In Detroit, the "motor city".
The wheels are off the cart.
Auto coverage? unaffordable-
four thousand just to park!
So many buy no coverage
or pretend they live elsewhere.
The apathy is palpable
Local government doesn't care.

There is a high court precedent
handed down from Robert's chair
The President must get involved
to save them from despair.
He will assess the situation
and appoint an auto czar.
to force all to buy insurance
It will be called "Obama-Car"

“**** those Pakistani kids
Always playing ball
outside my compound wall.
With all this noise
And confusion
It’s amazing that
I can hatch a plot
at all.”

"What’s with those Helicopters?
Landing on my lawn!
Don’t the Honchos  know I’m busy
On my laptop
watching ****."

"It is infidel crusaders
Come to pay a call!
They’re violating our
Sovereignty! Treaties!.
Protocol."

"Come here dear
Wife number four
Hide and shelter me.
You make a lovely
Human shield
From Seals
Who’d
****** me."

As she stepped into the M.E.’s chamber
The light was uncomfortably bright.
The policeman held her by one arm
As she took in an unwelcome sight:
A sheeted body lay on a slab,
a human who had come to harm.
The medical examiner pulled back the sheet
And she could no more deny.

Her son looked peaceful and composed,
almost as if he was asleep.
The needle tracks upon his arms
Betrayed addictions hold was deep.
“Yes” she said, “this is my son.”
There was little else to tell.
She claimed his body from the state
thus sparing him a pauper’s grave.
An Overdose was ruled the cause
The antidote administered was too late
With ceremony she buried him
In hopes of Heaven, in fears of Hell
Her tears betray a common grief
In Purgatory now she dwells.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
The youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters song
and that star that shone like gold.

The night was cool
the moon was full.
There was no hint
of what was to come.
A nearby asteroid
was perturbed
from its journey
around the Sun.
It hurtled down
toward the Earth.
A billion souls
it put at risk
none but the moon
stood in its path
It struck the moon
a silent blast
because in Space there
is no sound.
Luna shook
but gave no
ground.
A slice of moon was
sharded off
Fragments blasted
here and there
The tides went mad
The seas rose up
The waves raised
in a desperate prayer.
In time the dust would coalesce
into a ring
about our orb
Poets would write
about the ring
which girds our earth,
our Eden home.

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
The youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters song
and that star that shone like gold.

When Ebola’s fever begins to rage,
The prognosis isn’t nice,
Monoclonal antibodies
are needed from three mice.
The mice must first become exposed
to a weakened viral strain.
Their antibodies harvested
and combined with those of man.
Strangely the proteins that we need
are grown best in a ****.
A modified tobacco plant
will do the job indeed.
The serum, that derives from plants,
had not had human trials.
(but eight of ten young chimpanzees
endorse  what’s in that vial.)
Our missionaries, sick unto death
were clearly in no position
to refuse to try the medicine
that might provide remission.
Their rebound was miraculous.
To Atlanta now they fly.
Man finds himself in debt to a mouse.
“Good job, little guy!”

The men of Massachusetts were falling back in disarray
They had held their line for hours on this hot and humid day.
Nathan Allen bore the tricolor when they were ordered to withdraw
But he turned and charged the rebel line because of what he saw.
The regimental banner had fallen to the clay
The rebels too had eyed the prize and they were on their way.
The bullets sang their song of death as from his friend’s dead hands
He bore the colors back to where his unit made their stand.
The honor of the regiment was wrapped up in their banner
To Nathaniel Allan, more than his life, that mattered.
He was cited for his courage; all had seen what he had done.
Upon his grave they placed a star, the honor that he won.

When the Costa Concordia met with a reef,
it was certain some lives would be lost.
As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees,
Her Captain was first to get off.

Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde
when his ship began veering to shore.
He was unwilling to go down on his ship,-
The blonde? yes, but hold the encore.

It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle,
the Isle with the ship eating reef.
They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife
an excursion that beggars belief.


The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed;
They just couldn’t believe what they saw:
The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously,
beating women and children to shore.


Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post,
hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.”
The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos
is “Nearer to Shore take me!”

He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales
when compared to the scope of his sin
This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea
in his dreams let their screams never end.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
We named you inoffensively.
Your boughs have been de- Christianized
Rededicated to mankind
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
takes all denominations

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday tree
Enjoyed by Jew and Pagan.
You twinkle with a million lights
like the Universe of Carl Sagan.
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
Takes all denominations.

Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
No Creche beneath your branches
Atop your pine- No Star Divine
instead a golden dollar sign
Oh Holiday Tree, Oh Holiday Tree
takes all denominations

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel,
the mayor of our fair Chicago town
The people here are stuck with you I fear,
Unless another candidate appears.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell



You came, so well connected from on high,
and never let a crises go to waste;
To us the path of knowledge show,
by closing schools and letting teachers go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, Rahm oh Rahm Emmanuel
the homicides are rising by the score.
Guardsmen called to enforce civil law
In places where police will go no more,
Rejoice Rejoice Emanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come Barrack Obama’s right hand man,
From prosperity you will deliver them
That trust your mighty pow'r to save;
They’ll re-elect you with votes from the grave
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
one in three still think you’re doing swell


Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
In Chicago folks stay home at night ,
for fear of death and that ain't right
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
don’t deviate from the party line
til all Chicagoans are left behind.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
One in three still think you’re doing swell

The air was brilliant, crisp and clean,
as he in walked in on a sea of green.
Kerry Woods, old 34,
at Wrigley field, his field of dreams.

Upon a time, old Cubs fans say,
He struck out twenty in one day.
He stirred some hope the “curse” was gone;
the hope that Cubs fans live upon.

The surgeon’s knife put hope to bed-
his blazing fastball all but dead.
He could no longer start in games,
As a closer he achieved some fame..

He journeyed there, he journeyed here,
At times, in flashes, it would appear,
That blazing fastball on the gun
that time and surgeons had undone.

We all come to that final day
when we can no longer play.
Upon the mound for one last time,
What would be Kerry’s final line?

He threw three strikes, the last one swinging-
Kerry had that fastball singing
When coach came out to take the ball
Cheers shook the ivy covered walls.

He held his young son in his arms
and doffed his cap to cheering fans.
Old 34 then disappeared
In the ancient clubhouse beneath the stands..

For Three years we had been used as slaves,
since surrendering to the Japanese.
We’d been starved, beaten and abused
and lived in filth and misery.

We’d heard they planned to **** us all
once it was clear they’d lose the war.
We’d lived in fear, like Damocles,
waiting for the day Japan would fall.

Then came the news of Victory
and our tormentors disappeared.
More eager, then, to save themselves
Than carry out the order we had feared.

Beneath my bunk a treasure hid,
concealed there from the Japanese.
It was saved from the fall of Singapore,
then passed through several hands to me.

We struck down their flag, the rising sun,
for we were sure their sun had set.
We replaced it with the Stars and Stripes,
Around that banner we rallied yet.

Hearts filled with pride, we stood as men
and saluted the red white and blue.
We were like scarecrows dressed in rags,
but we knew that this ordeal was through.

Our air force dropped us food supplies
and shortly after we entrained.
We’d made a bonfire of the camp
to consume the memory of our pain.

Ray Lewis, your spokesman
is ripped and he's lean.
He's built like Adonis
and, by rep, very mean.
If I use "old Spice" body wash
as per his advice.
The ladies will swoon
as I'll smell so **** nice.

I'm short fat and Jewish-
a Nebbish at heart.
In intimate settings
I'm quite prone to ****.
So I bought "Old Spice" body wash
and lathered it on.
Then I entered the bedroom
and said "Babe, bring it on!"

Olive, my lover of many a year
was less than impressed
when I deigned to appear.
A giggle, a chuckle and then a guffaw
My confidence sagged
like my double chinned jaw.
"Darling, it may be you smell like Ray Lewis
but when my eyes open
You're short fat and Jewish."

The ad was misleading
and I feel like a fool
Not a mensch, more a reject
from a shallow gene pool.
Bad enough that the store
on my refund is reneging.
foreplay now requires
two hours of begging.

The stadium is empty now; just cardboard fans sit in those seats.
Old Bob Sheppard sits at the mike, clears his throat, and begins to speak.
One by one, He calls their names: Larsen, DiMaggio, Rizzuto, and Berra.
One by one they doff their caps; these heroes of the golden era.
The vacant ball-yard in the Bronx that the current Yankees call their home
Is silent on this sacred day, save for that rich baritone.
The specters gather on the diamond; these fabled heroes of yesteryear.
It would have been old Timer’s day today
These sights? these Sounds?
Only I , alone, can hear.

“Cigarette? “ He held out his pack.
“Sure”, I said.” I don’t see any harm in it now.”
My recent foe, now friend, was dressed in Wehrmacht Grey.
I wore Khaki as I had in life, stained in the front around the heart.
His coal black helmet bore proof of his fatal blow.
Other than being dead we were both none the worse for wear.
We watched without passion the play before us:
the waves of boys in Khaki Green, breaking against the Atlantic wall.
Such Courage was shown on both sides this day.
I confess I had felt only fear. Terror as bullets tore into my heart.
My new friend felt the same. We were both glad our deaths were quick.
The alternative was here upon display.
Soon we must head above, or below, as the gods decide.
But we had decided for just a while to stay
And watch the action on this Longest Day

I met a man the other day who proclaimed he was right
in his smug assured way.
As I listened I wondered " How can this be?"
when all he held sacred seemed profane to me.
I conducted a survey, I asked all around;
opinions, like assh*les, were thick on the ground.
Some followed a Prophet, others swore by a book.
Some would **** you to save you if that's what it took.
In a pantheon of idols, theirs was the true God.
All the others are fakes- which I found rather odd.
I admired their certainty; their faith seemed so strong.
Yet doubt tempts me to wonder if everyone's wrong.
We all think we're right which can lead to disaster,
both  here and now and then  in the hereafter.

Once upon a time in America
the Sons and Daughters of Liberty
faced down the dragoons of a distant tyrant
and won freedom for themselves and their posterity.

Once upon a time in America
A President held forth for human rights
and freed a people who had been held in *******
after five Aprils of costly, ****** strife

Once Upon a Time In America
brave women rallied to be suffragettes;
No more content to be second class citizens,
They won the vote and haven't looked back yet

Once Upon a Time In America
The teeming masses set out for our shores
They were greeted by the lady in the harbor
who raised the torch of Freedom ever more

Once upon a time in America
we raised brave men the equal of their time;
They spent their prom day storming Norman beaches
and didn't stop until they reached the Rhine.

Once upon a time in America
Men with the "Right Stuff" could still be found
to circle the Earth and reach the nearby moon
returning back here safely to the ground.


That was once upon a time in America.
before the dream was sold and spat upon
Before they pulled the ladder up behind them.
For most of us the dream is dead and gone.

Buried on this Island in a tiny unmarked plot,
You would have been my son or daughter
but she decided to abort.
It would be nice to have been consulted,
But that’s a right men haven’t got.

You might have been a beauty
as your sister is today.
Or You might have been a scholar
if not commingled with this clay.
There is no stone where I can grieve;
No plot to kneel and pray.

Just this burial ground of paupers
I am visiting today.
It is my fault as much as hers
I do not seek to blame.
If only I could have  held you once
or given you a name.

The winter chill cuts to my core.
I feel a sense of sin.
I’m reminded the saddest words of all
Are these:“what might have been”

I take the Apple in my hand
And ponder how this tasty fruit,
Once a bite or two was eaten,
caused God to drive us out of Eden.

But what if Adam didn’t bite
upon that fatal primal night,
and God decided Eve, alone,
should pack and leave their Garden home?

Would Adam by himself remain,
long centuries after Eve was dust?
Converse with snake and count on sheep
if and when he couldn’t sleep?

Would the fiery angel give a shout
when Adam passed on his way out,
to join Eve on the Darkling plain?
One paradise lost, and one regained.

We two were born on the same day
An Ocean apart, a world away.
My Dad dug graves,
His Dad owned stores
We both looked forward
to one day more.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
Both off to university.
I went to Queens
He attended Cologne
He partied with Models
I sat home alone.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
He became a captain
of industry.
With a Manse in the Mountains
and one by the shore.
I rented a place
for one day more.

The world then changed
unexpectedly
it was he who succumbed
to infirmity
When all his wealth
his billions, his stores,
failed to purchase
him one day more.

The World has changed
Just I go on
My wealthy twin
is dead and gone.
No wealthier that I was before
Yet enriched by the gift
of one day more.

My brother related a strange dream that he had:
It took place in a bar; he was there with our Dad.
they both ordered a Guinness, in the mood for a stout.
They both were committed  to enjoy their night out
The barkeep then asked if they'd be running a tab.
Jim reached in his pocket, he paid for his drink  and Dad's.
" I don't think we will."" Just the one now" He said,
"For I'm on blood thinners and my Dad here is dead."

The old man at the hospice
was in a world of pain.
His sight was gone,
his heart grew weak
and not much time remained.

I don't recall who asked the question,
but I was struck by his reply.
It contained a world of wisdom
from a soul about to die.

Someone had asked the dying man
"If wishes were for free-
and I could grant you one last wish
what would that last wish be?"

He didn't wish for fortune
He didn't lust for fame
He cared not a whit for money
or to escape his gnawing pain.

" I think, if I had one last wish
before my times gone by-
I'd be a babe in my mother's arms
and hear a lullaby."

" That would be a good way to pass
- not soaked in urined sheets-
but comfortably in Mother's arms
and gently rocked to sleep."

That very night the old man died,
He passed on in his sleep.
I hope he's in his mother's arms
with no more cause to weep.

When I was young and callow
and could run for twenty miles
I met a woman, Karen,
both sophisticate and kind.

We met while on vacation,
I was her junior by five years.
Her eyes a vivid, limpid blue-
marred recently by tears.

She was on the rebound
from an instance of heart break.
I was young and willing
and,to be honest, a mistake.

It was a thrill to take her hand
and be invited in
I watched her undress slowly
so our passion could begin.

We did not get much sleep at all
though I'll not kiss and tell.
I will say for her recent loss
I stood in very well.

When I awoke next morning
She had dressed and gone away.
I never saw her face again
or spoke about our play.

We loved for one night only
when we wrestled in the sheets..
How bittersweet came morning
with no chance of a repeat.

It seems, today, a peaceful place,
a sandy beach, a wine dark sea.
The grand assault, the thousand ships;
It rivals Troy in myth-story
.
Fate often hinges on one day-
the moment when the dice are tossed.
Here they breached the Atlantic wall
Here many a Mother’s son was lost.

One sixth of June was such a day.
And on that day the sea ran red.
Mine is a tale of butchery;
of many wounded , many dead.

One sixth of June, the storm now passed,
From out the fog, our fleet, they spied.
The heavy guns commenced to fire.
In a fearful rain of lead, men died.

What was in the souls of men
who breached the wall and turned the tide?
The Tommies and Americans
faced odds so close to suicide.

Some lived to tell of that longest day;
the sixth of June in forty four.
So many others fought and fell
and sleep in Normandy evermore.

They were brothers born a year apart,
the elder just nineteen.
Folks said they were inseparable-
Unbeatable as a team..

But elder brother went to war
in far off Vietnam.
His brother vividly recalls
The day He heard Jim’s gone.

Never again to take the field,
Or hear his voice again.
A Lifetime’s conversation
brought prematurely to an end.

One was taken, one was left,
Both forever changed.
One brother is forever young-
There in the picture frame.

The Younger is the elder now
Each year he grows more grey.
Sufficient is the evil
He has dealt with since that day

We saw the conning tower first,
in the darkness of the deep.
A robotic submersible
Found the boat on its final sweep
Some two hundred and thirty fathoms down
That’s where the crew of the Greyback sleeps.

At the end of February in Forty Four
A chance encounter brought them low.
A Betty from a carrier force
Delivered what proved the fatal blow.
The sea poured in from all around,
Trapped at their stations, the mariners drowned.
No hope of rescue would appear
as each man faced his private fear.

It’s the nature of the silent service,
The danger of their chosen role:
Never to see home port again,
on their eternal last patrol.

She whispered, “it is time for me to go”.
So soft, I barely heard her words.
Her fight was gallant; these past few months,
Now she prepared to leave this world.
Each breath was labored; the morphine drip
eased her passage and her pain.
Mom had been there for me all my years.
Now only one of us remains.
Are my tears selfish? I blink them back,
As I hear her death declared
I hope she’s with the angels now
and the God who answered one last prayer.

She had one lesson left to teach;
At the end, be ready, that is all.
I finally let go of her hand,
The hand I’d held since I was small.

Two poets, Oxford men, both of them,
met by chance on the field of woe.
They were prepared to charge the Boche
when they heard the whistle blow.
For King and Country, to gain a yard,
to bleed and suffer like some god.
One would be taken, the other left

A mortar Shell made its quick work.
The lad had scarcely time to scream.
His fellow stared, in shock, to see.
A pink mist where Clive used to be.
The charge soon faltered in fading light
The survivors lay low in Niemanns land.
A line from Matthew dogged each breath:
One was taken, the other left.

I have never been an advocate
Of “woman’s right to choose”
because I think an infant’s life
is too precious to lose.

In the case of Marie Fleming,
I might plead for an exception:
This brave Irish woman,
Her body wracked with mortal pain,
Sought surcease from suffering-.
a peaceful rest to gain.

She did not fear that final breath
as the young and healthy do.
She sought a death with dignity-
the same as me and you.

MS was her enemy-
She could not do the deed.
She asked the courts to let friends help
To be there in her need.

Denied of an assisted end,
Marie died yesterday.
I hope that she passed peacefully
and sleeps til Judgment day.

Her wicker casket was borne to church,
She rests there in the yard.
She bore pain unendurable
before she met her God.

We are more merciful to pets
When they face shorter odds
Than the courts were to Marie
Who‘d been dealt the thirteenth card.

The thing about losing one’s mind Is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
No, the loss is a creeping gradual thing, never occurring in a *****.
It starts with some forgotten names; some dear, some famous but, to you, not.
Next you’re at a loss for words you’ve often used but now cannot.
You find yourself on an oft trod trail which suddenly is strange and new.
Its getting dark, its growing cold and the police have to be sent for you.
There is a fear that chills the soul that only knows that it knows not.
Hanging on that precipice fearing you will be forgot
Yet when that last forgetting comes your fear will be forgotten too.
And you’ll greet Death like an old friend whose name will surely come to you.
.

His breathe came now in fits and snorts,
for weeks John had been ailing.
His legs were swelled up like balloons
because his heart was failing.

His eyes were glazed with cataracts
for which there was no cure.
Those eyes had seen our nations' birth
Her proud destiny now assured.

He faced death with a humble faith
in a Savior that forgives.
With his last breath they heard him say:
"Thomas Jefferson still Lives."

I am widowed and my children are all grown.
They are busy with their own families.
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.
The house is quiet and I wait in hope
That the phone will ring or some friend might stop by;
Anything to end my isolation

I hear the mail slot open and the thud
of magazines and junk mail on the floor.
The letter carrier, gone without a word,
walks briskly in the outside bitter cold.

The radio is on and comforts me.
a chance, at least, to hear other voices.
They prattle on about terrorist threats;
venial Politicians and celebrity divorces.

Another year reaches its anticlimactic end.
I’ll watch the ball drop and prepare for bed.
It is for others to make the New Year Ring-
My tree is bare of leaves and no birds sing.

They finally did it,
so often they'd tried.
The whole Human race,
dead, a suicide.

The people I'd chosen
made war on Iran,
Until the last drop of Isaac
bled out on the sand.

Their allies engaged
and the dread missiles flew.
Nuclear winter
took care of a few.

The rivers of Babylon
clotted with dead.
So it was written.
So it was said.

The tribes of the Prophet
and Abraham's clan
took everyone with them
so I understand.

I really will miss them.
If I had eyes, I cry.
They only knew How,
They stopped asking "Why".

Their Cities are silent,
filled with cockroaches only,
They consigned me to Myth
and now I am lonely.

It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.

Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in ******’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.

My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****.
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.

I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..

We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******.
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.

He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.

The officer’s whistle blew and we rose up
into the stiff wind of German fire.
Whole companies disappeared in the smoke
While tangled up in razor wire.
Our generals were exposed as fools;
Their tactics drawn from earlier wars
Our young conscripts, bayonets fixed,
were fed into the cannons maw.
Nineteen thousand young Brits dead,
Thirty thousand wounded more.
We gained so little ground that day
so little for that blood and gore.
A generation raised on tales
of the glory and romance of war,
has learned today the hard harsh truth
Wisdom gained through suffering is universal law.

Saint Andrews cross on a Crimson field
was borne by Pickett’s men that  day.
When Union canister, like a scythe,
swept Proud Virginia’s men away.

A handful reached the “High water Mark”
Armistead was one of those who gained the Copse.
Their heroism was beyond question
But here the gray line broke and stopped.

Ordinary men in extraordinary times
are called to do extraordinary things.
Mortal flesh becomes translated
into legends that a Bard might sing.

I stand where Cushing’s battery stood
On that third day so long ago
Here Stars and Bars met Stars and Stripes
Flags fly forever; friends now, not foes.

Nothing lasts forever without ceasing.
For every laugh, somewhere a tear drops down.
When you lose someone your steps feel so uncertain.
No longer do you trust the solid ground.
For so it chances in the lives of men
That day comes when their fathers go before.
The flesh and blood becomes a ghostly presence.
The veil has dropped between them ever more.
When dialogues becomes soliloquies,
The things you meant to say mean that much more
because they will forever stay unspoken
save to his stone in moments spend alone.

At Eighteen degrees with a wind chill of three,
Beneath several blankets is where you’ll find me!
With a scotch on my nightstand (to ward off the chill)
Old Man Winter can blow but he’ll do me no ill.
When the forecast is lousy and grey snow clouds threaten
My lamb’s wool lined comforter I won’t be forgetting.
In my all flannel onesies (with the flap in the rear)
I’m sure I can hold out until Spring is near.

The prognosis was distressing.
The outlook was the same.
My aging mother could not eat,
we were playing her endgame.
Bereft of speech and cogent thought,
sitting in her chair with wheels.
Her fate placed firmly in our hands,
in the court of no appeals.
A feeding tube could well extend
her life for twenty years.
A life in limbo that way leads
where none can care or feel.
Pain management and hospice care
was the choice we had to make.
Years later some still argue
we had made a vile mistake.
Yet if my fate should be like hers
be kind and let me die.
A gentle exit into night
once life become a lie.

Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.

Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79’

Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him “ King Kong”
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.

Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn’t deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.

Glenn Burke rode the pines while in Oakland
Billy Martin never gave him much chance
When Burke injured his leg in Spring Training
That ended his time at the dance.

He drifted, his playing days over,
He used, he stole and did time.
An accident left him a *******
Unprotected *** ended his line.

No shock was the A.I.D.s diagnosis-
His sister had long known he was gay.
When she took him in he was dying
when all others turned him away.

Sandy Alderson, with the Athletics,
took pity on Burke in despair.
The team paid for his A.I.D.S. medication
and covered the cost of his care.

Sad is the fate of the Athlete unsung,
dying apart from his team.
Glenn Burke showed that a gay man could play,
That a Gay Athlete also can dream.

Glenn Burke passed a long time ago
But his story deserves to be told.
He said when your suffering, dying of A.I.D.S.
Even days in the summer are cold.

This is
a poem
to bemoan
that a
munchkin
has died
after
a short
illness

Our Earth is but a pale blue dot
When seen from Saturn’s rings.
Voyager took the photo
which I found among my things.
Our Earth is a fragile sapphire
in the immensity of space.
I think we should take care of it
For we have no other place.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.

Did Custer reach the river
before the natives struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.

Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield
An ocean of grass to tame
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

Out upon the greasy grass
George tried to make a stand
Two hundred men surrounded
There was a breakdown in command.

Outnumbered and surrounded
Some men simply broke and ran
But death was not to be denied,
Their blood fed thirsty sand.

Custer, mortally wounded,
with a bullet near his heart.
did not live to see the rest.
His troopers hacked apart.

The position held by Reno
And commanded by Benteen
survived several furious assaults
before the natives fled the scene.

Relieved by General Terry’s force,
They sought their fallen ones-
The bodies hacked and naked,
decomposing in the sun.

No horse to Ride, No sword to wield,
an ocean of grass untamed.
The Seventh lay out in the field
That was the cost of fame.

Three Klicks from the ruins we found him: face down.
Thirsty sand drank his blood which had darkened the ground.
He may once have been handsome, but now there’s no trace-
A large caliber slug exited through his face.
He had been an interpreter in the second Gulf war.
When the Americans left he was needed no more.
There were signs he’d been tortured; burns on his bare chest.
His arms tied behind him; that’s how he'd been left.
He’d been tortured and murdered to settle some score.
Only the dead see the end of this war.

The release was unintentional, the Public was assured.
No vaccines were available, not that they’d have cured.
For every ten infected, they knew that eight would die.
more lethal than Ebola, and the people wondered why?

It was born in a researcher’s lab, a variant of the flu;
the strain from 1918 that murdered millions too.
Why he was let to do this work, I cannot understand.
Sadly we can’t ask him as he died by his own hand.

It preyed on old and young alike, it slaughtered rich and poor.
The dead were left unburied, and the pestilence slaughtered more.
It was clear the Horsemen rode that night, we heard their banshee scream.
We decided if we were to die, that first we’d have Poteen.

Poteen is a potent brew, distilled three times by hand.
Its an old family recipe handed down by my old man.
As golden drops poured in each glass we raised a toast on high:
“We salute thee, Mighty Lord, we who are about to die.”

A Warmth of stupefaction went coursing through our veins.
When we finally sobered up, no pathogens remained.
Who knew my father’s recipe could put the plague to flight?
We saved as many as we could; no man went dry that night.

The Sun shone on a brave new world, the air was fresh and clean..
The rivers still flowed to the Seas and Eagles still took flight
The Politicians all had died; both the Left and Right.
We left the Cities far behind and lived upon the land,
And never was a jug of “dew” far from my right hand.

I foresee at day, not distant,
when armed drones patrol our skies.
Where people labelled dissidents
will be killed without a trial.

In the cities of the future
walls and ceilings will be glass.
Big brother will be watching
like George Orwell once forecast.

In the future called panopticon
You never will feel free.
You will never know whose watching
and you won't know what they see.

If equality of outcomes
is your wish and fervent prayer-
go and lie down in some graveyard
You'll be sure to find it there.

Otherwise, arouse yourselves
before it is too late.
Don't be a useful idiot
to an overreaching State.

Go ask the Pakistanis
about the war that never ends
Ask how they've been treated
( and we label them our "friends")

The drones we use in Pakistan
will soon be loosed on you.
Will you enjoy a tyranny
of the many by the few?

I hoisted myself on the parallel bars
(in itself a remarkable feat)
Determined this day
I would go all the way.
As if I was some student athlete.

My gym teacher sought to encourage me
As he knew I’d fallen before.
“imagine your crossing
A rope bridge in the jungle,
hungry crocodiles roaming the floor.”

I inched myself forward across the beam
My arms bore incredible strain.
I made it half way
Then my arms gave away.
My best efforts had all been in vain.

I admire the gymnast on balance beams
Those who soar on the parallel bars
But I’m short and I’m fat
So that put paid to that
So, mostly, I travel in cars.

There are some, who serve big business,
who spread them wide and smile.
Some others say they’re populists
“Spread the Wealth’s” their style.
Some are just obstructionists.
For them,delay is fun.
They all **** heads together
And by default get nothing done.
They are the US Congress,
I wish they’d close their doors.
A plague on both your houses-
you Parliament of ******!

Too long we have denied the truth
of our sad situation.
We needed to pay down our debts,
not spend like party nation.
Now our debts are coming due
and we resort to printing payment-
We've kicked the can down the road
but we're running out of pavement.
The great Pablo Picasso,
with great flourish, signed his checks.
He knew they would never be
cashed at his expense.
We are not as fortunate
with those trillions held abroad.
The Chinese could buy Canada
and barely dent their horde.