The room was dark at midday when Yogi breathed his last.
His brain, now starved for oxygen, went searching through his past.
Did he recall the shores of France back when he was nineteen?
Or think upon those rings he’d won with those great 50’s teams?
Dying, his mind searched frantically, jumping from place to place
Here was Larsen’s perfect game where he jumped and they embraced.
There was that heated argument when Robinson stole home.
Then the pain and anger when Steinbrenner sent him home.
Yet as these memories dissolved within his dying mind,
He finally found the peace he sought; his Carmen, good and kind.
He took her hand and they embraced on the shore of a moonlit sea.
Yogi’s gone. Now the future isn’t what it used to be.

We walked up to the Fun House,
Together, arm in arm.
The ticket taker watched us
with a smile devoid of charm.
"abandon hope, who enter here."
He mirthlessly intoned.
" For some who come together,
will end this night alone."
We walked among the mirrors,
together hand in hand.
At first they were quite innocent,
These walls made out of sand.
Our images were stretched or shrunk
as magic mirrors can.


Then we came to mirrors
unlike the ones before:
My face resembled Satan's,
My girl looked like a *****.
We were somehow seperated
by these walls of molten sand
We ran from that place screaming
like two souls who had been dammed.

We were reduced to silence
by the nightmares that we saw.
Not a word was spoken
as I walked her to her door.
The ticket man had spoken
and the words he spoke were true:
We had spent that time in Hell,
The love we had was through.

The scientist was first on stage,
Then came his Geminoid.
The family resemblance-
impossible to avoid.
An android in his image,
That seems to understand.
A body that is ageless
in the shape and form of man.
An android body could survive
The void of outer space
without the need for oxygen
Or food that looks like paste.
Manufactured Hominids
Could roam the plains of Mars
Explore the nearby cosmos,
Travel to a nearby star.
Then when, at last, they journey back
to Earth, their cosmic home,
will they embrace their distant kin
or find they are alone?

How bitter it was to be bereft
of Crown and life
in self  same breath.
Bitter it was  to fall and die
while disloyal Stanley stood idly by.
The arrow lodged close by my spine
as I was pole axed from behind.
A King of England, doubly dead,
stripped naked ,on an *** was led.
In Leicester's graveyard I was lain-
The anointed monarch they had slain.
To lie forever in this hole
while Henry wore the crown he stole.
My Queen, my son, both predeceased,
were nobly interred and rest in Peace.
While I, Richard,  ignobly lie
near Bosworth field with Greyfriars by.

Their names will not be on the Wall.
It’s of the ghost patrol I sing.
Veterans of an unloved war.
Men from the age of Kennedy and King.
They’re dying now by their own hand,
by opioids or shotgun shell.
Some are dying by the glass-
As alcohol kills just as well.
They are victims of their memories,
deprived of sleep that will not come.
Post-traumatic stress some claim
Is the reason they have come undone.
See them sleeping on the streets-
a half drunk bottle in their hand.
The members of the ghost Patrol,
the pitiable legion of the dammed.

To a family that had nothing a wondrous gift was given:
A free home with a garden!they moved in and started living.
Their new home had an orchard a stream and a modern well.
Their benefactor, name unknown, gave them  paradise to dwell.

It's sad to see that place today, the garden overgrown.
The water scarcely fit to drink, the structure falling down
They picked all the low lying fruit and they befouled their nest.
They thought they were entitled, they forgot they were but guests.

If the benefactor returns one day and sees his former home
He'll weep for Adam's children and be crying all alone.

The day was clear, a touch too hot. Summer’s end was drawing near.
Sidewalks vendors were making their pitches, selling their artisanal wares.
That was when I saw my girl, a vision in a pale green dress.
Blood red lips, a fair complexion and long black tresses framed her face.
Where and when could it have been that I had seen her like before?
Thought took me back to Hunter Mountain, late in the summer of Seventy four.
Back then I saw one just like this, a beauty with a special grace
With blood red lips and fair complexion and long dark hair that framed her face.
She wore the tartan of her clan as she competed in the dance.
Pipers played and tenors sang; it was the substance of romance.
A rare beauty, ripe for taking, if one was brave enough to chance….
The memory was broken then, my daughter touched me on the arm.
“There you are Dad, where have you been? I was sent to look for you by Mom.”
We had lingered at the fair, wandering separately among the stalls.
It’s Time now to sit down to our meal and share good wine as darkness falls.

From the moment I first saw her
I knew she was the girl for me.
Sun freckled skin and auburn hair;
Her eyes laughed Merrily .
Intelligent and focused
with a smile forever young.
I doubted not a moment
that she would be "the one"

"I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old." -
I'll be your special guy!

She looked at me, perhaps askance,
When I had said those lines.
I think she knew their provenance
was another place and time.
" Unless you're wearing Pantaloons
and have a balding pate
don't be quoting Shakespeare at me
if you expect a second date."

Unabashedly ashamed was I-
caught stealing others' lines.
I longed to be her Romeo
with balconies to climb.

To lie with her beneath the stars
to share Love's sweet delights-
these days its but a memory
that keeps me warm at nights.

The girl from New Delhi (Limerick)

Did you hear of the girl from New Delhi?
How she turned any guys knees to jelly?
She'd wiggle and jiggle
she'd laugh and she'd giggle
while shaking her **** and her belly.

There once was a girl from New York
and boy, could that little miss talk.
She'd chatter all day
I heard her beau say:
" Please, God,
someone give me a cork!"

Over many years he built it-
One Panel at a time.
A model of transparency,
A marvel of its kind.
Its terracotta flooring
gave it passive solar heat.
It's placement on a hillside
was a vantage hard to beat.
When he glanced up to the rafters
there Orion, splendid, shone.
With the Hunter as companion,
He would never feel alone.
He took pride in self sufficiency-
wood barrels caught the rain
Solar panels met his modest needs-
off the grid, against the grain .

He always had an open door
as he placed no faith in Locks.
-but sometimes, every now and then-
He wished he had a rock.

A Roman, noble and Patrician,
moved his Legions into position.
The morning Sun was in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
The Day was hot, they lacked hydration
as they fought this battle of annihilation.
The hot winds swept dust in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
Hannibal troops seemed to retreat,
The Legions were in hot pursuit.
The Carthaginians moved to surround
the Romans on the killing ground.
Eighty thousand Roman dead,
Mars’ thirst quenched by the blood they shed
Their arms and armor cast aside
upon the fields around Cannae.
Fortuna always smiled on Rome
before this battle at Cannae
Rome’s Senators refused to yield
though their Sons lay dead upon the field.
In the Pantheon of gods
echo prayers from the devout
to a new god born of that rout.
Some say it is the god of doubt.

The learn-ed scientist declared;
" The time has come that I,
by virtue of my own brilliance
will never have to die!"
"I engineered my own Genome
to keep me young and spry."

Indeed, by all appearances
the Doctor's boast seemed true.
His skin was supple like a child's
Though he was eighty two.
His pulse was firm and regular,
His body ripped and lean.
If not for his celebrity
you might think him eighteen.

" I am like the gods themselves-
Immortal is my glory"

The Fates laughed at his insolence
and chose to end his story.
Their Machina Ex Deus
was a drunk who drove a lorry.

Man may match Methuselah
if Science lights his way.
Still irony comes from above
and only Donkeys bray.

Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”

We die each night,
to sleep succumb .
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.
But as the Son
for mercy, dies.
Perhaps this good thief
too may rise.

We die each night,
to sleep succumb .
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.
But as the Son
for mercy, dies.
Perhaps this good thief
too may rise.

Those who call Trump a dictator
are guilty of using
two syllables too many

When the fire burns hottest, often heroes will rise.
We don’t know how it started; we can only surmise.
Somebody was careless; not paying attention.
A spark became flame; thus began the convection.

I was down at the pub with some fellas I knew.
It was five O’clock (somewhere)- we were having a few.
There out in the street we heard a commotion,
But as to what was the cause we hadn’t a notion.

We threw open the door to a pitiful sight
Sure the North end of town was already alight.
Twas no use going home. My house was now Tinder.
Still now’s not the time to go off on a ******.

Jimmy the barkeep said “It pains me to say,
But fellas- the fire is coming this way!”
We all raced to his cellar for his hogsheads of ale;
determined to quench the flames; we swore not to fail.
Though some of us wept at the waste of good stout,
we wet down the walls and we kept the flames out.

All the structures around us were lost to the blaze,
But thank God and Saint George that our tavern was saved!
Though our names be forgotten, our deed lives in lore;
Surely no one fought fire with Guinness before!

the mood is the office was troubled that day.
On each other's nerves- they'd be hell to pay.
Someone brought in gummy bears in a big sack.
It all seemed so innocent until the attack.

The boss got it first; a gummy bear in the ear.
from his overworked minions it brought forth a cheer.
Then he and his partner got a hand in the sack.
There would be hell to pay as the empire struck back.

His aim was unerring as he spun to attack
there were gummy bears everywhere, being tossed fro and back
Poor Anita the admin got one stuck in her hair.
and some colorful critters were stuck under her chair.

The air was soon thick with those small gummy treats
(the five second rule was used for ones that we'd eat.)
All sense of decorum had vanished that day.
As ten 50 year olds got lost in their play.

It was very cathartic as you can imagine
as so called adults got to play with abandon.
The a truce was declared and we all felt contrition
because we had eaten all the ammunition.

I can recall a simpler time
when just spelling was the problem.
But now D.C. has doubled down
and is really scraping bottom.

What did the humble Potato do
To draw Pelosi’s ire.?
Why are white potatoes banned
From school lunches I inquire?

Sweet Potatoes are welcome still
on school kids’ lunchtime plates.
But Idaho’s may not be served-
That makes Michelle irate.

Baked, mashed or fried There’s good inside
the humble white potato.
Potatoes of color are welcome too
upon my dinner table.

The Tuber is a starchy treat
with vitamins and fiber.
Whatever will the Irish eat
If you toss it in the Tiber?

Default on your debt,
Yet not rue the day.
why worry-
The bundesbank
will save the day.

German taxpayers
grumble and moan
At the cost of supporting
the whole Euro zone.

Next the Italians
neck deep in debt,
then Ireland and Spain,
both financial train wrecks.

Massive inflation-
The price all will pay.
So that rioting Greeks
Can live the Greek way

From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.

A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.

Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.

Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.

Through Summers ' heat
and icy rain
The stone faced guardians
remain.

They stand fast
when the snow lies deep.
They stand their guard
where the heroes
sleep.

Long Summers past
there was a war
and boys in butternut
charged gloriously.

Then broke upon
the blue clad wall
as cliffs repel
the storm tossed sea.

Now of that host
not one remains
to sound the charge
or scale a wall.

The stone faced guardians
remain
long past the bugles'
dying call.

The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

She took my palm quite roughly
As she told me my dark past.
She was gazing into the crystal ball
But all I saw was glass.

She said I’d know the darkness,
That close cousin to despair,
When I’d wake up to discover
The bed cold and you not there.

The gypsy lady told me
On that dark and fateful night
That one day you would leave me
And it turned out she was right.

For much is gained and much is lost
In a life lived on a bet.
Brief was our time together
Just like the gypsy said.

I say always play nice with the neighbors, don’t rile them up or make them sore
But my wife,( who’s a bit of a hot head), went to war with the people next door.
The “causas belli” are murky, the results of the skirmish unclear
But the fellow next door is a hacker; now me and the wife live in fear.
We have every modern convenience; programmable gadgets galore.
But your password should never be “password” when fighting the hacker next door.
Our motorized shades were ascending as the missus was trying to dress.
“Alexa” just called her a “fat Cow”- who programmed that is easy to guess.
In the depth of the winter we’re freezing As our AC is in his control.
When we shower the temperature varies. Its either too hot or too cold.
We spent thousands on home automation.  But now we are riddled with doubt.
We tried for a truce, but , alas, it’s no use. Now we’re paying to tear it all out!

Dead leaves smoking on an open fire,
Tricksters dressed up in odd clothes.
Ghouls and Goblins sneaking up on our porch-
Give them chocolate and maybe then they’ll go.

Everybody knows the jack-o- lanterns wick-ed light
Means it’s a pagan sort of Gourd.
Tiny tykes, munching sugar all night,
will wind up bouncing off the walls.

They know Brunhilda’s on her way
trying out her new broom on her special day.
And every little goblin’s gonna try
To see if chubby Witches still can fly.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase
Since trick or treat I think is overused.
Although it’s been said it’s the day of the dead;
Happy Halloween to you.

The Art World knows her face,
and, for certain, her smile;
a smile sad, enigmatic, constrained.
So I read, with some interest,
of a copy that that’s thought
to share an author one and the same.

The provenance of the piece is not clear;
Some detect the Master’s own style.
Others contend an apprentice’s fingers
transcribed the work like a file.

The dispute will continue, for years
I suspect. The work will be x-rayed for clues
If it turns out to be Leonardo’s own work,
I t will certainly be front page news.

He carried the original wherever he went.
He was proud of this work, I am sure.
In a long life of work there would be time enough
to copy this famed portraiture.

I look on it now: She is modest, demure,
her lips bear the hint of a smile.
She’s a thin coat of oil on poplar wood,
done in his unmistakable style.

Are you a copy or are you for real?
Dear Lady, refined and reserved,
in you was the hand of the Master at work?
Mona Lisa’s not saying a word.

The onset was a subtle thing;
a clumsiness, a loss of grace.
She who had been strong and proud
was, suddenly, listless, out of place.
A weakness in a muscle here.
A spasm in a tendon there.
The prognosis, like a hammer strike
to the unsuspecting steer.

First came the cane,
Then came the chair.
Long before them
Came the fear.
The loss of strength
And motor skill
Lou Gehrig’s illness
left just her will.
Yet with that will she loved her man
Wrote a book with just one hand
Saw as much of the world she wished,
left them wanting one last kiss.
Then, when breathing became a chore,
She didn’t do it anymore.
To be surprised by death, she felt
Was the best way to manage
The hand she was dealt.

He knew the secrets of this wood
He knew it should be shaped for good.
He was not sure that he approved
when the Centurion came
seeking a rood.

The grain was heavy and unforgiving
It was surely meant to serve the living.
Now a means of torture it must be
for some rebel rabbi from Galilee.

Whipped and scourged like a beaten dog,
a poor excuse for a son of God.
He staggered through the streets of the City
Cursed and reviled for few showed pity.

His grieving mother, one courageous friend,
and his woman stayed until the end.
Nicodemus helped to take him down
with my ladder he had brought from town.

Those who died with him fed the dogs
but the Rabbi did not share their fate.
His body was lain in a Hillside tomb
on Nicodemus' own estate.

What happened next depends on Grace
What transpired there on the third day?
Did the body rise or was it just misplaced?
Some will scoff while others pray.

I contemplate the rough hewn rood
Now to me it seems a stranger.
Was it used for good or ill?
The secret is held
in the hands of the Maker.

His calloused hands caressed the wood that, shortly, he would plane.
The carpenter was on his knees examining the grain.
The Romans wanted cross beams and the carpenter knew why:
Upon this tree the rebel, Jesus, would be crucified.

He’d never heard the rabbi speak to the admiring crowds.
He thought himself too practical to go in search of God.
In the temple he made sacrifice; he conformed and he complied.
He’d seen too many mad for God and noted how they’d died.

The carpenter thought it was a shame; this wood too good you see.
It’s a tragic waste of good timber to make a hanging tree.
Still the money came in handy as good wine was still not free.
Galled wine would be served in a sponge to this man from Galilee.

The crowd called for Barabbas when this Jesus was condemned.
He shuddered as he thought of the cruel way this life would end.
There is no dignity he could see in a death upon a cross;
mocked by the onlookers while his women wailed his loss.

The Roman paid him coin and slaves bore the beam away.
The sad procession passed his shop later that same day.
The Rabbi wore a crown of thorns, fashioned from the jujube,
and there, upon his shoulders. He bore the hanging tree.

Forty Seven hit us hard, we peasants had little to eat.
Famine stalked our Island, even as landlords exported Wheat.
Death was a constant companion then; starvation the usual cause.
Out in the hills the Banshees screamed and the next death might be yours.
Some Auld woman with long silver hair and half out of her mind
Keening aloud for the family she’s lost and the share hold left behind.
The sound of her shrieks would fill hearts with fear.
The sight of her filled us with dread.
For we’d become certain that she was a sign
By nightfall someone would be dead.
For she was no kindly fairy or sprite;
The banshee was nobody’s friend.
The harbinger of death and despair
And many a  journey’s end

The silver mustang was aflame, her pilot young, gallant.
They were spiraling towards the steeple in the village of Les Ventes.
With his last strength, that dying man pulled hard upon the stick
and willed the plane beyond the town out where the woods were thick.
He may well have already died before his plane hit down.
The flames shot high up in the air and scorched the fertile ground.
The villagers all recognized his act had spared their lives.
They honored he who died so that his memory survived.
His name is on a village street and flowers are piled high
Upon the grave where Billy slept when he tumbled from the sky.
His wife of six weeks never knew, til now, how Billy died,
but, ever faithful, she remained, no one else’s bride.
Fair France bears faded wounds of war, wounds she cannot hide.
Les Ventes recalls a hero’s death and warms his love with pride.

The boys he had known were now men dressed in suits
of conservative hue and tone.
Except for those few who were painfully young
and attired in  uniform.

The girls of his youth who had been ,mostly, aloof
were adorned with some glittering stones.
He noticed one young girl with a dusky complexion
who was sitting apart all alone.
He saw upper class men, the jocks and the freaks.
then he noticed how grey they had grown.

His friends shook his hand and pounded his back.
"You are the last  to arrive.!"
The final Alum of a school long since closed
with no graduates still left alive

The scene at the graveyard in Louth was a circus;
The press was out in force with their cameramen there.
The grave, freshly dug, covered with a green carpet.
The smell of wet, fresh turned, earth filled the air.
As for the deceased: there were varied opinions.
Some called him a sinner; some thought him a Saint.
He was politically savvy but yet had done ******.
An angel corrupted by a simian taint.
None could dispute he had made his life matter.
The head of his party; His words carried clout.
Nevertheless, he died here in hospice.
His brothers in arms have carried him out
The power and glory he laid down and exchanged
for a plot and a stone in this graveyard in Louth.

Grandfather built, with his own hands
The house we children called our home.
A fine expanse of stone and brick,
a castle that was ours alone.

That was before the threatening storm
turned us into refugees
The howling wind, the battering surge
Let loose the Ocean’s enmity.

Of our fine home scant trace remains:
Some stone and the foundation walls
Keepsakes and memories long displayed
Sadly we have lost them all.

No loss of life, no death to weep
But still a sense of loss pervades.
The certainty of Youth is gone
And fallen trees can give no shade.

We’ll build again with our own hands
The house our children will call home.
I think, perhaps, on higher ground,
Where Ocean waves do seldom roam

There we will make new memories
Those things we lost will matter not.
We have each other, that is enough.
We’ll build our heaven on this spot.

My mother was a little girl when the Western Union man
Put the dreaded telegram in my grandmother’s hand.
It said that my grandfather would not be coming home.
It told her that she’d have to raise my mother all alone.
Grandfather was honored, in death, for his service overseas;
the Medal of Honor, we still have, awarded  posthumously.

We thought that his remains were lost, committed to the sea.
Just one of many thousands who have died to keep us free.
Then recently, I traveled to the island where he died;
A mass grave had been discovered with some brave marines inside.
They found a tattered uniform that dressed grandfather’s bones.
Emotion overwhelmed me as I thought: “He’s coming home.”
In Sante Fe, New Mexico he’ll rest with all his kin.
Guns will fire in salute; they’ll fold a flag for him.
They’ll place it in my mother’s hands; his little girl grown old,
For her hero who died long ago on the Betio atoll.

His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.

Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.

Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.

At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.


A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.

Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.

Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.

Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.

If you seek to Kindle passion,
but your mate is always cold,
You should buy a Hoodie Footie
from Pajama- gram I'm told..

The Hoodie keeps her ears warm
While the feeties warm her toes.
Toss in some wine and music
as her mood for passion grows.

Then you pull down on the zipper
that covers groin to chin
the girl is now on fire
and the romance can begin.

Except there was a problem
that derailed my new found luck.
My seduction didn't figure
on the zipper getting stuck.

Now she's ***** and unsatisfied
and feeling like she's fried
and I'm here sleeping on the couch
( at least I'm not outside)

Life is so precious
for look how we cling to it,
enduring all manner
of outrage from fate.

We soldier on
with spirit indomitable.
when life puts a little
Too much on our plate.

Our days are uncertain
Our term here is limited.
We waste precious hours
passive, asleep.

Time keeps its own pace
and its laws are immutable
It refuses to bargain,
no matter how much we weep.

Time, which costs nothing,
yet more precious than diamonds
We've no means to save it
for time will not keep.

It's a closely guarded secret so don't ask for the address.
It's a shelter from the storm for any damsels in distress.
It is funded by the City and follows their mandate
to shelter battered women from the men they've grown to hate.

The location must be secret from the predatory male;
the women would be helpless if security should fail.
Like any abused creature, the fear is  in their eyes
for they've been beaten ****** by their less than perfect guys.

I was there for an inspection, the house mom met me at the door
Most of her charges do not want me there; they don't trust men anymore.
I  arrived when most were working; I must leave ere they return.
for it is peace and solitude above all for which they yearn.

They are Eloi, I am Morlock- at least in their fearful eyes
For they have suffered at the hands of men
and dare not believe their lies

Of Celestial Beings
and omnipotent Kings,
the poets tend to
ramble.
Triune Godhead,
If explained,
Can leave your poor wits
scrambled.
Approach Him, rather,
In a cave
in service as a
stable.
Behold Him there, the guiltless Babe,
In that setting rather odd;.
The smiling baby Jesus,
the human face of God.

Your Randomness amazes me; you are the primal spark.
The Devil’s in the details for those of us who hunt the quark.
The particles accelerate around Cern’s race course track,
Then collide in a burst like fireworks that quickly fades to black.
One cannot really “see “a quark, those infinitesimal little things.
It is by their “works” we know them as they race around our ring.
At times it can be tedious, like counting angels on a pin
But finding basic particles is its own reward, my friend.
It’s hard to wrap your mind around the uncertainty within.
We can either know location or the direction of the spin.
Notions of causation must be checked at the front door
For bi locating particles don’t follow Newton’s laws!

A wealthy old American, perhaps like you or I
Lay down to sleep in his comfortable bed
And, in the darkness, died.

Imagine his shock and his dismay,
This man who had it all and more,
To find himself an immigrant
Cast up on heaven’s shore.

The cherubim and Seraphim
All cast disdainful glances
At this importunate immigrant.
They didn’t like his chances.

“Heaven is quite full enough!”
The elect, in unison, said.
“We’re sure you’ll find a fit in Hell
Perhaps try there instead””

The poor man looked from face to face
But no mercy could he find.
Treated like a ******* sort-
Ignored and cast aside.

He wandered, homeless, cloud to cloud,
But no rest did he find.
An illegal tossed between Heaven and Hell
Bereft of Kin and kind.

For those who sit in judgement here
May find the tables turned
When they themselves are supplicants,
When it is they who yearn..

Improvised Explosive Device



The soldiers who were with me
no longer answer to roll call,.
They lie in peace at Calverton
except in my recall.

We were on routine patrol,
In the seemingly pacified town,
When the I.E.D. exploded,
a repurposed artillery round.

The Army, faithful to their word,
did not leave us behind.
On the way to the field hospital
They say I died three times..

Months I spent in a coma,
my broken body tied in bed.
When I came to, Doc had bad news:
I’d never walk again.

Staring at the ceiling
I swore not to be denied.
I swore that I would walk again,
His prognosis I defied..

It took three years before I stood
And walked as once before.
A semblance of the man I was
before I went to war.

The air was chill and darkness fell as bells rang and the rabble gathered.
A British sentry had struck a lad; some said his jaw was shattered.
Some four hundred Bostonians were milling about his station.
Eight Redcoats, each with rifle cocked, tried to defuse the situation.
The crowd was in an ugly mood; they would not let this slide.
The soldiers were pelted with rocks and snow, but as yet no one had died.
Private Montgomery was knocked down And muttered “**** you, Fire.”
He discharged his weapon into the ground, and that shot provoked their ire.
Captain Preston never issued the command, but a ragged volley was fired.
Eleven colonists were hit, three of them expired.
The crowd in panic then dispersed, and the troop of men retired.
A black man, Crispus Atticus, was among those who had died.
The mood was tense in Boston and those troops were charged and tried.
John Adams won acquittal, he was brilliant in defense.
But the crowd still felt injustice, and there's been no peace since.

The great man lies dead in his bullet riddled clothes.
The ambush was more successful than De Valera dared suppose.
Michael Collins was a traitor to Republican ideals.
His treaty gave over to the Brits one fourth of our green fields.
Everyone thought me his friend. I was always by his side.
Yet I knew enough to stay away on this day he died.
When he fired on the Inns of Court I decided he’d go down..
Though some may say he was a Saint, once safely in the ground.
They say that he fought bravely, though surrounded with long odds.
A proper, fitting sacrifice to lay before our gods.
Nations must be born in blood if they are ever to be free.
Free of allegiance to a Crown and capped with Liberty

“She cannot live forever!”
We told each other more than once.
Still, she had all the Deutschmarks
and to her I was a dunce..

My wife and I were servant/slaves
to her every wish and whim.
It was just after the Armistice
that she ”allowed” us move in.
Germany was a hungry place
As Weimar came into being
What happened after Wilhelm fled,
few could claim to have foreseen.

No, she never spoiled us,
her grandson and his mate.
I cut wood, my wife drew water
For that shriveled old ingrate.
Other than a pittance
and an attic bed of straw
she gave neither thanks nor praise
to her only heirs at law.



Thank Gott, the morning finally dawned
we didn’t hear her ring her bell.
In sleep she had departed
to Heaven or , likely, Hell.

We hugged each other gleefully.
Our servitude was done.
We were rich with Deutschmarks!
The year was Nineteen twenty one.

“Mister Whitman, I am thankful that you have consented to give me some of your time so that  I can finished my article about you for the Gazette.”

“Please, Call me Walt. Everyone else does.”

The famous poet is just a little shorter than myself, his hair and beard grown quite Grey..  His study is modestly furnished. While he is certainly comfortable there is nothing about this room that speaks fo great wealth.

“Do you enjoy living here? It must be so calm compared to New York and Washington.”

“Camden is a good enough place to retire.  After all that I have witnessed, I am content to rest in my modest little house. The Widow Davis, my friend and housekeeper, keeps the place neat enough and permits me to keep on at my work. Sadly, the words no longer come easily to me. For you see, Son,  I had a mild stroke, some years ago, and afterwards the voice of my muse which used to sing loudly to me became a still tiny voice that I had to be very attentive to hear. Most of the time my muse is drowned out completely by the noises of human existence. Camden has grown considerably since the War Between the States. Even before Mother died, it was on its way to becoming a modern town, although not so grand as Philadelphia or Washington.”

“Walt, I’ve brought you and your guest some coffee and a Couple of those Butter cookies that you love.”.
“Thank you, Mary, that is most kind.”
“I’ll leave them here beside your desk on this little table. I am going out now to visit Anne Walker and I have to make a trip to the store for tonight’s dinner.”  I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“I probably don’t actually need the butter cookies, but I was brought up to be polite. At least with Mrs. Davis out and about this afternoon, it will give us quiet to finish up our interview. The light on these winter afternoons fades a little after Four O’clock and I find myself growing tired and sleepy along with the dying of the light. In my whole long life I have never been a man who loved winter. I have always been one to rejoice at the coming of spring.  I would make an exception only for the war years. During the War the killing slacked off a bit in the Winter, except in 62’ when that fool Burnside attacked St Mary’s Heights and ordered so many to their deaths.
Our hospital in Washington was busy after Fredericksburg. All those fine young men, boys really, some missing an eye, most a limb. The worse were the ones who were gut shot and a long time dying. For them there was nothing that we could do except to offer them some Morphine for the pain.”
“How did you get involved in the abolitionist movement?
“For several years after I left off teaching on Long Island, I edited and published newspapers. The work took me, for a time, to New Orleans before the war. The sight of the slave’s misery on the auction blocks and the way they were treated by their masters convinced me that Slavery had to end. I left that place and came back to Brooklyn to publish a Freeman’s Journal. That is what lead me to become a Republican and support Mr. Lincoln in 60’.”

“How did you become involved in the War effort as a volunteer Nurse?”

I was a abolitionist before and during the war. At first, I made it my mission to visit the wounded in the hospitals.  When it was my brother who was wounded, I travelled to Washington to nurse him back to health. It was there that I found my true calling; tending to the Union maimed and dying. I was not formally trained in the caring profession of Nursing but I learned by watching and then doing. I became proficient in tending to the sick and relieving the suffering of those about to die.   I have seldom been commercially successful with my writing, other than the one edition of Leaves of Grass which enjoyed strong sales after the war and earned me enough to buy and maintain this townhouse.  During the War and for several years afterward, I clerked in the Department of the interior.”
“How did it come about that you left the department?”

“It turned out that my immediate superior was not a fan of my poetry, and, once he found out that I was the same Walt Whitman who was the author of that scandalous book of verse; my employment was at an end.”   “It was all for the best, really. Mother was doing very poorly by then and my brother was not up to the task of caring for her.”  

“Do you think you will ever publish another book of verse?”

I will certainly try. It is just that as I told you previously, the words don’t come as easily as once they did.  For those ten years before during and after the war I was on fire with the pure bright flame of inspiration”. Now I don’t know if the world changed or I did. Both, I suspect.”

“The passions that excite us when we are young grow cool. They become replaced with tiredness and resignation.”
“Well Walt, for me your verse never grows old. It has been an honor to me you and I hope you enjoy my article when it appears in the Gazette.” “If I can successfully decipher my shorthand, I should have enough for a thousand words.”

Mister Whitman bade me farewell at the door.  As it turned out we would never meet again, unless it be on the streets of Heaven. His housekeeper found him the next morning.  He had passed in his sleep, perhaps from another stroke.  My editor helped me redraft my article and it became the obituary of a great American. The memory of our brief meeting remains seared in my memory.

She is there, I believe, behind those slate grey eyes.
Those eyes that once viewed me with Love
or with amusement.
Now, however, they see me without seeing.
She is held prisoner in a silk web of confusion.
She knows not who she is now.
She knows me not and has forgotten my name.
I visit though she forgets I ever came.
She is one who exists instead of lives.
A dear sweet girl with little left to give.
You ask me why I still come and I reply
“ I  promised my love until the day I die.”

For years they'd tried and failed
in their conjunctions to conceive.
The wife prone to miscarriages
so a surrogate was decreed.

Her closest friend from college
took pity on their plight,
and volunteered to help them
by bringing forth their child to life.

It would be their bun, her oven.
Their tenant in her rented womb.
The pregnancy was uneventful
and their son was born last June.

It's a miracle of science.
to some couples it's a boon.
but the procedure is expensive
so don't expect a baby boom