Ambition is the fatal flame
That consumes the world entire.
The dying emperor well knew that
as his last day expired.
The sight of his own funeral urn
Lead him to exclaim.
“Soon you will contain the man
The world could not contain.”
That same ambition killed one son-
dead at his brother’s hand.
In time it brought that other down
But first it made him mad.

It is, for some, a brief vacation from the world of work for pay.
For a child awaiting Christmas it seems an eternity.
For a patient sent to hospice, their prognosis being bleak,
The sum of their tomorrows may amount to just one week.

For them there will be opiates to help manage their pain
All chemotherapy will  stop, for it has been in vain.
Like vandals bent on pillage, Cancer cells their havoc wreak.
Fear yields now to acceptance in the sure knowledge of defeat.

We all face this same sentence, this same curtain call awaits;
though some may drift off during  sleep, which seems a kinder fate.
Appreciate the time you have and give each day its due.
We once had all the world and time but now our days are few.

Yes means Yes, and No means No
It has not been forever so.
Once Yes meant Yes and No meant Maybe
(But that oft resulted in a baby.)
If your fling was started in a bar
You’re judged a ****** by Cali law.
As guilty, per this legal muddle,
As if a struggle came before the snuggle.
If your date has had one glass
That’s an illegal forward pass!                                                                                                           Higher employment I foresee
At the bureau of Sexuality
Before you can couple legally,
File these forms and pay a fee.
Regulatory overkill
assumes young Women lack free will,
Young men are safer watching ****
and curse that Brown was ever born.

Some of you I saw in my crib; those brightly colored shapes.
Who knew how close we would become through words and printed page?
How clever these twenty six close friends seem to me  right now.
They can answer my every question; be it when, where, why or how.
Near infinite is thy variety in your mix of shapes and sounds.
In you every Indo-European language can be found.
Like a linguistic DNA you take on varied forms
From age to age you morph, through slang, until you are reborn.
You are like the Phoenix rising glorious from the ash.
You are a friend to Every man who journeys to the past..
You are printed, you are digital, you are spoken on the stage.
Without you Love itself is mute and blank remains this page.
You have proven all good friends to me. I hope I’ve served you well.
(My punctuation is sometimes questionable but I’ve mastered how to spell.)

The branches are enrobed in ice and hang down to the ground.
The air is sharp, clear and fresh, no other soul around.
The winter wind chills to the bone despite your coat of down.
It whispers to the branches with a low and mournful sound.
I’ve loved the park on days like this, since when I was a youth
This photograph in black and white, betrays a simple truth.
Each color needs the other; there is no other way
to capture, in this image a timeless winter’s day.
Each hue defines the other, in stark relief they play.
I am one accustomed to see in shades of grey.
As I was born color blind, I know no other way.
Earth’s greens and blues are beautiful; I’ve heard but never seen.
The doctor says that I was born with a defective gene.
Somehow I have adapted, I deal with it you’d say
To see the world in sunlight like you see at break of day.

It's my near constant companion;
sometimes short and sometimes tall.
At dusk's approach it seems to grow,
At midnight not at all.

Peter Pan once lost his,
until Wendy sewed it back.
He was really lost without it
and was glad to have it back.

It figures oft in mysteries
and in film noir I suppose.
Those ***** deeds done in the dark?
Just ask- the shadow knows.

One shadow often haunts my thoughts
It's been frozen on a wall
at ground zero in Hiroshima,
Its owner?  gone beyond recall.

Hatred left a shadow
of one  human life  it seems
Where shadows became substance.
Where nightmares ******* his  dreams.

James Bond was a dissolute youth
who spent his nights drinking Vermouth
I was shaken, not stirred
when they gave me the word
that his blood test came back  ninety proof.

James Bond was a dissolute youth
who spent his nights drinking Vermouth
I was shaken, not stirred
when they gave me the word
that his blood test came back ninety proof.

King James demands a Scottish play
and believes in witches three
Look close and see they are the fates
that set our destiny

I can't write about his mother
or the ****** of her clerk
One whisper about Darnley
and we'll all be out of work.

After that unhappy business
about Essex and the Queen.
I won't risk another incident
no abdication scene.

Keep the text, in time to come
it will prove rare like gold
I kept it shorter than King Lear
your attention span to hold.

Once more she finds herself in a Nashville hotel.
She does things here for money that she’d rather  not tell.
She came To music city with her battered  old guitar.
But dreams without luck never get you very far.

The streets here are crowded with others as well,
Whose voices were lacking or whose  tunes didn’t sell:
Her friend Bob drives the tour bus all the day long
Telling tales to the tourists; where did he go wrong?
He came here to write and he joined BMI
Now his hair is receding as the years pass him by.

She herself dreamed of performing in the old grand oprey,
But the call never came and her rent isn’t free.
So now she performs nightly in the finest hotels
For small select audiences who pay her well.
It’s not the sheet music that she had in mind
As she gives voice to a tune as old as mankind.

There are songs that I no longer play,
even when I’m at practice alone.
The lyrics are too painful to sing
now that I’ve reaped what I’ve sown.

There are places that we used to go,
where I haven’t gone in a year.
The barkeep must think that I’ve died,
As I no longer stop for a beer.

There are friends that I no longer see-
They would only remind me of you.
Phantom pains to an old amputee
Bitter leaves from my garden of rue.

There are songs that I no longer play,
Whose lyrics would stab at my heart.
These days, I’ve been drinking for two.
It’s my solace since we’ve been apart.

There are songs that I no longer play,
even when I’m at practice alone.
The lyrics are too painful to sing
now that I’ve reaped what I’ve sown.

There are places that we used to go,
where I haven’t gone in a year.
The barkeep must think that I’ve died,
As I no longer stop for a beer.

There are friends that I no longer see-
They would only remind me of you.
Phantom pains to an old amputee
Bitter leaves from my garden of rue.

There are songs that I no longer play,
Whose lyrics would stab at my heart.
These days, I’ve been drinking for two.
It’s my solace since we’ve been apart.

They looked so happy,
the couple upstairs.
He, roughly handsome,
was tall and strong
She, dark and lithe,
was prone to song.
Their apartment was done
in the height of fashion.
where scented candles
lit nights of passion.

Now their place is dark
and the shades are drawn.
He sits and wonders
where they went wrong.
in the room once shared
now devoid of song
It's painfully obvious
that she's gone.

She smiles for the camera;
Since a young girl she’s been taught
to show a brave face to the world:
Never bare ones inner thoughts.

She smiles for the camera
And disguises feeling blue.
She thought that she would be his bride.
She never guessed he’d prove untrue.

She smiles for the camera
With her auburn hair undone.
So when people see this image
They’ll think:”How happy this one was.”

She smiles for the camera
With a heart that nears its break.
You might think she’s doing well,
She intends that you make that mistake.

The pain and anguish she endures
Are daggers of the mind,
Concealed beneath the smiling face
Of the girl he left behind.

I remember, when I was young,
Gloria Lynne and this song she sung,
She sang with perfect pitch:
I wish you Love.”

It was a light Blues serenade,
A song my older sisters played.
As I would sip my Lemonade
She wished me love.

Now that heart of hers,
so full of Love
Has become one
with Him above.
So, with regrets,
As fate abets,
She’s been set free

Yet on a certain day in Spring
If I should chance to hear
a bluebird sing.
I may recall
That, after all,
She wished me Love.

I lost my Left leg at Bull Run and came home from the war.
With a peg I managed farm work; unfit for battle; not for chores.
My neighbor, Reid, did also bleed in that War Between the States.
His right leg was mangled below the knee- they had to amputate.
Now, each year, we go into town and buy one pair of shoes.
My neighbor, Reid, wears the same size and likes the boots I choose.
We’ve become fast friends, the two of us; our children something more.
My son has bought a ring to give to the girl who lives next door.
In wartime we were enemies; fighting for the Blue and Gray.
Now our womenfolk make plans for our children’s wedding day.
Here, in the autumn of our lives, all enmity is defused.
Each has learned to know and love his foe- by walking in his shoe.

These eyes have seen the fire from the sky
I felt the heat a thousand clicks away
At first no screams, just people turned to shadows
A sunburst touched to earth one fatal day.

These eyes have seen my City turned to ashes
I have heard her women sobbing in despair
I stood alone amidst my city dying
No God above to whom I’d make a prayer..

And now I stand before a Buddhist temple
A different city and a river view.
This city seems most beautiful and vibrant
Hiroshima what has become of you?

“Shots Fired.” “Officer Down”
The Navy Yard is a killing ground.
High above the Atrium floor,
The first person shooter
wants to run up his score.
I enter the atrium and dive for the wall
as singing death pays my partner a call.
“Officer down, building 197”
He’s a lucky one, his Kevlar vest saved him.
I crawl on my belly towards the stairs.
Will he add to his total ere I make it there?
I pass the corpse of a pretty girl,
with a puzzled look upon her face.
A red rose blooms from her white blouse.
Fear flees as anger takes its place.
The swat team enters and exchanges fire.
I make the stairwell and start creeping higher.
I remove my shoes and in stocking feet
I silently climb toward the deadly sounds
I stumble upon a security guard
Who nevermore will make his rounds.
What happened next, I’ll always remember
about this deadly dark September.
A deep breath to calm me,
I chambered a round.
Was it my shot that brought
the mad murderer down?
There were many shots fired
That terrible day
As hunter, become hunted,
was brought to bay.

I checked on my partner.
I called my wife.
I am more than happy to get on with life.
The shooter is on the coroner’s table.
I write up the incident as best as I’m able.
I left out the part about the girl
Who has gone, we hope, to a better world.
She gave me courage, she banished fear
She is probably the reason that I’m still here.

In the German town of Shtuping
Something clearly was amiss:
Town name signs were disappearing,
The good townsfolk were nonplussed!
“For years tourists have sniggered
At our name when driving by
As its Yiddish for activity
A girl does with a guy”.

Some people want to keep the name
That makes the tourists come.
Others are ashamed to say
That Shtuping’s where they’re from.

When the townsfolk vote to change the name
It will cost a pretty penny
To change the signs from "Shtuping"
To the new: "Notgettingany".

A flower that last saw the Sun
when Neanderthal was on the run,
scientists have carbon dated
and ,now, successfully cultivated.

No shrinking violet, this plant, I know
bloomed thirty millennium ago.
Just a tick in cosmic time
Its fate with man’s was intertwined.

It was found beneath the permafrost,
a treasure in a squirrels lair.
In cryostorage it remained.
The squirrel forgot that it was there.

Ten Thousand years beneath the plain,
then came the centuries of ice and rain.
The game died out. That same fate befalls
the tribe of the Neanderthal.

Now the flower blooms again-
An ancient beauty born anew-
In those seeds, a living spark,
just don’t expect Jurassic Park.

A cardboard Flat
some ribbon and string
some ******* and a teething ring
Together they make
a silly Chapeau
for Christine to model
it has been ever so
at Baby showers
for the mother to be
Photographed
wearing such
elaborate frippery

"You, Come here!"
spoke the Roman, looking mean,
clearly, he meant me,
Simon of Cyrene.

I do not like to argue
with men who play at war.
He motioned I should take the cross
that the Rebel, Jesus, bore.

My strong shoulder lifted up
the heavy, rough Hewn cross.
No wonder he had fallen,
look at all the blood he's lost.

We walk together for a while
up the steep incline
I do not speak, but I wonder,
what is on the Rebel's mind.

they stretch him out upon the cross
and drive nails in his wrists
They raise him up and jam him down
They have practice doing this.

He's speaking to two women
and a man, perhaps a friend
maybe only they can hear him,
his voice weaker than the wind.

The people of Jerusalem
Taunt the Rebel as he dies
Three hours pass, he speaks his last
vain prayer up to the sky

the soldiers have to break the legs
of those two who hung with thee
and they jab a pilus in the side
of the man from Galilee.

The day by then was cold and raw
where the sun had shined before.
I made my way back down the hill,
with disgust for Roman law

I was minding my own business
on my way from here to there.
(I was not one of his disciples,
stack the bibles and I'll swear.)
Yet when I was accosted
by a Roman with a sword,
I was forced to bear the Cross-
as certain "points" can't be ignored.
The way was steep and rocky
and the cross beam hard to bear.
On our way up He was silent,
perhaps lost in silent prayer.
There were sounds of women weeping
and jeering Jews who came from town.
I was glad to reach to summit-
relieved to lay my burden down.
It was only then I saw His face,
beneath its thorny crown.
He thanked me for my labor
with a kindly look and word.
I said a blessing in return,
but I wonder if he heard.

Yes, I recall the day quite well
when our paths crossed, then diverged.

His eyes burned in my memory
as I stumbled on my way.
I did not stay to watch Him die
but I was there that day.

Day melts into day of dreaded sameness.
I sit alone and ponder why you left.
I thought we were a good team, you and I.
Since you’ve been gone I’m totally bereft.

For twenty years I’ve pounded out these verses
The thoughts were yours, the words not mine alone.
My muse has left; the worlds gone monochrome.
What was my fault and how can I atone?

I never should have taken you for granted.
I know that now, but you’re not near to hear.
Consumed with pride I thought I was your master,
And not the humble scribe I now appear.

We always think that Love will last forever.
We think ourselves immortal; young and strong
We are pressed flowers; our fragrance long since faded.
Immortal? No, we couldn’t be more wrong.

I picked up my old guitar the other day.
I noted every string is out of tune.
It cannot help me give voice to my sadness
Since you have gone and left this empty room

A beautiful voice, heard ,but unseen,
called out to me from the fog draped shore.
I was captivated  by the Siren's song
that all advised me to ignore.

Odysseus, you were most wise,
to have yourself bound ere you heard her cries.
You were serenaded on the deep
yet managed  your original course to keep.  
I, less wise, diverted towards shore,
where rocks, submerged, have wrecked my bark.
Then, as a  whirlpool ****** me down,
saw the Siren laugh to see me drown.

How beautiful! How Cold! how cruel!
She shows no mercy to me, her fool.
Observe my fate and learn, dear Brother,
or the Siren's song will ****** another.

I camped out to be first on line at Apple’s flagship store.
Sleeping days on concrete had left me stiff and sore.
Now all was fine, I was first in line, They handed me the phone.
Envious glances all around, I am the first to own.
A local news reporter asked me if I would hold up my prize.
They broadcast live on New York One. My joy is undisguised.
But my joy turned to horror as the phone slipped from my hand
and smashed on Apple’s
smooth
tiled
floor.
I’m an unlucky man.
You’ve seen me on the internet,
the video went viral.
Don’t bother calling,
why interrupt me
in
my
downward
spiral.

We could start drinking but it never ends
As long as we're gone, we may as well
stay in-
quarantining
Staying six feet apart

You said it's easy but who's to say
That we'd be able to keep it this way
But it's easier
Staying six feet apart
You’ve been avoiding me right from the start
From all we’ve heard that’s probably smart
You know I'll never go
As long as I know
We’ll stay six feet apart

I'll see you on the street -you’re wearing your mask
and If I’m not- you’re gonna take me to task
Quarantining
Six feet apart

Six feet apart
Got to keep us six feet apart
So infection has no chance to start
You know I'll never go
As long as I know
We’re staying six feet apart

The young boy measured the distance carefully
and marked the spot of the imaginary rubber.
He hid the pink spaldeen  behind his right hip,
spreading his fingers over imaginary seams
ready to unleash his curve ball
against the unsuspecting garage door


Day after day the scene repeated.
he was out there in the early spring,
and didn't stop until November snows.
Every day strengthening his right arm
and refining his command
He played out the season in his mind.
He waited for the call to the show that never came-
there not being much demand for a short right hander
who topped out at 90

Someone,  out of kindness, might have told the boy
that he didn't have the talent for the majors.  
I'm glad they didn't
For he had found his version of Heaven
at sixty feet six inches.
God forbid that anyone
should ever  take that away.

The season is a marathon and that one, more than most.
The travel was exhausting with two trips out to the coast.
Mickey was the favored son to wear Ruth’s home run Crown
But a ****** abscess in his thigh had taken Mantle down.

Roger Maris was exhausted if the truth were to be told.
He raced Ruth’s ghost all summer; now the air was turning cold.
With the **** down with an injury, the tension only grew,
as the calendar turned another page and at bats dwindled too.

No pitcher wished to be the one to yield that needed hit,
even if it would be marked down with an asterisk.
The count ran two and “OH’ with Barber in the catbird seat
Tracy Stallard toed the rubber as the catcher called for heat.

Some moments are forever, though, sadly, far too few.
Roger turned upon the ball; towards right field it flew.
It landed in the lower deck as Roger rounded third
It proved to be the winning run as the Yankees blanked the Birds.

I have the photo on my wall as Roger dropped the bat;
the consummate professional, no showboating or act.
He defined grace under pressure; he showed what must be done.

The shadows reach out towards the mound when you hit Sixty-One.

The old man’s skin was parchment thin,
his eyes a watery blue.
On his left arm he bore the mark;
his Birkenau tattoo.

The letter “B” and six numbers
would be with him to the grave.
A permanent reminder
of his time as ******’s slave.

Two winters spent in Auschwitz-
What God would so design?
It left him gaunt and starving
with no faith in the Divine.

Yet he survived the worst and lived
when all his bunk  mates died.
His first wife was dust on the wind
as was their little child.

Now his grandson bears that mark,
the one and  very same.
To remind the world Of ******’s crimes,
He has skin in the game.

On beams of steel they Death defy,
while they're working way up high.
They are union brothers; Iron men.
The fraternity of the Sky Walker clan.

Two thousand feet up, they weld the steel
In heat and rain they labor on
until a new glass tower greets the morning sun
then the Sky Walker clan moves on.

Muscle and balance; skill and zeal
it takes to make those blue prints real.
They built this City; story by story
That is the Sky Walker's claim to glory

We are different, you and I.
You are so focused and contained.
I am loud and unrestrained.
You are never not on time
while I’ve been known to trail behind.
You are practically fashion’s slave
while I am grunge and barely shave.
How did we stick, what is the glue,
That inseparably binds me to you?
It is Love that stakes its claim
for two friends cannot remain
Two friends and still stay sane
If they are not accepting of
The failings of the one they love.

Your impulses are generous, kind and pure-
But impose costs on us we can’t endure.
One point three trillion spent each year, tis said,
to keep our current poor in their own beds.
America has debt related worries
While social engineers break out new Mores.
Recent Grads despair of their careers
and student loans are going in arrears.
Priests, Teachers and the Boy Scouts, rank and file,
Apparently are staffed with pedophiles.
Socialism’s great and life is sunny-
until you run out of other people’s money.

He is a mover and a shaker
And he’s certainly no Quaker!
Donnie Trotter from Chicago
is his name.
Whatever was he thinking?
This man from the
land of Lincoln.
When he tried to bring a gun
aboard a plane?
He’ll pontificate when pressed
(Just to get it off his chest)
How guns are bad
And people shouldn’t buy them.
His acts are against the law
He himself had voted for-
I wonder if the State
Will charge and try him.
Were he Conservative and White-
Not a Liberal, Black as night-
Voices would be raised
that we should fry him.

It’s Hypocrisy at its best
And this man has failed the test
In Chicago guns are banned
And for good reason-
If the victims could fight back,
What would be the fun in that?
Only criminals have guns
This hunting season.

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down.
My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound.
A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey.
I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground.
“******” I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound.

Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe.
He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow.
I served in France in Forty –one; before   these Russians were our foes.
I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes.
I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there
my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man.

My soul is black for I’ve done some things;
  for which I once would have been ashamed.
I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe
as I placed them in a common grave.

This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command.
He is clever, this one, he waits his chance.
Either its him or me that’s dammed.
The drifting snowflakes hide his breath.
But He’s still out there this I know.

My Captain lies still upon the earth
and is slowly covered by the snow.

We are soldiers who risk our lives.
We sacrifice for the Fatherland.
We dream of a woman and a warm bed
Never of Death’s cold clammy hand

My men cry out, the fox is flushed
The ****** has at last been found.

It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you;
I never even heard the sound.

His Lady is lovely-
Her verses, Divine.
On her wit and her wisdom
we've all oft opined.
He, Texas handsome,
skin kissed by the sun
in all respects admirable
save that he snored some.
Pilloried in verse
fort his one fatal flaw,
Far too much the gentlemen,
He didn't get sore.
He didn't want her to suffer
on account of his curse
So, like a true gentleman
He'd let her sleep first.
But before he, too,
could drift off to Nod
From her side of the bed
came some sounds rather odd.
Was it a trick of his
sleep deprived brain
or did his lady love whistle
much like a Freight train?
Since its highly unlikely
she will cease and desist
and, awake, she's the Lady
his heart can't resist.
He's taken to counting sheep
with fingers and toes
till the Ambien works
and he gets some repose..

To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.

Whether it is better in the end to suffer

The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord

Or take loans. against your future earnings

And end up owning something? In hock, for years;



Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end

The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks

Home ownership is heir to.  Reduced Consumption?

No Politician’s wish! To rent?    To lease?

To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought

For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills

Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil



It gives one pause. That’s the aspect

That makes calamity of  adjusting rates

For who would bear the years and years of debt

Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,

Buyers remorse, and the long delays.

The Questionable title and the risk

Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.

When you yourself know if you lose your job

You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.





To grunt and sweat under a heavy load

Under the threat of something worse than debt

The forced short sale, from which, once closed

No equity returns. It puzzles the will.

And makes us rather bear such debts we have

And, if necessary, refinance them still.



Compounding thus make cowards of us all.

And so our youthful promise and ambition

Is hobbled by the weight of student  loans

made by lenders judged too big to fail.

In this regard the risk is very real
we lose the house to auction.

In the bowels of a prison, in a tomb of concrete, for twenty three hours a day-
The “Teflon Don” was alone all that time, free only to scream, curse, or pray.
To seek refuge in madness most men would resort, but that was not John Gotti’s way.
He was chained when he showered; by the guards he called cowards,
he saw the Sun seldom these days.

His mind oft would drift back to better days at the Bergin hunt and fish-
Playing cards with friends and cronies who indulged his every wish..
He recalled how he rose to be Don; it was a blood drenched throne,
but, unlike his predecessor, he would die slowly and alone

Cancer took his lower jaw; he gummed what food he ate.
Four grey walls surrounded him, the door an iron gate.
His tumor soon metastasized; that death was imminent was plain.
Although John Gotti was in agony he took nothing for the pain.

He would not chance a mental lapse, a confession overheard.
He would not give the ******* that; he would not say a word.
He died choking on his own blood, his corpse lay still and cold.
It was then, and only then, the Feds released their hold

Solstice stirs my Druid roots.
Those roots entangle with my dreams.
A language, strange and musical,
celebrates the world unseen.

The druids issue from the grove,
solemn in their robes of white.
The doors of time are open wide
on this, the long year’s shortest night.

Ovates divine and bards will speak,
Singing in the Cambric tongue,
The Druid raises arms on high
to praise the power of the Sun.

She lies upon the altar stone.
The victim of the gods’ caprice
Sunlight pours between the stones
where blood was shed and breath has ceased.

I lie in bed and silently listen to the wind and pouring rain.
Yesterday brought darkness early, I know today will be the same.
Winter has us in its grasp working to impose its will,
But, even on this shortest day, there’s cause for optimism still.
For, from now on, in our annual journey
Our lands will tilt towards our star.
Though this day be one of maximum darkness
Brighter days cannot be far

It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.

She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?

A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..

If the killer was male- was he impotent too?

The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended  John Bowne, a high school nearby.


Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.

Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.

Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.

My grandfather never lived to see Bryant and Rizzo play.
The Cubs won last back in 0- eight which was before his day.
His lifelong love of baseball he passed on down to me    
I took up his forlorn cause as mine each time I watched them play.      
For sixty seven summers    I have watched Cubs come and go;
seen good team fade in summer’s heat, adding to our goat- cursed woe.
I’ve seen them jinxed by black cats in the summer of sixty nine.
Watched Bartman wreck our changes;, what will it be this time?
Now they looked nearly down and out; shut out by the Tribes’ fine Corps
But they got up off the canvas and began to hit and score.
The Series now was tied at three, could my heroes count to four?
Our manager’s moves were questionable; I don’t care what you say.
He shouldn’t have taken Hendricks out (and let Baez swing away)
I sat through anxious innings and through the rain delay.
That’s when this old agnostic got down on his knees to pray.
They won it Eight to seven, Bryant made the final play.
My heart is filled with a nameless joy as Someday is today!

Sometimes, in dreams, Paul sees his band mate, John.
Of course, John Lennon hasn't aged a day.
Paul, himself, has felt the touch of time.
His skin is paper-thin; his hair gone grey.

Paul reaches for an instrument to play
but alas, his dream guitar hasn't any strings.
John provides a softly lyric line
so Paul must be content to hear him sing.

Paul wakes up from his pleasant dream
hoping to recall the words that he heard sung.
Somehow he cannot recall the lyrics;
It's not easy as Paul's no longer young.

Sometimes in dreams, we see beloved dead;
projections, perhaps, of our hopes and fears.
We imagine stringed instruments that gently weep
And, doing so, mock our bootless tears.

The dying songbird rested
Too weak to even fly.
The virus burning through her
wouldn’t let her try.
Still she kept on singing,
Giving song full throat
She knew life is too precious
To waste a single note.

A songbird in a gilded cage
gave to me the gift of song.
Soft and low with gentle tones
she warbled for me the whole night long.
When I was low she gave me cheer
and courage at times that I felt fear.
Was I wrong to keep her caged?
Such spirits ought to be free range.
Today I woke and something’s wrong
The air is still, there is no song
I rushed toward the gilded cage
The latch is open
The lark has flown.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
Roberta Flack


The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the endless skies

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command my love

And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love

The first time ever I saw your face
Your face, your face

Wallace Hartley nodded
and the band played on.
The lifeboats and collapsibles
by then were launched and gone.

Futile flares lit up the sky
A chill borne of despair.
What was the last song that you played ?
A waltz? a Hymn? a prayer?

The violin I hold in my hand
was Wallace's all right.
What will be bid for this memento
of that remembered night?

Some survivors after claimed
you played a hymn of praise.
The wireless man McBride recalled
a mournful waltz was played.

You were the gift of Wallace's love
A girl who never wed.
The last memento of these Lovers
who rest now with the dead.

Now all Titanic's complement
are muted dead and gone.
Yet all survivors testified
that the band, indeed, played on.

The path to Suribachi’s top was paved by brave marines
But the first flag that they planted there was too small to be seen.
The fight to take this vantage point had seen so many die.
To rouse the spirits of our men a larger banner now must fly..

From the fleet came the flag that we would raise this day.
A star spangled banner visible to  the ships at sea.
Six pairs of hands bore her up on high.
(Three of those boys were shortly to die)

A photographer from the associated press
Took the photo we love best.
Six pairs of hands would forever raise her high.
Our flag was the object of all eyes.

More than another month would pass,
ere Iwo was pacified at last.
The image now lives on in Bronze
to honor those brave souls, now gone.

By crises, character is revealed.
Their courage overcame their doubt.
So long as men would not be slaves,
So long our flag will proudly wave.

Iwo was a bloodbath; that fact can’t be denied.
We had twenty thousand wounded men and seven thousand died.
The fight was long and difficult against the entrenched foe.
(When the photograph was taken the fight had weeks yet left to go.)
High upon Mount Suribachi, our hearts leapt at the sight:
As “Old Glory” was unfurled, our colors caught the light.
Six young men raised her on high, to defy the rising Sun.
(Three of them were buried there before that fight was won.)
One moment in eternity that was caught for all to see.
a moment passing, even now, from living memory.
For most of those who fought and lived
are, by now, dead and gone.
The moment of their glory lives
captured here in Bronze.

A Dentist from Weehawken was feeling miserably;
Depressed, down in the mouth, you know how that can be.
Walt thought salt air would do him good and so he went to sea.
He chartered a large fishing boat and paid a hefty fee.
They set a course for Georges Bank where clam and cod abound.
For centuries this place has been a fertile fishing ground.
With bated breath and baited hook, Walter set his line.
He’d catch some rays and have some beers and have a real good time.
But Fate had other plans for him, things took a darker turn.
Those who fish for sport, not food, are beasts as he’d soon learn.
A tug upon his line foretold the battle to take place
It nearly pulled him from his chair and so began the chase.
What monster he had on his line, the dentist didn’t know.
He played the creature skillfully as it thrashed to and fro.
The massive tuna breached the waves and landed with a splat,
It wore coke bottle glasses and a red Greek fishing hat.
Walt, the dentist, looked upon his catch and was aghast
As “Charlie, the Star-Kist tuna, gasped and breathed his last.
The dentist took a “selfie” that was seen the world around.
Charlie, the Tuna with good taste, had been brought to ground.
“Perhaps I’ll mount him on my wall” Walt said thoughtlessly.
Little did he know what this would cost him personally.

These days Walt is in hiding in his Northern Jersey town.
His patients have all left him and he closed his office down.
His car has four slashed tires, there’s graffiti on his walls.
He can’t even go on Facebook, he’s been unfriended by them all.
So if you are a hunter who wants to **** a hippopotamus,
before you shoot be sure to check and see if he's anonymous!