The army had revolted and the Republic was at risk,
But we were just a small town- what had we to do with this?
My father, Manuel Robles, was a labor Union man.
Some called him a Communist; only now I understand.

The army had a list of men whose loyalty was suspect
And when the civil war broke out they came for them direct.
They took him, and some others, and lined them up against a wall.
It was then I heard the volley and I watched my Father fall.

They checked upon their handiwork, I cannot forget the face
Of the officer who used his pistol to give  the coup de grace.
The piled the corpses on their truck and, laughing, drove away.
All were  buried in a common grave to wait the Judgement day.

I stared in speechless horror at the blood soaked, thirsty ground
and at the pock marks in that wall caused by some misspent rounds.
There was no judge, no jury, no verdict, nor decree.
They killed a dozen unarmed men ; that was their victory

They slaughtered my dear padre without a second thought.
I would not go so easily; there are others, too, who fought.
Now Franco has my country and I’ve had to flee from Spain.
My heart is with my Father’s bones. I carry on his name.

I knew it without knowing; I cannot tell you why.
I sensed that this would be the day that we would say goodbye.
The doctor in in lab coat had played this scene before.
He used the term “metastasis “as he told me the score.
I asked if I could be with you as you faced the end
He said “of course, it’s better if the pet is with their friend.
He promised me there’d be no pain; just a pinch and then
My Labrador would drift to sleep and to his final end.
I kept a brave face for Boots sake; He shouldn’t see me cry.
The hardest part of having a pet is the day we say goodbye.

There is a day, and not far off,
when we will say goodbye.
I do not have the choice of when
Or where or how or why,
There is a day not too far off
when we must say goodbye.
I can’t pretend that it won’t hurt
And I suspect you’ll cry.
Please let me with my parents sleep
upon that nearby hill.
Remember that I loved you well
And I’ll be with you still.

Someday the songs that we have loved
will not be played on air.
Music belongs to the young,
not the old with greying hair.
As we boomers file retirement,
or pass beyond the vale,
our boast that rock would never die
is past its date of sale.
Its' hard to do the hustle
when your hips no longer hop
When dementia runs epidemic
more than lyrics are forgot.
When your sitting in the Nursing Home
awaiting your ice cream.
You'll most likely be listening
to someone Else's teenage dream.

We were in orbit around Titan
when old Sol breathed her last.
The yellow dwarf began to swell
burning off the last of her hydrogen gas.

We wept as Sol expanded out
And swallowed up her young
All the rocky planets died
swallowed by the Sun.

Everyone I’d ever loved,
In a twinkling, were consumed
And every place on Earth I’d known
shared in their day of doom.

Our modest crew, the remnant
of all Eve’s progeny.
Set our course to a nearby star
to seek our destiny.

The day was dry and hot,
with not a breath of air.
His uniform was loosely fit,
The pinstripes, number 4.
Lou Gehrig was the “Iron Horse”
but an iron horse no more.

ALS had robbed him of his strength,
and now moved in for the ****.
Most thought, at first, he would not speak.
That he didn’t have the skill.
But all there remembered what he said
And I think I always will.

He considered himself “the Luckiest man”
Despite the” bad break” he got.
An immigrant’s son who hit it big
and shined in the spotlight.

Lou passed away within two years.
The Stadium, too, is gone.
We’re not the Country we were then
America has moved on.

But on this Independence Day
I’ll stand where Gehrig stood.
There used to be a ballpark here
and a hero kind and good.

****** Smily Face by billyraines08



This one, to her, seemed different.
She seldom met artistic Huns..
She thought his little mustache cute,
his smile, a winning one.
With charcoal he made sketches
when his duties were all done.

A man, she thought, of courage.
He wore the iron cross.
It was a time of hell on earth-
so many young lives lost


Perhaps her judgment was impaired
by the alcohol that she consumed.
The sixteen year old French girl
took Adolf ****** to her room.

In time she gave birth to a child,
a ******* if ever was one.
A boy they named Jean Marie Loret-
The Devil’s only son

These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
perhaps not all of you has died.
Here in print your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.

The people regrettably frown
on Congress men with their pants down.
Poor ****** was caught in a lie
concerning unzipping his fly.
Despite having just wed his bride
****** wanted some on the side.
Now both sides of the aisle are atwitter
that his twee-tie was a babysitter.
He gave poor Ms Pelosi a fright
when she saw that he hangs to the right.
He looks in your eyes when he lies
but I doubt anyone is surprised
He was known as a distinguished member
now a registered ****** offender

The first taste of Fall
made the young sapling fret.
“My leaves, once were green,
Now the cold turns them red.”
“Now look, how they fall,
How they clutter the ground.
and now I’m bare naked
My leaves are all down!”


I sympathize tree, really, I do.
I once had a full head of hair
much like you.
First it went grey
when it used to be brown.
Then I, too, got denuded
And now sport a bare crown.
But you, by this Spring,
Will be back in your glory,
But the hair I once had?
That’s a much different story.

There is a place on Goree isle-
It's call the house of slaves.
A port of call for slaver ships
whose crews no saint could save.
The captives of defeated tribes
here caught last sight of home.
Borne down by chains on
feet and wrists, crowded yet alone
All would pass one portal-
the door of no return.
Into the holds where many died
and more wished for the same.
They'd lose their language and their kin
and any hope of home.
They'd find a place beneath the loam
they'd work a lifetime long.
Stronger than the Indians
whites worked until they died
Their labors built a Country
in which they took little pride.
Yet they knew the day was coming ,
in the year of Jubilee,
When the shackles would be stricken off
and once more they would be free,

I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.

It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.

I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.

On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
Surprised I was when it gave way
I entered in the Bursars room
and heard your voice just down the hall.

For sure, twas you.
I'd know that voice
if all the world should pass away
I made my way towards your voice
anticipating ecstasy.

A joyful union there awaits
to hold you once more in my arms
life beyond death to be united
with you so many years since gone.

I entered then into the room
in hopes that she I loved was there.
This was the place where we first met
a place where, sadly, none appeared.

A wistful smile, a final glance
from your poor poet of Romance.
too much a dreamer, most would say,
as I closed the door to yesterday

I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.

It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.

I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.

On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
Surprised I was when it gave way
I entered in the Bursars room
and heard your voice just down the hall.

For sure, twas you.
I'd know that voice
if all the world should pass away
I made my way towards your voice
anticipating ecstasy.

A joyful union there awaits
to hold you once more in my arms
life beyond death to be united
with you so many years since gone.

I entered then into the room
in hopes that she I loved was there.
This was the place where we first met
a place where, sadly, none appeared.

A wistful smile, a final glance
from your poor poet of Romance.
too much a dreamer, most would say,
as I closed the door to yesterday

His eyes are glazed with cataracts; these days he seldom speaks.
He’d choke if not for thickeners his nurse puts in his drinks.
The Amyloid has run amok, like weeds that spread and climb,
His intellect is overthrown; He’s trapped within his mind.

Alzheimer’s started subtly. He’d forget a place or name.
He’d wander through his rooms at home, uncertain why he came.
His wits became befuddled; he gave up his keys to drive.
He’d wander off without his coat; it’s a wonder he’s alive.

His world grew gradually smaller, snared in a web of fear.
Frustrated by his loss of self, he’d shed many wordless tears.
Now he is in hospice and he hasn’t got much time.
His body, too, is failing him. He’s already lost his mind.

Old memories are stirred in him, treasures he can’t speak.
He imagines himself young and strong; not old senile and weak.
His lips curl in a toothless smile and I can only pray
That in his tangled mind he’s found the door to yesterday.

A brilliant Profusion-
in death, leaves are proud!
(No Pharoah or King
have enjoyed such a shroud.)
They flutter on downward
upon the stiff breeze.
collecting in piles
nearly up to my knees.
The rasping of rakes
is a familar fall sound.
An unwanted tribute
I collect from the ground.

Seated, secured, awaiting our ride;
Brave on the outside, frightened inside.
The old wooden coaster cranks and it creaks..
It lifts us towards heaven, pushed back in our seats.
The first drop, deceptive, elicits few cries
Then, at a gallop, we’re hurled down from the sky.
Over and under we’re shaken and stirred.
We regret having lunch but we don’t say a word.
I’m glad you’re beside me, my most faithful friend
The ride comes to a stop and we both say “Again!”

For its joys and terrors few rides can compete.
The Rye Dragon Coaster has seldom been beat.
Some are newer; some faster; if you wish you can try
Still, first Loves are special and must not be denied

Her fingers are good, she can sew, she can thread.
She has time on her hands, now that her husband is dead.
Lillian Weber is past ninety nine,
she’s on her last mission in a race against time.
She makes dresses for young girls that she’ll never meet;
colorful frocks for the African heat.
Her goal is one thousand dresses, so fine,
by the day that she’ll celebrate for the 100th time.

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

He rides his black steed through the countryside
and whenever he stops a mortal man dies.
He’s the Angel of Death and worthy of dread;
dressed all in black and lacking a head.
In his left hand is a spine that he’ll use as a whip.
In his right hand a scythe that will cut to the quick.
If you chance to observe him you may be struck blind
and still think yourself lucky that he left you behind.
If he pulls on the reins and he finds you outdoors
Your heart will stop dead and will beat nevermore.
There are buckets of blood where the Dullahan rides.
On all Hallows Eve you had best be inside.

The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.

They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.

Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.

Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.

Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..

Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.

The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..


They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.

The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire

Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.

There are, in truth, few beauties can compare
to you, my lady, when you care to smile.
Even now, you, with downcast eyes,
are self possessed with grace and matchless style.
Your Father’s disgrace and untimely fall
has dimmed your light into a shade of blue.
No look or touch of mine can ease your pain;
my words, inadequate, to comfort you.
If there is, in beauty, truth, I can’t recall
I am experienced, Love, in most things-
but not all.

If India and Pakistan
disagree to disagree
and the missiles begin flying
is there anyplace to flee?
Whole divisions of their armies
will be vanished, vaporized.
It is not only combatants that
will face death from the sky.
Ten million souls will met their end
within a half an hour.
Some twenty millions more
will be sickened by its power.
A cloud of ash will rise above
and block the sun from shining.
Winter will be premature
and soon the crops are dying.
A quarter of the human race
dead of famine and disease.
Please fellows, put your toys away
I beg you from my knees.

Their leader was incompetent,
well-meaning but untried.
He lead his men into a trap
Then fled and let them die.

The Indian and British troops
Were outnumbered by Khan’s men
When their artillery was silenced
It was clear how it would end.

The soldiers of the Sixty Sixth
fought gallantly to the death.
When they turned to make their final stand
There were eleven left.

With sword and lance and cartridge
They battled hopeless odds.
On the dusty plain of Maiwand
They would, shortly, meet their God.

When their ammo was exhausted
They decided steel would do.
They charged then, in the face of death.
those men, so proud, too few.

When the last of them lay in the dust
having fought to their last breath.
The Khan himself paid them respect
For they had earned their rest..

Lord Elgin of Britain, that perfidious thief,
robbed Greece of its heritage, its marble reliefs.
The Parthenon stripped of its decorative stone,
a victim of rapine stands forlorn and alone.
Phidias’ statues, rendered so fine,
Are lifelike and glorious for now and all time.
The British museum houses the collection
Which Elgin purloined while avoiding detection.
Greece, more than most, has been robbed of its past
By ephemeral empires who thought they would last.
Now that the sun sets on the imperial throne
Isn’t it time that those Marbles went home?

This is my last year teaching, here, at Columbine.
I’ll be leaving Colorado and these bad memories far behind..
The kids come into homeroom and each year it’s the same.
The seat where Eric Harris sat is one that’s never claimed.

I guess, as High School massacres rank, others , since, were worse.
We suffer notoriety because we were the first.
The names and faces of the dead still haunt me in my sleep.
I had the charge to keep them safe; a charge I failed to keep.

Eric was intelligent; in a different place and time,
He might have found a better use for his creative mind.
But he was often bullied; I had  failed to intervene.
Some say he thirsted for revenge both brutal and obscene.

On April twentieth of Ninety nine, he and Dylan came here late.
Eric warned one friend to flee; to stay was a mistake.
I heard the first shots fired and saw bodies hit the floor.
They headed for the library.  I hid and locked the door.

I confess I was a coward; I was no hero born to save
Those young and beautiful children destined for an early grave.
I hid, as many others did, and cringed at every blast,
As youthful dreams were shattered and this day became their last..


In the end they died as suicides. Their crude bombs had failed to blow.
Had their plot been a complete success- we’d all have died, I know.
Instead I’ve lived with my regrets, my shame and my despair;
haunted always by my guilt and Eric’s empty chair.

I woke up before dawn with my eye whites ****** red.
The fierce pounding in my skull made me wish that I were dead.
My lips are cracked, my throat is parched, my mouth is desert dry.
I can't remember much about last night, no matter how I try.


I had misplaced my childhood faith that I had gained through my baptism.
As a teen I seized on alcohol as my replacement ism.
There the spirit was available to all who had the price
With services held daily as habit turned to vice.

I have slept at times in gutters when the weather wasn’t cold.
I have ****** on strangers lawns near taverns where my drug is sold.
I have gotten into fistfights, the kind that no one wins.
My family doesn’t want a son who drinks and reeks of gin.

Tonight I took a seat in a church basement for a change.
I’ll spill out all my secrets.   A sponsorship will be arranged.
I know I’ve hit rock bottom and that will be my foundation
I hope my new  friend  Bill W. will lead me to salvation.

Our house this night is full of life,
both kids up in their rooms.
We're safe and warm from the harrowing storm
with its lightening streaks and booms.
Yet soon I know, both have to go,
to school, to work, to life.
Then this will be an empty nest
with just me and my wife.


How do birds feel, when, freshly fledged,
their young depart forever.
Do they sing more somberly
when the chicks are not together?
We're creatures of habit, like those birds
I see when we're in the park.
I'll catch myself gazing up the stairs
when both their rooms are dark.

There was a quiet, then, between them
as if neither one dared speak.
One wished to be decisive
out of fear of being weak.

The tension was unbearable
The stress was off the chart.
Her crystal dream was shattered
by this Rogue's unfaithful heart

Let there be no tears in this-
time ,later, enough to weep.
We both know well whose fault this is;
Let just admit defeat.

She walked away in silence
with nary a glance behind.
He sentenced to do penance
for all the rest of time.

We the People have an enemy
But it isn’t who you think:
It is not the Liberal Printers
with their paper and their ink.

It is not protestors in the street
Who wear pink p*ssy hats-
No, the enemy of the People
is not as obvious as that.

The enemy of the people
is no social media link.
He’s not some homeless vagabond
adorned with tattoo ink.

He is the oaf who took an oath
To Preserve ,Protect, Defend
The very basic liberties
He would subvert and suspend.

So if you seek the enemy
You vain and pompous ***
You will very likely find him
In a West Wing looking glass

It's invisible,seemingly inevitable.,
but its not the price of sin.
Its a lethal air borne virus-
it's the enemy within.

Now every sneeze or sniffle
must be  greeted with alarm.
Is it just my allergies
or will I soon be gone?

It's not a visible miasma
we see wafting on the air
and if you suffer from asthma
you must especially take care.

For now there are no handshake deals.
You can forget about a hug.
Just pray for our deliverance-
For a vaccine or a drug.

It lives in the darkness; it feeds on despair.
Once ensconced in reason’s castle
It proclaims the brain its’ lair.
Subtle at first; then it grows more aggressive
Your memories are stolen and your words become guesses.
We cut burn and poison, but as yet there’s no cure.
A date with Death’s Angel is all but assured.
Pandora ’s Box unleashed on us a world of pain and fear.
Hope remains our lone defense for all that we hold dear.

He's paid his dues for far too long,
singing other people's songs.
For so long that he's forgotten
the voice that was his own.

Now in crowded bars
and seedy cafes
he plays the tunes
He thinks will pay.
His big break wasn't yesterday
nor will it come tomorrow.

Now he drinks alone, in silence,
of the waters of regret.
His old six stringed companion
is the one true friend still left.

He Had a gift they used to say,
and so he traveled to L.A.
Here he's still singing "Yesterday"
with a genuine dash of sorrow.

I didn’t know what the excitement was all about; being just a boy.
I thought my mother was taking me to see some harlot,
caught in the act of adultery,******.
Instead we left the city gates and climbed up Golgotha,
where three executions were taking place.
The sky was grey, foreboding, the wind tasted of rain.
I looked upon the three condemned, engaged in a cruel game.
Hanging, arms outstretched on crosses ,struggling to rise to take each breath.
I saw this was a losing battle; soon fatigue would stake its claim.
My mother said that two were thieves, caught in the act , condemned.
The other was a blasphemer; a crown of thorns upon his head.
(Strange for the Romans to take an interest in him,.
stoning to death a much more usual remedy for sin.)
The condemned were naked to the sky as they struggled and began to die.
The one they called the Rebbe called out
In words that gave my heart a chill.
Then he slumped in Death’s embrace
And all about was still.
The sky grew dark and the Earth beneath us shook.
My mother hurried me away from there then.
I didn’t stay to see his friends take his body down from the cross
But yes, yes, I was there the day they crucified my Lord.

Always lurking in the shadows where fear and loathing grows,
Cancer never has a face until it takes someone you know.
You see good days and bad days, from now until the end,
When  Cancer makes a shadow of a loved one or a friend.
Platelets are important, and anemia threatens too,
as Oncologists and their ilk are radiating you.
Chemotherapy and surgery; the physicians cut and burn,
The cost of all these treatments? - Every penny that you’ve earned.
If lucky, she will make it through and be called a survivor.
If unlucky, there’s a DNR and they will not revive her.

Politicians speak about "The Fallen",
Our dear departed servicemen*
Its a nasty euphemism
for the Legion of our dead.
For they did not gently flutter down
like leaves of gold and brown.
They were raked by foes' machines guns
as they fought to take some ground.
  They've met slaughter on the beaches,
been slain on distant mountainsides.
They've been sacrificed, quite needlessly,
for some Politicians' pride
Many a mother's heart's been broken
Widows and orphans have been made.
Political Stupidity has dug many a grave.
So don't speak about "the Fallen",
you who haven't borne the fight.
You've never paid the butcher's bill
so what gives you the right?

You see me suspended in space-time
as I’m passing the 89th floor
Falling headlong, my form is impressive.
Sadly, no one will be holding up scores.
Just moments ago I was standing
at a Morton’s Fork in the road:
The fires of hell were advancing
where I stood on the 98th Floor.
Well can you imagine my terror
when I came face to face with the flames.
I don’t know why I chose as I did;
Souls in torment can never explain.
The day of my death predetermined,
but which death would provide me less pain?.
My choice, which was no “choice” at all
was to smash through the window and fall.
Then the only thing that could “save” me
was the camera that captured it all

In the streets, broad and narrow, of Republican Rome,
when Cicero, togate, called the Forum his home,
there was sly innuendo and sarcastic wit.
Court was quite entertaining with those advocates.

In the Senate, gridlock was rampant those days
the Boni, content with conservative ways,
Would block legislation and seek to destroy
The populist leaders who held mobs enthralled.

The realm grew too large, the Republic too small,
And Civil War was declared and great Pompey did fall.
Then Caesar was slain and violence started anew
and the laws became silent as often they do.

Exhausted, at last, many principals slain,
Caesar Augustus the power reclaimed.
There still was a Senate in Empire Rome
But form is not substance, the Republic was gone.

Now Rome had an emperor to worship and fear.
Change happened quickly, the fruits of despair,
When the dust had all settled
a Monarch ruled there.

Necessity is acknowledged
as invention's Mother,  sure,
but exactly who the father was
is a matter of conjecture.

Dark draped the Ferry in confusion
on its final, fatal night.
Survivors spoke of a collision.
They knew that something wasn’t right.
A class of students on a trip
Bound for Jeju from Incheon
The Ferryman said to stay below
but he debarked and they’re all gone.
The ferry Sewol began to list
and water poured in through her ports.
Will anyone present forget the screams?
Souls in torment fill their thoughts.
Search and rescue soon became
a sad and grim recovery.
Their final moments were caught on cellphones
recovered from the silted sea.
The Ferryman has much to answer
About those students left behind
Perhaps in dreams he will be haunted
as young  drowned faces flood his mind.

She stood with her sister by the edge of the sea.
The song the surf sang was of eternity.
She thought back to the times they had come here before;
as children, with their mother here down at the shore.
The cry of a gull made her look to the sky
and the thought of their mother brought a tear to her eye.
She held in her arms the urn filled with ash,
Here to honor the wish Mom had made in the past.
She knelt in wet sand at the edge of the shore
And the cremains were scattered on the foam evermore.
The leaden low cloud cover then yielded to the sun;,
The warmth dried her tears and she felt overcome.
Never more would she enter her mother’s embrace;
Never more hear her voice or behold her kind face.
Sister offered a hand and she favored one knee,
as the waves took her offering into the sea.
The waves roared their blessing, but all she heard there
were only the echoes of her unanswered prayers.

Once he floated; now he stumbles, he struggles for each breath.
It’s like the rumble in the jungle but Ali has little left.
His opponent is relentless, stalking him around the ring.
Is it Liston? Is it Foreman? Who has come to box the king?
Judging from the foe’s ferocity – is the specter Smoking Joe?
Ali does his best to counter his opponent’s crushing blows.
His eyes are nearly swollen shut, but the boxer never cries.
Who thought that Death would come for him in this macabre disguise?
He tries to dance but falters; feeling weakness in his knees.
He feels the K.O. coming as he’s succumbing by degrees.
Ali tumbles to the canvas, he hears the count begin.
but in the bout with Death you never hear the man count "Ten"

When Whitman wrote his "Leaves of Grass"
he was a man before his time.
Just ten years - the span of his career-
before he wrote his final line.
He never asked to have the gift
he could not un-see what he saw.
His sensibilities were formed
in the crucible of civil war.
He wrote beautifully of loss
in words that he was proud to sign.
Now I too know how he felt
as he approached the finish line

I was taken by surprise
when her Dad handed me the keys..
“I have a meeting in the City,
Could your drive her to school for me”
That day I had not thought to drive,
My own “K” car was in the shop.
I was having the rear brakes replaced
because sometimes I like to stop.
My car was an econobox
but for my purpose fine.
His car was a Red Firebird-
Top down, top of the line.
The day was clear and drenched with sun-
The perfect top down day.
We waved goodbye as Barb and I
pulled out and on our way.
We heard something from Stravinsky
On her father’s Classics station
As we drove across the Bridge
to her college destination.
The Cross Bronx, unexpectedly,
was light of cars that day.
Traffic on the Bronx River
seemed to yield us right of way.
I pulled in near Bathgate Avenue
And gave my girl a kiss.
I would have liked to linger
But that final she couldn’t miss.
The engine gave a gentle purr
on my return trip down.
I met up with her father
And he dropped me off back home.
With both hands in my pockets,
I watched as he drove off.
The car would prove a classic,
The girl proved, alas, aloof.

Operation Meetinghouse was launched and underway,
Each Super-fortress stripped of all but tail guns for the day.
We came in fast; we came in low, let darkness shield our flight.
Within our bays the bomblets lay to set the Nips alight.

I heard them at a distance, a large incoming flight,
Inexorable and frightening; like Death approaching Life.
I awakened my old mother, took my small child by the hand.
I fled down towards the river, as the first bombs shook the land.

The night was clear and windy and our bombers cut a swathe
of death, fire and destruction through their capital that night.
Their homes of wood and paper were quickly set alight.
We could smell the people burning. We flew so low that night.

Shitamachi was on fire and the high winds helped them spread.
The fire crews were overwhelmed and quickly joined the dead.
The thick smoke made it hard to breathe, old mother couldn’t stand.
The horrors that we saw that night were like tales of the dammed.




Our fuselage of silver reflects their dying light.
Our losses are acceptable; few planes are lost this night.
Flying in formation, we bank right and turn to go
The skyline of the city flickers with a hellish glow.

I walk the ruined streets of home in dawn’s uncertain light.
I hold my small child by the hand, old mother died last night.
We have no home, nowhere to go, I stare in helpless shock
At charred cars and blackened corpses on what used to be our block.

The General is ecstatic and enjoying his cigar;
our losses few, their suffering great, the fortunes of the war.
Tokyo lies in ruins from the fires set that night
How fortunate God is on our side and we are always right.

He ,wounded, lay in no man's land
fearful to crawl fro or back.
He'd wait for darkness to try his luck
and hoped the Huns would not attack.
Something was needed to pass the time
He reached his hand into his sack
Aeschylus, in the original Greek,
He read with pleasure
until night turned black
In the Attic tongue he was well honed
and so he never felt alone.

It was on this day in Thirty one,
That our City got this present;
A Douglas fir, nearly 20 feet,
in Rockefeller Center.
Just simple workmen giving thanks-
Not a single one percenter!

There was just a hint of tinsel
and no lights upon that tree.
Tiffany did not mold Glass stars
for common folks to see.
On that Inauguration day
No speeches certainly.

The stand was simply two by fours
Formed in a simple cross
The Evergreen a symbol
of Everlasting life, of course.
A tiny hint of sacred
amidst Secularity.

Those were dark days in our nation
with so many in distress.
Was it faith or Optimism
The workers were trying to express?
Perhaps they are one and the same
Just in a different dress.


Tonight we light a grander tree
And the mayor makes a speech.
These are days when a better life
seems just beyond our reach.
No longer called a Christmas tree,
Divorced now from that Faith
I feel like something precious died
And we’re left with just the Wraith.

There's this dance they do in Washington
whenever Debt's head rears..
It's called the "Fiscal Chicken"
They've performed it now for years.
With a Jiggle to the Right
and a wobble to the left
They kick the can on down the road
I can't say that I'm impressed.
The rotund in the Rotunda
Scream and shout and hop about.
Some claim that they will hold the line
deceiving the devout.
Don't let their moves distract you-
We all know whose Ox gets gored-
As Mister Ryan postures
and as the Donald roars.
If we manage somehow to save
they want it in their paws.
Like inebriated White men
They flail and shake their rears
The only moves they have result
from drinking too much beer..

She was not your typical everyday giant
she was neither jolly or green.
Instead she was a many faceted diamond
hard because she needed to be hard
Brilliant, just because she was brilliant
Her keen intellect had a laser focus.
She gave life to many a little girl's dreams.


She was our five foot giant
and somehow it doesn't seem right
that she'll be replaced by a pygmy.

It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.

I remember the flowers you wore in your hair
when you were my bride at nineteen.
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some boys to despair
on the day that you married with me.
Your sweet song of youth left no need for a proof
Of how happy together we’d be.

I remember the flowers you held in your hands
On our tenth anniversary day;
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some men to despair
to think that your hand wasn’t free.
The red blush of your lips as you turned for a kiss
Said no man was more happy than me.

I remember the rosary they placed in your hands
On the day that Death took you, I keened.
It seemed but a moment since you were my bride
And I was a groom of nineteen

All the flowers so rare that they piled on you bier
Both my sisters said they were lovely
I scarcely saw colors with eyes filled with tears
And the blooms held no fragrance for me.

I tend now the flowers that grow by your stone
Their fragrance reminds me of you.
I long for the day the Lord calls me away
And I’ll be reunited with you