Living on a minor planet near a very average star,
There arose a type of primate, the most inquisitive by far.
Not the strongest or the fastest of the animals on earth,
but blessed with an intelligence that quickly proved its worth.
Long before they had the means to travel very far,
They raised their eyes in wonder at the glory of the stars.
thus embarking on a quest that has yet to reach its end.
as they parse the light of distant stars in their thirst to comprehend.

The old grey man sat by the window
with his great grandchild in his lap.
He doesn’t speak much since his last stroke
but at least he could teach her to clap.

His brain is a puzzle with some pieces stolen.
He struggles to keep time at bay.
At times he can speak, if the past is invoked.
Most times, he has nothing to say.

For he is an actor, in spotlight unforgiving
who’s forgotten the lines he must say.
His timing is off, he’s missing his mark.
They’re writing him out of the play

The child in his arms, for reasons quite different,
will likely forget this fine day.
Her Great Grandpa a name, a face in a frame,
a memory time has stolen away.

We start out our lives in rooms filled with strangers
then, gradually, we learn our way.
We end up our lives in rooms filled with strangers.
As it was, so t’will be, make away.

“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken. “My aunt Helen did confide.
She is somewhere north of eighty-four and never someone’s bride.
Her beau died in Korea, died to keep our country free,
“ At least that was the pious pap they tried to sell to me.”
So she lived a solitary life, watching horses round the rail.
She would hang around casinos too, the reason she’s so pale.
“There are no pockets in those things.” She told me at a wake.
“so you won’t catch me sitting home, that’s a big mistake.”
In these later years she might enjoy a second glass of wine.
She is fiercely independent; she is a good friend of mine.
So, if now and then thoughts scatter and she tells a tale again.
I smile and listen patiently. We all get there in the end.

We sat together on the bench,
we’d walked two miles before-
And though neither would admit it
Rest must precede two more.
We looked out upon the water
on this clear but windy day
as it ran in rivulets
down to the Great South Bay.

“I had a dream,” my brother said
“I’ve never dreamt before.”
“I was back on Fern Cliff Avenue.”
“It was nineteen sixty four.
“Back in our house that they tore down
to build  another store.”

“Dad was there, our grand kids too
Some he’d never lived to know.”
“Dad wanted to get out for a walk,
No one else seemed up to go.
So I said I’d accompany him,
Just a minute though.”

He was out the door before I rose
And half way down the block.
You never saw him move so fast.
It was something of a shock”.
“But as I was just twenty five
And I could really fly.
I was sure that I’d catch up with him
I’d hardly need to try...”

“John, it was the strangest thing-
as his lead increased still more.
Each block I walked I gained ten years
Soon everything was sore.”

“When I reached the cemetery block
Down near old John Bowne High
I was every day of seventy
With cataract clouded eyes.”

Inexplicably there was a bar
where a Dry Cleaners was before.
I felt in need of a stiff drink.
So I went in the door.”

“when I went in I was shocked to see
Our Father waiting at his seat”
“He ordered us each a Jamesons
His with ginger ale, mine neat.”

“I know this must be strange to you”
Our sainted Father said. “But I have
Missed you all so much
In the years since I’ve been dead”

“I prayed to see you all once more,
ere I was born again.”

“As a new born child, I will forget
All loves that came before.”
“The wheel of fate will turn again
You’ll see me nevermore”

“We drank then to each others’ health
and stayed to the last call.”
Such stories that he had to tell
I hope I remember all”

“The barkeep nodded towards the door.”
It was my  time to go.”
“I shook our father’s hand once more
As fate would have it so..”

“Just then a loud noise in the street
Awakened me in bed”
“In vain I tried to sleep again,
To find the vision in my head”

My brother grabbed his walking stick
It once was Dad’s, now his
“I usually don’t remember dreams,
But I remembered this.”

All men are created equal, if we take Thomas at his word.
Yet we all have different talents, at least that’s what I’ve observed.
Some are smarter, some are faster, some are foolish, others wise.
Yet we are all worth many sparrows in our Creator’s eyes.
I have witnessed great performances involving winds and strings,
Although I too love music there’s a mystery to those things.
I love to watch ice dancing; to view artisans on ice.
Yet when I’ve strapped my own skates on I‘ve fallen once ( or twice).
I love the game of baseball; it’s by far my favorite game
But once more the draft is over and they didn’t call my name.
It is good that we’re unequal; that only few can pass the test,
But let not that excuse anyone from trying for their best.

I wonder how they dug the graves
and shoveled in their young.
When grass was your last supper
your reserves are clearly done.
My forebears wouldn't" take the soup",
they wouldn't sell their souls.
So perhaps determination, then,
gave them strength to dig those holes.
To starve in the midst of plenty
was the saddest sight on earth,
but to their London Landlords
Irish serfs held little worth.
It's known that a potato blight
was the famines primal cause,
but I still blame beef eating men
and the cold uncaring laws.

An Infinite number of Monkeys,
furiously typing away,
provided with paper and ribbon
would, in time,write Shakespeare's plays.

Off-shoring and Corporate mergers,
Massive layoffs, death and disease,
plus the lack of typewriter repairmen
Decimated those bard-chimpanzees.

Instead of that infinite number
these days I'm afraid it's just me
churning out corrupt Shakespeare Quartos
titled "Piglet, the Prince of Belize"

He was thought to be a genius by those who knew him best.
His output was prodigious; himself a source of infinite jest.
He was said to be obsessed by one who would not be his wife.
He was suffering from depression on the day he took his life.

There is no cure for sadness or the shadows that pursue.
Medication only does so much when sunny days turn blue.
His essays and his stories had garnered much acclaim,
And once you’d read his novel you would not forget his name.

So one day in early fall; rope tied around his throat,
David used his exit strategy from a life devoid of hope.
That is how she found him; suspended from the stairs.
Swinging softly like a pendulum, there, beyond the help of prayers.

She took my breath away
just by her being near
Her long red ginger hair
Her dangerous curves, her sparkling pair
of eyes that chanced to look my way
Just as the wind snatched my toupee
(That knocked the wind out of my sail)
That left me paunchy, bald and pale.

I guess I might as well inhale.

The Cut man and the manager
had seen this scene before.
Smoking Joe was staggering.
He looked destined for the floor.
His left eye badly swollen
from where a cut had bled.
For Fourteen Rounds
He'd matched his foe,
the greatest,many said.
Now it seemed he's have to yield
to this implacable foe.
Eddie reached and grabbed the towel
he was prepared to throw
Frazier glared with his good eye
to tell his corner " NO"!

The minutes seemed forever.
He gave his all, they said
The fifteenth round has ended
and smoking Joe is dead.

When I was one and twenty, my mother said to me:
“Life is short, Dear Son, don’t waste it on frivolities.”
But I was one and twenty; I thought I knew better than she
Funny how none are so blind as those that will not see.

I had good times in college in those days when Love was “free”.
I did a modicum of work and avoided STDs.
I saw some sadness in her eyes when my paper chase was through.
A window closed, though I knew it not when I was twenty-two.

I worked ten years in government, which left me a bit depressed.
I threw away a woman’s Love, Why is anybody’s guess.
My youthful promise dripped away, my greatness was denied.
I entered another decade with a bottle by my side.

When I finally hit bottom; when all else had been tried
I tried the ten-step program in lieu of suicide.
In a drafty old church basement,we sat on creaky wooden chairs
and confessed our self-debasement to the fellow sufferers there.

Last spring, my saintly mother died. I came too late to say:
“Mom, you were so right, I’ve thrown too many years away.”
For Life is short and, now and then, it takes us by surprise
when another window closes on the loved ones in our lives.

Do you recall where you were that day, that November Friday afternoon?
The moment that you heard the news that someone had murdered J.F.K?
Some were just children at the time who now have grown so old and grey.
Half those Americans are gone who heard what Cronkite had to say.
That day that Camelot came to grief, and power passed to L.B.J.
Yes, I am a child of then, that day lives still in memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number Two, Derek Jeter, Number two. “said the disembodied voice.
A man on second, one man out, It was Showalter’s choice.
He could walk Derek Jeter, choosing to pitch to McCann.
The choice would be unpopular, not that he gave a ****.
With no one warming in the pen, Buck chose to roll the dice.
Derek had two R.B.I., another would be nice.
Antoun danced off second base, Meek delivered fast and low.
Jeter punched it to right field, where else would it go?
Antoun raced around third base and dove headfirst for home.
The crowd roared at the signal “Safe “and they were not alone..
The Captain leapt up in the air, the moment we’ll remember,
our pleasure in an otherwise forgettable September.
He will not take the field again; his time at Short is done.
A handful of at bats remain before his race has run.
Bob Sheppard will go silent now, that voice beyond the grave,
The night that Robertson got the win, and Jeter got the save.

In the shadow of Ben Bulben
off the road from Mullaghmore
in the parish yard of Drumcliffe
you will find me there for sure.
It is a fair spot where I lie
Here in my native loam.
This was my heart’s desire
This was my mother’s family home.
How beautiful is Sligo
that I nevermore will see.
I’ve now become a part of that
which was a part of me.

In the dead of Winter came
a dread that did not give its name.
A thought whose source would not disclose
the fear that all those living know.

In the dead of winter came
those short lived days we pass in vain.
Anger, short lived, but intense
at Love without its recompense.

In the Dead of winter came
a bitter cold without a name
Disease that would not run its course
The bitter pill of our divorce.

Drink is the doorway to despair
and yes, I sought some comfort there,
when human voices all went still
to warm me from the Winter chill.

A simple curved stone bench
Set in a rustic niche.
Outside, this city bustles,
here, time passes by the inch.
There’s a fine array of roses
and stone tablets on the wall.
The inscription is in Irish,
It tells of a rise and fall.
As I sit, quiet, here
Near the bronze children of Lir
The reflecting pool brims full
of my races’ gathered tears.

She speaks of marriage; does she not see
the dissolution of my life and dreams?
My family’s’ fortune was lost in the Depression.
My Guggenheim wasted on unrealistic schemes.
I’ve spent these last years drinking, scarcely writing.
In taverns and dark places I have lingered;
searching for the Love that dares not speak its name.
Once I had such Love, but the fever broke.
I don’t think Love will trouble with me again.
I am weighted down with troubles and concerns.
My Youth and promise offered up for wine.
I long for sleep beneath these churning waves
If I take the leap will anyone know or care?
One resolute step will end both pain and time.

He was not from these parts; a big city teen.
At Five – Six not imposing, he was barely fourteen.
A big city teen with a bit of a mouth,
which was bad for a black man in the heart of the South.

A warm summer day in an old country store,
The white girl was a looker; that much was sure.
Emmitt Till whistled for he was impressed
With how good that girl looked in that tight fitting dress.

That girl had a husband, a big burly man.
He was a bad man to cross for he rode with the ****.
He and his cousin sought out Emmitt Till.
If a man can die slowly they both swore this one will.

The two held Emmitt captive in an old wooden barn.
They strung him up with barbed wire and broke both of his arms.
They gouged out one eye for the pleasure of pain
Then they dragged out to the river his mortal remains.

His poor mother wept when she saw what they’d done;
How they’d tortured and murdered her beloved son.
She mourned, open casket, and word soon got out
How Black men were killed in the Heart of the South.

The law found Till’s killers and brought them to court.
But the jury was friendly (or else they were bought).
The two killers went free, smiling, down the court steps.
But their sins lit a fire folks here won’t forget.

After Till’s death Civil Rights was the cause
There were marches and protests; the movement changed laws
The ****’s hold would be broken; of that do not doubt,
And, slowly, things changed in the heart of the South.

Little children will monitor speech
for the hint of a racist remark.
Veterans cannot be trusted with guns,
there’s a risk that they’re violent at heart.
Is healthcare a tax or a fee
in the land of the formerly free?

Old white men to the back of the bus,
Check your privilege, leave the driving to us.
Barbarians encounter no gate,
freely enter and live off the State.
They‘ll vote Democratic, you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Our President, a liar and phony,
doles out largesse to all of his cronies.
While our roads and our bridges need work
We’re distracted by some twit that twerks.
It’s all misdirection you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Taxpayers are only half free,
constrained by demands of the State.
Despite their Utopian schemes
Inequality grows to extremes
They divided to conquer you see
in the land of the formerly free.

In the empty stands
Our champion sat.
Sans fans
and sans applause.
He mulled over
The match just past;
Its aces
and its flaws.

To have come so close
And not prevail-
A lesser man might cry.
But Murray knew the glory
That comes when Mortals vie.
He thought:
“I’m getting closer,
Than I ever have before”
A silver cup
At Centre court
Was the vision
That he saw.

In the month of fourteen, everything changed.
Then names from faces became, sadly, estranged.
One whom we all love has a part of her gone.
Not anything simple; not a leg or an arm.

Her memories stolen, her speech rearranged,
by a tumor that's growing on one side of her brain.
A stroke was the first clue that something was wrong.
In the month of Fourteen, all her words came out wrong.

The music may play and she may try to sing-
but the lyric is lost in the strain echoing.
I doubt whether her life will ever be the same.
Her husband is with her but she's forgotten his name.

On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.

On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.

Here, in the pale light of a winter’s day
I entered with a sketch pad in my hand.
I never dreamed that I’d encounter you-
To sketch out some old master was my plan.

Was it your eyes that first seduced me near,
or those cherry lips that I would never taste?
Two centuries past you were a beauty, dear.
Now, all but this image, time has lain to waste.

I envy him who painted you in camera,
together in your sitting room alone.
Who knows just how the session was concluded
If your old and senile husband wasn’t home?

I’m cast here in the role of a ******,
I haven’t even tried to draw a line.
Your dress of silk reveals just one bare shoulder,
Your eyes, the promise of a night divine.

So sad, to see these empty chairs, where, just the day before,
Our brave young aviators sat looking like the gods of war.
They won a famous victory, our wing commander said,
But when a flyer dies in combat we never see them dead.

The planes they flew were obsolete; they never had a chance
The Zero is more maneuverable, so deadly and so fast.
Let no man doubt their courage as they pressed on their attack
in the sure and certain knowledge that they weren’t coming back.

We render one last service as we pack up our friend’s gear;
the pitiful remainders of their lives of twenty years.
Their absence? a reminder of the costs of victory.
Our friends?- forever on patrol, somewhere out at sea.

When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned

They swarm in the darkness of the night.
They ring my bell, they give a fright.
“Trick or Treat” They know the script.
Hand it over or we’ll pitch a fit.
My pumpkin empties as the hours pass,
It’s uncertain if my supply of Twix will last.
I dispense largesse to every tot
whether they are masked or not.
Covens gather and Mummies squeak
A sugar high is what they seek.

I’ll have the last laugh on those Trickers
I kept a fun sized bag of Snickers.

She was just a little girl with tousled dark brown locks.
Life had not been kind to her, not kind to her at all.
Her parents both killed in the war; the little one was in shock.
They placed her in our orphanage; there was no next of kin to call.

The little girl was quiet and seldom ever smiled.
She would often wake up screaming from the horrors that she saw.
She would not play with the others; Aloofness was her style.
Her gaze was like a veteran who had seen enough of war.

One day I found her drawing with a little piece of chalk.
She drew a picture of her mother on the floor beside her bed.
I observed her from the shadows; there was no need to talk
As she curled up like a fetus and slept on the floor instead.

It was just a crude chalk drawing; no masterpiece of art
But it gave the poor child comfort as she lay there in the dark
There in the safety of the womb beneath her mother’s heart,
Was a refuge from a reality that was painful cruel and stark.

The farmer stooped and took a scoop of soil into his hands.
It was dry and lifeless, less like topsoil than like sand.
On the far horizon a darkling cloud of dust was seen.
Another year without a crop, the times were worse than lean.
Human beings are full of pride, the sin that caused our fall,
sure that, as populations grew, that we could feed them all.
The forests shrank, the deserts grew, and erosion claimed the soil.
Then the crops began to fail all across the world.
Hunger stalks this once rich land, so many lives erased
So many children dead and gone the shovels can’t keep pace.
Is this the end once prophesied, the apocalypse indeed.
Once the seed corn’s been consumed, hope is a slender reed.

Some will dance while others mourn
The "Iron Lady" who can't atone
for the deaths of the blanket men-
read her crimes on their headstones.

Some will dance while others weep
For a great conservative gone to sleep
but if you are a union man
you'll wish to god that she is dammed.

A flood of blood engulfed her brain,
such memories as did remain
were quickly in the torrent lost.
Do sins leave an indelible stain?

A lake of fire or a heavenly home?
Her ultimate fate remains unknown
No lone piper for her will play
unless there's one she has to pay.

It was simple curiosity, I have just myself to blame.
I was not the man’s disciple, though of course I knew the name.
I could see that he’d been beaten, saw the cruel marks of the lash.
I was told he’d fallen more than once on the steep and stony path.

So when the Centurion beckoned me, I hurried to comply.
I have a healthy fear of swords and was in no rush to die.
He bade me to take up the cross, to put my back into it.
I took the Prophet’s burden on; he could no longer do it.

Most of his friends abandoned Him, this man from Galilee.
He who soon would breathe his last stretched painfully on this tree.
They did not wish to share his fate, a death upon the cross.
They scattered into hiding just as soon as all seemed lost.

This work was hot and difficult for one man all alone
I struggled up the incline, Stepping carefully, stone by stone.
The Prophet was a beaten man whereas I was young and strong.
He came to this place to die, but I would get back home.

I saw his look of gratitude as I put my burden down.
I ‘ll not forget the dripping blood from down his thorny crown.
He said I’d be remembered for this thoughtful, kindly deed.
I told him notoriety is the last thing that I need

It might have been beautiful, and certainly smart
Born with your academics and my poet’s heart.
It might have been witty, pithy and wise;
possessing your nose and my two emerald eyes.

It might have been evil; it may have proved kind;
the first of our brood was the last of our line.
Not that we ever will know, I suppose.
Just idle questions  geneticists might pose

It would have been born with ten fingers and toes
If left, unimpeded, for nine months to grow.
We were both too young, both too unprepared,
This life, unintended, was not to be spared.

Forty winters have passed since that fateful decision.
It was swept from our path with a clinic’s precision.
Now you, too, are gone, and that leaves only me
To mourn for our child not permitted to be.

Sara and Stephen were of a marked race,
living at the wrong time, and in the wrong place.
When ****** took power, they eased each other’s fears.
“Germany is civilized, It can’t happen here.”

When the Chancellor railed against gypsies and Jews
“ He’s just playing politics” was their commonsense view.
Yet hatred took root; the brown shirts had free run
And the voters had cause to rue what they had done.

****** came for their guns and they meekly complied.
Few then thought to resist the strong onrushing tide.
“The Police will protect us, Sara, my dear.”
“This is Beethoven’s birthplace; it can’t happen here.”

Those were very hard times, the worst we ever saw.
Rich Jews were resented for the furs that they wore.
“They cost us the war, they are traitors, it’s clear.”
“Sara, don’t worry, it can’t happen here.”

The foes of this Chancellor disappeared in the night
And he started to speak of a thousand year *****.
He censored the newspapers; both Left and Right.
And glass littered the streets one November night.

With Hindenburg dead, who was there left to stand?
Who had will to resist that warped little man?
Perves wore Triangles, Juden wore stars
Both lost their rights under Germany’s laws.

Sara and Stephen were loaded, like freight,
on a train bound for Dachau by command of the State.”
I’m sure we’ll be freed, Sara, my dear.”
We’re a civilized race, this can’t happen here.”

Stephen worked as a slave but at least stayed alive.
He was freed by the Russians in May, Forty five.
Sara, his wife, had a far crueler fate;
She was sent to the showers by the ****’s mandate.

Back in Berlin, Stephen saw with his own eyes
that the “Thousand year *****” was a tissue of lies
First pillaged by brown shirts, then bombed in the war
Stephen thought” This isn’t home anymore.”

Now Stephen is old, living here in the States.
He looks with dismay at these two candidates.
It seems like a nightmare he lived through before.
A crisis is coming and there will be war.

The fierce urgency of now
Was never more apparent
than when I took the moviprep
And someone hogged the toilet.

“It is what it is”
-Such a popular phrase!
And folks spread it around
Like Fast Food Mayonnaise.
It’s been used to describe
Economic foment,
The state of the arts and
The high cost of rent.

A phrase often spoken
When you wish to seem wise-
In the loop, in the know,
But it’s all just a guise.
It’s a symptom of sorts
Of our current malaise
You did not hear it much
in our halcyon days.

In that past, half remembered,
where house prices rose.
Where portfolios doubled,
and we all wore new clothes.
We were kings of the world
And we partied till three.
Now we live on fixed income
And we struggle to ***.

“It is what it is”
Is no optimist’s line
It’s a dull sounding phrase
Half resigned to hard times.
It implies things are bad
and inclined to get worse.
“It is what it is”
To me it’s a curse.

I looked in the mirror and what did I see?
A rapidly aging simulacrum of me.
My hair has turned Gray, such as can be found.
and a lifetime of coffee has turned my teeth brown.

The muscles of youth have shriveled. I'm told.
It all part and parcel of a man growing old.
"Old age is not for wimps " A wise aunt once told me.
That knowledge is great but it fails to console me.

Am I the same person I was when I was young?
Would he recoil in horror to see what he'd become?
Was the Buddha perspicacious when he made the call
that the self called the self is no self at all?

Some scientists say that the self is an illusion.
A purely biochemical source of confusion.
A look in the mirror has me posing this question:
Who is the victim of this selfish delusion?

Mary was on time, as usual.
As per usual, John was late.
“He’d be late for his own funeral!”
Mary fumed and cursed her fate.
They’d first hooked up in freshman year
at a frat house mixer bar
John got sick from too much beer
and hurled in Mary’s car.
They were pursuing the same major
and they lived in the same dorm.
He was always in her classes,
and they both worked at the Mall.
It was natural that they bonded.
It‘s said opposites attract.
His folks were alcoholics
from the wrong side of the tracks.
Mary came from Celtic stock
Hence her saintly name
She always called upon the Lord
when, infrequently, she came.
They both loved the Smashing Pumpkins
and were devoted to the band.
But it’s not enough to make her want
to wear John’s wedding band.
When at last John made his appearance
her well rehearsed words went askew.
She said, when giving back his ring;
“It’s not me, it’s you.”

By all accounts he’s had a lifelong case of OCD.
“Donald was a disruptive tyke”- his teachers all agree.
He was not much of a scholar but, as a youth, excelled in sports.
As a builder and developer he was often seen in  Courts.

When it comes to matters of the heart, he sadly is no wiser
He loves them and he leaves them. He’s a noted womanizer.
Oh, he pays them for their trouble; that much I will allow.
Still he’s never had compunction over breaking wedding vows.

Now he is our President and making noise on Trade.
If he doesn’t get his way beware his twitterverse tirade.
He's paying  farmers Billions  to forgo their tillage.


Hillary was wrong- It takes a child to raze a village.

It is a simple stone to honor a piece of Earth.
It asks the passerby a question.
It is a challenge
And a meditation:

“Oh, if a man tried to take his time on Earth
And prove before he died what one man’s life could be worth-
I wonder what would happen to this world.”

Yes Harry, I sometimes wonder too
But few among the living are as generous as you.

I place a smooth simple stone upon his stone
to let him know that he is not forgotten.


Thirty Eight years gone, but not forgotten.

Orion, mighty hunter,
is casting down his light.
He is my lone companion
On this frosty winter‘s night.

Not long ago, not far away
He shone upon us two.
Back when we were still in love,
Before you said we’re through.

I wonder what you’re doing tonight.-
Tucking in the children, turning out the light?
Do you toss and turn the same way
I do every night?
I wonder what you’re doing tonight.

It’s possible we’re laughing,
both, at the same comedy.
It will have a happy ending-
unlike the tale of you and me.


It could be that we’re wishing,
both, on the self-same star.
Those wishes cannot be the same
For wishes seldom are.

I wish you were remembering me
but you wish to forget.
Both wishes go unheeded
in a lifetime of regret.

I wonder what you’re doing tonight?
Tucking in the children, turning out the light?
Do you toss and turn the same way
I do every night?
I wonder what you’re doing tonight.

I wore a gold Star.
I bear a tattoo.
When Six Million died
I was one of the few,
Through the mercy of God
or the missed chance of Fate,
I escaped from the boxcar
into winter’s dim light.

My parents and sister,
Long are dust on the wind.
Their faith and their race
were their only known sins
Now, though stooped and arthritic,
I still testify
To the bitter cup tasted
when the Six Million died.


(An elderly docent at the Shoah Center recalls his brush with death at the hands of the Gestapo)

Our Slave ship floundered on the rocks
in the teeth of a mighty storm.
We were cast out on a nameless Isle.
Half our cargo drowned.

Morning came and the seas becalmed
And we salvaged what we could.
The Captain was a broken man
The first mate did what he should.

We fashioned shelters of rock and mud.
And found a water source.
We had no doubts, then, we’d be saved
from this Isle off the African Coast.

The Isle was plentiful with game
And we had guns and swords.
The slaves would serve our wants and needs
So we were in accord

We rigged a lifeboat with a sail
And the first mate and three more
Cast their fortunes on the winds
for Madagascar’s shores.

They promised us that they’d return,
Their word they swore they’d keep.
But either the World ignored their pleas
or they sleep in the deep.

We learned, in time, acceptance,
of our lonely likely fate.
We taught the slaves to speak our French.
took their women as our mates.

Decimation was inevitable
Even in that tropic clime.
Many just lost hope and died.
Others lost their mind.

My best friend lost his life at sea
on a flimsy makeshift raft.
Of all the French who landed here
I, Jacques, am the last.

I hope my journal will be found
when I too, am dead and gone.
Please rescue what remains of me
And bear my body home.

Or else commit me to the sea
with prayers and honor due.
My woman and my child yet live
May God preserve those two.

Je n'ai pas honte,
Je ne devrais pas pleurer non plus.
Parfois, dans les rêves,
Les vieux souvenirs rampent.
Les photographies vont s'estomper avec le temps
plus tôt que ces rêves.
Oui, tu m'as appris à aimer
Et oui, c'était un cadeau précieux.
Je suis l'enfant de votre vieillesse.
Maintenant, de votre présence, je suis privé.
Je m'agenouille ici par ta pierre aujourd'hui
Et pense à tout ce que j'ai perdu.
Pour faire une pause un moment, réfléchir et prier
Et je vous souhaite une bonne fête des pères.

Call no man truly happy
until after breath has fled.
for a  legacy may be tainted
by things left undone, unsaid.
The accomplishments he treasured,
that left us all in awe.
These may be overshadowed
by what his minions did or saw.
Had he left this life a  year before.
It might well be said:
“He was great on and off the field.
Our beloved coach is dead.”
Now knowing that he failed to speak
when children were at risk
casts dark shadows on his rites;
How did it come to this?
Its like the Attic poet said
Millennia ago:
“Call no man happy until he’s dead.”
Until then you never know.

In Brooklyn, in these hectic times,
if Mom-hood gets you down
you need a little pick me up
so you won't fret and frown.

When we boomers were just babies
Mom might have a glass of wine.
Just enough to take the edge off
and leave her feeling fine.

But Generation X and Y
are more like Cheech and Chong
when baby gets your dander up
It's time to light a ****.

A little **** of Mary Jane
gives Moms a pause to sigh.
"Good night Moon" is a gripping read
when Mom is flying high.

Put the little Prince to bed
before Mom has a fit.
Motherhood is stressful
she just needs to take a "hit"

When the" little terrors" get you down
Just think - "this too will pass"
sneak off and roll yourself a joint
We know you have a stash.

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

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

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

His lying lips nuzzled her nape
as his hands caressed each breast.
Although the Law might deem it ' ****"
at seduction, he was best.

She turned and gave her lips to him,
a man whose heart was hollow.
Her schoolgirl skirt dropped to the floor
where, shortly, all would follow.

Each pearl button was undone;
her lovely ******* exposed to view.
soon thereafter, deep inside her,
proclaiming love he knew untrue.

Was it pride of first possession
that brought him to this place?
Surely other men had noticed
this nymphs figure and her face.

To pluck a rose before it blooms
is acting out of season
To take love that you cannot  give
is close akin to treason

In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.

When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.

With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.

Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.

Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease


Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.

When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?

Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.

Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

The weather is perfect for flying today;
seventy degrees, hardly a cloud in the sky.
I stowed my carry-on in the overhead bin.
I am glad our 747 is only half full,
perhaps I will be able to sleep on the plane.
I am due in Rome tomorrow .
There is a growing problem in our parishes and schools.
Men of the cloth engaged in unspeakable acts.
The Curia must be alerted.
The diocese has turned a blind eye to these problem priests
Moving them from parish to parish
Ignoring the harm they perpetrate against the innocents.
I will not be silent.
I watch a young family take their seats in the row across from mine.
I hope the baby is not going to cry all the way across the Ocean.
The smiling Blonde stewardess begins our preflight safety check:
“Welcome to Trans World Airlines Flight 800 to Rome via Paris”