They are but shades who once were men.
We shall not see their like again.
Stonewall Jackson, Grant and Lee,
Men of courage, Men of faith,
honorable men from an honorable age.
In the chapel at Fort Hamilton
They met and prayed.
Let no man mute their story.

Perhaps they prayed
That their cup would pass
And that the Union would endure.
Their cup, brimming full with blood.
Would not pass,
Until every drop shed by slave was matched
By blood a soldier shed
But the Union would endure.
Let no man deny their glory.

Robert E. Lee at Fredericksburg
"It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it."

Abraham Lincoln (2nd Inaugural)… “Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

An acquaintance of the deceased,
Hernandez was quizzed by police.
If charged, he'll post bail
for a tight end in jail
cannot even shower in peace!

A child this day was born in Britain
but no camera men record this birth.
He's not the child of Kate and William.
He's common clay of humble earth.
He'll soldier on four score and seven
He'll fight and win your senseless war.
He'll never claim noblesse oblige
as he shoulders debt from those before.
One is born Royal, the other common.
One wears Purple, the other, dust.
One shall be the king of England.
One's blood is blue, the other, rust.
One shall head the church of England
The other lad will own a pub.
Which one in time will prove right noble?
to quote the bard "Aye, there's the rub."

Immediately the oyster felt it, a piece of grit, a source of pain.
The little creature could not expel it; every attempt was in vain.
How to endure this rank discomfort? How to bear it and survive?
The Oyster had but one solution, one thing left for it to try.
Each day the oyster’s own secretions coated that tiny piece of grit
And in the end, when all was done, the oyster made a pearl of it.

When, like me, you lose a parent while still young.
There is this pain you bear inside.
Each day it haunts your waking thoughts
However you might try to hide.
Day by day you seek to cope, though it seems helpless at the first.
A year or more might pass before you feel that you’ve survived the worst.

Time, like that oyster, seeks to heal; to encapsulate loss and regret;.
Tim to heal, Time to grieve, just accept you can’t forget.
So you keep your public face and show that bravely to the World
Until the lacuna in your soul, with Time’s mercy, becomes a pearl.

If all my life was perfect,
and all right with the world.
My pen would suffer from disuse.
My parchment not unfurled.
For what fool indeed
would waste his time
scribbling down lines
When Dame Love beckons to the feast
and all the world was mine.

No, irritation is my muse
and I her slaving churl
who palpitates a bit of grit
until it is
a
Pearl.

It started as a bit of grit stuck in an Oyster’s craw.
In time, through suffering, bit by bit it became the Pearl you saw.
Translucent pink, a perfect orb, no polishing required,
You alone possess this gem which many have desired.
It cost you dear, this perfect pearl, as the bid grew steadily higher.
You’d have gladly given all you had to possess its inner fire.
Time and suffering produced the Pearl, it is immutable law.
Forget that at your peril for the Pearl would be no more.
The Pearl is not a bauble meant to dazzle others’ eyes.
It, like wisdom borne of suffering, is its own reward and prize.

It is a very old photograph, yellowed with age.
It was made from the light of a century ago.
My grandparents sit in their brand new Ford
with my mother and my uncle.
They have sat there stoically watching
Though years of war and peace,
prosperity and ruin.
They have been mute witnesses to the births and deaths;
the joy, the tears, the laughter.
The subjects themselves are all gone now:
my grandmother first; my mother last of all.
(I think the Ford got traded for a Hudson.)
The accumulated light of those ten decades
effaces all away.
The images are fading, some features barely can be seen
But I still recognize my mother’s determined stare
as her nine year old self
faces down the photographer.

In an antiquated walk-up
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.

His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don’t be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.

Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.

His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.

She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her *******.
So many men had fun with those.

He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.

The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses  blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.

Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.

Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.

I have seen them in their majesty, in ultraviolet light.
They stretch across five light years’ space there in the dark of night.
They are the womb of newborn stars, the cradle and the nave.
The elements are present there, in aquamarine shade.
Within the Pillars there is light, the light of proto-stars,
Surrounded by the swirling dust which will be what we are.
Then, sometime in the yet to be, on such a starry night,
They may note the death of Sol, the star that gave us light.
As they see our old star swell then shrink as fuels run out.
They too may pause and think, in wonder at the sight.

She was quite the looker, her eyes a cold blue steel.
Her legs went on forever and that’s just part of her appeal.
He met her in a magazine, then in a glossy print.
He painted her, from Memory, on his plane and off they went.
She flew with him into battle. She was his lucky charm.
17 bombing missions they came thru without harm.
They flew over ******’s Germany way up high and cold.
They faced fearful odds against the chance of growing old.
Then, when the war was over and her boys went home
The wings of war were mothballed; decades she spent alone.


The years of wind, sun and rain faded the old girl.
By the time I finally found her she was not long for this world.
I looked at my Grandpa’s photo of the bomber he once flew.
Despite the faded colors I was certain it was you.
The owners of the junkyard looked with favor on my quest
As I set out to battle the years of grime and rust.
Then I set out my palette to restore each shade and hue
I cannot make grandfather young but I can restore her to you
Her  legs are lithe and beautiful just as I ‘d been told
her eyes a cold blue steel,and her hair a platinum gold.

Each night we strut upon the stage
in plumage not our own.
You are Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.
I am Marc Anthony of Rome.
I die by sword, you die by Asp
our seperate fates well known.
Octavius had triumphed at Actium
and moved to seize your throne.
Each night, our tragedy complete
we bow to crowds' applause.
We act out Master Shakespeare's words
in climes and tongues unknown
to that Queen of Eqypt
and the Triumvir, late of Rome.
After curtain,some young dancer
gets you drunk and takes you home
Octavius does lines of Coke
Marc Anthony drinks alone.

In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before;
those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore.
Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right?
Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight?
There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain.
If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame.
Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise;
an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies.
I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis
that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this.

Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame;
As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same.
Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.;
A “friendly Legislature insures profitability.
The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws.
It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.

In the clearing stands the garden,
one made beautiful by you.
There is laurel, here is Holly,
and scents of lavender and rue.
In the center of the garden;
a rock that was your Poet's chair.
Sadly it is empty,
Paddy, you've been gone two years.
Your refuge and your metaphor
both in this secret bower.
Here you shared your wisdom
about Love's redemptive power.
This beauty were impossible
without your patient toil.
Your mind knew well which plants would
grow in this type of soil.
In your absence can your garden thrive
without the Gardener's care?
Perhaps within this place of peace
your shade yet lingers there?
Though we still grieve your passing
we mustn't seek you in the dust.
You are present in your flowers;
in your verse you bide with us

The Point of no Return



From a thousand applications, they selected just us few.
The launch window fast approaching, this seemed like a dream come true.
First they launched an orbiter, our link to Earth, our mother,
Then Robots built the base camp, I’ll be sharing with three others.
We face a lengthy trip through Space; I hope someone brings cards,
confined within a shielded space, fighting boredom and the odds.
Solar panels give us light, hydroponics food to eat
Where the drinking water is coming from I prefer not to think.
This is a one way mission, there’s no plan to bring us back.
Just new colonists now and then to bring us all we lack.
I’d hoped to have three girls along that I could judge like Paris.
Instead I’m with two lesbians and a hairy guy named Boris!

The Cop stood in the doorway
With his handkerchief held to his nose.
A young white male, the tenant,
had died in this apartment.
This must have happened three days ago at least.
It had taken that long for the smell
To permeate the building;
before someone thought to summon the law.


From the looks of it, another overdose-
Another young victim of a cruel epidemic
That takes the young and leaves the old to grieve.
Those who choose to ride that particular horse
Need rodeo clowns with Nar-Can standing by.


Was it an a accident or a suicide?
Perhaps the M.E. could make the determination;
a fine distinction between blurred lines.
There will be need to notify the next of kin
to claim the corpse and make the final disposition.
Then soon, perhaps next week-

a studio in Williamsburg for rent.

"Faith can move Mountains."
I've read in some book.
Now mind over Melon
can be done with a look.
Hooked up by electrodes,
a test subject's brain
exploded a melon
and fried some plantains.
The Watermelon trick
sure excited the crowd.
The comedian, Gallagher,
truly was wowed
He's been in the hospital,
truly heartsick.
Physically unable
to keep doing his Schtick .
Soon, with his brain,
He'll resume his pursuit,
popping jokes while exploding
some innocent fruit.

The reenactor looked a little warm in his woolen Union blues.
A forage cap perched on his head; spit and polished were his shoes.
He waited for the group to settle down, then gave his practiced speech
about how Sickles lost his leg in an orchard ripe with peach.
The air was still and warm as when, there, on the second day,
Sickles’ insubordination caused the Union lines to fray.
The great grandsons of the North and South were gathered here around.
The heirs of slaves and immigrants stood upon  the sacred ground.
We were not far from the spot Abe gave his famous speech;
where neat spaced rows of honored dead have learned to keep the peace.
Yet the hatreds of the past run deep, the events in Baltimore
Make me wonder if they died in vain; the soldiers from that war.

A beautiful smile and flawless skin; Youth is a gift, we’ve all been told.
Your sparkling eyes, your jet black hair are blessings of nature to behold.
Your gentle temper and modest dress do both enhance your loveliness.
You’re “picture perfect” so strike a pose for images do not grow old.
Still, the dance of Time won’t end for these pretty ladies from ** Chi Minh
until Time robs them of this and more. I’ve seen that thief steal youth before.

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

Prince Pierre of Monaco
and several of his friends
are nursing sores
and broken jaws
They won’t party
here again

Adam Hock, a footballer,
was drinking with three friends
who looked like “Charlie’s angels”
with designer made rear ends.

The Prince, perhaps a little juiced,
and fond of  lovely things,
got over friendly with the girls.
(another sport of kings)

When Adam gave the Prince a Pop
Pierre will long recall,
His three friends assaulted Mr. Hoch
and each one took the fall.

Mr. Hoch is middle aged,
but all American.
Four French were not his equal.-
He could have handled ten.

She attracted his attention on the bleak deserted street.
Her skit was short ,revealing; three inch heels upon her feet.
She reminded him of someone with her  long lush auburn hair.
Someone he'd killed and buried, but he'll never tell you where.

As she became aware of him, she quickened up her pace.
This was the part he'd always loved; the challenge of the chase.
He fingered the silk scarf he wore and would use as a garrotte.
He would steal the poor girl's breath away- unmourned and soon forgot.

As he closed within ten feet of her, his pulse began to race.
A migraine pounded in his head and blood rushed to his face.
He started seeing double, his body slumped down on the street.
His prey escaped his clutches; he acknowledged his defeat.

Behind a two way mirror the observers were ecstatic.
The implants in the killers brain had caused his pulse to go erratic.
Their  experiment was a success, the first one of its kind.
No need for bars and concrete when the prison is the mind.

The prowler entered wordlessly
into our back yard.
On padded feet he crept along,
finding an open door.
Like a thief in the dark of night.
silent , unobserved.
Up the stairs the intruder came,
I was taken unawares.
The prowler pushed the bedroom door
open just a crack.
He saw me snoring peacefully and
plotted his attack.
The prowler leapt upon my chest
A little ball of fur.
I'd wondered where our cat had been-
You never know for sure.

The pavement neath
my pad pawed feet
is sometimes rough
(They seldom Sweep)
I tour my little concrete Fief
with a boy on a chain
dragged off his feet.
I sniff and check
each rock and tree
to find which dogs
have stopped to ***.
I roll a growl deep
in my throat
if I see rivals here about.
If perchance, Fifi I meet
I wag my tail and act real sweet.
She's French you know,
and , when in heat,
worlds can collide
and blend tout suite.

A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?

Consider the quark both charmed and strange,  
From which all matter has been arranged
If position be known, momentum cannot be
That’s a certain uncertainty.
For if we knew both speed and spin
We’d have no notion what place it’s in!,
    It can be puzzling, tis true
    And two quarks can be entangled too,
    As I would wish for me and you..

OH, at some distance I have admired
The secret object of my desire  
But though I orbit at close distance
Our opposing charges cause resistance.  
Though you are up and I am down  
I’m strangely charmed and hang around.
    When you are bottom, I am top
    Our entanglement must never stop.

For to abandon my rotation
would be the source of our damnation.
For if we twain should ever meet
We’d dissipate in light and heat.

As she held the ring box in her hand,
she felt a trace of fear-
Would the answer to her question
be the word she longed to hear?
They'd lived some time together,
wrapped their bodies in a kiss,
but would satisfied desires
translate into wedded bliss?
This was the time, this leap year day
to end her long suspense
she'd ask her love to marry her
and hope she would say yes!

My brother-in-law is the tightly wound sort.
Self contained in his miserable way.
Always quick with a quip or a nasty retort,
and, most likely, a miserable lay.

His job unfulfilling, his woman unwilling.
His co-workers thought he was gay.
He labored long hours for his indifferent masters
for infrequent raises in pay.


When he defenestrated his co worker Sally
and police asked me, what could I say?
" It's always the quiet ones
you have to watch out for-
I knew this would happen someday."

The Race


An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.


I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean  a scholarship for me.


Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.

A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.


I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.

A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.

I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..

I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.

I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.


Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me


I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.

The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains


“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.

“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm  in his brain.”


Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost

Our present is unsettled;
we are each others foe.
Ignorance  grows exponentially
and tolerance grows low.

Our Past and Future are both at risk
in our current culture war.
Twixt You and me I can't decide
which one I  pity more.

When you’re hanging by the neck
until your life is nearly done.,
It might almost seem a blessing
when the hangman lets you down.
They then spread you on a table
Then the real torture began.
They cut away the man parts
from their sacrificial lamb.
Then your core is cruelly opened
and your ****** entrails rise
in the hands of he, your butcher
displayed before your dying eyes.
Your brain supplies an image
of back when you were a child
and you greeted good Queen Mary
in fine ornate Latin style.
Mercifully shock set in
as death transfixed your eyes.
Sweet Jesus’ name was on his lips
as the recusant dies.

He was leader of no country.
King of no Sceptered Isle.
He never led his folk to battle.
It just never was his style.

The history books we have
recount the foibles of the "great"
The cannon fodder mass of men,
in these tomes, never rate.

He died,and, like a coral,
lent his bones to form the reef
that stands between the tidal plain
and the waters of belief.

Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.

A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.

Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.

Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.


There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.

There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.

My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.

The learned Dons of Oxford
Have invented and refined
An efficacious compound;
Love Potion number nine.

A heady mix of pheromones
and vitamins and such.
Just give it to your blasé mate
And she’ll hunger for your touch.

Oxytocin warms her heart
and bonds her to your side.
Testosterone’s included
So she’s randy as a bride.

A simple pill upon her tongue
And passion is restored.
A boon for long time couples
Rather lacking in Amor.

Just be sure to stay at home
when she ingests the pill.
If you don’t make yourself available
The mailman can and will.

No brother's love could
match my love,
my poor dead girl, Virginia.
You filled your pockets
full of stones,
then waded into the river.
You drowned your
troubles and your fears
In an Ophelia like allusion.
Leaving me to be,and not to be.
until my own conclusion

It was wrapped in tissue paper, a simple golden ring.
It had belonged to my grand-aunt, it was a treasured thing.
She herself had bought it; that itself was extraordinary.
As was everything about that night and the man she was to marry.

Joseph Plunkett was condemned to die at dawn, that rebel with a cause.
The night before they two were wed in accordance with the Laws.
They never had a wedding feast; theirs was no bower of bliss.
Just a hurried ceremony sealed with a simple kiss.

In the chapel at Kilmainham jail, the two exchanged their vows,
knowing death would part them in a few short hours now.
Could you blame him if he held her tight in an extremity like this?
They put the meaning of their lives into a single kiss.

Grace stood outside the prison walls and heard the fatal shot.
The dear sweet man whom she so loved was gone but not forgot.
Grace lived on for many years in a faith that would not fail.
She knew her Love awaited her at the old Kilmainham jail.

From long time friends to bitter foes
From boon companions to friends estranged
The cute little redhead accomplished that
but it was nothing she'd prearranged
So delicate, so beautiful
with eyes a deep Aegean blue
Of course I made a play for her
She wasn't going home with you
Yes, her kisses were as sweet
as you imagined they must be
The reality was better still
warming an autumn evenings chill
I was the first to take the risk
that’s why I was the one she kissed
My actions weren’t the least bit shady
but faint hearts never win fair Ladies

There’s a troubling trend in the land of the “Free”.
Many things go unspoken; they’re just not “P.C.”
Crimes are committed and no one is shocked
when they go unpunished and lips remained locked.
To speak truth to power is to risk mockery.
You’ll be labelled a racist; that’s just not “P.C.”
So much as gone wrong In the land of the “Free”
It would bore you to list the whole sad Litany.
If ever you wondered just what you would do
In a time when great evil was threatening you?
You need no longer wonder. You didn’t stand tall.
On the sad road to silence you said nothing at all.

You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.

Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.

These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.

Curves and ice cream swirls can be
****, yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.

To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”

Deep beneath Park Avenue,
where protestors never tread,
The Sandhogs delve beneath
the earth laying new track bed.
In time to come commuter trains
from Grand Central to Penn
will take the tunnel they have dug
at a cost now of one dead.
A father and his only son,
both of a Sandhog line,
were excavating underground
and working overtime
when suddenly there was a roar
a shifting in the earth
Their two lives were in jeopardy
They ran for all their worth
The Dad survived, his son was crushed
beneath.the the earthen mound
Despite attempts at C.P.R.
A pulse could not be found.
They bore his body up the shaft
to the city that never sleeps.
Where his poor father, suddenly old,
a lonely vigil keeps.

He raised his kids in a house like mine,
in a neighborhood like yours.
He believed what we believe
and obeyed our nation’s laws.

When this war came, he signed his name
and served three tours in Iraq.
When we sent him to Afghanistan
that was when our soldier cracked.

Cash was tight, and his mate took flight.
His emotions were rubbed raw.
Like many other, lesser, men,
he indulged in alcohol.

Then one night, in a drunken rage,
He held a private war.
In the village he went house to house,
killing all he saw.
He torched their homes with gasoline,
only then his rage grew still.
Only blood could satisfy
his sudden thirst to ****.

Our soldier lay his weapons down
and put his hands behind his head
He will be tried on American soil
for the attrocities he did.
When he pays for his crimes (Our Crimes)
the ultimate penalty,
will the horror and the pity fade?
Will our hands then bloodless be?

Somewhere our soldier lost his way;
He somehow betrayed the cause
He’ll never return to his house like mine
in a neighborhood like yours.

The sky grew dark
and the wind full voiced
so I furled my single sail.
I battened down the hatches
fearful of the coming gale
the clouds were low and threatening
They oft are this time of year.
They made me wish I could be somewhere,
anywhere, but here.
Random bolts of lightening streaked
across the sullen sky.
Waves took and shook my little boat.
I thought that I might die.
A tingle of anxiety
I felt it in my gut
Imagine how relieved I felt
when the director hollered "Cut!"

Drop by drop
the daily grid
fills my cup
and perks my mind.
it's heady aroma
thrills me still
as i hand the barista
a ten for the till.
A dash of cinnamon
just for the taste
as my mocha-latte
makes a trip to my face.
My steamed milk mustache
mirrors my smile
as my favorite chair beckons
me to stay for a while.
I nod to a friend
in the usual crew
and sit back to savor
my coffee-licious brew.

From the time the boy could stand
his Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.

All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.

So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow and Time flies they say-
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.

Opening day is a magical land
That once more found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.

After the excitement of the game
waiting on the platform for their trains
The two men hugged with obvious affection,
then entrained in opposite directions.

Our friend Joe sure loved baseball, and his heart pumped Dodger blue
He played the game when he was young, then watched once he was through.
He’d travel around to one horse towns to scout the minor leagues.
He’d carry baseballs and a pen for the autographs he’d need.
In winter he’d watch hockey when no baseball could be found.
(I think that he was marking time time until spring came around.)
Nothing beats hearing the Umpire shouting out  ”play ball!”
How perfect is the diamond, the lush grass and the blue walls?
If we get to choose our heaven no matter what our creed,
Joe would want a season ticket; that’s all he’d really need.
He’d sit and watch his favorite team with stars from years gone by.
He’d listen as the sym-phony played in Ebbets field on high.
Now Joe is gone and tears are shed by us who toil below.
But I prefer to think that  Joe’s been called up to the Show.

My ears are still ringing.
My left arm hangs uselessly at my side.
Perhaps I am lucky,
so many of my friends have died.

I await the surgeon's attention.
I pray they have some brandy left.
I hear their hacksaws singing loud
a man is of his leg bereft.

This day we stood, we held the line
the round top still in Union hands.
The Rebs have not yet moved off.
They await Marse Lee's commands.

God, would I anywhere but here.
but no, I will accept this cup-
If I should die that men be free
my sacrifice is not too much.

When I was young there were great songs played on the radio.
We had fine librettists then that made the lyrics flow.
Now their pens seem out of ink and when they stage a show
They only play the songs you know from forty years ago.
I guess being young and hungry is essential now as then;
But, being fat and happy, they cannot begin again.
Here and there I catch a tune I haven’t heard before.
But the business is disrupted and they’ve closed the Record Store
True, Adele lends her voice to grief, loss and depression.
Otherwise its Taylor Swift and her musical confessions.
The boomer bards grow silent and what does this portend?
I begin to wonder if I’ll ever hear their like again.

The silent assassins came floating down,
Tiny but deadly they came.
Two thousand dead mice,
Stuffed full of Tylenol,
On the island of Guam they deplaned.

To **** off the snakes
That are killing Guam’s birds
Tylenol should do the trick
A mere 80 milligrams
Can **** a grown snake
Or at least make them terribly sick.


I hope this works better
Than the Mongoose Brigade
We deployed on Hawaii’s fair shores.
They were sent to **** rats
But instead took long naps
And the birds are more rare than before.

It would be the oddest prom night this land had ever seen;
The dance hall would be deserted and there would be no King or Queen.
No Chaperones would be required and the band would play no sound
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

They might have all been beautiful; some members would be wise.
For all we know they might have all  been  angels in disguise.
The silent generation died before they took a breath.
This reverses nature’s course wherein birth occurs, then death.

In truth, they never played the game. They never learned a word.
Their departure from existence went largely unobserved.
They said no word in their defense before they were put down
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

On every college campus they would fill each empty chair.
Our stadiums would rock with sound, if only they were there.
If they were born America would be a touch less gray,
But the silent generation never saw the light of day.

My old friend, you sit in the corner of my room.
My neglect of you is a silent accusation.
How I long to take you in my arms again
and make beautiful music together.
Alas I am not free. I have long loved another.
Now she has been stricken by a terrible fate.
A stroke has laid her low.
My beloved wife cannot speak.
Her whole left side is paralyzed.
I cannot leave her.
I must remain true to my hearts first love,
looking in her eyes I see
her wordless fear at the loss of her cognition.
Our world has shrunk to a small suite of rooms
Where a rented hospital bed cradles my Love
And the I.V. drips and machines monitor.
I who once sang for her in a beautiful baritone
and played for her my mandolin.
Now I know only songs of sadness and
I cannot play with these tear filled eyes.
So I have put aside my Mandolin.
I hold onto the hand of my Beloved

and the silence overcomes us both.