Rattler

I lay, languid,
upon the rocky
outcropping.
Basking in the early
afternoon Sun.
Just then
a furry vole
wandered past me.
I slithered over and said
“Let’s do Lunch.”

Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.

The names of the suspects are covered in ink,
leaving us not knowing what we should  think.
Here we have Mueller, whose words were redacted,
saying sitting POTUSes cannot be indicted.
Despite spending Millions and  two years of time
No proof of Conspiracy was he able to find.
" No Collusion!!" Trump tweets time after time.
Ignoring Obstruction which may be his crime.
Imagine the scene at Biden's inauguration
when his opponent is dragged off for incarceration.
Unless he's impeached first for this offense
and we all have to suffer under President Pence.

Imagine yourself a red ceramic Poppy,
placed with care into the English soil.
One hundred years ago you were a soldier,
a frightened teen in a chaotic world.
You’d been sent, by King’s command, into the battle-
A mindless melee John French thought he’d won.
Perhaps some yards of France had been reclaimed
at a mind numbing cost of mothers’ sons.
You were one of those shot, gassed or burned.
Hit by a shell and blown to kingdom come.
(In ‘fourteen they had funerals for the fallen.
Mass burials became the norm before Verdun.)
That’s how you went from the playing fields of Eton
to an unmarked grave somewhere in Northern France.
So now you are a red ceramic poppy,
a symbol of an Empire, now passed.
Placed in English soil by teenaged hands.
one of nine hundred thousand home at last.

It was a dry , sunny day in June.
that fact she would never forget.
It was the day she lost her partner
to a surfeit of regret.

She had taken their little daughter,
the product of donated *****,
to the nearby Hillside Park
and picnic'd on the side of a berm.

Jane had declined to come with them.
Jane was in one of her "moods".
Perhaps she shouldn't have left her,
but she thought Jane just needed to brood.

Jane was her beautiful partner
erratic, mercurial, bright.
Jane, who could light up the heavens
like a bolt from the blue in the night.

They returned to a silent apartment.
It was the stuff of nightmares, not dreams.
A red streak of blood in the bathroom
Her little girl started to scream.

A kind neighbor cared for her daughter
as she spoke to police in a fog.
The M.E.'s van came for the body.
Seeing Jane lifeless was odd.

Tomorrow, she must make arrangements.
She needn't bear this all alone.
It was time that she spoke with Jane's parents.
Softly weeping, she picked up the phone.

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

They are forever here together, they shared a common fate.
Here are they, the first to fall, and those who perished late.
Some were slaughtered at Khe San, Others died at Hue.
All came home through Dover, buried in their native clay.
They are our older brothers who fought as brave Marines.
There are sons and fathers here and far too many teens.
Fifty Eight thousand names inscribed in ebony writ bold.
Time passes and the memories fade; their stories go untold.
I see my grey reflection as my fingers touch the wall
Across the years I think of one, so young, who gave his all.

His sin sits heavy on his soul, an illicit lust the source of shame.
He’s registered offender now with no means to redeem his name.
Now as he walks the streets of town he studiously avoids all eyes;
those harsh accusing glances from the men and women passing by.
His work is menial and part time. He often moves from place to place.
He had once been a Catholic priest before he fell into disgrace.
I’ve seen him waiting there outside; his collar turned against the cold.
I’d often wondered what had caused his blue grey eyes to look so old.
People whisper; women talk.  A yellowed newspaper explains.
Invisible to all but him; his forehead bears the mark of Cain.


Some say the past does not exist. We cannot go there. It can’t be changed.
What would he say, I wonder, if he were asked?
He, whose life is burdened with regrets.
Does he still pray to the Carpenter’s Son,
whose sacrifice repays all debts?

Sitting by the fireside and gazing at the flames,
a crystal glass of sherry in my hand,
My thoughts drift back, to a different time and place
when I was still a boy, not yet a man.

I remember you were patient when I did not understand
math problems that came easily to you.
I remember stories read to me before the lights went out.
You shared your love of books; I love them too.

I remember when I made you proud, in ways that children do
I remember, with some sadness, times I disappointed you.
Sometimes I'll use a turn of phrase when speaking to my child
and realize that my words are both your substance and your style.

I will not see your like again, here, in this vale of tears.
but I remember that you loved me; that sustains me through the years.
and when this fire burns to ash, as it is wont to do,
they'll bear me to the sacred place, returning me  to you.

What is one death out of Fifty eight thousand?
One house full of weeping in a divided land?
Examine, minutely, the loss of one solider,
one single example of so many last stands.
His sisters hair, now streaked with grey,
She lights a candle in a church
in memory of that fatal day
when her brother's airplane fell to earth.
Freedom's sacrifice paid in blood
by lance Corporal Ronald Powell.
It was an August day like this,
but far away and long ago.

Remember.

The old man sat in his motorized chair
in a room filled with shadow and light.
His bored health attendant cared for him there
as he made his descent into night.
He longed to remember the smell of her hair,
the woman who had brought him such pleasure.
To escape, for a moment, the dull aching pain
Of the cancer that was taking his measure.
He longed to return to that day long ago,,
They made love in the warm summer rain.
Yet how could he summon the muse of his youth
When he couldn’t remember her name?
Would his kindly Physician take pity on him-,
the old man in his motorized chair?
Would he increase the drip until his heart stilled?
When he died would she be with him there?
He had failed to appreciate, when young and strong,
the pitiless tempo of Time.
He couldn’t remember the words of their song,
to descant at the end of the line.

It is cool, dry and very early
on this crisp September morn.
The General’s orders were quite succinct:
This man must die at dawn.

We’ve erected here a gallows
On the street for all to see:
This man will die a traitor’s death
For what he calls” Liberty”

With the Parson in attendance
He is brought here, grave and pale,
This spy posed as a teacher
His name is Nathan Hale.

I placed the noose around his neck
The knot was tightly wound
The condemned was then allowed to speak
before the drums would sound.

“The cause for which i am dying for i did not take up in an idle moment
i was born it as are all my countrymen
if the belief in man’s right to freedom is held on any other place on earth
i have not heard of it
i am proud to have lived in a country where freedom is a reality
living it has been my privlege to fight for it
in death i shall hold it forever
if i were to be born a thousand times i would choose no other life
but service to American freedom
i have only one sorrow
i only regret that i have but one life to loose for my country”

At that, I heard the drumroll sound.
My captain gave a nod.
I pushed the brave young traitor
to his meeting with his God.

We left him hanging several days,
As a lesson to the town
Of the fate awaiting traitors
Who take arms against the crown.

At dusk last night we cut him down
When no one was around
And laid him in an unmarked grave
which never will  be found.

I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?

This Queen Anne was built long ago,
in a progressive age.
The man who built her passed away
before ****** took the stage.
His aged granddaughter had it last.
until it was her time.
A conservator has sold the estate
to a builder with designs.

The house is a time capsule
of America before the Wars.
The craftsmanship exquisite;
You can’t find this anymore.
Generations lived and loved
within these sturdy walls.
But now this house is empty
and awaits the wrecking ball.

I’ve been asked by some historians
of our society in Queens.
To photograph this lovely home
before it passes from the scene.
They’ll build a row, with common brick,
of attached two families.
They’ll destroy this house without a trace
And cut down all the trees.
The plan is surely profitable
but, to my mind, obscene.

When we erase our treasured past,
Naught remains to call to mind
The greatness that we once possessed
and might reclaim in time.

Those lovely folks at N.S.A.  love reading your e-mails.
They parse each line in search of crime; the devil’s in the details.
Those Patriots at A T & T are equal to the task
of providing them with access; they’ll do anything they’re asked.
They spy upon the great and small, the poets and the dreamers,
to catch a whiff of nasty plots now being hatched by schemers.
They’ve spied upon Sarkozy and they’ve eavesdropped in on Merkel.
They tapped lines in the U.N. and other diplomatic circles.
Their corporation cronies provide them with full access for no fee;
This makes our spies the envy of the Russian KGB
So when you reach out and touch someone, don’t assume you are alone.
I’m pretty sure big brother is there listening on the phone.

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” in its use of 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.

From long time friends to bitter foes;
From boon companions to friends estranged.
The cute little redhead accomplished that.
but it was nothing she'd prearranged .
So delicate, so beautiful,
with eyes a deep Aegean blue.
Of course I made a play for her.
She wasn't going home with you.
Yes, her kisses were as sweet
as you imagined they must be.
The reality was better still
warming an autumn evenings chill.
I was the first to take the risk,
that’s why I was the one she kissed.
My actions weren’t the least bit shady,
but faint hearts never win fair Ladies.

“Let no man write my epitaph.”
The defiant rebel said.
'Let no woman eulogize me
After I am dead.'

'I give my life for Ireland-
An Ireland strong and free
An Ireland that‘s united,
One free of tyranny.'

'When my country takes its rightful place
Among nations of the world.
That day I will not live to see
When our banner is unfurled.'

'On that day, and only then
Let my suffering be recalled-
and that I died for Liberty-
The sweetest death of all.'

The tourists will be packing bags
eager to make the trip.
Not to go and see the Broncos.
Not to go and see the Mint.
They will flood the mile high city
hoping to get higher still.
Put that in your pipe and smoke,
Denver does the people’s will.
For folks who **** on Cannabis
Denver must seem like Heaven
Me I want a franchise there,
Selling munchies at seven Eleven.

He seemed the perfect gentleman, his friends and neighbors said
He seemed to dote upon his wife, attending her every need.
They never were seen to quarrel, their cul-de sac agreed.
Like two white swans they seemed to float upon Life’s stormy seas.
But Perhaps all wasn’t perfect; just a show for others’ eyes-
beneath the surface; a furious struggle;. Concealed with a web of lies.

So in their quiet neighborhood; so rich and well-to do.
They acted out contentment so that no one had a clue.
Until the town patrolman came and found her on the floor;
Victim of a crime of passion, stabbed twenty times or more.
Her husband wore pajamas that were stained a crimson red.
“Don’t bother with an ambulance- I made damm sure she’s dead.”
He sat with his morning paper puffing on a cigarette.
and on his face there was no trace of remorse or regret.

It was back in the winter of Ninety –nine,
the day before Paddy’s on Chicago’s south side,
when a routine traffic stop turned deadly for one;
James Camp was shot in the face with his own gun.
Kevin Dean was the killer, his victim wore blue.
Dean did what he’d previously threatened he’d do.
He was out on probation for attempting such a deed.
On this day he struck and he made a “pig” bleed.
It’s a very fine line we police have to toe;
Act too fast- you’re a bully- Be a corpse if too slow.
There was a fierce struggle and one shot was fired;
Fold a flag for the widow whose Love has expired.
Kevin Dean is in custody, charged with the crime.
This time there’s no bail and he’ll surely do time.
In a Cop bar we sat, nursing grievances and beers.
We’re alone on the streets and we have been for years.
The smell of turned earth and a young widow’s tears,
were fresh in our memory as the next roll call neared.

When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned

The time has passed, too quickly,
since the years they served in war.
Some grow bald, others grey,
They are rounder than before.
Today’s objective is the restaurant
to beat the midday rush
When Retired Old Marines Eat Out
They usually meet for lunch.
At times like this, they reminisce
of D.I.’s they have known.
Speak the unused names of friends
who never made it home.
They give their time to charities;
Like Christmas toys for tots,
and package gifts for young Marines
who serve now they cannot.
They serve as honor guard for those
Who’ve reached the final post.
The few, the proud, who keep us free,
Have given more than most.
Perhaps not lean,
but still quire keen,
Semper Fi,
the Corps.

On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
She was dressed in the clothes
She had worn when she died.
A bullet hole in her temple,
a handgun by her side.
A beautiful Stranger
at the foot of my bed.
A faint smell of lilac
from a specter long dead.
The Ghost didn’t speak,
At least not that I heard,
Nor could I, gripped by terror,
Utter one word.
World weary and sad
said her ****** expression.
A Love gone all wrong
was my honest impression.
Then she was gone;
Not a glimmer remained.
The warm summer evening
My stateroom reclaimed.
It was cold where she died
On the steps to the beach;
Her spirit is restless
and seems never to sleep.

Oh beautiful stranger
None can say why you died
But the coroner ruled
That it was suicide.

O’ let us lay together love
when this World’s cares are past.
My Queen I have had locked away
She was treacherous to the last.
Accept this rose I’ve named for you,
A heirloom hybrid bloom.
I’ll have them carve its like in stone
Upon our honored tomb
So that, my Love, in years to come,
Our children’s children see
How I loved my Rosamund,
How much you’ve meant to me

Red and long stemmed,
beautiful, true.
They were sent to her office
with no card and no clue.
A secret Admirer, or an
FTD stalker?
The long stems were lovely-
but none was a talker.

She made a few calls to find out
who had sent them.
It seemed obvious there must
be a romantic intention.
I was surprised by her call,
but not at all sad.
We’d broken up last spring
but nothing too bad..
I said I hadn’t sent them,
but I wished that I had.

Those words led to coffee
and coffee to drinks..
Those words led to vows
and connubial links.
Our life and our home and
two kids in the yard;
all the result of that unsigned gift card.
Swept up in the currents
of time, past recall-
Our lives would be poorer
with no roses at all.

The portrait, done in black and white,
dominates their room.
A picture of their special day,
a day for bride and groom.
The only splash of color;
a bouquet of roses red.
“Jacob made that of us
on the day that we were wed.”
“For years it graced the storefront
of his studio in Bellerose.”
“He’d done our album for us
And he really liked this pose.”
“When we heard his shop was closing,
(Years of smoking took their toll)
My husband had to have it
Before the place was sold.”
When she spoke about her husband
There was love in every word.
It was: “We did this” and
“We saw that”
I listened and observed.
This wife had that rare quality
that beauties seldom find.
like those roses in their portrait
never fading, ever kind.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his damaged heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished on that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his broken heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished in that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

Rudolph was differently -abled
As nearly everybody knows.
He suffered discrimination
because he had a nose that glows.

All of the alt-right Reindeer
Were bigoted and called him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
Participate in Reindeer games

Then one foggy holiday Eve
O.S.H.A came to say
“This hostile workplace violates rules
There will be hefty fines to pay!”

Now all of  the Reindeer hate him
but learned to hide it carefully.
They just spent two weeks in training
For Reindeer sensitivity.

On this cold November night
Salman Rushdie shook my hand.
An irate Ayatollah had
pronounced a fatwa on the
man

He seemed at peace, this hirsute fellow.
in his bespoke suit from Savile Row.
He signed some copies of his book
then his security man said he must go..

The lecture hall had been half full.
Perhaps some had been scared away.
I had come to hear him speak.
Freedom of speech must rule the day.

Outside  Colden in the dark
an amphitheater is tucked away
A stage sunk in a bowl of grass
where Greek tragedies  might be played.

Which tradition shall prevail?
I wondered to myself that day.
Will acolytes of a murderous cult
Sweep Euripides away?

A Moslem horde  poured through the gates
when Rome fell  for the second time.
The Divine Wisdom was defiled
and Constantine Palaeologus died.

I turn my collar against the damp
illumined by sodium vapor light
I think on Arnold's loss of faith
and ignorant armies that struggle in the
night

Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.

Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.

Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.

Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.

Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***.

The tourists mill about on weary feet,
seeming clueless of their final destination.
It appears, at least, they've had enough to eat,
as their clothes can barely cope with new inflation.
I wait, impatient, for the street to clear.
I resist the urge to honk my horn or more.
These beefy bon- vivants from foreign shores
move like the sacred cows of Bangalore!

Hands trembled but their hearts did not
on that Independence Day.

When they signed the Declaration
many signed their lives away.

Some signers died in prison
or sank in poverty.

Several closed their eyes on life
before final victory.

One man, Clark, of New Jersey
deserves a special nod.

He suffered much for Liberty
at the hands of Howe and God.

His two sons were imprisoned,
floating on the New York tide.

Deprived of food and water
what could they do but die.

The British were true devils
and said they'd be set free.

If their father would come out for King
and recant Libery.

If he betrayed his sacred trust
He might well save his sons.

If he recanted they'd be free-
what would you have done?

His answer echoes down through time,
Their proposal he denied.

Our document was signed in blood and thrones must be defied.

The Sun, at dusk, was ruddy red,
as it was swallowed by the sea.
A promise of fair weather
and a gentle rolling sea.

Come morning we'll be outward bound
as the winds possess the sails.
Then, out beyond the harbor,
under way and under sail
my first mate and I will revel
in the fresh and salty air.
Making way along the shore
with a gentle pitch and yaw
Was that a babe in a bikini
or a mermaid I just saw?

We tack around a floating buoy
and towards the deep we bear.
On the far horizon, bright colored sails
belong to friends of ours.

This is freedom best defined
on a sea as smooth as glass.
Free to choose and set your course
as freely hours pass.

The sun grows lower in the sky
its time we must return
to our mundane working life
for to play we first must earn.

Reluctantly we tack about
and set our course for shore.
its time to find safe harbor
for our boat the "Pinafore".

She danced for Herod shamelessly;
She smiled and flashed her *******.
Herod looked on, helpless not to,
as each veil dropped to join the rest.
The look of lust was in his eyes.
He wanted her in bed.
Salome wanted something else-
she wished the Baptist dead.
He was helpless to refuse her wish
so was the order given-
The Baptist's head upon a plate
as proof he'd left the living.

As she shared her trophy with her mom
I overheard what Salome said.
" You can say what you want about Herod,
but he always gives good head."

First, you cry.
Cry until you cannot anymore.
Once more the grim prognosis will be read,
But no hope will be found there, I am sure.
No bargain can be made, no moments bought.
The cancer has moved quicker than we thought.

Even now, a bony spectral hand
Points across the Styx to the far shore.
Does sweet salvation wait?
Or do the Fates await to seek their vengeance?
I fear that we will all know before long.
I’ve read the Bill of Attainder :
We all face the same sentence.

The Bells of Notre Dame called out “Come fill my Center Hall”
“Come Catholic, Muslim, Hindu and Jew; Come with no faith at all”
The Mothers of the Murdered came, united in their grief.
For bullets and I.E.D’s cannot sort us by belief.
One woman in a hijab had come here from Verdun.
Like the Protestant beside her, She had lost her only son.
Both were strangers to this place, Unfamiliar with the prayers
But, having no place else to go; They found some comfort there.
The Highborn and the famous came with those of low estate
Some came here to find peace of Soul; to put an end to hate.
Some sought shelter from the world; to find sanctuary.
But the figure on the Cross proclaims we all face Calvary.
We all face the same sentence; all perish in the end.
We know this evil must be stopped but know not how or when.
The Bells of Notre Dame call out
“Let us begin again.”

It is bounded by the gyre, this sea without a shore.
It once was but a sea of weeds but now there is much more.
Here are plastic bags and cups discarded thoughtlessly.
Refuse from our teeming shores comes here eventually.

In another time and place these waters were deep blue
crystal clean and beautiful as when first Columbus viewed.
Dappled sunshine lit these waves in this sea without a shore
but now it is a garbage dump ( as if we needed more.)

The plastic and the Styrofoam are scarcely changed by time.
they'll still be drifting in the sea when breath is no longer mine.
The salt sting of my bootless tears I've add to the sea,
for all the creatures great and small who drown in Man's debris.

I knew an old man  
Who tried to act young
He popped a blue
pill on the tip of his
Tongue.
He slicked back his hair
and put on a White suit
He tried to style like Travolta,
one more grey and hirsute
(It wasn't much as illusion
but it sure was a hoot)
He danced till his hip ached
then had to recline.
The lifts in his loafers
had betrayed him this time.
He tried to impress
with a big *** of cash
But the young ladies knew
his best days were long past
He loved them, they left him
He wined and they dined
He tried to romance them
but was always declined.
At the end of the evening
and the last of the wine
He conceded to age
and resumed his decline.

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

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

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

"With our Graduate course in lying
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Politicians here are made, not born,
and must learn to prevaricate."

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

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

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

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, barely moving my lips.

Both Advance one death at a time;
Religion by the blood of her martyrs.
Science, by the death of those
who cling to the exploded
Theories of the past

Remakes of old foreign films
Frankly fail to thrill.
Comedies are too predictable,
mistaking flatulence for skill.
It’s time to think outside the box.
Turn a genre on its head.
I’m working on a thriller
About folks haunted by one dead.
They must learn the ghost’s identity;
He’ll ***** them til they do.
The working title of my screenplay?
I’m calling it “Boo-Who?”

F
A
L
L
I
N
G

Falling in or out of love
We are falling all the time-
out of favor or out of line.
out of  synch or out of rhyme-


That’s why all poems start at the top,
and line by line decline.
Mimicking their maker’s fate
As we fall through time.

The trick, of course, is to appear
As if we’re standing still.
To create the illusion of permanence
We never had nor never will.

The verdict has been rendered
And George Zimmerman goes free.
(I still would not bet money
On his life expectancy)
There is anger in the streets this night
in our divided land.
One mother’s son was shot and killed
by this George Zimmerman.
The Jurymen have heard the facts
and ruled it self-defense.
Far too many in the streets
Take acquittal as offense.

Long ago, in Boston town,
were British redcoats tried
for the ****** of six colonists-
“A massacre!” folks cried.
John Adams got the soldiers off
with a plea of self-defense.
He must have had great courage
and, in Justice, confidence.
How difficult it must have been
To face his neighbors’ angry cries
The principles he fought for live
Unless we let them die.

This loss is very hard upon his mother:
Enduring first his birth and then his death.
The time between -scarcely a generation-
But in that short span of time he proved his worth.

They are too few, the proud who wear the emblem,
And fight our countries battles in our stead.
When they found him, his position was surrounded
By the bleeding bodies of Jihadist dead.

Enroll his name among our Countries’ heroes
Remember him for all of time to come,
But put away the medal they awarded-
I need no medal to recall my son.

My brave strong son who first fought in Fallujah,
and battled militants in Kandahar.
He joined the fallen as his tour was ending
Hearts can't be mended with a golden star..

In the dark days that now will be our portion,
I will ponder certain questions in my mind:
Was this sacrifice truly required?
Is our suffering random or by design?

It’s unique in jurisprudence,
this case I must decide.
Child custody is disputed
between a woman and her bride.
One spouse supplied a fertile egg,
The other gave it womb.
Deciding custody is a challenge
in the absence of a groom.
Was one woman just a donor?-
having no parental rights.
Was the birth mother just a surrogate?
It’s keeping me up nights.
To which mother should I give the child?
Which one will I turn away?
I cannot cut the child in half
to let each have their way.
Its tragedy when Love had died,
leaving children in its wake.
I gave birth mother custody-
Have I made a bad mistake?

In some long marriages
the couples complete
each others sentences

In all others
each serves their own.