My words will live forever;
I know this for a truth
because of a poem I  once wrote
as an anthem for doomed youth.

I, alas, will nevermore
set foot upon my native shore.
I 've been  mortally wounded in France, you see,
on the very cusp of victory.

My poor parents will receive the news
that my soul among the shades now dwells-
Even as every patriot's heart
swells with pride at the peal of victory bells

No assassin, perched way up high,
lies in wait for the limousine this time.
There’s no crazed job seeker at a fair.
No killer lurks near a rocking chair.

No gun or knife is needed this time;
Innuendo will do just fine.
History, like a poet, rhymes.
They seek to win your hearts and minds

No blood is spilled but oceans of ink
to mold the way that people think.
An accusation born out of envy.
As to actual proof- they haven't any.

He is a narcissistic man
with a massive ego-and such tiny hands
He is coarse, uncouth and, if truth be known,
He tweets too much and he sleeps alone.

He’s hounded daily by the Press
And Senator Franken won’t let it rest.
As our national economy sags under debt
All the Democrats can say is “Nyet”

Disrespected both abroad and at home
No POTUS since Nixon has been this alone
The result of this political assassination?
We are left with a badly divided nation.

Clodius’ ashes rose above
The Curia in flames.
His supporters filled the streets
crying out his name.
In a city ruled by violence,
One wracked by rival mobs,
The rule of law grew as silent
as the altars of her gods.
Pompey the great, sole consul,
His ally, Milo, would betray...
The eloquent grew fearful
of themselves becoming prey.

Il est VALIDATION dans la Ville des Lumières
Alors que le bilan de ces attaques sont évaluées.
Au ****, je l'entends encore sons rudes des sirènes
Comme notre corps d'ambulanciers est aux abois
Ils vont me hanter dans le sommeil, tous ces jeunes visages morts,
que je chasse ceux qui ont commis ces crimes.
Il est trois heures du matin et ma tête crie pour le café;
La caféine me aide quand je suis privé de sommeil.

La puanteur de -fer sang ne peut pas être échappé
Il est trempé dans les chaises à cushioned-
Je prends en bas de la déclaration de celui qui survived-
Ce soir, cette bonne fortune était rare.
Il fait le mort et a vécu, avec la mort tout autour,
dans ce théâtre de la mort et le désespoir.
"Ils ont massacré les otages, un à la fois,
leur but était de tuer tout le monde ".
"Ils ont assassiné mon amant, ils ont assassiné mon ami,
Je regardais mort, gisant dans leur sang trempé ".

She’d liked their life the way it was;
their Pied de Terre above Broadway.
Now her lawyers indicate
It must be sold, there’s tax to pay...
His daughter seldom ever calls.
since her father’s burial day..
She would be someone to share the loss.,
But motherless she prefers to stay.
Jane sits before her mirror and
brushes back a wayward strand.
He used to love to brush her hair.
back when she still had her man.
She’d thought herself the luckiest girl-
She was his angel, heaven sent.
Photographs and memories
Now are all that she has left.
Gone two months, not even two,
Shrapnel killed her Marathon man.
He never reached the finish line
And now she’s living
Après Vous

A comfortable rocking chair, a woven shawl upon his lap,
Lincoln sat in the Presidential box with trouble lurking at his back.
His guard had a terrible thirst-which he quenched at the neighboring bar.
The war was over after all-Who expected an attack?

Booth stealthily climbed the stairs, with ****** on his mind.
John Wilkes spotted his prey, through a hole he had drilled in the door.
The South must be avenged! He would salvage Southern pride.
He unloaded his derringer in Lincoln’s head; the last Union dead of the war.

Clara Harris was screaming in terror, as Booth slashed her Beau to the bone.
“Sic Semper Tryrannis:” Booth shouted, announcing the deed he had done
Booth’s spur caught on the star spangled bunting as he vaulted toward the stage.
Booth limped across to the door- His leg broken, bad luck for a man on the run.

He only lives three hours at a time,
most often in a dark and crowded room.
He is haunted by a sense of deja-vue-,
As if he knows he’s racing towards his doom.
He rests, between incarnations, like the rest
in dots of ink upon a printed page.
Three hours at a time he lives, not more,
within the walls of Castle Elsinore.
If only like a crab he could go backwards
Perhaps Polonius could evade the tomb
But, no, alas, its all predestination;
A poisoned foil will lead him to damnation.

We will live and die and be forgotten;
That is the fate of all us common clay.
But Prince Hamlet with outlive this generation;
He lives in every moment of his play.

Our land was born in Revolution
and we, soon after, went to war
with the children of the redcoats
we had tussled with before

We've battled our close neighbors
and fought a Civil War.
Teddy Roosevelt led the charge
in the bully Spanish war.

When war broke out in Europe
Wilson said we would attend.
His bungled Versailles treaty
caused  World War to come again.

We battled Tojo's forces
and faced the German's might.
We stalemated in Korea
when we were under Dwight.

Always certain of our power
in defense of what is true
we depopulated Vietnam
then, inexplicably , withdrew.

Now we fight a war on terror
a war that has no end.
As I race towards retirement
I'll not see peace again.

Trillions have been wasted
to fuel the cannons roar.
Weep for our poor country-
A prisoner of War.

When the rivers dry up
And don’t run towards the sea.
When the last of the seed corn
has died.
We may find fiscal hedging
Has all been in vain.
Is there something else we might have tried?

In the warm stagnant water
By the thousands, fish die.
The worst die off I ever did see.
Its funny how there is no shortage of flies-
I can’t say the same for the bees.

We look to the soil to sustain us on Earth
As we poison and plunder the sea.
In the Amazon, companies plunder and burn,
****** the earth’s forestry.

When the last crop has failed
And the rivers run dry
And we can’t catch a thing in the sea
The stewards of earth will be called to account
And will learn you can’t eat currency.





“Only when the last tree has died, and the last river has been poisoned, and the last fish has been caught, will we realize that we cannot eat money.” –Native American proverb

We batter our foes
with bomb, shell and shot.
Now Despair walks their streets
And their children do not.
The average Marine
Spends more time at the front
than his grandfather spent
As a World War two grunt.

At home when we travel
We wait in long lines
To be poked and prodded
Even X rayed at times.
At home prices rise
For most essential things
The bankers are  flush
Ben Bernanke’s their king.

As the empire creaks
And grounds to a halt
Will he hyper inflate
or simply default?
Mourn the Republic
For which we once stood
When all food was organic
And we worshiped the rood.

Heed old Ben Franklin
He had vision to see
He warned long ago
What the tradeoff would be.
If they offer you “safety”
in trade for your Liberty.
You will never be safe
for you will never be free

Three friends in a row
On a windswept hill there
Had they but eyes to see
It’s a spectacle rare.

Three friends in a row
on a former plantation.
Three soldiers confined here
just for the duration.

It was Robert Lee’s land
Before terrible war
Made it a plantation
Like none was before.

There are soldiers and sergeants,
Many heroes, few saints.
Some are here since Antietam
since the war between States.

Marse Robert’s plantation
takes the proud and the few.
No serfs and no slaves,
only freeborn and true.

The rain has stopped falling,
and the sun no longer shines.
Can broken hearts
truly be mended?
perhaps, on the other side.

The joke bears the retelling.
You didn't cry alone.
Your suffering is ended.
In song you still go on.

May the loser finally win
May your sorrows be redressed.
May broken hearts be rendered whole
May your tears be dried at last.



( Robin Gibbs, RIP)

A single Bloom, unblemished,
it's skin as red as wine,
I lay here at your headstone
to mark a year of time.

Perhaps you cannot hear my voice
in the silence of the plot.
I have stopped here just to show
you have not been forgot.

There will be gifts for Mothers
Jewels and tulips too.
Here I leave a perfect rose
in memory of you.

Everyone said I had such great potential:
A bright eyed lad, adept with word and song,
an angelic voice, a wordsmith like a lawyer.
They look at me now and wonder-what went wrong?


If I could put my finger on the problem,
Procrastination did beget my fall.
I had, at times, an ambitious plan and project.
I just never got around to it, that’s all.


I dallied in my summer’s afternoon,
Listening to other siren’s songs
Now winter comes upon me with a vengeance
I realize now I never sang my song.

But on my cluttered desk, a wooden talisman!
A round wood carving- a Tuit tis
And now, in possession of a round Tuit,
I’ve no excuse for wasting time like this.

A man on the cusp of One Hundred
found letters that proved beyond doubt
that Rosa, his bride since his twenties,
in the 40’s had “catted” about.
Some German had tickled her fancy
and perhaps a bit more its believed.
The statute of limitations doesn’t apply
when an Italian husband’s aggrieved.
Did he stop to think of the children?
They’re at such an impressionable age.
They may go and spend
their whole pension on drugs,
join a gang, or go out and get laid.
Antonio’s mad at his Rosa
He’s just about called her a *****.
It matters not to him that her transgression
dates back to the second world war.
We don’t know what he read in the letters-
Perhaps his whole life’s been a lie-
but as he is on the cusp of one hundred
why not wait for the children to die?




In Italy, a 99 year old man has divorced his wife aged 96  for a affair she had with a German officer in 1942
He found their letters in a drawer.  No he not longer has to wonder why his oldest boy was named " Fritz"

We slept last night on satin sheets.
Reluctantly we rise.
In air-conditioned luxury
we wipe the sleep from bloodshot eyes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Upon exiting from the shower
we don our matching silken robes.
The Bloomberg totes our rising wealth
and tells of Donald's latest woes.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Eggs over easy and crusty french bread,
consumed with dark roast coffee seems
a perfect way to start our day.
We live better than Kings and Queens.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

We dress in fine designer clothes.
You should see the shoes she wears.
They cost two thousand dollars each
and she owns two dozen pairs.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Below our penthouse in the sky,
anger simmers on City streets.
An angel with a flaming sword
approaches even as we speak.

The Earth grows sterile with each passing year.
Fewer birds sing in the trees.
It is autumn now and it seems strange
that outside its ninety -eight degrees

Much of our literature
has come from his pen-
or was He a She?
I can't say I ken.
When not writing poems
or dabbling in prose
Beautiful songs
Anon oft would compose.
Anonymous never gained
fortune or fame.
The works are immortal,
Their maker, unnamed.
Since the first of his line
painted caves all alone,
Anon ever has been
the artist unknown.

There’s a seat at the table if you’re so inclined.
Bitter herbs and fish are offered, served with bread and wine.
It’s an intimate Seder gathering, just twelve of his close friends.
He calls them Disciples. You know what this night portends.

There’s a seat at the table, for one man’s left early.
Judas seemed racked with guilt, by turns worried and surly.
Did our Host have foreknowledge, or did he merely suspect,
when he pointed out that traitor when they both dipped their bread?

Our Host is reflective; there is much on his mind
As he offers us bread and he blesses the wine.
This week has been a whirlwind of Halcyon days.
He entered by the Eastern gate to much acclaim and praise.

There was that trouble at the temple where the money changers lurk.
You never saw the Lord so angry when about his Father’s work.
Now our Seder is concluding and it has been a long day,
Will you join us at Gethsemane where the master’s gone to pray?

Abandoned by my former love,
behind these iron bars I wait.
Boredom may overtake me,
Or some other, far worse, fate.
My only hope, a second love,
to redeem me from this place.
Adopt me from this puppy mill
And I’ll gladly lick your face.

The spire and the roof collapsed,
But at least no body died.
Stained glass melted from the heat
and priceless works of art besides.
Our Lady is open to the sky;
Her tabernacle desecrated.
A treasure of man’s faith is gone.
Can such be recreated?
An aged curate walks her aisles
Whose walls hold echoes of men’s prayers.
He looks upon bare ruined choirs
and fights back feelings of despair.
“We will rebuild” the Father thinks
as the heated stones grow cold.
“We lift our hearts up to the Lord
Who paid the ransom for our souls.”

It’s fortunate the rain had ceased early this warm November day.
I glance at my watch: 12:27; “Lancer” and “Lace” are on their way.
I see Lee in his ******’s perch. I still wonder if he’ll get this done.
I stand on the grassy knoll. Beneath my jacket, I touch my gun.
We must not fail; the King must die. I am the insurance it will be done.
A shot is fired from up above. “Lancer” grabs his throat and chest
and Camelot becomes undone.

The second bullet finds its mark And “Lace” is spattered with brains and blood.
The crowd is gripped with sudden fear. Here and there they start to run
Some woman screams “They’ve murdered him”.
I secretly smile for we have won.
I make my way to the phone booth there inside the Dallas Barbecue.
I call Ruby at his club. “Jack, I have one more job for you.”

We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite, alive.

Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.

A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee stung lips.

Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.

There, of course, are impediments
I won't try to hide.
The ring on my finger,
my bride at my side.

Plus there's the issue
of fifty years gone.
My Romeo days
have packed up  and moved on.

Now our friends have arrived
and, chaste kisses exchanged,
We feast on our entrees
as wine glasses are drained.

As dessert time approaches
I sadly observe
she’'s not on the menu
Pumpkin Cheese cake will serve.

When I was little, as a general rule,
I’d hide neath the covers on days meant for school.
I’d lounge in pajamas all day; I swore that I would.
Mom said:” I let you sleep as long as I could!”

So I’d have to get up.   I’d pretend to be sore.
“Surely you could have let me sleep five minutes more!”
Then the sizzle of bacon and the scent of the same
Convinced me my protests would all be in vain.

“I let you sleep as long as I could.”
I disputed this always, but it did me no good.
Though I may be lazy to my spiritual core
Mom always had ways to get me out the door.

First Grade school, then High School, then College –the same,
I always awoke to that dreaded refrain.
I’ll roll out of my rack to the cold bedroom floor
Always swearing I could have slept five minutes more.

Now I am old and I wake to an alarm.
Daylight floods in and the radio is on.
I have a snooze button- should I wish to snore
That would happily let me sleep five minutes more.

But that would be cheating, not how I was raised
So I always get up. To my Mom goes the praise
She made me responsible; you see I turned out good-
because she let me sleep just as long as she could.

Politicians (Hacks and ******),
with their drawn out fiscal wars,
wreak havoc in our lives
without regret.
Few of them have gone to war-
Fewer seem to know the score;
You can't raise the ceiling
on a soldier's debt.

When a Soldier volunteers
despite his mother's tears
He signs a check;
Uncle Sam is the payee.
His life is on account
but the check bears no amount.
His safe return from tour, no certainty.

At the risk of Life or Limb
He soldiers on and ventures in.
The price he pays
has oft been paid before.
If Dover is his fate,
He earns his place on Lee's estate-
At least he knows
they can't ask any more.

The admiral of the U.S. fleet
was staring towards the shore.
A mob of people jammed the wharf.
He thought we were at war.
The good Mayor Paulo, of Monterrey
was waving with the rest.
He saw our large Pacific fleet
And, doubtless, was impressed.
The commodore made cannons roar
The impact shook the ground
By miracle no townsfolk died
And not one sailor drowned.
“Perhaps they are saluting us!”
The puzzled mayor said.
But when we put marines ashore
Such thoughts soon left his head.
That day we captured Monterrey
It was quite the feat of arms
We lost just one or two marines
to some Senorita’s charms.
The State Department soon put an end
To the splendid little war
And erstwhile foes departed friends
from the Mexicali shore.

The Helos hovered silently
as the Seals roped to the ground.
They touched down on Sesame Street
where the “Big Bird” could be found.

The C.I.A. had tracked him
Using feed from P.B.S.
President Mitt o.k’d the hit
when we tracked him to his nest.

A blue grouch in a garbage can
liay bleeding on the floor.
That **** named Cookie Monster
won’t eat  cookies anymore.

Ernie, Bert and rubber ducky
Were in the bath they say
When Seal team six broke through the door
and blew them both away.

Big Bird hid in Hooper’s store
While all this had transpired.
Then he laid down suppressing fire
With a weapon he’d acquired
Several Seals lay silent
in that sleep that isn’t sweet.
Snuffleupagus opened up
and forced a Seal retreat.

A stealth Helo exploded
raining wreckage on the street.
Maddened Muppets hurling Bricks
compounded Mitt’s  defeat.

As of today Big Bird’s at large.
Him we couldn’t whack.
The briefing failed to tell us
That a Liberal Bird fights back.

Joe Bisquick was driving,
It was late Friday night.
He turned his rig left
when he should have gone right.
Folks say he avoided
a fork in the road.
His rig overturned
And he lost his whole load.
There was hungry Jack Syrup
on the Buttermilk Pike.
It oozed onto the shoulders
Of the road left and right.
All of that Syrup-
Not a pancake in sight!.
Police questioned Butterworth-
Who had motive and cause,
But she was released,
having broken no laws.
Pancake breakfasts were cancelled
In Kentucky the next day
Aunt Jemima made
a clean get away.

Detroit is a mess, eighteen billion in debt
But you can’t stop a loser from a double down bet.
The transit she has runs deep in the red
Half her acreage is vacant and her tax base has fled.
So now they plan a streetcar, the M-1 light rail
They boldly go forward with a plan doomed to fail.
Detroit’s busted budget is out of control
Their schools are the worst, spending’s out of control.
But if we build a streetcar then all will be well?
More cash down the rat hole! Don’t ask and don’t tell.
Three billion dollars it’s projected to cost-
half for the rail line and half for the Boss.

If he prefers a bitter brew and takes his coffee black
You my friend had best beware; you ought to watch your back!
A scientific survey says that of all people on the street;
those who prefer the bitter to the sweet,
have psychopathic tendencies revealed by what they eat.
If he loves eating Brussel sprouts, but passes on the butter
He might be the sadistic type with issues about mother.
If he takes his coffee black but eschews the use of sugar.
It’s a good predictive marker that your colleague is meshugah.
So pay attention to the habits of your most near and dear,
because their choice of what to eat makes their intentions clear.

“I thought you said that they would come. “Ray said it with a sigh.
Outside the ballpark Chaos reigned as another city died.
At Camden Yards a game was played; no fans were let inside.
Terry sadly eyed the scene and fought the urge to cry.
For baseball represents the best that America could be,
until hatred triumphed teamwork, forging chains of misery.
The inner harbor is in flames and they’ll not soon subside
The bitter angels of our nature ruled as another city died.
In time the final out was made and the players left the field.
The home team lost, no save was made

And no one’s wounds were healed.

With downcast eyes
They headed down,
a mother and her son.
Tears now seemed
in short supply,
both emotionally numb.
John looked back
At the vacant cross
where brother Jesus died.
Low grey clouds
obscured the sun
where He was crucified.
At times like this
it’s hard to hope.
And most forget to pray.
“It is finished.” Jesus said
Of this, our Passion Play.

It must be love
That seeks and finds
such perfect grapes
from vintage vines.

In a year far
from the best
Our bridge and groom
are truly blest.

When even water
Is hard to find
In their hot and dusty
Texas clime.

This finest wine
completes their feast
When other hosts
Pour out their least.

It must be love,
Enduring fast
that saved this best wine
for the last.

Some time had passed already
since we’d come down from the trees.
We still walked with an awkward gait
Sore backs and aching knees.
Lar still might be alive, old mother,
if he hadn’t pawed my mate.
When I saw him mount her
in the brush
All I felt was rage and hate.
The jawbone of an *** was near
I took it in my hands.
I brought it down upon his skull
I killed with these two hands.
I wouldn’t let the Jackals have
the body of my friend.
I covered up his corpse with stones.
this is where it ends.
As a tribe we are too small, too few.
to let the blood lust linger.
We must keep moving further north
until we are out of danger.
Old mother nodded sagely.
Lars clansman did the same.
I promised I would share the catch
with the children of his name.
Some book may talk of Abel-
that at Cain’s hand he died.
but it was the tribe of Lucy
that first committed Hominidicide

The doctors all were taken aback
They had never seen a case like his.
They suspected a stroke had laid him low,
but knew not what to make of this.
His eyes were bloodshot; his pulse raced.
At times his breath was like a sigh.
As he declaimed in a strange foreign tongue,
They sent him off for an M.R.I.

Emeralds green are my lover’s eyes.
Her hair is golden as the sunrise.
We spread our blanket upon the earth
and joined beneath the bowl of stars.


Was this disease communicable?
Was it airborne or spread by touch?
They watched as the patient resumed babbling
In a strangely musical Gaelic tongue:

Furtive kisses are most sweet
as we hid from the world away.
Surely moments like this are why we live.
We were not born only to kneel and pray.

No sign of a lesion on the brain,
Nor a concussion could explain
Why  a man who knew no Irish
Spouted poetry  in the same vein.

Soft whispering and heartfelt sighs
Join with your all-consuming kiss.
The stars above wink their approval
As we surrender to our bliss.

When we awakened the sun was high,
The sound of birdsong was in our ears.
I drink my fill of your pale beauty.
It never fails to give me cheer.

“We must start quarantine right away
if containment will have any chance.”
Alas, it was too late, for all of them
as the nurses began  dancing the River dance.

The Memory of my Love
Is as a rose preserved from time.
Or like a treasured bottle
from a vintage year for wine.

I am haunted by her memory-
How our fingers intertwined.
The fragrance of her body
as I held it close to mine.

Now just the shadow of her smile
Brings tears to a dry place.
Funny how my heart can race
Within the ghost of her embrace.
.
She is unchanging, therefore perfect
Her aspect is divine.
I believe that year was vintage-
for love, if not for wine.

The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury  had foretold

Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.

Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme

The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me,  awkwardly, to start the fray.

The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.

They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.

Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.

Don't lay me to rest in a burial plot
to molder alone and be forgot.
I think that I would rather be
fresh compost for a growing tree.
As a tree let me grow both tall and thin
(two things that I have never been)
There let me grow both tall and proud
and raise my limbs to worship God
Then children, rest beneath the shade of that tree
Take shelter there in my leafy bough.
Hear my voice in the rustling wind.
I'm with you. I have always been.

At Seventeen, a girl might buy a dress and look towards her prom;
music and dancing through the night with a Beau upon her arm.
At Seventeen the night might end in a gentle tender kiss
As couples watch the Sun rise as it gives the waves the slip.
At Seventeen, a girl might think of college and career.
She might listen to loud music and maybe sneak a beer.


For a victim of progeria, life holds no such charms;
At Seventeen, her time is short, too soon she will be gone.
At Seventeen, in human terms, this girl was ninety-five;
every day a battle in the struggle to survive.
Like a comet burning brightly coming too close to the Sun
Hayley, wiser than her years, burned brightly and was done.

At Seventeen
Janis Ian


I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "Come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
And the rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
When dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call and say, "Come dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Songwriters: Janis Ian

As darkness gathered, so did the crowds;
They were like moths drawn to the flame.
The swastikas were everywhere-
All loyal party members came.
The piled the books by Freud and Jung
And untermenchen of their kind
And tossed them on the bonfire there
as part of ******’s grand design.
The flames leapt high into the night
Fueled by these UN-German books
As Goebbels watched in rapt delight,
at how he had these people rooked.
As darkness gathered so did the crowd
to witness this unholy scene,
unaware that those who start with books
will end up burning human beings.

At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.

The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.

Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.

With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John

He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.

Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.

Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms

.

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

As Eleven sprints towards its end,
and the fire slowly dies,
forget the tears, recall the joy
for that way wisdom lies.

A bitter cold night to close out the year;
come sit here near the fire by me.
I have here a fine brandy
that was aged eighteen years,
but that never another will see.

So hold out your glass and I’ll give you a splash
to warm you and loosen your tongue.
Then we’ll each tell tall tales
Of our reprobate youth
And the disreputable things we had done.

We’ll remember with tears those we’ve lost this past year
Those who loved us despite what we’d done.
The Father who sacrificed all for his boys;
the Mother who lived for her sons.

A bitter cold night to close out the year;
I’m warmed by the fire’s soft glow.
If I shed a tear at the close of the year,
I pray don’t let anyone know.

The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.

The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.

In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.

I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”

The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.

We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.

She was careful that she was not seen
There, in the graveyard,
deep in the night.
A single rose in her left hand
A bottle of Cognac in her right.
She knew the path to his grave by heart,
How could it be otherwise?
The two of them had shared one heart,
Now in his tomb the Master lies.
Libation poured upon the stone.
She wets her lips with Hennessy
He, of course, Edgar Allan Poe
She, of Course,his Annabelle Lee.

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide."
"Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside."
"We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."
"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."
"With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state."
"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
told whoppers in an endless loop.
There were quotes from
the World's Great Religions
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."

" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, without moving my lips.

I really like my muse, I do,
despite her incessant chatter.
It's just, at times, her timing *****,
when sleep, I'd much, much, rather.
It's true I love the verse that she
compels me to compose.
It's ever so much nicer than
my forays into prose.
It just that when it's four A.M.
and I would rather sleep-
She pops in with a word or phrase
that's just to good to keep.
So, obedient to my muse.
I reach for pen and paper.
I dare not lie about in bed
or make plans to betray her.
For so prolific is my muse
who comes to me each waking.
I dare not tick the Lady off
or even keep her waiting.

The Seamstresses of Baltimore
had done their Country proud.
Their Flag, upon a staff of wood,
Defied The British rounds.
Fort McHenry and her men
alone stood in the way
of a squadron of the British fleet
in good King George's pay.
All through the warm September night
We saw red rockets glare.
And when the morning sun arose
our banner was still there.
The tale might have been different
One of death, despair and blood-
One shell had hit the magazine
but it proved to be a dud.


A lawyer and a poet
on a truce ship in the Bay
gave voice to the emotions
that filled his heart that day.
So when you stand and doff your cap
and sing his song I say,
let history become memory
in a simple, subtle way.

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
une peur qui n'a pas donné son nom.
Une pensée dont la source ne divulguerait pas
la peur que tous ceux qui vivent le sachent.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
ces jours de courte durée nous passons en vain.
La colère, de courte durée mais intense
à l'amour sans sa récompense.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
un rhume froid sans nom
Maladie qui ne suivrait pas son cours
La pilule amère de notre divorce.

La boisson est la porte du désespoir
et oui, je cherchais du réconfort là-bas,
quand les voix humaines sont toutes allées encore
pour me réchauffer du froid hivernal.