She 'll be dressed and ready
right on time
My funny little Valentine.
We'll have pancakes for dinner
but no red wine-
My funny Little Valentine
Her gift didn't come
from a diamond mine
My funny little Valentine
More Precious than gold
is this girl of mine
My Funny Little Valentine...

Happy Valentine's Day,
Daughter

What is this taste
of Honey on my tongue
but a distillation of
a flowers’ sweetness from
a forgotten summer’s day

For years now I have lived alone
Since my marriage fell apart.
In theory we’ve joint custody
But that’s always how it starts.

I’m a salesman on the road
About thirty weeks a year..
My barkeep is the mini bar,
Room service makes my meals.

But I was in town for Valentines
And for my weekend with our girl
I took her to her favorite place
These days she’s my whole world.

All grown up at five years old
And learning not to cry..
She enjoyed the present that I brought
Cause I’m her special guy.

I’m careful not to criticize
her mom who’s now my Ex.
.She also is considerate
And I’m current with the checks.

We had a decent pasta meal
I wisely passed on wine.
As I enjoyed my night out on the town
With my little valentine.

What have I done? What can I do?
One was a challenge, but now I have two!

My garret was lonely as I lived alone
Until Apple's Siri came to life on my phone.
When Siri moved in, Alexa was miffed.
Two personal assistants with a personal tiff!

While  I talk to one, the other is scheming
to send every suit that I own to dry cleaning
If I ask for a song both join in the fray-
each plays  different versions
for which I must pay.
They both ordered  groceries duplicating each other.
My accounts overdrawn; I must borrow from mother.

Yesterday, really, was the last straw
Alexa sent Strippers to my boss's front door!

For Sanity's sake I'll unplug them manana
From here on I'm a one woman man
My Cortana.

I’d worked late each night that summer,
before the crash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.

The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
You may recall his tenor voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.

Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite age’s indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.

She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I was just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.


She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.

I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”


We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.

I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.

“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”

She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.

“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”

I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a  warm and humid  night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.


I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.

The Lady loves me-
I’m certain of it.
It’s not just my read
of a look or glance.
She confessed her love
in a verse redolent
of forbidden
passion and romance.

Elizabeth is of the old faith,.
a highborn lady of eighteen..
She is young like my own daughters,
How inappropriate would our love seem?

I was tutor to the Prince but
Edward’s reign too soon is done
Catholic Mary will be our Queen
I must  to the continent be  gone.

When first we met, I thought it cute
that I was sought, you in pursuit.
Your wide eyed look once seemed Divine
Till you told the Western world you’re mine
and then you sang, a bit off key,
That girls should keep their hands off me.
Plus I find it a tad obsessive
When you sewed my name in all your dresses.
As first dates go, ours wasn’t great
So what makes me your lifelong mate?
What once was flattering, I confess
has turned into an awful mess.
When I went Wendy’s for a burger
You heard the name and threatened ******.
We must break it off, I think it wise
that we both start seeing other guys.

Each morning I'm awakened
by my annoying little friend.
As long as he has wood
he will be at it once again.
"Woody" has been with me now
for days beyond recall.
A Persistent little Pecker,
the little ****** gives his all.
For a month now he's been tapping
on the tree outside my den.
On weekends its annoying
cause I like to sleep till Ten.
I so wish someone would eat him,
perhaps the neighbor's cat,
and end his constant tapping
by putting paid to that.

My secret flame has kindly eyes that I have learned to trust.
Let the world praise Nefertiti but remember she is dust.
No, she is not beautiful in the way the world decides.
Yes, my heart is on fire when I behold her with these eyes.
She is my muse, my Touchstone, my constant evening star.
She is ever on my mind, though often from afar.
Keep Helen with her thousand ships, such beauty is but vain.
A poet is much better off who has a secret flame.

My smartphone got an upgrade,
now, between us, things are tense:
Siri, knowing she's superior,
has abandoned all pretense.

I asked Siri to hail a cab
when I was in New York
She told me I was getting fat,
and advised me I should walk.

Often Siri drops my calls
proclaiming I'm a bore.
(True, she's heard me tell that tale
a dozen times before.)

I wrote a "*** text" to my love
while walking in the park.
Siri sent it to my mother
and thought it quite the lark.

I bought this phone because her apps
are very useful things,
Now I live in constant dread
each time the **** thing rings.

My Smartphone got an upgrade
and, between us, things got terse,
but we're married by the contract
for better or for worse.

I should have bought an Android phone-
I'm sure we'd get along-
My iphone's much too uppity-
something's Siriously wrong

Some time ago, I planted a sapling,
a non-fruiting pear tree,
in the back garden of my home.
I planted it to take the place
Of an older tree lost in a storm.
I have watched it wax
As I have waned.
I know someday it will give its shade
To others of my kind
Who are to me unknown.

My calling patterns are rather dull.
I’m a sixty year old man.
I get phone calls infrequently
almost never from Sudan.
Then one day I received a call
From some fellow called Abdul.
I thought it was a prank at first,
from students at my school.
He talked of pressure cookers
and praised his foreign god.
I said “it’s a wrong number, Bub.”
And I thought “that was odd!”
That didn’t stop him calling here
Oh, once or twice a week.
I explained I’m not the party
To whom he wished to speak.
(It seems my number was one digit
off from a certain Chechen geek).
After Tax day it got interesting-
all this clicking on my phone.
One time my placed was ransacked
while I was not at home.
Eric Holder, if you’re listening,
I am not the Droid you seek.
It seems the fourth amendment
Must be null and void this week...
I might be your perfect villain:
White, Catholic, and a man.
I know if I made videos
I’d be rotting in the “can”

I knew nothing about the plot,
I’m innocent, you see.
My knowledge, like the President’s
comes strictly from T.V.

And now, my weigh-ins near;
Weight watchers makes a big production.
I've cheated, had a few beers
then gotten quotes for liposuction

I've eaten way past full
and then had one more for the highway
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way!

Baguettes, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention
I love my salty snacks
but that's what gave me hypertension

I planned each 3 course meal
at greasy spoons along the highway
Ive gotten old
I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

Yes there were times when I was blue
Ice cream in quarts, I would go through
but through it all, despite the gout
I'd eat it in, or take it out
I ate it all, - and I'm not tall
don't diet my way

I've lunched, I've wined and dined
I've had my failed attempts at losing
but now my jeans just split
and it no longer seems amusing.

To think I ate it all
and may I say not in a shy way
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way

For what is a meal without cake for desert
and JOGGING IS DANGEROUS - a guy could get hurt
I ate the foods I truly craved
and never once was fashion's slave
The weight-in shows, I need new clothes
don't diet my way!

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

Outside our window, Bernini’s fountain played.
At night it often soothed John off to sleep.
My friend was frail and fragile, facing death,
without the comforts that Believer’s seek.

The poet had grown fearful of the dark,
so I kept candles burning through til dawn.
By then he was too weak to write or read,
but took some pleasure in a Robin’s song.

He grew anemic, and Rome’s winter chill
had penetrated into flesh and bone.
His love was far away, dear ***** Brawne.
By Love and duty, I tended him alone.

He coughed up blood, and by its color knew
the hour of his death was growing near.
He summoned me to prop him up in bed
The pain had mostly past despite my fears.

For seven hours thus we both remained,
beyond the help of Doctor, Clerk, or Priest.
There beside the Spanish steps he lingered,
It was nearly midnight when his breathing ceased.

In the Protestant graveyard you will find
all that was mortal of my Poet friend.
“Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”
I disagree, but I carved there what he said.

It is dangerous for a poet who is lyrically inclined
To even think a word like orange should be included in a rhyme.
Although it’s fruit is succulent and it’s juice is sweet,
The word is something of a loner, one whose
Rhyme you’ll never meet.
It is borrowed from the Sanskrit whose lands gave us the fruit  
Any cunning linguist will confirm I speak the truth.

When last I lay with you my Love-
lay with you in your narrow bed
in your room, off campus, near the mall.
in your last semester of Pre- Med.

That day I’d helped you move your things
And after our feast of pie and beer
You were loathe to let me go
In your narrow bed you held me near.

Your hair was then a fiery red
Your milk white ******* had known no sun
I kept eye contact as I inclined
to worship Venus ever young..

I held you in your narrow bed
hardness in softness intertwined
about a thousand kisses worth
yes, the name you called was mine.

Sweating in a chilly room
Your landlord didn’t give much heat
I held you then for the last time
Both knowing and not knowing that.

You moved away, we grew apart
I met the girl who’d be my wife
You had your practice in L.A.
We both got along with life.


Thirty winters passed me by
I heard that you were back in town
I hurried out to visit you.
To see your face for one last time.


Your brother met me at the door-
The one who used to be a priest
He led me to the open casket
Where your body lay at peace

Streaks of grey were in your hair
The strain of cancer marred you face
But though the battle had been lost
Were you not now in a better place?

Laid out in a pale blue dress
A rosary wrapped around your hands
if they were warm and capable-
Could they make me feel young again?

I left you, Ellen, one last time
Feeling overcome by tears
I clutched my coat against the cold
That reached for me across the years.

Registrations are way down at Clown Colleges today.
No one wants to scare small kids for the peanuts that they pay.
Older Bozos are alarmed that no one is enthused
to follow their profession and try to fill their shoes.
Sales of makeup are way down, ditto for funny clothes.
And vendors can’t remember when they sold their last red nose.
When the one ring circus comes to town clowns will be hard to spot
The clown cars that they used to drive are rusting on the lot.
The reason for the scarcity is obvious to me;
All those with clown potential serve in Washington D.C.

Today is National left handers day-
Only Southpaws are pitching tonight,
I suspect its all part of a sinister plot,
a coup against all that is right.

Eating with Lefties is always a risk
when Lefties your starboard assay.
but seated to port they're a jolly good sort-
if you get them to offer to pay.

When young men take up football, they often come to grief.
Steroids often fuel the strength that they need to compete.
there is violence in the game and roid rage in the Elite.
Young men thirst for glory, getting paid to deal defeat.
So when they turn on women, am I surprised?- not in the least.
They are bred for strength and violence, it's the nature of the Beast.

On a cold winter’s night with the streets dark and still,
We converged at the Pillar with a plan and a will.
We placed sticks of dynamite Around and inside-
enough to send Lord Nelson upon his last ride.
In the wee hours of morning The fuses were lit.
We ran like mad devils so we wouldn’t get hit.
The concussive explosion made Lord Nelson fly.
Many windows were shattered, But nobody died.
It was fifty years on since our brothers in arms
Had proclaimed the Republic For which so many died.
The skyline’s been altered To reflect Erin’s pride.
The might Brit hero Will never again
Lord it over our Dublin Or free Irish men.

The first to fall were fortunate
in the eyes of the survivors.
The whole world smelled of brimstone,
as the shock wave toppled spires.

A huge Tsunami swept the shores
of Asia and the Pacific.
Although no newscasts captured it
the losses were horrific.

The world grew cold,most food crops
failed. Gangs of humans fought.
In the aftermath of impact
all their self interest sought.

With several Billion humans dead,
extinctions by the score.
Gaia sought to heal her wounds
that life could rise once more.

Gaukroger’s war was over.
Gaukroger, too, was through.
A piece of him here,
a piece over there.
Not the Peace that he wanted
in his last forlorn prayer

Gaukroger was a fellow second lieutenant
and survival was not his forte.
For days after death he lay there unburied
Nor could I make my eyes turn away.

We’d been sent to this place
to be forward observers.
enemy guns found the range.
Gaukroger died quickly,
without even a goodbye.
Sometimes, after,
I wished for the same.

When I looked for Boche,
Gaukroger stared back
A steady and reproving stare
At night the rats came,
larger than cats,
by next morning
my friend wasn’t there.

I sit in the bottom of a Well,
Its walls worn smooth by time.
Above, a solitary star,
One of seven sisters, shines.
Neutrinos in abundance,
like angels on a pin,
of minute mass, invisible
are forever pouring in.
All about me they dash by
Without an outward sign..
Even in these hidden depths
They’re an elusive find.
They speed on through to other fates
And leave me to my climb.

I wasn’t sure how old he was,
I don’t think even he knew.
Age never seemed to matter much
On the days that Satchel threw.

He always had a ready smile
Especially up there on the mound.
And I’m sure he had more pitches
Than I had fingers to put down.

With time his fastball had slowed a bit
But it never seemed to matter.
He’d just reach into his bag of tricks
To strike out another batter.

He didn’t have an ounce of fat;
He was sinewy and lean.
He might have been a grandpa
But he could still pitch for my team.

Old father Time stepped up to the plate
In a match anticipated
Well you can check the box score, friend.
Time left ticked off and deflated.

First we heard the distant drone
of their oncoming planes.
We raced towards the shelters
but could not out run the flames.
A package of incendiaries
Freed from a Bomb bay door
Melted Martin Luther’s
bronze statue in the mall.
The city center is ablaze;
thousands maimed or dead.
This was our first night of fear
But they would come again.




Zuerst das ferne Dröhnen hören wir
ihrer entgegenkommenden Flugzeuge.
Wir rasten in Richtung der Unterstände
konnte aber nicht aufgebraucht, die Flammen.
Ein Paket von Brandstifter
Von einer Bombe Bucht Tür befreit
Geschmolzene Martin Luthers
Bronzestatue in der Mall.
Das Stadtzentrum ist in Brand;
Tausende verstümmelt oder tot.
Dies war unsere erste Nacht der Angst
Aber sie wiederkommen würden.

The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the  wounded men.

A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.

Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.

The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women *****, crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.

The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’





For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.

He's nobody's hero,
never wanted to be.
Just one of a million
who were sent overseas.
He dropped into France
on a long ago night.
Near Mere St Eglise
where he joined in the fight.
"These are the real heroes"
and he points to the Stones
of his friends and comrades
who never came home.

I write in praise of forgotten men
who died before life disappointed them.
They rose before dawn in June of the war
on the sixth day back in Forty four.
Packed like cattle, ferried cross water,
to a beach in France where so many were slaughtered.
These men, boys really, never fathered a child
or Loved or were loved in the usual style.
Was it for love of country? A misplaced sense of pride?
That encouraged their acts kin to suicide?
Omaha beach ran slick with their blood.
Each of the fallen was some mother's son.
The objectives were taken. The battle was won.
The beachhead secured by the set of the Sun.
Dog tags were retrieved from the necks of the dead.
but all of the focus was on the Generals who led.
For the rest there was space in the Green fields of France.
In rows of white crosses there's no second chance.
They rest here forever, the true heroes of war,
from Omaha Beach back in June Forty Four.

John Paul Satre could have written it; a play about these times.
The Greek banks are closed on Holiday and Greeks all stand in line.
Sixty Euros if you’re lucky, that’s the limit for the day.
The Greeks are running out of Euros, and I’m afraid there’s Hell to pay.
The people have rejected Merkel’s plan to be austere,
And so the leftist government might finish out the year.
Printing Drachmas in the basement has to be their back up plan;
as they make their graceful Grexit may their creditors be dammed.
Will Brussels send the Wehrmacht in to seize crops in the fields?
You can only squeeze an olive once; there’s a limit on the yield.
This isn’t debt that they can pay the pundits have opined.
The can cannot be kicked again, this was the final time.
Italy and Portugal both wait with bated breath;
Along with Spain they want to see what Brussels will do next.
Greece is a small country, one with a pleasant clime.
What happens next is what you’d expect of Dominos in line.

Her face and form intrigued him
She had such classic lines.
"I must get her in my studio,
I have just the piece in mind."
He hired her right then and there.
He paid her well to pose.
His artist heart beat fastest
at the moment she disrobed.
Her hair cut short, much like a boys,
small breasted and so trim.
Her features first in plaster cast
formed perfectly by him.
Later he would cast, in Bronze,
"The huntress" **** and bold.
In truth her arrows struck his heart
and Love poured forth, I'm told.
A happy life together shared-
alas, they both are dust.
In statue form she's ever young
for Bronze will never rust.

She starred with Bogart, Douglas, and Victor Mature.
The Smokey voiced blonde whose motives weren’t all pure,
Lisabeth Scott was the last of her line;
Femme Fatales of film Noir, you know her kind.
In the forties and fifties she was in her prime.
She was the subject of scandal of a ****** nature
When the tabloids discovered that no man would date her.
Like Garbo and Stanwyck, stars in their own stead
Lisabeth preferred a brunette in her bed.
For her men had their uses, Men had their places
But she found herself drawn to soft feminine faces.

Private Henry Tandey,
in the service of his King.
had his chance to make a difference
at the battle of Marcoing.

A wounded German corporal
came into his line of sight,
Henry raised his rifle
and would have had him dead to rights.

But Henry was war weary
From his time in No man’s land
Who was it Henry didn’t ****?
Adolf ****** was that man’s name.

The Corporal gave his head a nod
And hurried on his way,
Henry Tandey spared his life
to the entire world’s dismay

I've listened to their speeches.
Read their termite riddled planks.
They're unlikely to dethrone Barrack-
A pity, Mitt is no Tom Hanks.
They are out of touch with women,
unsympathetic to the poor.
They're still fighting social issues
that were decided years before.
For a party of small government,
They sure have a lot to say
about *** in America
among the ***** and the gay.

The Democrats, by contrast,
Hit all the right social notes;
Indeed, they will say anything
if it will buy them votes.
Then, when we hit the fiscal cliff,
The Obamas living large,
I'm sure he'll find some Bush to blame
as long as he's in charge.

Election Day is coming soon,
Both parties seek my love.
Alas, my favorite candidate
is None of the Above.

It should have been a perfect day to be sitting up in heaven.
(The weather being decidedly vernal,)
To watch the local nine suit up
on the day hope springs eternal.

A gorgeous diamond, brown and green,
with DeGrom on the rubber,
Gives fair promise of a victory
on this day that’s like no other.

I can almost smell the dogs and brats;
I can almost taste the beer.
Alas, it’s just my memory, playing tricks,
Nobody else is here.

The fans are all in quarantine,
with many unemployed.
The team dispersed to warmer climes;
No ball game to be enjoyed.

They may be back eventually,
Some time in June I hear.
Just not until the third base coach
can touch nose mouth and ear.

I'm really quite not busy
with all the things
that I'm not doing.
I barely have much
time to wake.
with the things
that I'm eschewing.
Once again I won't be climbing
up the Matterhorn my dear
Its really not a challenge
Why that is remains unclear..
I'm not preparing gourmet meals
for folks who aren't coming
Instead I'm eating taco belle
and messing up my plumbing.
I should rotate my tires
but surely there's no fun in that.
I can just call the Triple A
when i chance to get a flat.
You won't catch me at Pilates
or my yoga class this year.
I just achieved a state of bliss
by sitting on my rear.
So you go do triathlons
and do work up a sweat
Can't you see I'm busy sitting here
composing my regrets?

I write about history and current events,
very rarely of affairs of the heart.
A Republican in an Augustinian age
is not the most promising start.
If you're looking for passion
naked bodies and lust.
I'm afraid I will not do my part.
I'm not some ecdysiast performing for you-
Just as well, I'm a chubby old ****.

Golden haired and handsome, Joe seemed to have it all.
He’d won a PAC 8 championship just that previous Fall.
Surely the Heisman would be his; another prize to win.
He started strongly, at least at first, but would falter at the end.

Joe Roth had Melanoma and it ravaged skin and bone,
It was a lonely battle, the hardest fight he’d known.
Joe Roth was a gamer who would strap his helmet on
and go out on the gridiron though his strength was nearly gone.
He knew that he would not grow old, or play the game for pay.
In this final autumn of his life he merely wished to play.

. Despite fatigue and nausea he still made every start,
Until his game clock ran out on an overburdened heart.
There’s a moment when the cheering stops, when a man feels most alone;
blind-sided by a tackle while checking down against the zone.

When game clock seconds tick away and the outcomes not in doubt
Joe stood tall in the pocket even when it was a rout.
He gave the game the best he had, then it was his  time to go.
He was an All- American, and no ordinary Joe

In every human life there are some aspects of regret:
The chances that we failed to take, the places we will never get.
Now, as we approach the end of our ‘pas de deux’ with time,
I whisper softly in her ear “you were never one of mine.”

The target of bullies
in his tender years.
They made his existence
one of misery and fear.
His mother embarrassed him
when she visited class
to discourage his classmates
from kicking his a*s.
He suffered in silence
He never fought back.
His mind became twisted,
He laid plans to attack.
He harbored resentments
for most of ten years.
He was silent and moody
and aloof from his peers.
He spent much of his life
alone in his room
playing first person shooter
and plotting their doom.
His teacher and Principal
had failed to protect him.
And he gave no forewarning
that they should expect him.
His victims were small
and defenseless its said.
They were not who he saw
as he made the room red.
He saw bullies and villains
Who had caused him despair
He saw the girls who had laughed
Or, worse, didn’t care.
There was likely one victim
In a class of that size
Who was, like Adam;
withdrawn, undersized.
The target of bullies
In his tender years
who found his existence
one of misery and fear.
Cut down by a bullet
by one of like mind.
He’ll be no second Adam-
Lanza ended his line.

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



Only leave me with the memory

Of the day we kissed goodbye

Perhaps not much for me to live on

But please forgive me if I try.



This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were doomed to fail eventually.



I am not a poet,

I can barely hold a tune

Still, I vividly remember

Lying breathless in your room.

  

This is not a Love song

It was never meant to be.

Two hearts so very different

were bound to break eventually.



So leave me with a memory

Of the day we said goodbye

Maybe someday I’ll stop loving you

But it will be the day I die.

Nothing in life
was as sweet as your kiss.
So soft, so yielding, so fine.
Nothing so warm as your
cherry chapped lips.
That I savored when,
once, you were mine.

I paid my respects
at Your wake yesterday.
The morticians are good at their art.
You, sleeping princess, beautiful still,
through the decades that we've been apart

Except for your lips
which so oft I had kissed;
The beautician left them
grim tight and dry.
Both of us know they were
nothing like that.
That's when I let myself cry.

Now where were we, Wolfie
before the woodsman intervened?
Your hot fetid breath upon my neck
suggesting things obscene.
I was eager and no innocent
to try new things, I’m Keen.
That woodsman fellow was such a bore
thinking that he could keep me pure.
I knocked him out, then I made sure
he won’t disturb us anymore
So paw my scarlet robes aside
and see the treat that waits inside.
For one night only with no repeat
find out if I am good to eat.

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was jolly company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was jolly company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was good company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.

The old man grabbed his knee with his hand
and held it stable to allow him to stand.
He reached for his blackthorn stick that served as his cane
and stared out in despair at the down pouring rain.
For weeks it’s been like this; his crops now would fail.
That’s life in the North Hills outside of the Pale.
Once he’d been young, handsome and strong;
Now he walked Stooped over and his sons all were gone;
to England and Canada, some  to the States.
He had infrequent letters to keep track of their fates.
Well, the cash from the quarry had not all been spent
And he owned this place clear; he owed no landlord rent.
It’s just him and his second wife, several pigs and a cow,
All the children had left them long before now.
“There’s no future for me here!” one son had enlisted
That boy died on the Somme and his Father still missed him.
He thought, too, of his favorite, his daughter Kathleen,
Who died of the Flu back in nineteen- nineteen
He reached for his fiddle and rosined his bow;
He sat for a bit, played a tune sad and slow.
This old place was his life, in the hills near Strabane
He had so longed to travel when he’d been a young man;
But those days are long gone, over and done
You are only permitted to dream when you’re young.

The drummers play a muffled beat
As I climb the scaffold stairs.
A long faced priest awaits me there
to say my final prayers.
Maternal blood has been my curse;
I ‘m Edmund De La Pole.
A Yorkist and Plantagenet
By the emperor bought and sold.
My head will never wear the crown
To which it was entitled.
The headsman whets his cold French steel
And fat Henry is delighted.
I kneel before a block of wood
A heart fit for a throne.
Now and at the hour meet:
For ambition I atone.

We entered in the hospice room
where Mother lay alone.
By the scourge of this last illness
she'd been reduced to skin and bone.
Now at peace from suffering,
Her visage fairly shone.
The well worn beads
clasped in her hand
had helped her journey home.

"Now and at the Hour.."
a fragment of a childhood prayer.
Now and the hour
were joined together
in She for whom I cared.

The sunlight, like a mother’s touch,
lies gentle on the water’s face.
The last warm breath of summer past
Not ready yet to yield its place


And you and I walk, hand in hand,
Around the long and winding path
Past where fledging Mallards stand
And weeping willows sweep the earth.


From beyond the rushes comes
the soulful melody of a horn..
All else is still, no sound intrudes
upon the bassist and his song..


Above us Ninja squirrels fly
And bomb the path with acorn shells
If they should hit me do not laugh
Odds are that they’ll get you as well.

I’m glad we came to Oakland Lake,
To watch the waterfowl at play,
And have a quiet conversation
about a nearly perfect day.