They had waited on blankets, in cars,
to view the Chrysanthemum stars.
Instead of a pyrotechnic display,
The authorities sent them away.
A brief blast of frightening power
consumed at once many a flower.
It appears a computer malfunction
was the cause of the mini eruption.
The engineered boom had gone bust.
Makes you wonder- now who can you trust?


In the desert that night 'neath the stars
Jupiter, Venus and Mars
put on their free, nightly, display.
People on blankets, in cars
very seldom look up to the stars.
There a bowlful of wonder and light
goes sight unseen most every night.
The gift of a child's sense of wonder
goes unwrapped by these mortals down under.

The walls of this place
have protected me
since the moment I
was first aware..
Here in the darkness
I float upside down
like a fruit bat
asleep in his lair.
Now I feel pressure
and pushing
Something’s draining
the fluid of life.
A dim glow growing
constantly brighter
at the end of a tunnel
there’s light
My heart beat
is marathon racing
as I’m dragged from
my sinecure dark.

This new place is large
and its freezing
Put me back in,
I beg you
I scream.
My protests are ignored
as I’m prodded some more
Then I’m slapped
on the ****
by some cur
I’m lain down
on a warm curvy belly
and this woman, called mom,
weakly smiles.
At least this part
doesn’t seem
frightening
Perhaps I will stay
for awhile

The walls of this place
have protected me
since the moment I
was first aware..
Here in the darkness
I float upside down
like a fruit bat
asleep in his lair.
Now I feel pressure
and pushing
Something’s draining
the fluid of life.
A dim glow growing
constantly brighter
at the end of a tunnel
there’s light
My heart beat
is marathon racing
as I’m dragged from
my sinecure dark.

This new place is large
and its freezing
Put me back in,
I beg you
I scream.
My protests are ignored
as I’m prodded some more
Then I’m slapped
on the ****
by some cur
I’m lain down
on a warm curvy belly
and this woman, called mom,
weakly smiles.
At least this part
doesn’t seem
frightening
Perhaps I will stay
for awhile

Rights are inconvenient things,
I’m sure you must agree.
Why guns remain in private hands
is quite the mystery.
Felons will turn in their guns
I’m sure, without a peep.
(Tyrants always take the guns
Before they slaughter sheep)
Once you cannot defend your rights
Who cares what you think or say?
Harry Bellefonte thinks
You should be locked away.
Wouldn’t trials be quicker,
Would not be justice served,
If truth serum was administered
Instead of oaths with words?
Your guns and your religion
are quaint relics of the past.
Sharia law is coming,
Beheadings ought to be a blast.
You clamor to give up your rights.
The leftists are amused.
The ****** of the innocents
For their purpose will be used.
Quite soon you will be powerless
before the Almighty State.
When you fall ill some bureaucrat
will sign off on your fate.
A land without the Bill of Rights-
It ought to give you chills!
Your birthright gone, your children slaves
of the Marxists on the Hill.

The young woman struggled,
she pushed and bore down.
She was covered in sweat
when they first saw the crown.

The doctor, with forceps,
Tried to coax the newborn
Into the light from the
womb dark and warm.

What came next was amazing,
a wonder to see.
The obstetrician so shocked
He nearly dropped the baby.

A cute baby boy-
There no cause for alarm-
and his miniature wings
Merely add to his charm.

This cuddly cherub
hovered feet off the ground.
The umbilical cord
All that kept him earth bound.

His wondering mother
Was clearly perplexed,
For none of her lovers
had been winged’ sexperts.

True, one was named “Angel”,
her Swedish masseuse,
but, apart from good hands,
he’d been of little use.

Perhaps that old goat
With the lengthy Greek name
Who muttered “by Zeus”
Every time that he came.

Not that it much mattered
Not here or not there
Still there’s no denying
Her boy’s got a pair.

The young woman struggled,
she pushed and bore down.
She was covered in sweat
when they first saw the crown.

The doctor, with forceps,
Tried to coax the newborn
Into the light from the
womb dark and warm.

What came next was amazing,
a wonder to see.
The obstetrician so shocked
He nearly dropped the baby.

A cute baby boy-
There no cause for alarm-
and his miniature wings
Merely add to his charm.

This cuddly cherub
hovered feet off the ground.
The umbilical cord
All that kept him earth bound.

His wondering mother
Was clearly perplexed,
For none of her lovers
had been winged’ sexperts.

True, one was named “Angel”,
her Swedish masseuse,
but, apart from good hands,
he’d been of little use.

Perhaps that old goat
With the lengthy Greek name
Who muttered “by Zeus”
Every time that he came.

Not that it much mattered
Not here or not there
Still there’s no denying
Her boy’s got a pair.

It’s too delicate to touch, but beautiful to behold.
An Illuminated prayer book, from Bruges, I’ve been told.
The unknown artist carbonized vellum taken from a sheep,
Into a thing of beauty that is not mine to keep.
The images are beautiful, a celebration of the Divine,
a testament of faith from another place and time.

In the Presidential Palace, the steaks are served up seared.
There’s an excellent wine cellar for meals expertly prepared.
The Palace is cool in summer; in winter it's toasty warm,
And Maduro and his spouse are always safe and free from harm.

In the streets of Venezuela there is anger and despair.
Inflation is the problem but why should Maduro care.
The store shelves are nearly empty; most people live in fear
There is ****** done in daylight and the sense that chaos nears.

This was once a beautiful, Prosperous land, the envy of the South.
Then a populist Socialist came to drive investors out.
Now a nation, resource rich, has been importing oil,
a nation whose own oil reserves are the greatest in the world.

His critics?- dead or imprisoned; the media is controlled
There’s no term limits on his rule. Voters do as they are told.
Demonstrators, even peaceful, can be shot down in the street
While Maduro sips his wine and decides what next  he’ll have to eat.

The weathermen were not prepared,
the storm turned West towards the shore
For eighteen hours it came down
in blinding sheets three feet and more.
It buried cars, it covered streets
It weighted down branches
on the trees, it dusted roofs
It snarled the roads, The winter
storm did as it pleased

When it was done, the air was calm
a cold serene and peaceful scene.
The snow in drifts lay on the ground
as I looked upon what once was green.


Then, as whiteness overawed the earth
A single red snowdrop appeared.
It briefly touched the snow draped earth
then rose again towards heaven's sphere
then one by one, here and there
flakes disengaged and rose on high
until all the snow that was earthbound
in blinding flight had disappeared.

In a flash, the snow was gone
The fields of earth once more were green
No traces of the storm remained
like a half remembered dream.

The old man, grey, bespectacled, with difficulty, rose from his chair.
If he’d come to plead for mercy, I doubt he’d find it here.
He struggled to stand steady with his Zimmer walking frame
As he gave his testimony we all felt his sense of shame.

“I was there when all this happened; I saw the smoke rise to the sky.
I saw the piles of ashes that were once like you and I.
I counted stolen valuables; Money, watches, gold.
I dared not speak objection. I did as I was told.”

He asked for a glass of water; this much he did receive.
He testified an hour without asking for reprieve.
He spoke about those distant days we see in black and white.
Of a Germany destroyed by debt and burning for a fight.
He then was young and good with numbers
He was the bookkeeper of Auschwitz;
He can’t un-see all he did see.

Although he never shot a girl or stabbed a sleeping child,
He’d tallied up their worldly goods to add them to the pile.
When the Russians over-ran the camp, he and the others fled.
They left behind warehouses full of the possessions of the dead.
The Jury must deliberate about what punishment is due
For this ninety year old **** who kept track of baby shoes.

(On a railcar siding outside Oswiecim, Poland 12/11/1943)



Our captors did not care that we had nothing left to eat,
No blankets or warm clothing locked in this boxcar with no heat.
My old father’s face was turning grey; his hands and cheeks felt numb.
He needed somehow to get warm or else he would succumb.

Everything we had, they had taken from us, for we were “Untermenschen”.
Our tabernacles are overthrown; A disarmed people couldn't prevent them.
We had no great illusions of what our fate would be:
We would be starved and worked to death for ******’s Germany.

Something in my soul cried out; I cannot reason why.
Somehow I was determined that my father must not die.
I set about to warm him; I massaged his hands and feet.
To keep his life’s blood flowing I knew I must not sleep.

Grey morning dawned; still bitter cold, as sharp as any knife.
Our companions had all froze to death, each yielding up their life
Only we two survived the night to see another dawn.
With some envy, we surveyed our friends who now were dead and gone


Somehow I survived the camps until the Russians came.
Out of all my family, I, alone, remained.
In time I immigrated to this land, a place considered free.
Be vigilant, my children; beware repeating history.

His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.

In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.

He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.

The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.

The champ was unbeaten.
He ground his foes down.
They'd be down, looking up
at the Champ looking down.

How then to cope
with an unbeatable foe?
This cup would not pass
even if he wished it so.

He was not getting younger,
This was his last shot.
Would he be one more challenger
that history forgot?

He was no timid soul,
avoiding the chance.
He'd go down swinging.
No regrets, he would dance.

He stepped into the ring
and they stood toe to toe
They touched gloved hands together
When the bell rings, you go.

In that noted class of Sixty-one, His was not the most famous name.
Still, John Pelham served the cause until death staked its claim.

The Gallant Pelham took the field across three years of war.
It’s said he never knew defeat; Success was all he saw.

A shard of shrapnel pierced his brain that day at Kelly’s ford.
They carried his body from the field; his soul remanded to the Lord.

His leadership was sorely missed with Gallant Pelham in his grave.
Jeb Stuart paused to shed a tear for the bravest of the brave.

A cowboy in love with his horse
was convinced they should marry, of course.
They’d spent quality time roping cattle
And he was happiest when in the saddle.
“Love is Love, the high court has opined,
So why should folks deny me mine!”
The neighborhood blondes he found silly,
So he went for long rides with the fillies.
While he flirted with Pintos and Roans,
the Palomino he loved as his own.
Such idylls they spend in the bower
That he threw her a nice bridle shower.
He rented a barn as the hall
and invited his friends one and all.
While Mendelssohn is favored by most
He chose the “Call to the Post”
For their first dance he hoped they could play
“The Run for the Roses” that day.
All his plans came to naught, sad to say
When the love of his life answered” Neigh”
If an animal is your “one and only”
Better make it a sheep, not a pony!

Is hate too strong a word for what remains when Love has died?
They were for twenty years estranged before his suicide.
There he rests in his fine blue suit and his patriotic tie.
There she sits in her fine black dress ; her tears have long since dried.
Their marriage had been childless, then joyless towards the end,
Still she felt an obligation as he had no next of kin,
She handled his arrangements but his  few friends  thought it strange
Though he requested an internment, she consigned him to the flames.

So recently this earth was torn
and ripped by bomb and shell.
The smell of death is on the air,
In these trenches, silence dwells.
From these dug pits our soldiers rose
Upon the dread command
They stepped into a deadly rain
and bled a deathly pale.
For now the guns are silent.
Men died for crown and King.
Here Tommies gave up youth and life
at this place where no birds sing.

A bust of Benjamin Franklin,
Too valuable to even be dusted,
She stole from her former employer,
Thus proving she’s not to be trusted.
Authorities now have her trussed
She was nabbed with the bust-
She had busted.
She was busted with a bust
In her bag
For fingerprints
The bust will be dusted.
Busted with a busted bust on a bus?
Some people can never be trusted!

All seems quiet, peaceful,
as I flit across the meadow.
Yet, even now, the sun upon my wings
is overtook by shadow .

The wind grows strong and menacing,
and the day turns dark and odd.
Raindrops fall from heaven
like the weeping of some god.

I am a frail but living thing
determined to remain.
I must find shelter from the storm-
that much, at least, is plain.

Some say the flapping of my wings
gave birth to this mighty storm..
I’m no instrument of Chaos,
surely those who say it must be wrong.

Its far more likely that the storm
will cause my being to cease
than that the flapping of my wings
would ever mar the peace.

Was my end in my beginning?
Such thoughts are far beyond my ken.
But if my wings can cause such things
in my beginning was my end.

The town of Fukushima
is a place where few will go.
Since the reactor breached
containment
it has a sad, unhealthy glow.
The mice and bees and butterflies
Did not make their escape
High radiation levels
lead to DNA mistakes
The butterflies have shrunken wings
and other gross defects.
The high incidence of mutations
has Leipidopterists perplexed.
When they talk among themselves,
as they do from time to time,
Some blame evolution,
Some Intelligent Design.

We must have picked up the call at the same time
I heard my wife answer the phone.
The voice was a friend but the words that he said
were intended for her ears alone.

I stood in stunned silence and feeling betrayed
at the words  I heard over the phone.
There was worse yet ahead, those three words she said;
“I love you.” made me feel so alone.

Things hadn’t been good, this much I understood.
Passions can fade over time.
Daily life’s dull routine never matches the dream,
But I’d thought it no cause for alarm.

“I Love You. She said, but not for my ears.
I had not heard them for some time.
How could I miss the perfunctory kiss?
cold leftovers at dinner time.

I hung up the receiver, did they hear a click?
I wondered how long she'd have lied?
My only thought then was which one I’d **** first
And could it look like suicide.

In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.

Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.

A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.

What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.

In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.

If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.

The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.

Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..

Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the **** snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.

He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s cheek.
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.

Five by five they entered in
to the foreboding cave.
There they knelt for benediction,
the kind that pistols gave.

The cave became a charnel house
Each man shot in the head.
It reeked of blood and excrement
Flies feasted on the dead.

The carpenter fell once or twice.
Can blood for blood atone? .
His killers coveted his coat
and forced him to disrobe.

By now they had grown sloppy
with drink and hate and fear.
The first shot missed completely
The second grazed his ear.

In seconds live eternities
He said his final prayer:
“Forgive them, Father, even this
done out of hate and fear

several shots rang out just then
each found his noble head
they shot him once more, in his side
to make sure he was dead.


Explosions rocked and sealed the cave
With tons of rock and stone
They didn’t think to post a guard
The grey trucks drove back home.

If they weren’t in the Polo grounds, the drive was a home run..
Don Liddle served a meatball and Wertz swung and thought it gone.
But Willie Mays thought otherwise and raced towards the wall.
Improbably, impossibly, he caught Vic Wertz’s ball.
He turned to throw; his cap flew off, as Doby raced for third.
When Grisson relieved Liddle, Liddle quipped:” I got my man.”
That the Indians were dispirited you well can understand.
That inning turned the series as Cleveland didn’t score.
The Giants won that game in ten and swept the Tribe in four.
Of all who played the game that day, a precious few remain.
The man who made “The Catch” still lives; forever will his fame.

Hard rubber plate there in the dust
and just beyond, a mound.
With difficulty Catfish turned
and paced the muddy ground.
Even with the walker
these few steps were hard indeed.
Shoulders weak, steps faltering
from Lou Gehrig’s sad disease.

The blue sky stretched above him
so infinite and vast.
With difficulty Catfish reached
back, deep into his past.
He did not think of trophies
or recall his perfect game.
Not at all about the millions
he once got to sign his name.

He was pitching for the Yankees
against men in Dodger Blue.
The World Series game on the line
some whispered he was through
His mind recalled each move he’d made
Each strikeout pitch he threw.
In Memory the fastball’s song
still sang out loud and true.
Like an old dog fast asleep
might dream that He’s still young.
Catfish thought about the night
His last Series ring was won


Soon, too soon, he’d be relieved
of ball, of life, of game
He’ be a plaque upon the wall
down at the hall of fame.
A few more weeks
and he’d be gone-
a casualty, nothing more.
The object now of whispered prayers,
This man fans once adored.

In Whitehall stands a monument,
A column wrought in stone.
Empty as that mother’s heart
whose sons did not come home.
It bears the dates of two world wars,
And three carved words I read.
A politician’s shibboleth
About “the Glorious Dead”
Standing in November’s rain,
No glory came to mind.
Perhaps that word held meaning
in another place and time.
They have passed from living memory
those soldier boys of thine.
Now bronze reliefs and marble wreaths
Recall their deaths to mind.

This human I’ve adopted
at first seemed rather sad.
Her meals were all unhappy
in Golden Arches paper bags.
She seemed so sad and listless.
She lacked a vital spark.
That is until I convinced her
to go walking in the park.
I next began to teach her ”fetch”-
it became her favorite game
Her arm grew strong with every pitch.
She was really glad we came..
At dusk we’d walk the promenade
to watch the sun go down.
I’ve got her trained to buy for me
the finest puppy chow.
(It’s gotten so she reads my mind
without me saying “Bow”)
Yet recently I grew concerned-
she’s taken in a stray.
I think she said his name is Dave
and they hope to wed one day.
They say they both love chocolate Labs
that I brought them together.
I guess walking in that park
wasn’t altogether clever.

No one saw it coming,
that warm September day-
Not the workers at the pudding shack
Who mixed sweet treats for pay.

Not the Rookie at the pressure valves
Not the people in the town
It was the Rookies’ rank incompetence
That set in motion what went down.

Nine vats of Snack Time pudding
Exploded with a roar
Nine hundred thousand gallons
Went oozing out the door

The workers never had a chance
On this, their final day
Ending up like Easter bunnies
For a giant’s holiday

That mighty wave of chocolate.
Like a Tsunami hit the town.
Sweet creamy death swept over them
Deliciously, they drowned.

Others turned and tried to flee.
They ran for all their worth.
The swift were lucky to escape
This scrumptious hell on earth

The survivors of the snack slide
Lost all they owned in town
It was a diabetics’ *******
Everything was chocolate brown.

It was the worst snacktastrophe
Our land had ever seen.
Obama sent marines with spoons
The air force dropped whipped cream

On that first Christmas, long ago
They say a brilliant star shone forth.
It guided Magi on their way
to where the infant Jesus lay.

What was that star that shone that night?
was it a comet streaking by?
Perhaps two wanderers in the sky,
or else a star about to die.

Oh kindly light
that offered hope
You burned bright briefly
then were gone.

But a people in darkness
saw a bright new dawn
when a baby cried
that Christmas morn

In the dark, past no man’s land,
When the cold night’s wind whispered low,
We heard a most incongruous sound;
christmas carols sung by our foe.

Someone raised a flag of truce
and we met them on contested ground.
We shared our food, some cigarettes.
And  hummed along with their joyful sound.

Our fellows sang what tunes we knew-
In broken English they replied.
Together we buried our common dead
Who belonged now not to either side.

I hear in some sectors games were played.
a game of football of a sort.
Sadly it was the briefest pause
ere we resumed our deadly sport.

In years that followed no quarter was given
So bitter had our men become.
There were no songs left in our hearts.
after the slaughter of Verdun.

Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

With wild teased hair, bright orange, and wearing shoes too big,
The clown abandoned Ringling to take on a new gig.
He was not content to pay his rent, like others of his “race”,
By acting in the remake of “killer clowns from outer space”
Nor would he do kids’ parties although he is no slouch
at raising fears that will take years to solve upon a couch .

With wild teased hair, a bright red nose and makeup piled on thick,
This clown decamped to Washington to try out his new Shtick.
With Eddie Munster as his pal, new laws he would propose,
that Femes, dressed as Vaginas, would vociferously oppose.
He’d surround himself with Sycophants but will not get too far
as, unlike his former colleagues, they don’t all fit in one car.

The clown claims he can build a wall to keep out one and all,
and he has a herd of Elephants at his beck and call.
He rules our land by fiat, as delay he can’t abide
He is a textbook narcissist with an overweening pride.

Minnesota has Al Franken as a Senator of course
And, back in Roman times, the purple was worn by a horse.
So  one might say that precedents exist for this strange thing;
for a clown to wield a scepter and rule over us as king.

He did not want to join the club.
He never did apply.
When he learned about his membership,
his impulse was to cry.

With his membership came tests and fees.
The doctors bled him dry.
There were biopsies  and M.R.I's
Why me, he wondered, Why?

It seems his White blood cell count was up
while his platelet count was down.
He asked if there was any hope
but the White Coats merely frowned.

This club need not advertise
for fear that membership will drop.
New members join up every day
though all would rather not.

He worked at the War Department,
in the Munitions Ministry,
for the Bureau of Cannon Fodder
on the Condolence Committee.

“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
We regret to have to share with you
the following information….”

Passchendaele was at its height,
he’d written letters by the score.
On the Altars of Incompetence,
what’s a hundred thousand more?

It was the sort of sinecure
in which he took a certain pride:
Informing British parents
that their darling boys had died.

His department heads approved
of his selfless dedication,
recording for posterity
each man’s final destination.

Thus it was they failed to notice
when he received a telegram.
That day he went back to his flat
a changed and broken man..

When next day, his chair was empty,
and they received a  telegram,
they were grieved to be informed:
He’d died by his own hand.

“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
I regret to have to share with you
the following information….”

Its former tenant long since fled
to wherever Mollusks go..
Its’ empty shell rests on my shelf
For years that has been so.

I took it down the other day,
intending just to dust.
A mote, or something, caused a tear.
Was it perhaps, a thought of us?

We walked along the Islands shore
As old, practiced, couples do.
We found this shell half buried
And I rescued it for you.

We had a fine collection
On the shelf above our bed
Until your former flame returned
And you, like summer, fled.

Triangles are eternal
constructs pleasing to the mind
But this one proved ephemeral
being the romantic kind,

I raise the Conch Shell to my lips
And give a practiced blow.
Its low sweet song a threnody
For days of long ago

Long and passionate or short and sweet./
Old Aunt Mabel’s peck on the cheek./
French or American, it matters not/
Long and languorous I find hot/
Experienced or ingénue/
Always enjoyable and new/
Given by mistresses or/
Bestowed by Misses./
In a pinch I’ve made do
With Hershey’s
kisses!

“All Rise!”
In single file, we justices entered the court
and took our places on the bench,
before us sat the accused; these architects of death.
My eyes were drawn to just one of these men.
He looked faintly Chaplinesque.
He sat there, pale and palsied, along with Goering and the rest.
He had been captured in Bavaria. ****** had thought to flee
to his friends in South America, forsaking Germany.

Perhaps he thought the World would forget,
and thus absolve him of his crimes.
Now he faced the specter of the rope;
There was no thought of ****** serving time.
That was the likely fate of some of these men,
Men like Donitz, Speer and Hess.
Such men could age behind grey walls
And live out lifetimes of regret.

Not for ******, their Fuhrer, for him only death sufficed.
Though we would follow the forms of Justice,
Most would vote to **** him twice.
Perhaps his neck would be snapped by a rope
on some cold grey future date.
Perhaps a simple firing squad
would be Herr ******’s fate.
Perhaps he’d get a bar of soap
and a threadbare linen towel.
then hear the hiss of Zyklon B
in the chambers he had styled.

I wondered how it came to this.
He’d had the means and time.
To put a pistol in his mouth
And atone for all his crimes.
He’d been fleeing from the Russians
when he fell into allied hands.
Those soldiers had shown great restraint,
their sergeant great command.
Now the little corporal sits in the dock,
attentive to every word.
We each now have our part to play
in the theatre of the absurd.

Scottish single malts are loved by fans here and abroad.
Some folks will pay a fortune for rare bottles they can hoard.
Whenever a commodity becomes as rare as gold,
there always will be criminals with profit as their goal.
They'll find an empty bottle and forge tax stamps for it too
and fill it up with Canadian Club, a far far lesser brew!
Then, when the fraud's discovered, Scotland Yard is called
to find the perpetrators and to hang them by the *****.
A detective of a certain sort can discern what bottles hold.
by looking at, in certain light, the subtle shades of gold.
He'll need to know which revenue stamps are fraudulent or true.
If the contents are suspicious he must taste them , wouldn't you?
" I'm thinking this is Jameson's, Not Macallan's malt so pure.
but I'll take another glass or two to be absolutely sure."

The battlefield was a moonscape; craters here and there.
They were grateful to find cover, what with snipers everywhere.
Jack and his buddies hunkered down despite the cold and wet .
Time to share a cigarette and give voice to their regrets.

Jimmy  left a girl back home he'd planned to make his wife.
Arthur came from money; once home he's set for life.
There was this one small problem; the foe still in the field.
Human flesh cannot resist the penetrating steel.

Jack imagined being home, once the war was through.
His girl was not some beauty Queen, but at least her heart was true.
All around their sinecure the guns, like thunder, roared.
Jack felt the terror clutch his throat, and he'd been scared before.

That was where we found them, in that cratered pit.
At least they all died quickly, slaughtered by a lucky hit.
Our Sarge would add their dog tags to others he had found.
Western Union made a nice  profit here upon this battleground.

King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.


King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.

Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.

The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.

The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***.
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?

Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.

I remember the night we made camp
There on the Sands outside Giza.
The desert air turned cool beneath the stars
As we coupled before the
jealous eyes of the Sphinx.

The Great Pyramid fairly shone
bathed in moonlight.
We thought we were being discreet,
That only the stars saw our pleasure
But the cold eyes of the sphinx saw us too
And she must have sworn a vendetta.

In the valley of the Kings
There was rumor of a tomb.
A tomb untouched by robbers’ hands
My love, Selene, and I
Would enter and there behold.
The face of a pharaoh, a boy,
rendered forever in gold.

There must be some rational reason
For the cough Selene developed soon after.
Like some delicate flower she wilted.
Some virus had strangled her laughter

We didn’t know then of the curse
How could we; we hadn’t been told.
My darling Selene would soon die
And I ,too,  would never grow old.

You know my face yet forget my name,
but then, it’s for my roles I’m known.
I’ve spend a lifetime in the game.
Now, in the shadows, I am alone
I’ve lived perhaps a hundred lives-
on film, yet failed to live my own.
A stranger to my flesh and blood
whose children won’t pick up the phone.
I remember that it used to ring
Back when my acting won acclaim.
For years the star was on my door,
I slept with starlets, drank Champagne.
Now my Cancer bites within
and I take pills to mask the pain.
There will be no more roles for me
Though I could make a passable Lear;
Hear me raving in the storm
but it’s a waste with no Fool near.
For me there will be no happy ending.
Each painful breath is such a chore.
I won praise for my “authenticity”
But Love wound up on the cutting room floor.

She is there and you are there,
The mood and time seem right.
Be sure your heart is healthy enough!
Know what Science brings to light.
Kissing someone like you mean it
makes hearts race as passion soars.
The work hearts do in minutes
can be multiplied by four.
They say that life is shortened
by each amatory kiss.
We work our tickers overtime
When we osculate like this.
Note I’m not urging abstinence
As that would be a crime.
Just, when kissing like you mean it,
Make sure she’s worth your time.

It was seen from a distance,
the oncoming beast.
Surely faith's fragile Armour
would shield you at least?
If, in the encounter,
it's no help at all-
The problem, my dear,
is your god is too small.

The cosmos is a vast
and curious place
Our comings and goings-
machinations of fate.
He who is , He the master,
The soul of it all
He is past comprehension
and your god is too small.

There' a man on a cross
on the hospital wall.
Crucifixions take place
every day in it's halls.
Life's last little drama
in which ripeness is all..
Faith can move mountains
if your god's not too small.

I've seen good men suffer
with His name on their lips.
Their cups didn't pass
as the nurses changed shifts.
I wouldn't conclude
faith has no place at all.
Just sometimes, in extremis,
our god is too small

Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!

In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.

Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.

Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.

In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.

A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.

One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.

We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.

We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.

The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.

Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.

I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.

We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.

Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!

Five minutes together
before the bell rings.
What can I say
to make her heart sing.
Here are blondes and brunettes,
short ones and tall.
All of us single-
seeking dates for the ball.
Speed dating's a challenge,
the whole thing a blur
Does she root for my team?
Do I play on hers?
the little ones cute
and I do like her smile.
Some minutes are shorter
when your dating speed style.
I look back in longing
she catches my eye.
Now I'm stuck with a Red head
who looks like a guy.
It's all musical chairs
matching circles with squares.
Just who is the maiden
who can answer all prayers?

For years the burdens had built up,
on rods and brace and wood,
as Mother purchased suits and shoes
for each sale seemed so good.
Her credit cards were overtaxed,
(But she loved those rewards),
So of Course Black Friday found her shopping,
adding to her hoard.
Her selves were packed with memories;
sales too good to ignore.
I heard her scream
As everything
Came crashing to the floor.
Her injuries were minor
For this I thank the Lord
But replacement closets aren't cheap-
My wallet will be gored.
I wish she would discard some stuff
She hasn't worn in years.
I fear I lack the fortitude
To dry so many tears..
She’s been a faithful friend it’s true
I love her for the world,
It just takes some getting used to-
living with a material girl.

Published December 01, 2013

I saw her just the other day, a most familiar sight.
The Lady in the Harbor, holding her torch alight.
At her feet a poet’s words; some sentiments concerning Liberty:
a welcome to all immigrants yearning to breathe free.

These days we take a different tack, the welcome is withdrawn.
That Lady in the Harbor grows distant and forlorn.
The grand-kids of the immigrants she greeted in her day
Have hatched a plan designed to keep such Riff- Raff far away.

Then this morning I looked out and Liberty was gone,
Her place of honor empty: just her pediment of stone.
The Lady has returned to France; the reason? Sadly clear:
Liberty has figured out she’s no longer welcome here.

It was sticky hot and humid in Ferguson that Saturday.
Just another weekend where the little leagues would play.
I was riding unit 25 looking out for petty crime.
My units' radio sputtered to life: "shots fired on Canfield drive."
" Officer in need of assistance"

We just didn't arrive in time.

I recognized the body, my colleague and close friend.
Darren Wilson was shot six times, the last time in the head.
His service piece was missing. The shooter had fled the scene.
I called for a bus and backup and radioed what I had seen.
We then secured the crime scene as it drew a silent crowd.
Detectives looked for any clues and canvased the homes around.
No witness would come forward, either out of fear or dread.
"His new wife is now a widow." my disgusted partner said.
Darren face was badly bruised as he lay there in the sun.
I surmised he'd been assaulted in the struggle for his gun.
The coroner sighed and shook his head at the body on the gurney.
He'd perform an autopsy on my friend before his final journey.

The score was one dead man in blue, his murderer still free.
The streets that night were quiet, as I suspected they would be.
There was no public outcry at the killing that was done.
Blue lives never matter to a town like Ferguson.

I remember the morning sky so blue. The air was crisp and clear.                              
Days like that are all too few
With autumn drawing near.

I remember the first report of a plane.
The details weren't precisely clear.
The proof that  it was no accident
Very shortly would appear.

The mother of my children worked
Right there across the street.
Communication proved impossible
When we most needed to; it was impossible to speak.


I saw the smoke from fires rise
From my vantage miles away.
Men died whom I had just met
A scant few days before.

We watched footage in an endless loop
As planes crashed and the towers fell.
Lost was a beautiful late summers day.
Transformed by hate to a vision from hell.
  
We watched as search and rescue changed
To search and recovery.
Sixteen years have passed. Still the fate of some is a mystery.

That was the day we lost.
It's memory still makes me cry.
The day death came for so many
Out of a clear blue sky.