The picture hangs upon the wall
of a slender woman, une eleve
She is eternally en pointe
a Student of   great Nurerev.


With Martha Graham’s Corps de ballet
She’d danced (before the children came)  
Performed a beautiful Glissade-
enjoyed, for a while, a muted fame.

Light and shade proportionate
here catch her look of radiant joy
The dancer, ignorant of her fate,
seems more  a heavenly envoy.


But you and I both know the rest-
The ravages of age and time
The sad result of little strokes
that slow the step and cloud the mind.


Here is her cane, her walker too
Their owner has succumbed to age
There will not be a pas DE deux
Nor bouquets tossed upon the stage

Il faisait froid pour début juin; une pause entre deux tempêtes.
Le surf -rough, l'eau froide, mais la réception serait chaude.
Notre bateau de Higgins a fait une vitesse constante nous emmenant au rivage.
Pour certains, c'était le jour le plus long, pour beaucoup d'autres le dernier jour.

La scène qui nous attendait était surréaliste; une boue comme le pire.
Les Allemands ont occupé les corpsmen s'ils ne les ont pas d'abord tués.
La pluie de plomb était constante pendant que nous nous sommes battus vers la rive.
Notre peloton a été décimé. beaucoup ont vu la fin de la guerre.

Il y avait des actes d'héroïsme. Nos dirigeants ont prouvé leur valeur.
Nous avons pris le mur de l'Atlantique de ******; pensée imprenable au premier abord.
J'ai regardé depuis le haut bluff à l'Armada grise juste au large de la côte.
J'ai perdu une bande de copains aujourd'hui, mais nous allons même marquer des points.

Nous sommes une bande de frères campés au-dessus de cette rive normande.
Je ne dirai jamais à mes parents les horreurs que j'ai vues.
L'air pue la sueur et le fer, et la puanteur de la cordite des rondes passées.
Les aumôniers recueillent les étiquettes de chien des formes immobiles sur le sol.

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

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

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

"Our graduates cheat and suborn
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and all learn to prevaricate."

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

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

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

" The people must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."

I said, barely moving my lips.

My Liberal pal, named Sunny,
And I were quite the pair.
He was redistributionist
while I was laissez faire.
We always argued politics-
about welfare or day care.
Each was convinced the other
was deluded past repair.

“We are our brother’s keeper!
On poverty, make war!”
I said poverty was winning
if he’d bother to keep score.
And so it went, as time was spent
Until one night in Queens
When I espied a beggar
looking frail, quite pale and lean.
“Sunny, quick, give me a buck.”
as our car approached the light
I quickly rolled my window down-
I think it made her night.
“It’s sure fun being liberal!”
I said to my pal, Sunny.
“It’s pleasant being generous
with other people’s money.”
Published today 11.03

In New York Harbor, long ago,
The prison ships rode upon the tide.
Ten thousand Patriots crammed aboard,
Starved, abandoned, and left to die.
They sacrificed sweet life you see
So we might enjoy Liberty.

When the Philadelphia ran aground,
hard by the shores of Tripoli.
We sent Marines to fire the ship
That she not fall to piracy.

Again upon Saint Mary’s Heights
at Fredericksburg, a sight to see.
Ten Thousand Union casualties:
white men dying to set blacks free.

Can you recall the names of those
who did not want to live forever?
They died in France in the Great War,.
the one that would end wars forever.

From age to age, from Gen to Gen
From falling hands the torch is passed.
It is now ours to hold on high
Let not the flame of Liberty die.

Tyranny and ignorance
And the darkest superstition
Oppose the light of Liberty
and would make this Earth a prison.

We must be ever vigilant,
despite the World's derision.
For if the light of Liberty dies,
Our faults won't be forgiven.

Strange to see it summed up in just a few lines.
Mary Lou Marion, the little girl of Louise and Grazio.
She went to my high school, three years behind me.
She worked here then she worked there.
She wed some man I never met and had four sons.
They lived here and they lived there.
The Grandkids were born.
She never noticed the lump on her breast;
Not until it was far too late.
It was not a bad life, Ordinary perhaps.
I will not claim to know what she believed,
Only what we had been taught.
She knew the joys and sorrows
of being a woman
She fought bravely to the end
Against the cancer that took her.


Isn’t she all of us?
Just a thought in the mind of God.

Goodbye Mary Lou

Rest in Peace

You hear people talk
about the "Great Beyond",
but it's all speculation
as they've never gone.
Except perhaps Hindus
who chance to recall
that back in the day
they were Queen of us all.
What amazes me most
about past life regression
is none claim to have practised
the "oldest profession".
They claim to be Caesar
or Henry the Eighth,
Never some drab
who was just a "good date"

If you want to make a profit
(and the morality is grey)
Dehumanize the victim
and you'll be well on your way.
In a country that's divided,
and declining by the hour.
Your sins will be forgiven
by the Autocrats in power.

As, once upon a time,
in our then divided land
Slavery was acceptable
because a black was not a man.
Then black people were possessions
and very few were free.
They knew the lash, they knew the rod,
They knew not dignity.

Now fetuses are parasites-
not considered human beings
Abortion is big business
the cash cow of their dreams
Fifty million have been murdered
with no end on the horizon.
(******, it appears, is acceptable
as long as it's not you dying.)

Someday you'll be old and gray-
and have an awful cough
Please don't be surprised or shocked
if they opt to write you off.

The weak and the disabled,
those feeble minded or not spry
can blame our liberality
when it comes their turn to die.

Eighty years its been since
Adolf ****** rose to power
Little children sang his praises too-
and darkness had it's hour.

Note:**** eugenics were **** Germany's racially based social policies that placed the improvement of the Aryan race through eugenics at the center of Nazis ideology. Those humans were targeted who were identified as "life unworthy of life" (German: Lebensunwertes Leben), including but not limited to the criminal, degenerate, dissident, feeble-minded, homosexual, idle, insane, and the weak, for elimination from the chain of heredity. More than 400,000 people were sterilized against their will, while 70,000 were killed under Action T4, a "euthanasia" program.[1][2]
(They will call it choice until the choice is there's alone)

Funny but many will call me a reactionary racist for my position against abortion but there have been millions of black Americans aborted, just as planned parenthood's founder intended.I would not make all abortions illegal as I believe that I shouldn't legislate morality. I think they should be rare, legal and safe.

The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.

When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.

A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.

Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.


Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.

The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.

There was a young lady from Cork
Who took up with a bloke from New York.
Their one night of pleasure she always will treasure
as now she's awaiting the stork.

Every woman has one in her closet-
(although some are loathe to confess)
It’s perfect for many occasions.
It is known as the little black dress..

For Women who seek to entice,
or have men they want to impress.,
There is nothing terribly virginal
concerning that little black dress.

Its of Spidery inspiration and,
oh, what a web they can weave.
They use it, some say, ensnaring their prey.
It comes out again when they grieve.

In Wedding, our Ladies wear white.,
A Little black dress when they keen.
They dress in subtler shades of gray
on all the days in between.

It was the role of a Lifetime, but she couldn’t accept.
She passed on the chance with a twinge of regret.
It was clearly off Broadway but it would have run long.
A role some would die for, but the timing was wrong.

It had started one night with a casting couch call
from a powerful man – a slob more broad than tall.
Promises whispered, but would they be kept?
Had the mega- producer enjoyed his starlet?

The review came positive in a ladies’ room stall.
Cinderella was late for more than the ball.
She who couldn’t resist, and then couldn’t complain,
now had a pregnancy she couldn’t explain.

While she thought she might, one day have a child,
surely not with this stranger, this crude *******.
A girlfriend loaned her  money;she went there alone,
She kept the appointment she’d made on the phone.

Her calves in the stirrups; her heart in denial,
The deed was done quickly in back alley style.
She nearly bled out; it was botched from the start
But the abortionist did manage to still one beating heart.

Just a face in the crowd; not a name many knew.
She had some bit parts then she faded from view.
These days her tale is on everyone’s tongue:
How the wolves of Hollywood  devour the young.

To prosper is not merely to accumulate more things.
It is more properly understood as the wisdom suffering brings.
A long life is a blessing to those who use each day
To perfect their love of others for we are brothers in a way.
Spock traveled the known quadrant in search of other worlds like ours;
planets at a proper distance from an ordinary star.
Mister Spock now rests in peace, it is logical he would say
That the old yield place to the young, for that is nature’s way.
Still I could wish he’d linger longer in this world of ours
He who first taught me to look up in wonder at the stars.

In our small town of Hixton, Wisconsin,
The future looked decidedly grim.
Population was down to four hundred
And we all thought its best days had been.
We’re a small town North West of Milwaukee
where U.S Thirteen passes by.
Here the median age is past forty,
with less than one girl for each guy.
The town fathers were in a quandary;
scratching their heads and their chins.
Half the houses were vacant and boarded;
Just a trickle of tax coming in..
“Our churches are bare ruined choirs,
Our young finish school and they leave.
The town as we know it is dying,
There’s only one chance of reprieve!”
Some thought it an outlandish suggestion.
It offended all those who believe.
“The renaming of Hixton, Wisconsin
must be done with all possible speed.”
“Desperate times demand desperate measures;
This is the last card I have up my sleeve.”

It was done as our Mayor suggested
and, as hoped for, the new blood poured in.
Our post mark is much in demand now;
Since we began living in “Sin”

This was once a Jew’s apartment, here on the Konig Platz.
It must have been magnificent, before we were attacked.
I squat in an apartment whose glories are all past.
The artwork was seized off these walls and the former owner gassed.
Now the copper mansard roof leaks nearly every time it rains;
It’s my only source of water so I’m not one to complain.
My sleep is poor and fitful, as the foe controls the sky.
How long can we endure this siege? How many more must die?
The noise is indescribable; so many allied planes.
We cannot quench the fires; bombs have burst the water mains.
Food is hard to come by, that’s been true ever since spring,
And it’s gotten worse since Russian troops started tightening the ring.
I see old men and boys march out in their tattered Wehrmacht Grey.
They are poorly armed, with just Panzerfausts to keep the Reds at bay.
In a broken shard of mirror, I glimpse what I’ve become;
a scarecrow of a woman; full of fear, no longer young.
To the Russians that won’t matter;My flesh still warm to hold.
They would take their turns at ****** me while I curse and **** their souls.
My husband died at Normandy and I’ve lost our only son.
Now all I need to join them is one bullet and a gun.

The water laps against the hull
Just like that time before
Just like that Sunday morning
That exploded into war.
In these old eyes
That yet can see
Those waves of rising Suns,
A tear wells up
In memory
for those forever young.
Below my feet
My brothers’ lie;
Proud Arizona’s crew.
For a time I have
Escaped their fate
But now my days are few.
and when I die,
I’ll make my grave
In Pearl, beneath the Sea.
Then all we suffered
Will be lost
to living memory.

The water laps against the hull
Just like that time before
Just like that Sunday morning
That exploded into war.
In these old eyes
That yet can see
Those waves of rising Suns,
A tear wells up
In memory
for those forever young.
Below my feet
My brothers’ lie;
Proud Arizona’s crew.
For a time I have
Escaped their fate
But now my days are few.
and when I die,
I’ll make my grave
In Pearl, beneath the Sea.
Then all we suffered
Will be lost
to living memory.

The man called Mitt
Is known to flip
And flop to try and
Please ya.
The President claims
His foe has got
A bad case of
“Romnesia”
Elephants have
Been known to
Have a
photographic mind.
Yet Mitt, their standard bearer
Changes his stance
time after time.
Might he prove a moderate
or is he right of center?
Can he govern Blue states too
Or is he all magenta?
When talking to his base
He always spouts the Party line.
Other times he’s a Romnesiac
And thus hard to define.

Lonely are the brave on this night before the slaughter.
Santa Anna’s troops surround us and they promise us “no Quarter.”
We are buying time for Austin that’s what Colonel Travis  said.
I hope these thirteen days suffice, for tomorrow we’ll lie dead.
Colonel Bowie is with the infirm, our round shot is nearly gone.
The long guns of the Mexicans will be limbered up at dawn.
A mournful serenade is playing, just beyond the wall.
They play the music of the dead hoping  to unnerve us all..
When morning comes we’ll hear the cry of two thousand charging men
And when they finally breach the walls then will our struggle end.
Until then we stand ready before Texas and the world
to fight them for our Liberty beneath a lone star flag.
When the last of us has fallen all will have earned an honored grave.
For the Alamo we give our lives. So lonely are the brave.

for Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF            
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.

Black ground crews kept them in the air;
black flight surgeons kept them alive;
the whole Group removed their headgear
when another pilot died.

They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?

If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.

In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.

They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.

It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.

            My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
            The funny thing about me and Starks
            was that my air mattress leaked,
            and Starks’ didn’t.
            Every time we went up,
            I gave my mattress to Starks
            and put his on my cot.

            One day we were strafing a train.
            Strafing’s bad news:
            you have to fly so low and slow
            you’re a pretty clear target.
            My other wing-man and I
            exhausted our ammunition and got out.
            I recognized Starks
            by his red tail
            and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
            He couldn’t pull up his nose.
            He dived into the train
            and bought the farm.

            I found his chocolate,
            three eggs, and a full fifth
            of his hoarded-up whiskey.
            I used his mattress
            for the rest of my tour.

            It still bothers me, sometimes:
            I was sleeping
            on his breath.

In the grove of Isla Negra,
his beloved by his side,
lies Pablo Neruda-
Does his grave conceal a lie?

Forty years since he departed,
Four decades in the clay,
A Judge in Santiago
calls him forth to light of day.

This poet was a mortal soul
whose love illumed his lines.
Was he murdered in the hospital,
or did cancer end his time?

He said Love’s time is brief
and is much longer forgotten-
But he could extend its lease
With Love sonnets he’d begotten.

Did Pinochet eliminate
The poet left alone.
He was lying in the hospital,
Defenseless, it was known.

Did a needle give that lover’s pinch
That hurts, but is desired?
Or did Cancer gnaw his bones
relentless like wildfire?

The bones will tell, They always do
Though mortal flesh decays
So we disturb the poets’ sleep
This resurrection day.

You can still find our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our Families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

Our boat was the pride
of the  Atlantic Sub Fleet.
Five years on our station,
patrolling the deep.

We were out on an exercise
Two hundred miles off Cape Cod
When, quite unexpected,
We encountered our God

A critical subsystem failed
the reactor shut down
Without power or steering
The thresher would drown

Our companion ship heard
A roaring like wind.
We were crushed by the pressure
as the Thresher caved in.

Some worker on shore,
in a hurry to lunch,
Had missed a weld on a pipe
-The Inquiry board’s hunch.

You can still see our pictures
behind gilded frames.
If you take time and the trouble
You can find out our names.

We are fading from memory
as our families pass on.
We’re the crew of the Thresher,
long time gone down.

Look up, child, before it’s too late
The years fly by and life won’t wait.
It’s not there on your tablet screen,
or any smartphone that I’ve seen.
No lovely lass can catch your eye
if you’re perusing shutterfly.
Facebook may be fun, even great,
But you have an expiration date.
You may get “likes” and have “4 bars”
Does that matter if you’ve lost the Stars?

The concert is scheduled for tonight.
I must cancel; there is no other choice.
I can’t step into those harsh spotlights
Now that I’ve lost my voice.

That golden throated baritone
Has left me, I’m afraid.
A vein has hemorrhaged in my throat
And threatens all I’ve gained.

It was the stress of all those gigs.
I never turned one down.
I thrilled to hear girls scream my name,
But my health has let me down.

Is it over?  I wonder
Do the doctors even have a clue?
Will I be able to perform again?
Is Frank Sinatra through?

Glory came early as did fame,
to Gary Speed there on the pitch.
Cheers he heard from adoring crowds
among the elite he found his niche.
With time’s passage he lost a step
even if he felt the same
but as he ran he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

He coached to stay around the game.
After the cheers for him had faded
A friendly face, a familiar name
but as he coached he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s game.

For many, Gary was an icon,
a living legend of the game.
They failed to see the mortal man
with silence weighting on his frame
As he tied the rope he thought he saw
an old man’s shadow
in a young man’s gam

It was a time of slush, snow and icy precipitate
when you and I first ventured out on what may be called a date.
A group of us went bowling, then repaired to the local bar.
Later you dispelled the chill as we snuggled in my car.
It's true that ice was on the ground and it was getting late.
I fell for you, you felt it too. It is a blissful state.
True, it was not a "forever" love; such is granted to but few.
We had love for a brief season in a time of cold and flu.

Love is a choice, not a feeling,
At least that Love which will endure.
Feelings are transient, really,
and feelings,  like sand, are unsure.
Love which endures will be patient,
Love works to improve every day.
Love is a choice, please remember this,
should the stars in her eyes fade away.

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once upon an Earth lit night,
On NASA Moon base two,
I chanced to spy a cute Brunette –
A space Cadet named Yu.

Her eyes were dark and beautiful
Deep as a lunar mare-
And, free from bra and gravity-
her ******* beyond compare.

Love in Microgravity
Is a curious affair
She brought me to her snuggle tube
And she restrained me there.

She straddled on the launching pad
And docking was effected
And after a few awkward strokes
Our cadence was perfected.

The Moon Child that resulted
From our friendly first embrace
Forced Yu to have to shuttle back
to Earth from outer space.

It seems that Human embryos
Need gravity to grow.
Else their hearts would be too weak
Their reflexes too slow.

So, like Salmon, we go back
to where our mothers birthed.
Procreation’s problematic
beyond the bounds of Earth.

We named our daughter Luna
-Unoriginal, I know.
And now we’re out near Jupiter
getting busy on Io.

Imagine being loved! It is a miracle some say.
Love fiercely he advised me for this all will pass away.
For all who seek each other there is no need to remind
That we have all the world, but very little time.
Man of woman born Is but a transient creature.
I only learned to love so well
because I had the finest teacher.

If we had never done the deed
and soiled the sheets together,
Lesbia we might have had
a love that lasts forever.
Instead, you lay back, wantonly,
inviting me to sin.
Our cries and whispers mingled
as I spent myself within.
Lust comes with an expiration date
and I was cast aside;
Some other noble Roman
now mounts my favorite ride.
Caesar too, will come and go ;
Veni, Vidi, Vici.
Some label you promiscuous
your morals are thought dicey.
Yet you're not indiscriminate
in choosing your next partner;
The distinction is that you lie down
and do not stoop to conquer.

The diamond needle finds the grove
and I wait for the song to begin.
I know this album almost by heart.
Every note is predestined.

If life was like a long play record
Imagine if you will; I could
lift up the tone arm with my hand
and relive a cherished day again.

Of course   I can do no such thing
My days, like these songs, have an end.
The needle hits the center grove;
only static can be heard then.

It always starts with a Woman;
a woman with skin like sweet milk chocolate.
A woman with a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night
And brown eyes in which a man might comfortably lose his soul.

The club was cold; not much of a club really;
A drafty old barn of a building somewhere in Arkansas
A big barrel half filled with Kerosene was lit to heat the hall.
The Young black folk of the town were gathered around

Young B.B. King was playing the blues, on a guitar with no name.
That was when the fight broke out on the dance floor.
two strong men doing battle over a woman who worked at the club.
It always starts with a woman.

Punches were exchanged; in the melee someone kicked over that barrel
And fire, like a river, roared across the floor.
Everybody started to run for the only open exit.
B.B. King ran too, until he recalled he had forgotten his guitar.

She was nothing special except for the man who played her
The man who coaxed sweet sad sounds from every catgut string.
King wasn’t a rich man and that guitar was his meal ticket
So he raced back through the flames.

Just as he retrieved his guitar, the building began
Its slow sad collapse into ash and embers
He barely escaped with his life and his guitar.

Standing outside in the cold night
Looking on the ruins of what had been a good paying gig.
That was when he met Lucille;
She was the barmaid with the sweet milk chocolate skin
And a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night;
Those two men had just fought and died over
a pleasure that neither would ever possess.

That was when B.B. King christened that old beat up guitar
“Lucille”:
To remind him of this night he almost died.
to remind him never to do something that stupid again.
Like I was saying, it always starts with a woman.

"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.

I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."

I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.

My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.

My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.

The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.

The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.

The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.

With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.

I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.


* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."

" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.

Back when Bedlam was in full swing,
and faced with overload,
some lunatics who hadn't killed
were forced to hit the road..
Faced with no "room at the inn"
such persons were discharged
but were made known to the police
as "Lunatics at large"

Since Willow brook has closed its doors,
and Creedmore has downsized,
we give our mentally ill some pills
and house them 'neath the skies.

They mutter to themselves at times
as lonely they do roam
in search of a dry underpass
that must  serve them for a home.

How wonderful that modern drugs
makes zombies of our brothers,
and leave us blithely unaware
of how badly we treat others.

Back in the days of Vietnam
We said: “Make Love, not war.”
No matter how many Cong we killed
Like Doritos, they made more.
Walter Cronkite helped keep score
as the toll grew ever higher.
Foes relentless as the monsoon rains
They made Nam a quagmire.
We killed them all three times at least
Surely all of them were gone.
Then shortly after we had left
They turned up in Saigon!
Now we’re in a forever war
without a likely winner.
A pity we can claim a draw
And bring the boys home for dinner.

For an Actor, preparation is everything.
We are much more than
our face paint and props.
Rehearsals can go on for hours,
as we block out our scenes in our parts.
So it will not surprise you that Friday
The fourteenth of April found me
at Ford’s theater  in Washington
preparing for my part in the play.
My horse would be held at the ready
My pistol was loaded and clean.
I was known and well liked by the company.
Like a ghost, I could wander unseen.
I’m disappointed Grant  missed my performance
His wife Julia hates Mary some say.
Her aversion has stolen one target, but
the other will not get away.
Theater is a matter of timing
and I knew this crowd and this play
I entered amidst raucous Laughter
and fired, once, in the “Emancipator’s” brain.
Some soldier attempted to grab me
and got himself stabbed for his pains.
I balanced myself on the railing
preparing to leap on the stage.
I could hear Mary Todd Lincoln Screaming.
“Sic Semper Tyrannis!” I raged.
My boot spur got caught in the bunting
I lost balance and fell on the stage.
The actors were stunned to inaction
as I limped, none impeded my way.
Mister Lincoln has made his last speech
and likely seen  his last play.
What actor worth his salt wouldn’t ****
to make his exit my way?

A Penny for my thoughts
doesn’t seem a princely sum.
It doesn’t buy much else
when all is said and done.
It might be that, In days gone by,
A penny bought a meal.
It was sufficient for the boatman’s fare
Across the Styx to steal
But now the humble copper
Is derided or forgot.-
When it comes to purchase power,
The penny has it not.
So if you would my thoughts peruse
there’s been a raise in rents.
You must come up with a dollar
I’m no longer taking cent$.

It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s  son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)

Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.

She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.

She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.

Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.

In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.

It was a cold night, that Christmas Eve.
Freezing in fact.
Grand Central’s hard wooden benches would not entice many,
But to the old woman, Mama Doe, it was
as close to the Ritz as she could get.

How long she had been out on the streets? Who knew?
She was old, sick and living on the margins.
The officer who moved her along
From the Grand Central waiting room
was, no doubt, just following orders.

It was a cold night, that Christmas Eve.
Freezing in fact.
Mama Doe’s Lungs were filled with fluids.
Perhaps she could have been saved.
Perhaps, if only she wore silks and furs instead of rags.
She made it as far as morning.
She crawled to her final resting place,
Bench number nine at Grand Central Station.

A little while later another officer came along
He rattled Mama doe’s favorite bench with his night stick
It was just a friendly wake up call by the standards of the day.

Mama Doe did not wake up, nor would she, until,
perhaps, the day when Gabriel blows his horn.

Liam had come to see the birds, and to hear a favorite song.
Just eighteen, he was facing stiff exams.
A night off from his studies couldn’t do him that much harm.
He’d thought that- but he couldn’t be more wrong.

He’d counted himself Lucky with a ticket near the stage.
Inside the darkened stadium, where decibels run high,
He’d just met up with Anna; a big Ariana fan.
Both soon would suffer for a madman’s rage.

The bomber was just twenty two, a loner uninvited.
He waited till the star was done, striking as the house was lighted.
Police found Liam dead and Anna, bleeding, beside him.
Liam’s bloodied tee shirt read: Manchester United.

A Lover, cloaked in sorrow,
knelt beside his woman’s stone.
His Ann was only twenty two
when Heaven called her home.

Their love affair was secret
to all but her closest kin.
She had been pledged to marry
one of their long absent friends.

Those were dark days in New Salem.
Typhoid claimed her life.
Lincoln thought to end his own-
perhaps with rope or knife.

In those days friends feared for his life
So dark his mood became.
Some thought him suicidal
whom dark depression claimed.

A figure cloaked in sorrow,
deprived of a life with Ann.
Embraced his life of martyrdom
when the moment met the man.

This gut I’ve got won’t go away
while I sit at my desk each day.
Munching McDonalds in my car
won’t land me “dancing with the stars”.

Mashed potatoes, I have found,
really help pack on the pounds.
While French cut fries, it seems to me
are helping clog my arteries.

I do no exercise, to speak,-
I think about it twice a week.
This diet soda helps me not
As muscles fade , I’ve gone to ***

I’m gaining weight, my knees are shot
Carting around this gut I’ve got.
Is munching wonder bread the cause
Or am I suffering Manopause.

I knew a man, who had "no name:,
Neznamy he was called.
Though He had his father’s looks and charm
The two had never met at all.
Personable and engaging, Pleasant Company;
I think I learned an awful lot from the man called Neznamy.
I remember once he got laid off from the telephone company.
I remember thinking I’d be crushed if that happened to me
Neznamy was an optimist and the epitome of calm.
Misfortune to any other man was no cause for alarm,
He was sure there soon would come new opportunity.
I asked how he remained so calm amidst uncertainty.
I still recall his brief reply; its perfect clarity:

“ I don’t believe the work I do defines the worth of me.”

There is a house that haunts my days, a house that infiltrates my dreams.
It is seven stories tall and was not made by human hands.
In this house are many rooms and I can’t catalog them all.
Its chambers reach out to eternity and back towards the fall.
That which the mind can’t comprehend yet can be known by heart;
The sum of all the stars at night would only be a start.

The battle is fought and our victory won,
My General has ordered me to run,
From Marathon’s plains to Athens Agora
to tell the elders of the battle’s outcome.
Oh gods on high grant us surcease
from threats of invasion if no true peace.
I have fought in the front line
and raced to and from Sparta in two days’ time.
Now fatigued and nearly done
I speed toward home from Marathon.
We will not suffer Eretria’s fate
Their city burned, their folk enslaved.
No! Thousands of Persians we have slain.
Our city on a hill is saved.
I’m short of breath and weak from wounds
Even as the walls of our city loom.
“Nike!” I cry! “Rejoice, we’ve won!”
As my proud heart breaks and I am done.

I ran my race,I did my best.
I'm not the champion,I'm among the rest.
After twenty six miles I'm scant of breath.
I push myself but there's not much left.
I search the crowds on Boyleston Street.
for the friends That I'm supposed to meet.
I see an upraised friendly sign
that marks my race's finish line.
Then thunder, fire, billowing smoke.
The air is acrid and I am choked.
The starter clock reads Four oh Nine
as I fall across the finish line.
I think of him from ancient times
who ran a race as long as mine
To Athens he sped from Marathon
to bring good news in a troubled time.
My news is evil, I scarce can speak
of what I saw there in the street
A loud report, a second bomb,
A portion of the grandstand gone
A blur of color, the flag brought down
I see the picture but there's no sound.

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.