in rhyme,
For many hours at a time..

No thoughts prosaic or profane
Had anyone heard her exclaim.
Just poetry poured forth from her like wine;
a vintage nuanced and sublime.

She did not gossip, curse or tweet.
In matters of the heart, she was discreet.
I was her muse, she said. She, mine.
Her love for me, a gift divine.

We danced in silence without a word
To music only we two had heard.
She charmed my heart with every rhyme
In English, French, or American sign

Was this a talent? – Or a Curse?
I married that girl for better or verse.

I’ll be along my dear
In just a little while.
We will soon be reunited,
My heart gladdened by your smile.

I can’t forget your loveliness;
As you wore your favorite dress.
No more than I’d forget your love
Or  the day that we first met.

Yes this parting was a sorrow,
It’s no shame that I confess.
It’s true my heart felt heavy
From  this sudden loneliness.

We will soon be reunited
Dear companion of my heart.
Never more will we be lonely
When we’re nevermore apart.

I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day and through
In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children's carousel
The chestnut trees
The wishing well

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

I’ll call it a day when I die.
I’m the boss, I don’t plan to retire..
As long as there’s breathe in these lungs
I’ll sing till my body’s past tired.
For music’s a sweet occupation.
and mine is a lyrical line.

“I’ll see you later.” My Father said as they wheeled him off on the gurney.
“Good Luck, Pops.” my heart in my throat, as he went on his last journey.
He left us in that hot July, when the heat waves’ course had run.
I wandered in shock and disbelief like a world without a Sun.
For a long time after Pops had passed I struggled with depression.
Life went on for others; at least that was my impression.
Yet even in my darkest night I had my memories.
Sometimes, in the deepest sleep, Pops would return to me.
In his deep rich Irish Brogue he’d speak from beyond the vale.
My Memories of unconditional Love can never fade or pale.
To have been loved as we two loved; there is but one Love greater.
As I woke and rejoined the work-day world I whispered “I’ll see You Later.”

I’m not ashamed,
Nor should I weep.
Sometimes, into dreams,
Old memories creep.
Photographs will fade with time
sooner than these dreams of mine.
Yes, you taught me how to love
And yes, it was a precious gift.
I am the child of your old age.
Now, of your presence, I’m bereft.
I kneel here by your stone today
And think of all that I have lost.
To pause a moment, reflect and pray
And wish you happy Father’s Day.

What images swirl through the dying mind
of a man who’s been peppered with shot?
Does life pass in review, as some have claimed true?
Is he judged and found wanting? Then what?

Or does he embrace and take leave of this place
as life’s’ blood empties out of his veins?
Is the thought of her face the one instance of Grace
When only a moment remains?

In the darkness of late evening,
Mark Chapman waited for his prey.
A born again Christian, incensed by Lennon,
Gun in hand, prepared to slay.
In cold blood he murdered John,
Never again would Lennon play.
Everyone knows where they were that day

What images swirl through the dying mind
of a man who’s been peppered with shot?
Does life pass in review, as some have claimed true?
Is he judged and found wanting? Then what?


Or does he embrace and take leave of this place
as life’s’ blood empties out of his veins.
Is the thought of her face the one instance of Grace
When only a moment remains.

Were the great and the small impressed in the least,
when Mark Chapman from the shadows emerged?
In the dark shots rang out and John Lennon was shot,
The gun always has the last word.
Do you remember where you were when you heard
the news that John Lennon had died?
In the back of a cruiser his light was extinguished.
The poor, deluded Chapman faced prison.
Such fame he obtained-  The wrong kind.

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

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

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

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

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

What if Eden and Gethsema!ne
were in the selfsame place?
Then, in the spot where Adam fell,
knelt Christ to take his place.
Perhaps the tree of knowledge stood
where Peter fell asleep!
He lacked that night the stamina
his holy watch to keep.
The Via Dolorosa starts
where Peter struck the slave.
Passion cancels passion out
when there are souls to save.

The sun was just about to set
when I happened on the scene:
A small and well kept garden
scented with Magnolia trees.
Someone had placed a wooden bench
beside a whispering pond.
I never knew this gem was here
In New York, most green is gone.
There were seasonals and perennials
competing for my senses.
A most welcome distraction
from my dark and somber penses.
So little time remained before
the light would fade away
and their beauty and their brilliance
would be shadowed, dark ,and grey.

I thought about my childhood home
and the fruit trees that once grew there.
of the flowers and the vegetables
cultivated with my parents' care.

Concrete now covers every inch
of my remembered home.
They put a housing project
where, upon a time, I roamed.
I felt a sudden pang of loss,
fought back a foolish tear.
Here, in another's garden,
I had travelled back the years.