It was already late when we approached my friend’s front gate.
The Sun was setting in the western sky.
“Our days grow imperceptibly shorter now.” He observed.
“Yes, we’re past the Solstice.” was my reply.
I put my weight upon my cane as I ascended his front steps,
And caught the sight of two old men reflected in a window’s glass.
“Our days grow shorter” I agreed.

I’m not sure if he noticed, but
I’d omitted “imperceptibly”.

Marian Brown and Vivian Brown
were photographed oft on the street.
Their identical faces and identical smiles
City visitors found quite a treat.
They dressed for effect
In identical garb:
indistinguishable from Heads to feet.
They started their day
Once the sun had gone down;
when most people their age were asleep.
But Vivian suffered a fall in July
And her memories faded away.
Marian mourns the loss of her twin
along with the folks by the Bay.
If Marian paused by a window of glass
That Sunshine strikes just the right way-
It might seem, for a moment, that Marian stands
once again, with her twin by the Bay.

Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.

Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.

Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.

Dictionaries are wonderful things.
Spell-check, I’ve always admired.
My brand new tattoo
has misspellings of two
Of the words for which
you were hired.

Now I’ll wander through life
As an object of scorn
As this ink artist failed to reflect
That it’s “E’ before “I”
When “C”’s not involved
I mean, really, how could he forget?

There’s a ship that won’t sink
On my chest, done in ink,
With the slogan of
“Ankors Awieght”
I was drunk at the time
But you ought to be fined
Or at least give me back
What I paid.

There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.

If the music of the spheres is noise
And randomness is all.
Our Spiral is a roulette wheel-
By chance is where we fall.
Carre, Cheval, Column bet,
En Plein, Voisins du zero.
Gather round and place your bets
if Pascale is your hero.
A lovely maid may bring us drinks
As we wager round the table.
Spin the Wheel again, Mon Cher,
My weakness, you enable.
The orphans may be in the chips-
Or I may drown in wine.
Step up darlings, place your bets:
Random or Design?

She was on a crowded Uptown "A",
with one hand holding on.
In her other hand, a paperback,
dog eared, its cover gone.

Hamlet and Polonius
were with the player King
Bed-Sty might well be Elsinore-
when the plays the thing.

There were plots and counter plots-
to do young Hamlet harm.
"My money is on Fortinbras-
I said, then I was gone.

Channel four of the BBC thinks An Gorta MOR fit comedy:
genocide of the Irish nation with laughter as the expectation?
A million dead, two million more forever vanished from Ireland’s shores.
What degenerate would be amused? This programing should be refused.
A starving race, the potato failed, their agony has been well detailed.
The land was rich and still they died as help was grudgingly supplied.
Those whom the reaper failed to grip escaped upon the coffin ships;
never again to see these shores, of kith and kin forever shorn.
How anyone finds this amusing I find to be a bit confusing.
Such a person, I surmise, would tear the wings off butterflies.
I presume a laugh track will be supplied….


as our dead don’t laugh but only smile.

I’ll admit that it was different, and something of a strain
When our troupe was performing “Hamlet: for the criminally insane.
It was some do gooder’s notion to expose them to the arts.
and I saw that they accepted it when boys played women’s parts.
Some Prisoners thought the ghost was real and they were sore afraid
Their minds could not distinguish it was just a role I played.
Each line meant to gain a laugh fell silent with that group,
But as the death toll mounted, they thought that was a hoot.
They were the strangest audience, those prisoners out there
When Hamlet mused on suicide, they’d hoped he’d end it there.
Poison, ******, suicide; they were thoroughly entertained!
To thunderous applause we bore Prince Hamlet from the stage.
The warden was so gratified the Bard was loved by all
That we’re performing Titus Andronicus for the prisoners this Fall.

She had her side,
he had his.
Stuck in the middle
were their two kids.
No blows were struck
No hits were scored.
Just needs and wants
that went ignored.
She's a gossip,
He's a bore,
whatever did they marry for?
Not much chance of common ground
when loneliness for two is found.
Some find each other though wedding bells
Many others just lose themselves.

In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.

When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.

With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.

Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.

Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease


Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.

When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?

Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.

Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

Tomorrow is on my calendar
as is every day next week.
I have interviews, appointments,
Dinners at which I'll speak.

I'll make some time for family
and writing, I suppose.
I must buy steaks to barbecue
and must purchase new  work clothes.

When evening comes I'll settle back
with a glass of Pinot noir.
I'm a transient immortal,
I'm on loan here from a star.

The future is a game
against ourselves we play.
We plan as if we still have left
forever and a day.

In truth we all are transients
For just this moment free.
Self observing stardust
poised twixt two eternities

It was cold, it was wet and a cruel North wind blew
as I walked at the edge of the shoreline with you.
At our feet- dying starfish, several thousand all told.
They lay dead on the beach from the unnatural cold.
There were some ***** and lobsters and anemones.
Some could survive being cast from the sea.
For the rest shock and death was their imminent fate.
(At least they were spared winding up on a plate.)
These are strange times in Britain; so much ice and snow
and the Ocean so cold with such strong undertow
that thousands of starfish were cast out of their Eden.
There’s a message in this that we need to be heeding!
This planet is dying and, unless we repent,
our fate is another extinction event.

The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.

With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.

At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold ****** man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.

Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.

Some marriages last many years,
some, a shorter time-
but a love that lasts a lifetime
is truly hard to find.

Joseph, knowing what he was to lose
His love and fate embraced.
He died when bullets pierced his heart
while in a state of grace.

Barrack’s on vacation, playing golf by the sea,
but life keeps interrupting and wasting greens fees
Iraq is in flames and the country may fall,
Barrack steps calmly up and addresses his ball.
While ISIS is murdering Kurds by the bunch
Barrack’s on vacation and ordering lunch.
Israel is in trouble as Hamas wages war.
Barrack limits arms shipments and tallies his score.
Ferguson, Missouri suffers racial unrest,
while Barrack is debating which driver is best.
James Foley is dead, his throat has been cut.
Our President speaks, and then he makes a nice putt.
My colleagues rebuke me. “Don’t beat a dead horse!”
The President’s great, he’s staying the course.

Her blood alcohol level was point thirty three
when the trooper pulled over her car.
She had a flat tire and her speaking was slurred
As if she had just drunk a whole Bar.
She was over the limit and half in the bag
So they charged her with a D.U.I.
Yet her case got dismissed and the D.A. was miffed
When she proved she was naturally high.
In seems that some people who munch on French fries
Are host to yeast that is causing them grief, making sure that they never run dry.
For Stella’ own body was churning out brew thus explaining her bloodshot red eyes
(and her sad reputation as a cheap date as well as her poor taste in guys.)
Her babes that she nursed never fussed or complained
For her ******* they were naturally keen.
Kids back in High School all thought Stella was cool
(She was drunk off her *** as a teen.)
She now must watch carefully what she consumes
when she’s out for a night on the town.
She produces Grey Goose with her own gastric juice
So Pasta remains out of bounds.

In the middle of the Milky Way,
darkness overwhelms.
A dark Star grows so powerful
no light escapes its realm .
Gas, in ribbons, flows towards it
in undulating streams.
then vanishes eternally-
at least that’s how it seems.
There, in that sleep of death,
where no dream would intrude.
The matter that comprises Earth
would make one sugar cube.

Perhaps one day, some eons hence,
the dark star will explode
and give this universe new birth
when all the stars grow cold.

My life was changed when you arrived,
I moved from Rock to lullaby.
I watched you as you grew and thrived
Just Daddy and his little guy.

When first you learned to ride your bike
and, wobbling, you sped away
I had a weird sensation that
I had just grown a touch more grey.

through every step of life with you
from nursery school through your degree
I paid the bills, I gave the rides
Life's afternoon you walked with me.

Afterwards, out with your friends
some beauties' eyes attracted you.
You stayed out late with your dates.
and I could not wait up for you.

Still later when you moved away,
and had a family of your own.
I didn't get to see you much,
we kept in touch mostly by phone.

Life is a journey, not a state
We knew this day would come for me
When I must go embrace my fate
and you must bide your destiny.

Our paths diverge, just yours goes on.
but do not stop to grieve for me.
I always knew this day would come
That I'd become a memory.

For so it was, and will always be
We parents bring life to this world
We start out as your guide and friend
never to see the journey end.

My life was changed when you arrived,
I moved from Rock to lullaby.
I watched you as you grew and thrived
Just Daddy and his little guy.

When first you learned to ride your bike
and, wobbling, you sped away
I had a weird sensation that
I had just grown a touch more grey.

through every step of life with you
from nursery school through your degree
I paid the bills, I gave the rides
Life's afternoon you walked with me.

Afterwards,out with your friends
some beauties' eyes attracted you.
You stayed out late with your dates.
and I could not wait up for you.

Still later when you moved away,
and had a family of your own.
I didn't get to see you much,
we kept in touch mostly by phone.

Life is a journey, not a state
We knew this day would come for me
When I must go embrace my fate
and you must bide your destiny.

Our paths diverge, just yours goes on.
but do not stop to grieve for me.
I always knew this day would come
That I'd become a memory.

For so it was, and will always be
We parents bring life to this world
We start out as your guide and friend
never to see the journey end.

You departed this life towards the end of July, Thirty four summers gone by.
We speculate that your heart or a stroke was the cause, but we can only surmise.
There were no farewells, no anguished goodbyes; In the middle of dreaming you died.
It was subtle the way angels bore you away; quiet as a wind borne sigh.

Two young boys had their lines cast into the water while their playmate, Diana, skipped stones across the surface.. “Stop that!” Mohamed said, “You’re scaring the fish.” Just then the other boy, Jesus, felt a tug on his line.” As he reeled in his catch, he teased the slightly younger boy. “You are just saying that because your basket is empty and mine is getting full.”
Mohamed selected a stone and hurled it high into the air over the bay. As the stone arched down to the water he said: “No matter how high the stone ascends it always submits to the will of Allah.” Jesus selected a flat stone and sent it skimming along the surface of the water before it too sank beneath the waves. “Look how the stone generates ripples of change as it passes along the surface of the water on its way to eternity.”
Diana selected a small flat stone and sent it on its way across the water. “You two are getting way too philosophical for me. I am merely playing a game. I call it skimming stones.”

“We should eat; I’m getting hungry” Said Mohamed, producing five small loaves of barley bread. Jesus gathered some driftwood from the shore and started a small fire in a pit scooped out from the sand. He took the two fish he had caught and began to cook them over the open flame.
As the three friends sat cross legged on the sand and enjoyed their lunch, they were observed by a slightly older lad, Siddhartha, who had been enjoying the day beneath the shade of a tree father up the *****. As he walked toward them Jesus greeted him saying. “Would you like to join us Sid? We have enough left over to feed a small village. Siddhartha paused, then patted his stomach ruefully, saying. “If I eat too much I will be mistaken for a small village.”

AS the sun began to decline into the western sky Diana said.” We had better get started back to the village. You know how frantic your mother gets, Jesus, when she doesn’t know where you are.” Diana shook the sand from her hair and tied it up in a neat efficient pony tail.

As the four friends made their way home across the hardscrabble towards the village the Sun cast their elongated shadows across the white sand until they reached the village and went their separate ways. The Sun cast a few final deep red rays over the surface of the Bay before descending into the waters of the salt unplumbed eternal sea. Then the only light remaining was the reflected light of the crescent moon.

“There will be no second Newtown here!”
Our principal decreed.
“Forget armed guards on campus,
Cans of soup are all we need.”
“When murderous villains roam our halls
And the shots are growing louder,
We’ll take them down with well-placed throws
of canned New England Chowder!”
“With a giant rubber slingshot,
we will make the villain pay.
Why, with adequate supplies of soup
We could hold out for days!”


This policy of “Soup to ****”
Is not like concealed carry.
It seems like an idea straight out
of Curly, Moe and Larry.

Regulation time was up
and our team one goal behind.
At the referees sole discretion
Is the length of stoppage time.
How much time do we have left?
What difference can we make?
Already we’re shorthanded
And the playoffs are at stake.
We’re like a man whose heart has failed
a time or two before.
Each time nearly off with death
Until revived for more.
Or somebody whose lease is up
And headed for the door,
Waiting only for the truck
to take their past to store.
I heard my pulse race in my ears
As I penetrate their line.
I tuck the ball inside the post
And score in stoppage time.

Just ahead a shootout waits
which will decide our fate.
When playing games of sudden death
What a difference seconds make.

It happened in a darkened room where many strangers sat nearby.
The ceiling was a field of stars, an image of the Fall night sky.
along the walls, in bas-relief, minarets of a Moroccan town.
I crunched my Popcorn and slurped my Coke, impatient for it to begin.
Now all grow quiet as we gazed in wonder at the

Technicolor


Storybook of dreams

At the Nassau County Medical Center We nurses were put on alert;
A truck hit a small car on the L.I.E. leaving someone in a world of hurt.
Our “John Doe” was being air lifted and we heard the copter drone near.
One look at his face and I knew he was gone from this world of Love and Fear.
Yes, we all knew it was Harry from his unmistakable leonine mane;
The charts had him labeled as “John Doe” but we knew who it was just the same.
The doctors, like heroes, were fighting to bring Harry back from the grave
But his heart had been pierced by a sliver of glass; there was no way that he could be saved.
Had his heart failed him, there on the roadway, or had he been killed in the crash.
I couldn’t feel mad at the trucker who did what he could at the last.
We found a gold watch in his pocket. “Harry F. Chapin” engraved.
A man who had fought to save others but who himself could not save.

The first night that they slept apart
-I think because he had a cough-
He grabbed his pillow from their bed
Mimed a kiss and then was off.

Their separation lingered on
like cancer growing in a womb
Days into weeks turned into years
each spouse in their separate room.


Anniversaries came apace
To the separate cells wherein they dwell
All marveled at “togetherness.”
None could glimpse their private hell
.
No kiss, no glance, no warm embrace
As would ward off a winter’s chills
No passionate heat or casual lust
Not that either needed pills

And then one day he failed to wake
Cool to her touch, she felt his arm
Detachedly she looked upon
Her love, long dead, now gone

She lay down on the bed once shared
And swallowed pills enough and more
To join her fellow in that sleep
They’d share together evermore.

At the present we've a POTUS
who is of a "sharing" mind.
He'll "share" whatever I have
with his  voters of like mind.
So it strikes me as peculiar
that wealth disparity still grows.
That the fabled one percent
keep looking at us down their nose.
The Banksters stole our Billions
yet not one spent time in jail.
Do you think they told the President-
"The check is in the mail"?
Those high hogs keep getting fatter-
the buffet has them in thrall.
Just like hogs they'll be surprised
when the slaughter starts this Fall.

I must have been out of my mind-
vacationing in Palestine.
It was temptingly cheap to make the trip
And hotels on the Gaza Strip
Are affordable to all,
- Just three hours’ drive
from the Wailing Wall.
I’d rent a car but I’m out of luck.
No, I do not wish to rent a truck.
With streets so cratered I understand
Why folks call this the “holy Land”
This land where swarthy men in sheets
Hold daily protests in the streets.
This land where nightly rockets roar,
There are no bars or package stores.
I should have checked the Michelin guide!
For now I have to run and hide
Next year I will avoid this war
And stay back home on the Jersey shore!

Holy Child Parish had seen better days
in the century recently closed.
The passage of time and societal change
had emptied out each wooden row.
The caretaker moved, a little bit slow;
The empty church echoed each step.
There! From the manger; a weak little cry:
A sound he would not soon forget.
A babe in the manager, a live baby boy;
A towel was his swaddling clothes.
His mother had left him, believing him safe.
Safe as anyplace else she supposed.
The school nurse was sent for, to care for the child
who was otherwise healthy, just cold.
Parishioners called him a miracle baby;
found asleep in the crib of the Lord.
The Press soon descended, the media Magi,
to give homage like Pilgrims of old.
On tape and in print the good news went out.
The story was told and retold




It made people smile, for the times now are grim
and good news has been in short supply.
They’ve named the boy John, for the prophet of old;
In the wilderness hear one voice cry.

I boarded the train a long time ago, back East,
in the company of good friends.
We had good times on our journey.
Those days were invariably pleasant.
I recall bright sun and skies, mostly, blue
At each stop along the way there were
some exits and entrances.
At first they did not touch me.
Then;
I remember this most painfully-
The day you told me that we had reached your station
That place where you could accompany me no more.

My surviving companions did what they could to console me.
The train proceeded determinedly west.
The terrain was mostly flat, the skies now grey and wet.
We knew that the Mountains loomed ahead;
massively real; to us passengers yet  unseen.
We traveled the rails laid down by others’ hands.
We passed through snow-capped peaks
through darkness into the  light.

I have had a wondrous journey,friends.
But, excuse me , my stop is just ahead.
I step out to a golden promised land.

In Brussels the announcement came
to add to their everlasting pain.
Sunday's "March against Fear" has been Postponed
and folks have been told to stay at home.
The reason for this I just learned;
they cancelled due to security concerns.

That night was cold and dry as we gathered in the park.
Someone, I don’t know who, lit the first candle in the dark.
The dark mass of the Dakota was ever in our view,
as we joined to mourn John Lennon in small groups of ones and twos.

They kept us from the crime scene where John’s blood still stained the stones.
He was gunned down by some lunatic who’d acted all alone.
John was groaning, barely conscious, when Cops got him in their car
He died there in the back seat before they’d gone too far.

I heard somebody singing, in a strong clear baritone,
the lyrics of “Imagine”; John’s song that’s so well known.
Other voices swelled the chorus, singing loud and long.
What prayer could not accomplish we would try to do with song.

I went back to visit recently to show my children where
Their Dad stood vigil in the park back when he had long hair.
Strawberry Fields forever, the name they call this green,
where greying fans still gather to sing, to mourn, to dream.

That night was cold and dry as we gathered in the park.
Someone, I don’t know who, lit the first candle in the dark.
The dark mass of the Dakota was ever in our view,
as we joined to mourn John Lennon in small groups of ones and twos.

They kept us from the crime scene where John’s blood still stained the stones.
He was gunned down by some lunatic who’d acted all alone.
John was groaning, barely conscious, when Cops got him in their car
He died there in the back seat before they’d gone too far.

I heard somebody singing, in a strong clear baritone,
the lyrics of “Imagine”; John’s song that’s so well known.
Other voices swelled the chorus, singing loud and long.
What prayer could not accomplish we would try to do with song.

I went back to visit recently to show my children where
Their Dad stood vigil in the park back when he had long hair.
Strawberry Fields forever, the name they call this green,
where greying fans still gather to sing, to mourn, to dream.

A dappled light beam spills upon the floor
and highlights lines of wooden tongue and groove.
I raise my   student violin to my chin.
Practice, Practice, how else does one improve?

My bow draws slowly down across the strings
as callused fingers coax out mournful sighs.
I work alone;no audience attends
the movement ends in silence, not applause.

My grandfather used to play the violin
at celli dances in and around Strabane
He was noted for his strong clean tenor voice
and how the violin wept at his command.

In later life he had a battered Atlas
in which he'd peruse maps of foreign lands.
He never travelled  ten miles from his home.
Eventually arthritis took his hands.

The simplest word is hard to say
once blood has leaked within the brain.
The internal fires of life have died,
though the exterior seems the same.
He struggles saying yes or no,
He suffers visibly with pain.
His family, sadly, watches on
As the patriarch plays his endgame
Its like a cosmic jeweler tried,
To make a brilliant diamond cut;
If successful, it would have shone-
But he missed his mark and
  marred the stone

On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.

Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.

The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.

The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.

This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.

The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.

Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.

In a long happy marriage
Sometimes bedtime grows stale
Once toe curling *** fades
As libidos doth fail.

We both have tough jobs
And two kids of our own.
Sad, we both want to sleep
When we’re finally alone

The man at the store
Said “I have just the thing.
You really should try it-
makes your *** life take wing!”

It wasn’t a **** flick
Or a blue pill to swallow,
Just a tiny transmitter
to hide in her pillow.

At night, as she slept,
The salesman explained
My subliminal message
would be fed to her brain.

With her passions inflamed
She would turn to her mate
Like the once nubile bride-
Leave the rest up to fate.

So I made a recording
With a saucy suggestion
Then looked forward to bedtime
hoping for the res-errection.

My bride’s a deep sleeper,
(A good thing since I snore)
The tape’s played two weeks now
And I still haven’t scored.

I completely was baffled
That salesman assured
That no “wood” would go wasted
No ***** ignored.

Instead every night
About two thirty nine
I’d slip off to the bath
Where the “beat” would go on



I resolved to return
The unhelpful device
Before the guarantee ended
And I’d be out the price

Imagine my shock,
imagine my dread
When I found the transmitter
in my pillow instead!

Seems my wife had decided
To play with my head:
“Honey, go f8ck yourself,
If you wake me, you’re dead.”

It seems a scant few weeks ago,
as the leaves turned red and gold,
You left us for retirement;
at the Jersey shore I'm told.

Envious co-workers wished you well,
with cards and gifts besides.
We did not know, nor did you know
that a tumor lured inside.

Inoperable, the Doctors say,
radiation will be tried.
When cancer has metastasized
time isn't on your side.

I'm grateful that you had the chance
to see your girl a bride.
Your doting husband doubtless hoped
to spend years by your side.

We're still hoping for some miracle;
some treatment yet untried-
To counter a prognosis grim
so Death may be denied.

When golden years are leaden days,
where morphine spells relief
The game of Life in Sudden Death
will likely come to grief.

The deceased was seventeen years old-
An enlarged heart, the coroner claims.
A basketball player on the court.
his team trailing in the game.
Their perfect season was at risk
when he shot and made a “Three”
He then collapsed upon the court
midst shouts of victory.

Hearts are unromantic things
That race and slow by turns.
They simply pump
While we run and jump
And prance about life’s stage.

We take for granted our own hearts
As we wander through our days.
Our faithful friend who never sleeps
So we can laugh and play

And when hearts fail we feel the pain
Of songs now left unsung.
That’s why we’re haunted by the tales
of Athletes dying young.

A lovely Latina caught Don Sterling’s eye

And, for sure, there’s no fool like an old one.

It helped he has Billions, You know I don’t lie-

because you must  give sums to get some.



His wife got upset, (you know how they get)

As she saw their cash flow out the door.

“Two cars and a condo! I’ll make him regret

the day he encountered that *****.”



The wife sued the mistress for her “ill gotten” gains,

half of it hers by the law.

Then they caught Don, on tape,

Spewing sound bites of hate-

Now he can’t run his team anymore.



A little blue pill can do old men ill-

It deceives them to think they’re a Stallion.

The next time you reach for an eighteen year old, Don,

I suggest that you pour a MacCallan.

Some are Platinum,
Some pale yellow,
Some are Gold and fair of face.
Sometimes their choice is questionable
and the tint seems out of place.
Some are babes and some are ******.
It must be in the DNA.
Some use preference by L’Oreal.
Some are straight, others are gay.
Some are called Strawberry Blondes
Some have hair like golden sands.
What each one has in common
Is they dyed at their own hands.

By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

To keep the patient comfortable was all now I could do.
The diagnosis was terminal and he obviously knew.
I was with him through his surgery that was thelast gasp chance,
and now he looked death in the face with an unflinching glance.

He said “Dear, if you’ll humor me and if there’s any chance,
There are three things on my bucket list before I leave this dance.”
“I’m craving one last cigarette; perhaps a glass of wine;.
“and, If you can arrange it, to see the Sun a final time.”

On the top floor of this hospital there’s an open balcony.
I grubbed a cigarette for him out of sympathy.
I could not get a cabernet; he’d settle for Chablis.
I got him on a gurney and called for an orderly.

That afternoon was splendid and Fall was in the air.
The Sun was setting in the West as he watched it from his chair.
The patient puffed his Marlboro and blew smoke rings for me
He didn’t give me too much grief for my choice of Chablis.

“They say the Lord on Calvary was thirsty for a drink,
A sponge soaking in vinegar they offered Him, I think.”
“So who am I to criticize my nurse’s choice of wine;
Its chilled and it is drinkable so it will serve me fine.”

By evening he was comatose; his pulse was weak and fast
His children said there last goodbyes; grateful for the chance.
They’d arranged it with the Doctors; DNR was on his slip.
I sat and held the old man’s hand as the good god, Morphine, dripped.

“When I was one and twenty, I partied every night
and still was ready for my close-up  in the early morning light.
By the time I hit my thirties this girl stayed in every night.
With the proper rest and makeup I could still get parts all right.
Now that I’ve turned forty I’ve  abandoned film for the stage.
(The poetry of youth decays into prose by middle age.)
On the boards I can play younger. In kindlylight I still get by,
But my film career is over because
The camera doesn’t lie.”

I would listen, in the dark, as the L.P. circled round.
A big fan, I’ll admit it, of this petite brunette’s sound.
I was shocked the day I heard you’d starved yourself to death.
Talent, beauty, youth all gone; the recordings all you left.
I hear you still at the holidays like a ghost of Christmas past.
Occasionally on the radio for your hits were built to last.
Most often when your C.D. plays as I drift off to sleep
So long ago, so long ago, but still your voice sounds so sweet.
Those who touch lips with fame die twice I’ve heard it told:
Once when we’ve forgotten them, then again when they grow cold.

Sometimes a spirit won't let go,
in spite of all the pain.
It wants another sunrise,
to feel, again, the rain.

But when at last, its time to go
with goodbyes said at last
return them to their mother's womb
at peace with their own past.

For so short is a lifetime's span,
from first word to last amen
We borrow breath to live as man-
expiring, pay it back again.

I’d worked late the previous night,
programing applications.
When the alarm went off at four A.M.
I hit snooze- no hesitation.
Eventually my feet found floor,
I stumbled to the shower.
A routine usually done in ten
took me a half an hour.
I was running up the platform steps
but my train just left the station.
Great, I will be late for sure,
I thought, in consternation.
At least the day was perfect,
Warm and clear, no threat of rain.
I fished and found my ticket
and took the next westbound train.
The ”E” was fairly crowded
When I boarded it at Penn
I’d missed the first and I was glad
Another quickly came.
Beneath the streets of Gotham
The subway lurched downtown.
Above all hell was breaking loose
as two large planes were down.
I climbed the stairs up to the street
And entered the inferno
The sky now black from billowing smoke
Bright day turning nocturnal.

A Seven thirty Seven’s wheel-
I heard a woman screaming
I saw a body at my feet
Were we at war or was I dreaming?
I stared up at my window-
where I worked the night before.
Where flames and smoke leapt to the sky-
where my co workers were no more.
They’re jumping, someone shouted
I saw black specks launch from on high.
Better to die upon the street
Than to suffocate or fry.

I turn and ran, I am ashamed.
No Hero’s tale to tell.
I was a safe way away
when the first tower fell.

Had I not hit the button
or dawdled in the shower.
Had I caught my usual train
I’d be dead in the tower.

This is my shame and burden
To live when others died.
Preserved by fate and circumstance
From terror from the sky.

He sang a tenor’s part-

No more a tenor really

Though aging cords may gamely try

It was disaster- nearly.



He lost the lyric line.

Poor fellow –must be blasted

Too much North Fork wine

Or maybe he’s just past it.



A singer lost for words

is clearly up against it.

A staircase that’s collapsing

can only be descended.



Some forty years or more have past

Since he sang at their Wedding

A rose cheeked boy with strong clear tones

He was, then, worth the hearing.



With time his talent vanishes

He cannot compensate

For lyrics he’s forgotten

And notes he cannot make.



His hopes to leave on a better note

Then disappeared completely,

Only a swan- at its last-

can be sure to sing more sweetly.

“Sweet Kiss” was the horse and Frank Hayes was his rider,
Both destined this day to gain fame.
Frank was a stable boy on his first stake horse;
The horse too was a novice, but game.
This pairing went off at 20-1, but was well worth the risk of a “fiver”.
Sweet Kiss won the race and the bettors were stunned
for his jockey fell off, a cadaver.
Frank suffered a heart attack on the last turn
and the horse was the only survivor.
Frank Hayes, undefeated, was interred in his silks.
“Sweet Kiss”, undefeated, retired.
Jockeys are short but have memories long-
None were willing to be her next rider.

We had traveled here to Canton to the football hall of fame.
I made the pilgrimage with my brother; He’s a student of the game.
There were many fine exhibits, photos in my mind ingrained:
Y.A. Tittle, his blood gushing, was kneeling in a world of pain.
Ameche flying towards the goal in Football’s greatest game.
As our visit was near an end, we stood before a plaque.
It read Walter J. Payton; Chicago Bears (great) running back.
We read the records he had held; some since have been surpassed.
They play more games now in the NFL than they did in the past.
“Numbers aren’t all that matter.” My brother patiently explained.
“Not the true measure of this man and how he played the game.”
“True he was his team’s heart and soul and ranked among the best;
it was for compassion towards his fellow man that he is called “Sweetness”.”
Payton died still a young man. I’d know that much before.
It was only then I noticed he was born in Fifty Four.
I’d started my own journey then; now he’s gone and I remain.
I’ve never been the man he was and I never played the game.
Imagine what one man can do with his time here on earth,
“Sweetness” valued everyone above what we are worth.