La flèche et le toit se sont effondrés,
Mais au moins aucun corps n'est mort.
Le vitrail a fondu de la chaleur
et des œuvres d'art inestimables d'ailleurs.
Notre-Dame est ouverte vers le ciel;
Son tabernacle profané.
Un trésor de la foi de l'homme est parti.
Peut-il être recréé?
Un curé âgé parcourt ses allées
Dont les murs résonnent les prières des hommes.
Il regarde les chœurs nus en ruine
et combat les sentiments de désespoir.
“Nous reconstruirons” pense le Père
comme les pierres chauffées deviennent froides.
«Nous élevons nos cœurs au Seigneur
Qui a payé la rançon pour nos âmes. "

Last night we kissed hands goodbye,
never dreaming that it was forever.
Unsuspecting that you, my dear child,
soon would lie cold and still neath the heather.

The graceless Sun thoughtlessly shines
I would eclipse it forever.
The death I prepared for was mine,
but God twists the knife and is clever.

First your sister, thirteen summers ago
Then, soon after, I lost your dear Mother.
Now you, daughter- taken from me.
There's no chance this old man can recover.

The comet that shone at my birth
Will soon light its way through the heavens
I beg that it bears me away-
lets me stop being Samuel Clemens.

The dusty plains
of Mars, our neighbor planet,
may be our future.

Mars restaurant closed!
The food was good, however
place lacked atmosphere.

To be, and not merely seem to be
is the core of authenticity.
Those who, instead, essay a role,
(like actors in a classic play),
Hold up a mask before their face.
They speak what others bid them say.
These merely seem to have a soul.
Such folk are fools or clones or trolls.

Those who tread the stony road
Where honor truth and virtue dwell
need no  masks or other wiles
The truth will serve them well.

Do you really need that second slice?
Don't you dare to super size!
Guzzling down large sugary drinks-
Do you rally think that's wise?

Your hamburger is much too large
I'd cur it down to size
until its like those square ones
that White Castle serves sans fries.

I taught the City not to smoke
in that I was thought wise.
Unhand that Nathans hot dog!
It will go straight to your thighs.

I guess I'm just a Puritan,
my happiness undone
by the thought that somewhere, someone
might still be having fun.

He works, tis said,
one day a year.
With bated breath
we linger here
for our Ground hog to appear.

Will he see shadow or will he no?
Only Staten Island Chuck can know.
Will Winter linger around these parts
or will my Crocus have early starts.

A little chubby and weak of eye,
Our resident Groundhog's rather shy.
Dragged unwilling from his warm burrow-
Shall we shovel snow or furrow?

He is well fed for his exertions,
and brief enough are these excursions.
Best of all when he appears
He oft will tell us Spring is near.

He was the bard of Avon,
I hail from Flushing, Queens.
I labor in obscurity,
His fans were Royals it seems.
In portraits he’s shown with little hair
mine stood the test of time.
His spelling was atrocious
But spell check fixes mine.

His talent was not of one age
but meant for all of time.
My poetry is dated
And best performed by Mimes.
Its years since I last wrote a play,
Of Will that’s also true.
But players are performing his.
Mine, they never do.
So if my output pales to his
And sadly lacks his wit
What do we have in common?
Not a single manuscript!

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed

Two college students, strangers really,
locked eyes across a crowded room.
She was there with someone else
But he knew it was meant to be.

Another place, another time,
The two met while on line at school.
The stopped for coffees, exchanged shy glances,
And knew that it was meant to be,

They shared their Love, they built a life,
They earned honors and degrees.
They had a home and three fine children.
They knew that it was meant to be.

He came back to their darkened house,
sitting Shiva with dark despair.
He drowns in words that fail to comfort.
He knew this too was meant to be.

The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.

The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)

It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.

Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.

The sides are drawn and chosen,
Neutrality has been lost.
Dread war is coming upon us,
Caring not if we can bear its cost,
For the Strong will work their will,
And the weak suffer as they must.
The weapons we’ve forged will be used
The red on the blade is not rust.
The losers are put to the sword.
Their women and children enslaved.
Only there will they find what they sought-
The peace that awaits in the grave.
Of Justice we no longer speak.
Might, naked, commands the stage
Melos fought bravely, alone,
Not a stone of their city was saved.

Dappled light through sheltering leaves
on a perfect summer’s day.
My lady love lies on the grass
Alas to pray, not play,
For I am one who gave his all
And have no more to give.
O’ to be anywhere but this,
I wanted so to live.
To hold you close,
and feel your kiss.
To let you have your way.
Honor’s call was
cruel to us both
on this Memorial day

Memorial Day Parade

The fog that day at Arlington, the thickest I ever saw.
The only thing that could compare would be the fog of war.
From the marshes and the gardens of old Marse Robert’s estate
The dead rose from their hallowed graves in numbers small and great.
There were scarecrows dressed in butternut, and ghouls in tattered blue.
Some had battled for old Virginia; the others Union true.
They all formed up in lines of four; right smartly they arrayed.
Side by side they began to march in columns on parade.
These men, who had been foes in life, now seemed to understand
That they were brothers, joined in death, and bound by Love’s command.
One hundred and fifty years had passed since last they saw the sky.
I watched fascinated as this ghost army shuffled by.
No word of command was spoken; these men knew what to do.
Proudly they marched together; these veterans, Gray and Blue.
Then they melted back into the fog; I watched in shock and awe.
These men had seen the last of Earth and had had enough of war.

We had quite a run old girl,
nearly all of it was fun.
A rose is my final gift to you.
I, too, am nearly done.

For sixty years we played the songs,
the stuff of memories.
Our audience has greyed or strayed,
now you've abandoned me.

Our house is like a record store-
Ten thousand old L.P's
Each song labelled and cataloged
-memories in melody.

I did our show that one last time
for those fans who still care.
The truth is I cannot go on
because you are not there.

Beside my bed, your photograph,
You're ever on my mind;
a single rose named Dorothy
whose melodies were mine.

The waves, like a heartbeat,slap upon the shore.
The good clean smell of salt, sunlight warms my core.
With difficulty I kneel down before Pacific's roar.
I commit your ashes to the sea, to mingle evermore.

You always liked this stretch of beach; the dunes beneath the cliffs.
to feel the sun upon your face while sailing on our skiff.
You feared the coldness of the grave; a desolate destination.
You made me promise, long ago, that it would be cremation.

I cast you forth upon the waters glinting in sunlight
A much more peaceful denouement  than your final night.
Lord give her peace, free of all pain,adrift upon the sea.
The waves crash down upon the shore; the soundtrack of eternity.

I just want to wish a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow poets and poetesses  here on Hello Poetry.  this site has given me a forum that I appreciate, surrounded by so much talent and such good people.

It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.

For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!

Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.

Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.

So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.

Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.

The University where my friend teaches
has sadly forgot what Free Speech is.
Instructors are expressly forbidden
to use the name” Christ” in a greeting.
If you say “Merry Christmas” in passing
if non tenured,  it can be career ending.
If you bless in the name of the Lord,
be prepared for your Ox to be gored.
On the same Campus, on many occasions,
Folks speak freely of perverse persuasions.
Yet, Dean forbid, you should pray,
You’d be better off coming out gay.
If Supernatural salutations you savor
“May the Force be with you”- still is in favor.
So forget about Magi and Manger
or your teaching career is in danger.
If you lecture about Christ and sin
be prepared for what they did to Him.

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

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

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

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

Bonn Prostitutes working the streets
now pay twice for displaying their treats.
Not content with the tax they extort,
for plying the world's oldest profession.
Now Politicians, ****** of a sort,
want more money despite the recession.
Now to make the sin tax yield sweeter
Certain streets now have ******* meters.
Six Euros a night is the rate
for these girls who have more than one “date”
So if your “dame des abends” says “Antreiben! ”
as the clocks ticking down on the evening.
She has a legitimate worry
in telling her"boyfriend" to hurry.
In Bonn, the meter is running
and only the meter maid’s coming!

They were scattered, here and there.
Some were in pieces, some intact.
Some were strapped into the wreckage;
Others lay upon their backs.
These were staring, sightless, at the sky;
That place from whence they came-
They had been headed on vacation
when a missile struck their plane.
The Western World roars outrage
and Dutch folk weep their tears.
“Give us back our children
that your hatred scattered here.”
“The world is filled with churlish men;
Who stole our children’s years.
The innocents have been slaughtered
But no Savior yet appears.”

That night was cold,
The wind was biting.
All over Ireland
the snow was falling

“I was packing
my trousseau,
To Dublin town
I was to go.”
“I heard a pebble
strike my pane.
A moment passed,
then, there, again.”
“I looked out
On the snow filled lane.
That’s when I saw him,
Saw my Michael.
His pale face raised
toward my light.
Like an angel
lost in contemplation.”
“Michael’s health was not the best.
His lungs were weak
and fluid filled.”
“Soon after I had left the West,
I heard that he had fallen ill.”
“He’s buried now near Sligo town,
between Ben Bulben and the sea.
Michael Furey's soul is free,
You know, I think he died for me.”

He still is strong and handsome
as he was in his playing days.
He can enjoy a game of golf
on challenging fairways.
Still he knows that somethings gaining
and he dare not look behind.
Even Michael Jordan knows
you cannot outscore time.
It doesn't seem that long ago
he wore a champion's ring.
Now Lebron is all the rage
and commercials are his thing.
No longer can he rise above
the rim, or run and hide.
Time just posted 50 up
and it isn't on his side.

That August night, too hot for even a sheet,
the only light the red glow of
Your post ****** cigarette,
A strand of red hair strayed across your face..
The valley of your ******* was sweet with sweat.
This last time we would ever be together.
We would not make an occasion of regret
We were both more silent than usual that night.
Each knowing that to speak would break the spell.
In time we would forget each others flaws.
Choosing to remember just the Love
But this is where we kissed and said goodbye
And left for separate cities where we dwell
On nights like this I’ll muse what might have been
But wanting what you have is just as well.

On my fingers, on my tongue-
Your taste a sweet and pleasing one.
I unwrap you greedily
And nibble on you speedily.

Milk chocolate, I can't resist-
in miniatures or in a kiss.
Three musketeers are worth the fee-
all for one and one for me.

In a pudding or a bar
I enjoy you in my home or car.
In drink, you warm my winter day
once my shovels been put away.

Intoxicating like fine wine,
Your antioxidants are all mine.
I sneak away with you, my treasure,
an old fat man's one guilty pleasure.

She posed for ******* magazine
In nineteen Fifty Four.
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.
Her freckled skin was milky white,
her hair a burnished flame.
Her ******* were real and firm and high.
Dolores was her name.
She married shortly after that
And loved the child she bore.
She had both family and career
And she cared not who saw.
They called her a few weeks ago
To pose for them again
For once one is a playmate,
A playmate they remain.
Her skin is mottled, wrinkled now.
She sports a silver mane.
They used a gentle softer light
And a shawl embraced her frame.
She posed for ******* magazine
Like she had once before
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.

She paints her lips in earthy tones.
Her dress whispers seduction.
Her curves give promise of earthly bliss
while mine need liposuction.

A fleeting glimpse, all she allows,
must serve for inspiration.
The other ninety nine percent?
You guessed it- perspiration.

When He came home from work that day
He said “Enough’s enough”.
“Let others built the widgets,
I have done that long enough.”
I’ll live a life of leisure,
crafting poetry and song.
Perhaps I’ll write short stories
or play my guitar all night long.”
Such boundless optimism
didn’t take Fate into account.
Fate, the foe of youth and love,
was lurking there about.
That man thought that He had years of time
to write and think and putter.
Yet Fate was of another mind,
and a malediction muttered.
A tightness in the chest He felt.
A soreness in one arm.
He was sure that it was nothing.
Soon thereafter, He was gone

That day was brutally hot, and the cannon incessantly roared
It was the twenty eighth of June in the third year of the war.
Mary Hays was with her soldier, John, as he fought against the King.
Men would call out “Molly Pitcher” and she brought water from a spring.

The action began badly; Cornwallis pushing back Charles Lee.
Who’d have bet a continental that this would be a victory?
Then Washington brought up fresh troops and held Cornwallis back
Rebel cannon from Hays’ battery stalled Cornwallis’ attack.

John Hays , at his cannon, had succumbed to wounds and heat.
But his gun must not go silent or we would go down to defeat.
That was when Mary Hays decided she would take her husband’s place.
She ran to serve his cannon and kept up the firing pace.
She narrowly avoided death when the Redcoats returned fire
But bravely stood her ground and fought, and a legend was inspired.

Mary Hays survived the war and lived a ripe old age.
She was honored for her service and a State pension was paid.
That day at Monmouth Court House, we proved we could stand and fight.
The British army left the field in the darkness of that night.

She started out some years ago

the wife of a friend of mine.

The lady’s name was Lisa,

and she was a Florentine.

Through all of my commissions

She followed me through time.

Lisa Gherardini

had a shy and secret grin.

I remember when she sat for me,

the light was perfect then,

But something less than perfect

Was the aspect of her eyes.

She had a stigmatism

That my art could not disguise.

Last night, lying there with Salai

my apprentice and my love.

I looked into his eyes

and was inspired from above..



I hurried to my studio

And burned the midnight oil

This time Salai sat for me

in the same pose as the girl.

.

The result I deem perfection,

I will keep her till I die..

I’ll never sell this mystery girl

That has my lovers’ eyes.

The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.

GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
IHe bought a yacht, not me.

Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.

I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.

He took the chartt, he threw the dart
And picked a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.

He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee.

They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
the discount Chimpanzee.

The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.

GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
I’m broker now, not he.

Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.

I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.

He perused the chart then flung a dart
to pick a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.

He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee .

They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
a discount Chimpanzee.

I might have dodged a massive loss
And profited besides
Had I but heeded the baboons’
Sell signaling behinds

It started with Adam, the father of all
He and Eve had no last names that I can recall.
While the man tribe stayed small there was really no need
One name was sufficient to distinguish indeed.
Yet, as we expanded, this soon came undone
As every man Jack was some father’s son.
Cicero, Caesar and Pompey, those Romans
Were known as just that; nick-names, patrynomens
Rembrandt and Picasso those giants of art
probably had two names when they got their start.
Elvis and Dion were stars in the fifties.
Liberace was too with his style none too thrifty.
From Cher to Madonna Fame’s admission fee
was becoming Mononymous to the bourgeoisie.
So Adele and Miley revel in this;
Fame’s a fabulous ride and it’s not to be missed.
There’s money involved and a lot of acclaim
And best of all people remember your name.

The envelope please!
No, not that one, you fool.
Mistakes have been made
by Price-Waterhouse tools.
A Harvey –like gaff
At the Oscars was made
And the wrong cast and crew
were called up to the stage.
How mortifying
It sure must have been
To be standing up there
And learn you didn’t win.
Kimmel mocked Harvey
For just such a switch
Last night Jimmy learned
That karma’s a witch

Moonwalker

We said goodbye to him today,
the man who walked first on the Moon.
We commit his ashes to the sea
as pipers play a mournful tune.
He'll feel Selene's pull in the deep
Until, in time, his urn dissolves.
Then, everywhere and nowhere
He will ride the Ocean tides.
Once, on a very different sea,
Armstrong brought his spacecraft down
At a place they called tranquility .
the Eagle landed, strong and proud.

Spot, that lucky dog, is dead.
He did not live to see
what became of **** and Jane.
Let me relate their history.
**** and Jane now were in their teens
Vietnam was our national hell.
Jane mourned her fellows at Kent State.
****'s squad stormed Hue's Citadel.
**** came back from Vietnam
a changed and distant man.
In sleep he'd mutter, toss and turn,
crying out like one who's dammed.
Jane became a feminist and
in protest burned her brassiere.
****, in monosylables
proclaimed he loved Jane dear
Soon Jane was having fun with ****
in the back seat of his car.
A different sort of fun, I think
than they ever had before.
They both tried marijuana
and both of them inhaled
They were discreet, unlike their friends
and avoided time in jail.
They lived together for  a while
Eventually they married.
The product of their union was
two boys named Tom and Harry.
**** got work at Chysler
standing right beside his Dad.
He figured he was set for life.
He became a Union man.
Jane became a lawyer
working for A.C.L.U.
**** and Jane would often argue
about the causes she pursued.
By now the boys were growing up
and spending time with Dad
Out at Tiger Stadium
they had seats in the grandstand.
It seemed everything was perfect.
Of course everything was not.
**** and Jane fought frequently.
Her career was getting hot.
She no longer had much fun with ****;
the passion had grown cold.
Cialis was not invented yet
and **** grew fat and bald.
Jane began to question why
she  ever chose to marry.
Jane stopped having fun with ****.
Jane  now has fun with Sally.

A morning in Hiroshima

In August of the year

I walk towards a tower

with battered walls and naked steel.



The dome is open to the sky

The walls have crumbled down

All else around had been laid waste

This was the zero ground.



In that river there were bodies

burned beyond recall.

Thousands dead around here

And scarce a standing wall



An involuntary Shiva

A chill creeps down my spine

One bomb destroyed this city

A monster born of mind..



We gather to remember-

The mayor says some words

Silence, a bell ringing,

sounds a warning to this world.

I am not a butterfly, their beauty I do not possess.
I am but a humble moth, but His creature nonetheless.
On this sultry summer's eve, for reasons I can only guess.
I'm captivated by the glow; your open flame has me impressed.
I'm like a bit of cosmic dust from the outer darkness come.
drawn inexorably to my doom, seduced  towards the fiery Sun.
I'm fascinated by your glow; see how you flicker and shift shapes!
Ever closer I draw near, Thought I fear it a mistake.
Beautiful the reds and golds, like a veiled dancer
you entice me on
I flare up like a dying star, you scarcely notice I have gone.

Some say I have your eyes; I’ll vouch for the thinning hair.
I often say things that you would say if you were still here.
As I age my hearing starts to fail; you faced the selfsame test.
Yes, I now wear glasses too, for reading and the rest.
Some say I have your temperament; I’ve heard time and again;
That I have your listening heart; there could be no better friend.
Your patience and your kindness was exceptional but then
-You were an Irish mother dealing with your Irish men
I loved you for your courage when cancer gave a scare.
You suffered it in silence with the help of faith and prayer.
You were summer’s final Rose who outlasted your cohorts
You have been gone a dozen years, but are ever in my thoughts.
When we heard that you were failing, we hurried to your side
But as we came off the elevator, the nurse said that you had died.
You lay there, still, beneath white sheets, with dignity and grace.
You left us on a breath of air bound for a better place.

When she saw brown dots upon the rug,
and more upon a chair.
The poor housewife was certain
several mice resided there.
“I’ll need a cat. Or perhaps two,
quite possibly I’ll need four.”
“This quantity of **** demands
a feline killing corps.”
Just then her rotund husband
opportunely wandered in.
with a bag of Nestlé’s morsels
and brown stains upon his chin.
She watched him munch a handful,
several dropping to the floor
Hard to believe someone that fat
had ever missed his maw.
No killer cats were needed
if spouse droppings was the source.
What the housewife really needed
was a lucrative divorce.

Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.

"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "

Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.

Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.

"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "

Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.

"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "

Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa

lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.

This place is a museum now; this great hall where my father stood.
Here he waited on line with all the rest. He waited for admission.
He was dressed in his best with a few dollars in his pocket,
and the address of his sister and her husband in New York.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother, Helen, was native, first generation born upon these shores.
My father was a laborer; the quarries and mines had made him strong.
His years in Scotland plus his native Irish brogue
was baffling at first to those Ellis Island clerks.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My Dad found work building a bridge high above the waters reach.
He started out a near illiterate but slowly learned to read
From discarded copies of the New York Daily News.
He met my mom at an Irish dance.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother’s voice was all New York; a dialect of English speech.
She loved her numbers, and clerked for Met Life, but she may have longed to teach.
Instead she sat with me in our small kitchen
Teaching me my numbers as our dinner was prepared.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

For those of you who have heard me speak
And found my own accent hard to place.
I am a little of old New York and a little of a fair green place.
My American voice is but the echoed music of my race.

This place is a museum now; this great hall where my father stood.
Here he waited on line with all the rest. He waited for admission.
He was dressed in his best with a few dollars in his pocket,
and the address of his sister and her husband in New York.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother, Helen, was native, first generation born upon these shores.
My father was a laborer; the quarries and mines had made him strong.
His years in Scotland plus his native Irish brogue
was baffling at first  to those Ellis Island clerks.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My Dad found work building a bridge high above the waters reach.
He started out a near illiterate but slowly learned to read
From discarded copies of the New York Daily News.
He met my mom at an Irish dance.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother’s voice was all New York; a dialect of English speech.
She loved her numbers, and clerked for Met Life, but she may have longed to teach.
Instead she sat with me in our small kitchen
Teaching me my numbers as our dinner was prepared.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

For those of you who have heard me speak
And found my own accent hard to place.
I am a little of old New York and a little of a fair green place.
My American voice is but the echoed music of my race.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

Ooh I’m feeling sick, a little sick
Fevers up a tick
Are you gonna get me, you vile Corona?

Ooh you make my fever spike, fever spike
I cough and sneeze, I'm up all night
Nothing 's gonna make this right, Corona,

Is it ever gonna stop, full of snot, I kid you not
Fevers going up I got a touch of that vile Corona
That Vile, Vile, Vile Corona

Because I never wash my hands,, here I am
Staring death in the face was not my plan
Now I’m in a quarantine, quarantine
Delirious in this bad dream
You Vile Vile Vile Corona

In deepest slumber, she came to me,
in the darkest hour of the night.
She was not some dreadful seraphim,
but a picture of delight.

Her skin was fair like an Irish lass
with nary a blemish to be seen.
Her hair was golden, long and straight,
With deep blue eyes so wise and keen.

With the merest movement of her wings
She moved so gracefully through the air.
I knew she was an angel, then,
for truly she had quite the pair.

I was enraptured by her gaze
which drained from me my fear and pain.
The angel of death came closer now.
Was it my time? Would she speak my name?

She smiled her sweet angelic smile
and shook her head. I must remain.
I woke with a start to find my old familiar room;
Nothing and everything was the same.

My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.

Shall I awake you with a gentle kiss?
Or with warm lips caress
a milk white breast?
Perhaps I'll  just  lay back
in our  four poster bed,
and watch your every sleeping breath.
That might be best.
Then, in the warmth of our remembered love
drift off to sleep myself
and dream my dream of you.

When I was young and needed wheels
my father helped me buy my first.
He worked then in a funeral home
and got a great deal on a hearse.
When first he handed me the keys
I thought there must be some mistake;
A Station Wagon for the dead-
Most dates would do a double take.

True, it had low mileage,
but a ghastly MPG.
It was very roomy in the back
where the coffins used to be.
I thought it would be hard to park,
and in that, I wasn't wrong.
Dad said the horn was customized-
when pressed it played "the Munsters" song.

Its capacious bay proved useful
when transporting beer and wine.
It even helped me to get "lucky".
a "Goth" girl thought it fine.
Pale white skin with tats and piercings'
those memories still can thrill.
Though I found it disconcerting
that she liked to lie so still.

These days I drive a Prius
in an effort to be "Green"
I work out and eat "healthy"
as I'm no longer quite so keen
to be caught lying in the back
of a flatbed limousine .