Although we were told
that casualties would be high,
still we rose up,
answering the officer's whistle-
moving our legs through the muck-
cutting our way through
the barbed wire of doubt-

We charged across Love's minefield
driving the foe before us
at this, Love's Passchendaele.

Love, imperfect, stillborn
to have been but not to be.
We ended it in a coffee shop,
how cruel that was of me.
An old love had resurfaced,
but who had the better claim?
Should I go back to she who left,
or, with the other, remain?
There are no perfect answers
in life, in love, in time.
My children followed from my choice;
sweet hostages to time.
If I were of two bodies
as I was then of two minds
only then could I refuse
and not leave one behind.
My past has been imperfect,
I'd hesitate to live it twice.
Yet all I'd ever hoped I'd be
flows from my choice that night

Let the curse be invoked, let ghosts gibber and moan!
It appears the Bard’s skull is out and on loan.
Although long protected by a malediction dread,
It turns out Shakespeare’s body is missing his head.
Some Victorian fans thought it quite the lark
to make off with his skull; a deed done in the dark.
Alas poor Shakespeare whose works I know well
Your skull now a paperweight where miscreants dwell.
Like Crassus the Roman, you serve as a prop
And your moldering bones are missing their top.
If Poor Yorick had heirs they are under suspicion;
Subject them to torture to obtain their confession.

I used to love that
perfume you would wear:
Pavlova, by pavot.
The name rings a bell.
In the post ****** heat
I remember it well.

Mandarin Orange with
raspberry ,musk,
Jasmine and Hyacinth
all that came between us.

Now the scent is redolent
of another place and time.
It returns me to our youth
in that summer of sixty nine

It of course has no such power
to make me, once more, twenty three-
but its subtle hints of citrus
gives rise to my

memory.

For Secret servicing so nice
and pay for play that rocked your world,
best keep private your secret vice;
If there's a next time, Pay the Girl.

Squabbling with a *******
in Cartegena of all places
has made you unemployable
and caused flushed and embarrassed faces.

Your actions placed POTUS at risk-
Foreign relations are so tricky
Settle on price before you play,
avoiding situations sticky.

Your servicing was less than secret
The whole world knows you sought some "strange"
A shame you lasted just a minute-
still no excuse to ask for change.

For Secret servicing so nice
and pay for play that rocked your world,
best keep private your secret vice;
If there's a next time, Pay the Girl.

Squabbling with a *******
in Cartegena of all places
has made you unemployable
and caused flushed and embarrassed faces.

Your actions placed POTUS at risk-
Foreign relations are so tricky
Settle on price before you play,
avoiding situations sticky.

Your servicing was less than secret
The whole world knows you sought some "strange"
A shame you lasted just a minute-
still no excuse to ask for change.

“Oh come, oh come my little ones
Come to the land of the free.
Cross mountains and deserts
Come on the run!”
said the Pied Piper of D.C.

“We’ll house you and feed you
And give you free treats”
said the schemer to these dreamers so young.
“Citizen’s rights are no bother to me,
I’ll get them to pay for each one.”

“A border so porous you never did see.”
said the Pied piper of D.C.
“Bring all your diseases,
We’ll treat them for free,
And find foster homes for each one.”

“Oh come, oh come my little ones
Come to the land of the free.
Cross mountains and deserts
Come on the run!”
said the Pied Piper of D.C.

Now well you may wonder
How children so young
Cross mountains and deserts to come
But if you should ask you’re a racist of course
Just shut up and pay for each one.

Now back in the day
When a pied piper played
The rats would depart and be done.
But, sadly, these days,
Once this piper’s been paid
(Democ)rats still infest Washington.

There once was a man who drew lines in the sand
daring Bashar Al-Assad to cross.
When “the Lion” so dared he was so unprepared
our man looked like the back of a horse.
Now the same man says he’ll stare down Iran
There’s no need for advice and consent.
John Kerry, his proxy, the Ketchup Queen’s mate,
Ignores deadlines that he never meant
He’ll bargain some more til he sells out the store
The Jews, our lone allies, be dammed.
When the I.C.B M.S rain with bombs they’ll obtain
Tel Aviv will melt into the sand
Then we’ll all learn the true cost of “Peace in Our time”
with the murderous thugs from Iran.

TAP, TAP, TAP- Over here! Over here!
We hear their frantic tapping.,
sailors trapped in the capsized ship
with the water levels rising.

We work with acetylene Torches,
work quickly as the December sun dies.
The smell of blood and oil mixes
I'm too numb to let myself cry.

Work is my only salvation
for me and the men down below.
I am racing with time to their rescue
A race I might lose even so.

Tap, tap, tap, the sound growing fainter
some sailors have died as they wait
Others survive, breathing foul air
Praying for deliverance from fate.

My naked back glistens with Sweat
as we manage a breech in the hull
I grasp the hand of a survivor,
a stranger who now I knew well.

The sun settles red in the West
A red ball like I saw on the planes.
Yet Pearl is not totally dark
we continue to work by its flames

Pen and Ink, which was your sword
to keep the Demons held at bay.
I remember how you calmed the Tempest
When King was murdered and hate held sway.
Wisdom borne of suffering then
You knew first hand of what I speak:
Of pain that drips, drop by drop
Upon our hearts while we yet sleep.
Then, barely two months afterward,
When your brother’s legacy seemed in your grasp,
An assassin’s bullets pierced your brain
And your night of Triumph became your last.

Stephen Hawking is of the opinion
this all came together by chance.
No need for an unmoved first mover
while electrons and protons can dance.

We’re adrift in a sea of dark matter,
loosely bound by invisible force.
Spheres orbit without any music-
background static is all per his thought.

Stephen is bound to a wheelchair,
but blessed with an insightful mind.
Surely God will forgive him for doubting
the intelligence of his design.

My darling, sleep, and never wake.
though it may cause my heart to break,
The morphine drip is a kinder fate
than that which would befall you.

Swollen limbs, incessant pain,
The Doctors think just days remain.
When life is only life in name,
No joy remains before you.

So hold my hand in your tight grip
as when our youngest child was born.
I promise I won’t let it slip
Until it is no longer warm.

You gifted me with forty years.
In health and sickness, we were a team.
Now, at last, you are at peace,
Sleep my love, perchance, to dream

A cup of cold branch water,
triple filtered, extra dry.
Bring it to a rolling boil-
in a moment you'll see why.
Pour it into ice cube trays
and place it in the freezer
This recipe is tried and true-
obtained from an old geezer.

Wait two hours, then remove
the ice cubes from their tray.
Notice they are crystal clear,
never cloudy cracked or grey.
Place some in a six ounce glass
making sure that none are wasted
then add a single malt and sip
the best ice cubes ever tasted.

The Wealthy must pay their fair share
Here in the “Golden State”
Fifty three percent or so
Here by the golden Gate.
They will likely move to Utah
where the skiing’s just as great.
We rule by Proposition,
It’s Democratic and it’s fair!
But when we have to pay for Pensions
It seems the money isn’t there.

California pays its workforce
with Golden I.O.U’s.
We hope Obama bails us out
Before they all come due.
Our growing Mexican population
plans for la Reconquista.
They smile as each old ****** dies
They mutter “Hasta La vista”
Governor Moonbeam’s back in charge,
The Terminator’s gone
Pelosi’s back in Washington
What could possibly go wrong?

Telemarketers get a bad rap.
People call us impersonal drones.
We’re just trying to eke out a living,
armed just with a script and a phone.

My place is called “Cubicle City”.
It’s the dream of a lifetime for me:
Five thousand square feet of space underground
where the bowl-a mat once used to be.

Joey is one of my workers,
For years he’s been one of my best.
He knew how to deal with rejection
and make many more sales than the rest.

Just lately, his work has been suffering.
Last night he was crying on phone.
I see he’s been calling one number
far too often. I see that it’s his own.

Now I am a curious fellow
about all these short calls to his home.
I pick up my handset and dial it
to tell her to leave Joe alone.

Of course I would get a recording;
A woman’s voice, honeyed and sweet,
It seductively says “leave a message,
when you hear the sound of the beep.”

Puzzled, I asked his co-worker
To tell me, when Joe’s not around,
“What has been up with him lately?
I notice that Joe has seemed down.”

Judy tells me that Joe’s wife had left him.
For weeks he’s been living alone.
The calls have become his obsession;
Just to hear his wife’s voice on the phone.

I nod, but elect to do nothing;
I, too, had a wife of my own.
I recall when she left me- just four barren walls
and the sound of her voice on the phone.

Not on your lips,
No, not anytime soon.
Your mind has become
Like the dark side of the moon.
Full of holes and lacunae
and dark shadowy walls.
Sometimes words fail you,
More often, recall.
I show you a picture
Of when you were young
I can see it’s a struggle,
on the tip of your tongue.
I wish you could help me
Match names and faces
Caught here in print
In silvery traces
If only a synapse could snap into place
Give you back the dignity
That time has erased.
Then you could name these comrades
headed off to the war.
Maybe then could you tell me
where past years are.

We started out with Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
A jackrabbit raced past to the rear,
no dumb bunny was he

The heat rose up to meet us
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.

The flower of Virginia here
displayed upon Parade
We must have looked magnificent
Just before the cannonade

They piled on Double Cannister
and tore holes in our line
We staggered from the weight of shot
that fearful hissing whine..

Then enfilading fire came
From the Yanks behind stone walls
Just then post fences six feet high
briefly caused our charge to stall

Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot


We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
"Turn those guns!" I'm told.

But at that very Moment
General Armistead was downed
The attack lost its momentum
Our wave crested on high ground..


The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.


The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with our dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing


Matthew Brady took my photograph
before I was led away
My face a study in defiance
A true man of the gray.

At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.

The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.

Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.

With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John

He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.

Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.

Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms

There were reports of a shooting
Someone called Nine -one -one.
Another young man dead-
all because of a gun.
I heard a woman weeping
as I ran to the scene.
She held her dead son in her arms
She held the death of his dreams.
Dusk was yielding to darkness
on this unholy night.
As she keened for her child
in the yellow streetlight.
As the warmth left his body
She refused my pleas to yield
As if holding him to her
made his dying not real.
The thought crossed my mind,
as I heard his mother moan,
That I had seen this once before,
as a sculpture in stone.

It was quiet in the park,
after lunch, the crowds are few.
Here the statures live in terror
because of what we pigeons do..
We’re adept at carpet bombing.
pets and people feel our wrath.
Our bowels are like loose cannons-
Don’t dare venture in our path.

Now, below, I see a poet
with pen in hand composing.
Intent upon the songbird’s tune
or perchance he’s merely dozing

His senses lulled by cricket’s song,
He perspires in the heat.
My calling card left on his suit.
says chose a different seat.

Like a hungry Bear beset by bees,
with its paw caught in a honeyed trap.
The pride of the Japanese surface fleet
Reeled from the Americans’ attack
The Yamato lurched and began to list.
The Americans closed in for the ****;
Torpedoes were set for Twenty feet,
They gave that ship a belly full.
Like Arizona, in Forty one,
Fire spread to her magazine.
A pillar of fire: two thousand feet high,
marked the moment the Yamato died.
Three thousand souls had been aboard;
Three hundred fought the oil slicked waves.
Her captain went down with his ship-
Only a relative handful of men were saved.
The battleship had seen its day
Yamato was the last to fall.
Now she sleeps two thousand feet deep
And colorful coral covers all.

I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
When ***** chancellor ****** rose,
after the Reichstag fire.

I remember a November night
with a million shards of glass.
I never felt more all alone,
that night my lover passed.

After that, I had no rights,
I was forced to bear this sign:
A pink Triangle swatch of cloth,
by this I was defined.

I remember some with David's star
would look down their nose at me.
We were under the same sentence-
had not our deaths all been decreed?

I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
Before mein Fuhrer dug for me
my grave up in the sky.

Some days she feels better than others;
Her life ebbs and flows with the pain.
She’s an eighteen year old girl fighting cancer
facing chemotherapy once again.

Thanks to some kind hearted donors
who conspire to make dreams come true
She flew into New York City
To spend her last Christmas with you

She’s spending three days in our city;
enjoying the hustle and flow.
She must see the Tree and window shop stores
and there’s one other place she must go.

As a young girl she loved figure skating.
Now she laces her skates one last time.
Alone on the ice it’s as good as it gets
There’s a smile on her face and there’s joy in her heart
as she spins in a tight Pirouette.

For Forty years he’d played and coached
and referred the game.
Now Alzheimer’s stolen
nearly all except his name.
With his past now dis-remembered
and all hope of a future gone
what else was there left to him
except to just play on.
The pickup game he’d played for years
Became his sole relief
He played with men he once knew well
before he met time’s thief.
You see him running on the pitch
with purpose, or with none.
And if he goes off sides at times
his friends say no harm done.
Like a child, he chases *****.
His scoring touch is gone.
Yet, in the moment, he finds joy
And so he just plays on.

It was protracted suicide
Poe, dead before his time.
At the end he sold his clothes for drink
He was found the worse for wine.
A horror, like the tales he'd spun,
mad visions stalked his days.
This master of the Macabre
this day found a common grave.
No Raven croaked as he lost hope
of an earthly parole.
His doctor heard his final words:
"Lord, please save my poor soul."

Dull sublunary lovers need
the help of 3D glasses
to ever seen things differently,
or grasp just what romance is.

We poets see things differently
because we take more chances.
The seen and unseen, we embrace
without cardboard enhancers.

Could Love even express itself
without our helpful similes?
Honor or Courage, without our help,
would be just pale  facsimiles .

We are the guardians of the words
that hollow men would empty.
Poetential is our flaming sword
against their verbal  entropy

My thirty year old nephew
is down at Zuccotti Park.
He chants and waves his placards
from dawn to nearly dark.

He's furious the man has got
much more than he has got.
The man works eighty hour weeks,
my nephew? Probably not.

Today he went back to his tent
as it was getting dark
He found his clothing had been robbed
by thieves who work the park.

Imagine his displeasure
Consider his dismay
that someone went and did to him
what he clamored for all day.

It has come to our attention that your License was suspended-
for failing to stop, within lines, for needed punctuation.
Your casual allusions to things and times of yore
Are confusing to the reader, and frankly mark you as a bore.
Your long winded analogies sometimes beggar all belief,
though some here think that your intent is comical relief.
All attempts at alliteration have been something of a dud;
You fall in love with the technique and sound like Elmer Fudd.
Your recent "Ode to Flatulence" using onomatopoeia
was but the latest instance of your verbal diarrhea.
Your metaphors are pitiful and this committee looks askance
at your evident confusion of mere lust with true romance.
Still, we are both kind and merciful (as bureaucrats tend to be) ,
So we'll renew you for another year upon remittance of the fee.

They found him, slumped over, in his small writer's garret.
There were no obvious signs of foul play.
No wounds, no abrasions or ligature marks
and just the faint hint of decay.

Later, laid out on a cold metal table,
No cause for his death could they find.
His arteries clean as twenty year old.
No detectable poisons this time.

He didn't do drugs and he didn't drink beer.
His death was not self-inflicted.
His muse had abandoned him; took his will to live.
His demise could thus be predicted.

For a poet will have himself tied to a mast
To hear the sweet song of a Si-ren.
The loss of one's muse is a serious blow;
Look what it did to Lord Byron!

Svelte and Pettite, just five foot three,
My Geminoid does it all for me.
My made to order Robotic mistress
with her luscious made to order kisses.
What flesh and blood girl can compare
with her Barbie curves and her platinum hair?
Tired and sore at the end of the day?
She skillfully rubs my cares away.
When I am in an amorous vein.
My Geminoid is always game.
She’s merely average as a cook,
-a minor defect in my book.
My Geminoid treats me like a King
and never nags me for a ring.
Single since the court’s decree
I know love bears no guarantee.
With a Geminoid, no need to chance
The vagaries of true romance.
Yet I would still set my Barbie free
If my Zelda would come back to me.

My model is a comely lass whose husband has commissioned me.
Her cheeks are flushed with natural blush, her half smile not quite matronly.
This dress is low cut to reveal the rise and falling of her *******.
Lisa has sat for me before (which allows some familiarity.)
This portrait will adorn her home and celebrates her second child.
I could suggest some jest of mine was the cause that made her smile,
but my medium is the truth and rank deceit is not my style.
My brushstrokes capture the last of her youth;
A half smile to intrigue mankind.

I used to have a dollar and a dream-
The dream still lives, but now it costs me two.
I have to ante up, though times are lean,-
my only chance to make my dream come true.
I’m not adept at picking combinations
of numbers that can produce a win
I think my ship is named “Costa Concordia”-
which may explain why its not coming in.
I agonize over number combinations-
while angry people wait on line behind.
I settle on my anniversary date;
Its never paid off yet, but give it time.
My friends all say I pay the “stupid tax”
I wait for that last laugh that will be mine:
A lump sum of a hundred million bucks,
or twenty smaller payments over time.

From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stalk his prey.


“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.


She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final ******
And she folded in a swoon.

He grabbed her purse which was the prize
And left her in the courtyard, dead
Her name was Kitty Genovese
A pretty girl, the tabloids said.

A moment in a City’s life-
Not a source of civic pride
Glad she was not a child of mine
Did you watch the night that Kitty died?

Young Liam loved Orange
and liked to wear ties.
To his firehouse friends
He was one of the guys.

He had his own locker
a slicker and hat.
He also had cancer,
and a bad one at that.

From early on in his life
he fought neuroblastoma ;
An invasive tumor
a metastatic carcinoma.

His family who loved him
labored to save
their dear little child
Prince Liam the Brave.

He faced surgery bravely,
engaged in his fight..
He endured radiation
Chemo and knife.

When many a New Yorker
complains about stress,
Prince Liam was stoic
When put to the test.

Then just before Christmas
he suffered a relapse
He became neutrapenic-
His immune system collapsed.

With blood in his *****
And a spot on his lung
Liam grew weak.
his defenses undone.




An Amethyst stone
he received from a friend
was his talisman of hope
that he held to the end.

The worst part of the journey
was when hope was gone.
Then Liam lay, still and silent
in his mother's arms.


There are brave fire fighters
Who’ll be fighting back tears
Brave Prince Liam has died,
He lived only six years

There are many old people
still avoiding the grave
Who know less about love
Than did Liam the brave

We will gather together
In St Francis’ nave
To remember the life of
Prince Liam the brave


i

Dear Prince Hal has breathed his last.
He leaves behind a storied past.
Some Hits, some flops, but mostly glory,
Like” Company” and “West side Story”
He gave us” Phantom” at his height
with its sweet music of the night.
He worked with Sondheim; He mentored Weber,
How glorious was their work together.
Let the lights dim on every Broadway Marquee
To honor this, his timeless legacy.

Pro patria mori
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
For generations
we've sold these goods
to young boys
who burn for glory.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Indeed, how sweet ,
Pray tell
Poppy covered warrior.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
How sweet was the Somme?
Such little ground
was gained with
half a generation gone.

Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
When weapons
far outpace the men
what an empty word
is glory.

The Universe started, or possibly not,
(It may oscillate from now to forever.)
Everything perfectly fine tuned for Life,
the Almighty is awesomely clever.
Eleven dimensions! Billions of stars!
Multiverse now without end!
Scientists strive to explain everything,
much to theologians’ chagrin.
They teach about Adam, not atoms as such,
A story of serpent and sin
The “Big Bang” by contrast, doesn’t invoke
a serpentine tinged origin.
There are still known unknowns
And unknown unknowns
In explaining how Life did begin.
Preachers will cling to the gaps in the String-
call it their “Prophet margin.”

In a far land known as Pakistan,
in the little town of Prym
Impiety was criminal,
And blasphemy a sin

A Christian woman stood accused
Of impious words and deed-
Did her words insult the Prophet?
Or did her neighbors hate her creed?

Tried and condemned for Blasphemy
in the little town of Prym,
The Christian woman waited,
for the stoning to begin.

The townspeople all gathered round,
pious Moslems one and all.
They chose their weapons from the ground
and awaited Imam’s call.

When suddenly the sky grew dark
The Sun obscured from view
A Nickel Iron stone from space
One, without sin, just threw.

In the place where Prym once stood
is a crater deep and wide.
There is no more impiety.
and no more fratricide.

Take to heart the lesson
Let hatred be unknown
Or next time He who is without sin
may cast a larger stone.

Butterfly kisses upon my lids aroused me from my slumber.
A spectacle of vibrant hues confounded me with wonder.
The Horizon shimmered with summer’s heat
As Psyche herself darted, to and fro, in moments beyond number.
Away, away, she flew away; beyond my grasp and reach.
Never to return no matter how much I might beseech.
That summer, too, has quickly fled. The air is growing colder.
I feel her loss most keenly now and nevermore will I hold her.
But, sometimes, late at night, when in the manner of repose;
I imagine she lies next to me, her eyes being also closed.

Padded paws prance on the living room floor.
“Chip” sports a red bow and is playful for sure.
He greets his new mistress with a lick of his tongue
This chocolate Lab puppy can wait to have fun.
He’s a little Mischievous but nobody minds
-His arrivals been longed for a very long time.
Someone tell Uncle Robert to get down off his chair
Its only a puppy, there’s nothing to fear.

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
How quick I disassemble thee!
I check each cranny and each nook
for every ornament and hook.
I pack each carefully- Heaven knows
None of our snowmen must lose his nose!
I roll the garland in a ball
And take the lights off last of all.
Then I put you upon the shelf
Next to that small mischievous elf!
When I was young our trees were real
and while that memory holds appeal,
To **** a live tree every Yule
Would be the action of a fool

Today I came upon this word
which at first blush may sound absurd.
It means you're tookered, all worn out,
at the end of your tether without a doubt.

So if you're too tired to seek even pleasure.
Quanked is a word that takes your measure.
Exhaustion has a new adjective
If you care to comment- please, no invective!

We all have heard of Lady Jane,
A Queen of England who briefly reigned.
Then Mary Tudor took the town
And soon thereafter took her crown.

There’s been Queens like Liz
whose reigns won’t end.
Disposable Queens like Anne Boleyn.
These days, with thrones in short supply
It’s the crown of Beauty
For which girls vie .

Denise Garido had thought that she
had won cosmetic Royalty.
They gave her roses
and placed her crown.
Then one day latter
It all came down.

“A error in math!” the pageant proclaimed.
A drunken judge had misspelled names.
Far from being Queen as thought
Ms. Garido had come in fourth!

It’s Humiliation of a sort
To find out one is an afterthought
To be named Queen just for one day,
Then have the honor stripped away..

The actual winner was quite buff
and had gone to Vegas in a huff.
At least Denise, you needn’t cry
You beat out the Transgendered guy!.

The plain lies before us,
shimmering in the heat.
The lance is heavy in my hand
My ancient Armour creaks.
Rocinante lets out a snort
and gives the reins a shake.
Is that a giant that stands before us
or just this ancient ones mistake?
We are both old and past our prime;
My faithful horse and me.
I spur old Rocinante forth.
and trust my lance for victory!


Alas, I'm unhorsed by my powerful foe
The windmill has made short work of me.
My pride has been bruised but nothing is broken.
We press onward to destiny.

In certain lights she may appear
An apparition dressed in white.
At other times she’s like a mist;
bitingly cold on hot humid nights.

This is the room where Rachel died;
A young bride strangled by her groom.
He then committed suicide-
having guaranteed her doom.

His soul was dragged away to Hell;
He chokes forever in sulfurous fumes.
For his Bride, a different fate;
She bides forever in Rachel’s room.

Up at the head of the stairs is her room.
You may enter in daylight.
At dusk we hear her piteous screams.
No living soul dares spend the night

I had a sister once
She had sunshine in her smile
She was everybody’s friend
For you she’d gladly walk a mile

When I see her in my mind’s eye
Jeanette’s forever young
When we lost her to the monster
She was only 41.

So that is why tomorrow
I’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if my step should falter
As I am no longer young
Her ghost will run beside me
Until my race is run.

Perhaps you have a sister too,
Or someone that you love
Perhaps she’s a survivor
Of a battle bravely won

We must celebrate the victories
Each year there are still more
Until what was a feeble cheer
Becomes a mighty roar

So that is why tomorrow
You’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if your step should falter
For you are no longer young
Your survivor friend will pace you,
Until this race is won.

Gather at the starting line
Young and old together
The sisters and the daughters
And survivors feeling better
There may be 20,000 here
The organizers say
They fail to count the shadows
Who will run with us today.


So that is why today we’re here
All  racing for the cure.
Family , friends and lovers
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if our steps should falter
For we are no longer young
Our dead will bear us forward,
Until their race is done.

Rain, heavy at times,
concealed my own tears,
and obscured the grief
of  my loneliness.

Our "sergeant" gave a low whistle
that stopped us in our tracks.
He motioned two kids forward
to prepare for the "attack".
The "enemy" was hiding.
Behind Uncle Louie's rusted Ford.
We checked our "guns" and "ammo"
and we trusted in the Lord.

We couldn't call artillery.
We couldn't drop ******.
If we really killed my cousins
they'd be Hell to pay from Mom.
We launched a pincer movement
with our guns set to pretend.
Imaginary air grenades
made quick work of my friends.

They had little cause to argue
as we shot them in the back.
They swooned upon the concrete.
All were "dead" from our attack.

Just then our Mother's called us in
for a feast of sausage bread.
Amazing how the dinner bell
so quickly raised the "dead".

All of us are older now
and some have gone to war.
Some Mother's sons I played with
aren't with us anymore.

If only Moms could ring a bell
and call us in to eat
And raise those honored dead to life
like back there on my street.

At five foot two in her heels
and being decidedly round
Lori didn't turn many masculine heads
Yet she turned one poor boy's life around.

Forty or more years its been
since we were both seventeen.
I recall it as a difficult year,
Like so many others between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner-
She worked on the paper with me.
She rolled up her skirt like the others
to show off her catholic girl knees.

With Greg as her steady companion
she was the heart of our group.
They provided a fair bit of drama
in the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, built close to the ground.
It was Lori who made social circles
large enough to include me in bounds

We always were friends, never lovers,
never shared one passionate kiss
She taught me that mercy trumps justice
She made circles just like God must  make his.

Let other Bards praise the great beauties
They're easy to spot in this town.
My muse was a girl short and homely.
Such  a beauty is rare to be found.

A winter storm had dumped a foot
of wet and heavy slushy snow.
As the sidewalk does not clean itself
I dressed to face my winter foe.

I worked too hard, I worked too fast
as I shoveled out our walks and paths.
My heart was racing; I' was feeling done,
then a golden retriever came on the run.

"hey there good boy." I greeted the pup.
"A Saint Bernard would have been nice too!"
He sniffed then licked my ungloved hand.
"Somebody must be looking for you."

Just then I heard from down the block
a voice called "Rascal" and the dog's head turned.
It clearly was his master's voice
"He's over here" I replied in turn.

His owner was a kindly older man
glad to retrieve his pet unharmed.
He'd gotten out to play in the snow
someone had left the gate not closed.

Rascal offered me his paw
and looked at me with deep brown eyes
We shook, then he accepted his leash
Rascal and his master  then headed home.

I never saw Rascal again
or meet his master on the street.
We met just that once on a snowy eve.
The memory is  all that I got to keep.

I'd often heard my mother say
that we oft meet angels in disguise
I can't say for certain this was such a case.
I have no proof for the worldly wise.