Once upon a time
There were two giants
on our Island.
They were tall
and steely strong,
these twin giants.
They stood firm
on the ground
and their crowns
touched the clouds.
Then, on a crisp, clear
September day-
The world changed
And the giants were no more.

Let our country produce no more exceptional men;
at least none worth remembering in Bronze or Stone.
The American Taliban has declared war on the past;
Since those men are dead, their statues must atone.

So pull down their monuments and leave the empty plinths.
Efface their names from  parks and roads and forts.
Gutzon Borglum offends us with his carvings.
“Demolish Stone Mountain!” the Taliban retorts.

The day will come when Stonewall is just a bar
Where tops and bottoms battled with police.
Foote, Catton and McPherson must be burned,
with all other books about that war and peace.

An army of ants can bring an elephant down.
An army of ignorance can drag down old heroes.
When America is exceptional no more
All will be equal; all men will be zeros.

The unexamined life
passes quickly
like grains of sand
through the hourglass

Just as quickly
as the future
becomes the past or
so it seems

He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.

Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.

The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.

With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.

In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.

Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.

I wasn’t meant to be like this.
I wasn’t born this way.
I started out an optimist,
Not one draped in shades of grey.
But Cynicism settled in
as I reached middle age.
My youthful enthusiasms dimmed
And I sadly turned the page.
I became the man Wilde once described
In “Lady Windermere’s fan”
I didn’t want to be like this,
I trust you understand.
I lost the simple joy of youth;
The innocence and longing.
I know the price of everything
But of their Value, nothing

Let Appraisers be consulted; Let the sages have their say-
Surely somebody can tell me the true value of one day.
I’m asking for the value of one spinning of this globe;
What’s the cash surrender value of the hours that unfold?
Is it worth its weight in sunshine, in deep breaths and loving glances;
This treasure trove of hours, all disguised as second chances?
The seconds are fine grains of gold; the minutes slip away,
Our memories the only store of value for one day.
We are like ruined millionaires, who, idle in our play,
were possessors of a fortune, but then ****** it all away.
I ask the value of one day; pleased don’t think me glib or clever,
But it appreciates tremendously –when you do not have forever.

In the beginning it was subtle,
And thus went unobserved.
He’d be reading a good article
And he started missing words.

Of course he was intelligent
And his mind filled each Lacuna,
But I wonder, could we have saved him
Had we only noticed sooner?

Eventually whole paragraphs
began to escape his grasp.
A mental fog enveloped him,
He’d forget what he’d read last.

Every day he tried to work
Was like the day before.
Until he had to admit
He couldn’t do it anymore.

A subtle dyskinesia
Like a seaquake in the brain
Left the poor man terrified
Of things left unexplained.

Perhaps it was a mercy
when dementia settled in,
I hope he lacked awareness
of the Hell he’d entered in.

When his vital signs began to fail
I found I could not cry.
The one I loved had vanished
Long before the day he died.

They are,and aren't, like we are;
born with an extra chromosome.
They are,unlike us, trusting souls,
brave hearts, and never ideologues .
Their time is short upon this Earth.
Seldom will they reach old age.
Souls of unconditional love
who make no mark on history's page.
They used to call them mongoloids
blunted features with Asian eyes
Now they are erased in Vivo
So seldom are they born alive.
They used to be the child who stayed
with their parents until old age.
Hearts full of love, devoid of greed
Now marked for death because, you see,
imperfection is not what we need.

By
MEG ELISON


I am the very model of a modern-age millennial,
I’ve got no cash, no house, no kids, and student debt perennial,
I know the rules of Tinder, and I’m not sold on monogamy
(For what it’s worth I think that stems from troubles ‘tween my mom and me)
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters on the gender front
Myself, I am nonbinary; your labels I so do not want
Been disillusioned by my expectations with a lot o’ stuff,
The skills with which I am equipped for life are frankly not enough

My job prospects are hobbled by insistence on a living wage
Compete at entry level with some washed-up folks at twice my age
In matters of identity, employment and such petty ills
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial
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On Monday I killed Applebee’s, on Tuesday I axed country clubs
I’ve never bought a diamond and I have no use for cashmere gloves
I quote dank internet memes in lieu of sharing actual thoughts
For earnestness has been passé since sometime in the early aughts
Still advertisers flail and fail to capture all my buying power
(The sum of which amounts to renting GIG cars by the paltry hour)
I’m subject to the bleak nostalgia of Generation Xers
And YouTube sensibilities adored by web-savvy youngsters
So I get to the take the blame for our country’s tanked economy
While fighting for my basic rights and ****** autonomy
In short I’m ****** in matters from the vital to the trivial
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial

In fact, when I know what is meant by "social justice warrior”
When I can tell at sight a fascist MRA conspirator
When such affairs are treated as unsolvable new mysteries,
I shake my head and wonder if the Boomers studied history
When I have learnt what progress has been made and then just flushed away
My generation’s best bet looks like playing Fortnite drunk all day
In short, if you’re angry right now and spewing aged white vitriol
Remember you created me: the modern age millennial

For I’m the generation raised upon the game Monopoly
You’re hoarding all the wealth and jobs and mock me for my poverty
So now I’m skewing socialist with discourse quite ungenial
Please check your local ballots for the modern-age millennial

The Vessel was a thing of clay.
the sort you use, then throw away.
It was worth little, of itself,
but that vessel was filled with Love.
It poured out Love upon the Living
Free and selfless was its giving.
When at last the clay was dry,
it was the vessels time to die.
It shattered on the sands of time,
now half a lifetime gone from mine.
The vessel was my Dad you see-
and by his gifts I was set free.
I wept the day he met his end-
will I ever see his like again?
God willing on a higher plane
I'll get to call again his name.,
but if my journey ends in dust,
he taught me how as all men must.

East River’s calming ebb and flow; we stood and watched from the upper deck.
The band was playing, too loud, below; some rhapsody from Rod Stewart.
Before us the twin towers rose, majestic, on the nearer shore.
We were young, you were beautiful, who could ask for any more?
Time and tide, Love, time and tide, Do you recall the song they played?
We danced as a new year dawned, a new year that has long since strayed.
The party boats still sail those waters, other revelers have staked their claim.
The skyline is quite different now, since those twin towers died in flames.
Only in the view from memory point can I see those towers plain
And recall a love songs sad refrain.

He lies unconscious on the bed; his breathing raspy and uneven.
She is ever at his side, always there, still believing.
The monitor is the only sound; irregularly it counts the beat.
He has battled long and hard, only now he’ll face defeat.
The morphine drip is merciful; this man’s proud heart begins to slow.
This year he’d had dementia, what he feels we cannot know.
She holds his hand in both of hers and whispers there a silent prayer.
When she looks up at his face again his spirit is no longer there.
In private, she allows a tear, she had stayed strong; she was his rock.
No matter how prepared one is, this final moment is a shock,

Do not label me impure
for being, somewhat,a ******.
Who, among you, would skip the chance
to take a peek, to steal a glance?
Her bodyguard of Lies dismissed,
her robes discarded, herself revealed.
She stripped and naked-
of course I looked.
She was comely, but aloof,
this maiden known
as the naked truth.

For 40 years Joe waited
For the chance to buy a pair
Of Packer season tickets.
He was verging on despair.
That time had seen Joe
wed and Dumped,
his children grown and fled.
Joe had waited half a lifetime,
far too long for a cheese head.
Then came the notice in the mail
The ducats could be thine.
Joe jumped out of his rocking chair
in ecstasy sublime.
He danced and screamed
And shouted out
Like he would when
Green Bay Scored.
Just then Joe gasped and clutched his chest
And fell dead on the floor.
It’s sad Joe never got the chance
to cheer them from on high
To freeze his *** at Packer’s games
It’s so unfair Joe died
Still, tickets shouldn’t go to waste
So I stepped up and bought the pair.
The seats are up in “Heaven”
I’m certain Joe don’t care

Of poor old Joe, my dear late friend,
I cannot find a trace
I fear he found seats down below
in a far, far ,warmer place.

Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.

It was a semi- private room,
and my bed was closest to the door.
Beyond the screen my neighbor lay
by the window and told me what he saw.

For days I lay in constant pain-
in traction from the surgeon's blade.
My neighbor helped to pass the time
as he described life's grand parade.

Across the street there was a park
and a little pond where children played.
He told me of the ducks and geese,
Of dappled sunlight the trees displayed.

My fellow patient was quite old,
and his race was nearly run.
The intervals of silence grew
where no words issued from his tongue.

I so enjoyed the moments when
he'd wake and tell me what he saw.
One time he saw a bird of prey
****** up a mousling in its claw.

Then one day alarms rang out
His E.K.G. went monotone.
they came and pounded on his chest
but I knew I would be alone.

The next day his nurse came to me
and told me that my friend was gone;
Hopefully to a better place
Free from pain and safe from harm.

I asked if it were possible
to move my bed where his had been
to let me have the window spot.
to see the outside world again.

"It will not do you good or ill
to sit beside that window sill
there's little light and, after all,
it's only facing a brick wall"

But I protest- "how could that be?"
What of the park he described to me?"
"I think he was just being kind,
for you see the man who died was blind."

AS I stare down the bottle
deep into the murky past
I see the home I used to own,
the love that did not last.

I think of the two little ones
we had before my fall,
but I'm too drunk to be with them
and they no longer call.

I miss the man I used to be
before I fell in love with drink.
In my rare sober moments
I'm amazed how far a man can sink.

I mourn the loss of wife and home.
Its painful to recall
Back before I was a drunkard
You might think I had it all.

It's Just you and me now two buck Chuck
We've had a real good run.
I am the wine Traveler;
my goal? Oblivion.

It is quiet, even peaceful here,
out past Hana on Maui’s Isle.
Near Palapala **'omau Church,
This is where I have come to bide.
To listen to the Ocean’s roar,
to find what peace is left to me.
I could not hide from you, oh Lord
Not in the uttermost depths of the sea
My time is fast approaching when
I will lose this quarrel with disease.
The air is warm and liquid here,
It has a perfumed fragrance that
would bid a younger man to stay.
but Cancer bids me to fade away
As I will, I’ve seen the stone,
simple enough to mark my space..
In the Churches’ graveyard here
my friend Sam has made a place
I recall, when youth was dawning,
You gave me the Wings of the Morning.
Was it simple vanity
that made me venture the unconquered sea.
I took off from Roosevelt field alone
and touched down in Paris, far from home.
Now I am far from home again,
Death’s boney hand he offers, like a friend.

An old and tattered Bible Is the crux of a dispute.
Bernice King has possession of what her brothers see as loot.
The book was dear to Doctor King thru trials and tribulations
And with him on the Selma march in the days that changed the nation.
To her; a priceless heirloom of King’s Dream to equalize.
To her brothers it’s an asset that they hope to monetize.
This book, signed by the President, is not a ****** prize
to be bought by some collector and hid from others eyes.
So now there is a lawsuit and I hope the judge is wise
Wise as a modern Solomon in how he will decide.
This Bible  is a legacy, inspired word  and proof
Of what one man can accomplish when addicted to the Truth.

She had a book of Sorcery,
that vile and evil crone.
She had no gift for Prophecy
or she wouldn’t have stayed home.
They caught her selling magic veils
and liquid in small jars.
(She was magically recycling
the contents of a mini-bar.)
She was caught with these potent potions
by the Saudi Faith police.
(Like the Spanish Inquisition
They’re not expected in the least.)
She was condemned for Sorcery
Her head forfeit to the Crown.
The price of magic veils just rose
if any can be found.

He’s an old man in a wheelchair, who sometimes hobbles with a cane.
His handgrip is amazingly strong; He has a wiry frame.
On his lap he holds an artifact; it’s a precious relic too.
It’s the flag from the Missouri, her old red white and blue.
He still recalls, quite vividly, that cool September day
When his battleship dropped anchor, right in Tokyo Bay.

“We accepted their surrender, They, our victory.
I still can hear MacArthur's voice. It was all surreal to me.”
We spoke on for a little while, he seemed glad that I came.
He spoke about his comrades and wept about how few remain.

We spoke about war’s folly, its death destruction and its pain.
We spoke no word of glory, that’s a politician’s game.
When his nurse came to get him, he knew it was time to rest.
No longer the scared young man who saw the world, but never at its best.

I later heard on that same night; Death came to stake his claim.
A day slips off into history, just ”Old Glory” still remains.

On Spring Street in SOHO I worked in a bar
The Manhattan Bistro, since closed down, I hear.
In its basement what remains of a well can be seen;
the scene of a ****** that still haunts my dreams.

The Winter solstice was, once again, drawing near,
its night, cold and dreary, the longest of the year.
What brought me downstairs, I cannot now tell.
It was there that I saw her, the woman from the well.

Her long tresses hung down; limp, lifeless and dead,
and an old fashioned hair comb she wore on her head.
Her muslin dress was archaic, with bustle and lace.
She seemed lonely and listless, a sad look on her face.

In life she’d been lovely, a pert Twenty two.
Yes, Elma Sands, I’d heard all about you.
As I stood in stunned silence, another appeared.
A malevolent Specter of a man passed me near.

He throttled the girl till, unconscious, she fell.
He tossed her, still living, down the depths of the well.
Then like vapors they vanished- to Heaven or Hell?
Someone called from the Bar and it shattered the spell.

Few heard her pleas on the night that she died.
When she first was discovered it was thought suicide.
Rumors spread quickly back in Old Dutch New York.
Surely that girl was murdered, such was the talk.

No doubt killed by a Lover who wanted no Bride.
Levi Weeks was arrested. The charge- Homicide.
Rumors were spread that he’d promised they’d wed,
That they planned to elope- but he’d killed her instead.

The Lawyers he hired were both men of renown;
Hamilton and Burr were both heroes in town.
The mob wanted blood; they screamed Levi’s name.
The jury declined to convict, just the same.

The facts of the ****** may never be known.
What man followed Elma, and found her alone,
In a meadow deserted on the outskirts of town?
What man took her life, which was not his to take,
when she bravely refused to consent to her ****?

In the heart of our city, her ghost finds no peace;
Two centuries later and still no release.
Venture down to the cellar on Spring Street if you dare;
On the Solstice her ghost will appear to you there

There are guys who wed girls
There are straight folks and gays.
There are those who like single life too.
A fellow in England once wed his T.V.
I’ve known women in love with their shoes.
But the strangest relationship
I ever heard tell
Was the woman who married herself.
She’d waited for years
For “Mister Right” to appear
and was tired up there on the shelf.
So she strolled down the Aisle
With a confident smile
(There was no need to give her away)
She composed her own vows
which drew much raves and wows.
While Justin Timberlake’s “Mirrors” song played.
She thought” who needs a spouse,
They just mess up your house.
So she bought a ******* instead
She vacationed in France
Where no one looks askance
And took “Battery Bob’ to her bed”

Love is Love. I have heard
But this bond is absurd.
You know very well how this ends.
An expensive divorce in a year I forecast
But the Bride and the “Groom” will stay friends.

The groundlings gather close around
It’s an unruly crowd.
The gentry sit in her majesties box
decked in Purple and all looking proud.
The poet enters the wooden “O”
armed only with his pen.
Will it be thumbs up or down?
On this so much depends.
The crowd screams out for blood and gore
As much as they can stand
They lust to see your soul laid bare
And naked on the sand
You weave a tale of arms and a woman
About the Trojan war.
Three hours traffic of our stage
They leave still wanting more.

Karma finds you eventually,
Sometimes while drinking a fine Chablis.
George Zimmerman is back in the news,
with sour grapes that left a bruise.
His girlfriend wouldn’t kneel to play
so he bopped her with un Beaujolais!
His poor girlfriend, clad in a slip,
He christened like a navy ship.
Aggrieved assault is the charge he’ll face
since cops were called out to his place.
He can’t resort to “Stand your Ground”
His prints were on the bottle found.
Off to jail, George, where, they say,
You’ll meet your true love every day.

Once, back in the day, when you were still teens,
I won the decathlon, a pole vaulting fiend.
On bright orange boxes my face could be seen.
It seemed like I was living the American dream.

Yet my role as a hero was all just a pose.
I never felt comfortable wearing men’s clothes.
I longed for the feel of lace upon skin.
I just didn’t belong in the body I’m in.

I longed to be pretty, I needed a change-
with money no object that could be arranged.
Hormonal treatments would help my ***** blossom
They made my skin soft and they rounded my bottom.

Now in stockings and gingham I’m making the scene,
The thing I’ve most wanted since I was a teen.
Those parts that defined me- now surgically gone,
I just don’t know whether to scratch or to yawn.

There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking

much

There were six of them, officer.
Each 800 pounds.
They had horns on their heads
and they moo'd mean and loud.
They trampled my gate,
made a mess of my pond
then they scattered my guests
and the party was on!
They tipped over the table
that held all the beer.
smashed the cans with their hooves
and they lapped up the cheer.
With the smell of their relatives
seared on the grill
I thought after their keeger
they'd be out for the ****.
I banged on my garbage pails
desperately thinking
The noise would stampede
these fat heifers out drinking.
They finished the Bud I had
bought at the store.
Then they sent my dog "here we go"
looking for more.
Your police car's loud sirens
put the bovines to flight
and they disappeared
drunkenly into the night.
Believe me Officer
I know what your thinking
but truly and honestly
I haven't been drinking


much

The enemy of my enemy
Is not, necessarily, a friend to me.
Sectarian based enmity
In Syria abounds.
Cruise missile strikes certainly
Will be followed by the I.E.D.’s
As surely as boots on the ground
Will result in stone topped
Grassy mounds.

My eyes, unblinking, are raised towards the sky.
I’m just a man in an ordinary suit.
Thirteen stairs for me to climb,
Thirteen steps till I wear the noose.
I’ve been condemned for the crimes of others.
This is my sacrificial feast.
My emperor lives and reigns in splendor.
This war ends in a bitter peace.
My loving wife had predeceased me.
I am resigned now to my fate.
As the hemp rope chokes my life out
I hope, my Love, to see your face.
Thirteen steps, I must not trip.
A stumble here would be disgrace.
I face my death with calm and courage.
This day will bring no loss of face.
I was just a man in an ordinary suit
In the wrong seat, at the wrong time,
in the wrong place.

“Did you see the High Priest’s face,
When Judas came back through the door?
When he threw down the price we paid,
Thirty Pieces, on the floor?”

“He was wild eyed, a bit insane,
as he tossed blood money at the Priest.
He’d been the Galilean’s friend
up until the Pesach feast.”

“They found him later on a tree,
with bulging eyes and blackened tongue.
The High Priest’s servants cut him down
But Judas was already done.”

“So now I’m charged to take his fee
and buy a modest piece of ground-
Where those like Judas can be interred
Who die unloved by anyone.”

This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
God’s Son, nurtured by a girl,
this child of Bethlehem.

This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
like the star, in darkness, shines.

This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
God’s Son, nurtured by a girl,
this child of Bethlehem.

This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
like the star, in darkness, shines.

Sam Adams beer masters see there’s trouble brewing:
This governmental shutdown is nothing of their doing.
Still, their beer is piling up in barrels on the floor.
For without Federal approval beer cannot be sold, by law.
They crafted a delicious brew for bottles and for cans,
But, due to the political climate change, they must make other plans.
They’re stuck with vats of golden brew, the nectar of the gods
But this shutdowns ending no time soon, per the bookies who quote odds
To prevent their beers from going stale while the politicians clash
They’re paying the workers by the ounce in lieu of paying cash.

One hundred and fifty travelers each day
Arrive from West African climes.
While its clearly insane to let them board planes
They can travel on scheduled airlines.
If they’re asymptomatic, they enter our ports.
Is the government out of its mind?
With dishwashers and Laundries our first line of defense
Ebola will spread over time.
Airline and hotel stocks are selling off big
Pharmaceuticals ought to do fine.

A nurse who watched Duncan as he sickened and died
Flies to Cleveland and back to big D
Her temperature was merely ninety nine point five.
“.Oh, you’re fine.” said the C-D-C.

Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And dreamed of all the great things we would do

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way
La la la la...

[Verse 2]
Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I'd see you in the tavern
We'd smile at one another and we'd say

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...


[Verse 3]
Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...

[Verse 4]
Through the door there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh my friend we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same

[Chorus]
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la...

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers;
your inspiring moments of silence.
Yet these do not one blessed thing
to protect us from gun violence.

The constitution guarantees
the right to lethal Weapons?
Are Life and Liberty not worthy, then,
of sensible protections?

Those diagnosed with PTSD;
The schizophrenic and Bi Polar
Should not be given lethal means
to wipe out holy rollers.

We thank you for your thoughts and prayers
We’re sure they’re well intended.
Just the same we’d like to see
These brutal massacres ended!

Like those daughters of Zeus of old,
Three graces now I see before me.
I’ll call you Beauty, Joy and Mirth;
It’s my good fortune to behold thee.

The oldest has a beauty rare;
She is pale white with raven tresses.
Like her sisters, she’s clad in lace
and those are some exquisite dresses.

The middle sister loves to sing;
Like a songbird she can warble.
A lovely smile, warm to the touch,
Like nothing ever done in marble.

The youngest has a cheerful mien;
witty bright and full of laughter.
The pity is I’m old; they’re young-
My money must be what they’re after!

When the bees are all silenced
By Glyphosate laced grains.
When our waste and our garbage
Are choking sea lanes.
When the stocks are fished out
and the oceans then die.
When the struggle for life
Is once more eye for eye.
Is it too late to ask
Why we’re consumed with hate?
Why, for sake of a buck,
A planet was *****?
It’s three minutes to midnight
on the doomsday clock.
We’ve not much time left folks

TICK TOCK< TICK TOCK

The water had risen to just below the brim and
cracks were observed along the poured concrete rim.
For days now such troubling signs had appeared;
The Dam Keeper had expressed concerns, then been told not to fear.
The Chief engineer had come up and opined
that the mighty Dam’s walls would stand all tests of time.

Down there in the valley with the last of the light
The ranchers and their families bedded down for the night.
Their ignorance was bliss for no one foresaw
That flood waters obey an immutable law.

The Saint Francis Dam in the San Francisquito Valley
Was about to give way. There’d be no time to dally.
At three minutes to midnight came an unearthly sound;
Twelve Billion gallons of water knocked the dam down.

Bodies and boulders, stone structures and trees
Formed a wave of destruction that raced for the sea
A mighty Tsunami; a hundred feet high
All those in its way were those destined to die.

Man, in his hubris, seems always to feel
That he is the master to whom Nature must yield.
Yet, in reality, we are helpless and small;
Overcome by flood waters we are nothing at all.

Mulholland, the department head shouldered the blame.
Bravely I think- Who today would do the same?
The ruins of Saint Francis Dam still stand to remind us
That our works are ephemeral; Nature reclaims our dust.

Our land’s infrastructure is in need of repair.
We must not wait for more cracks to appear.
The innocent suffer if we fail to heed this call.
Its three minutes to midnight for us one and all.

They sit straight in a row, like jackdaws on a line;
three women, garbed  in black, on uncomfortable metal  chairs.
They speak in low murmuring voices.
Their eyes are fixed upon the burnished Bronze casket
at the front of the chapel.
The casket that contains
All that remains
of the cancer riddled ruin of a man.
Their eyes are downcast, their ankles tightly crossed.
They have come to console their sister for her loss.
She is one of them now; she has joined in their number.
Indifferent wives make excellent widows.

The sky was so very blue, it was a Thursday, I recall.
Nagasaki had just stirred to life when "Bock's Car" paid us a call.
We were the secondary target, but dark clouds concealed the first.
Thus our city was marked for death when hell  unleashed upon the earth.
The super-fortress shimmered, brilliant silver in sunlight.
I saw one parachute deploy as she turned and banked from sight.
There was a blinding flash of light, then thunder from on high.
" that is strange" I recall that thought "Thunder from a clear blue sky."

Of Time and Love-
Those gifts you gave-
Only memories may I save.
Although I have a goodly store
Don’t call me greedy for wanting more.


Those other gifts you made for me-
A home and loving family-
I hold them close about me now
that my love has outlived our vow.


With you, dear love, I saw the world
Not half bad for a Bronx bred girl
Yet I would yield the world and more
If Time, that thief, gave us encore. .

The call came late one evening
just before she would have been asleep.
Rob said "there's been  a hit and run."
"A stranger found Dad in the street."

She got herself dressed hurriedly
without an eye to style.
She left the kids with Steven;
A quick kiss as a goodbye.

She took Lyft to the hospital;
and as she watched the streetlights pass by.
She wondered how she ought to feel
If her father were to die.

The two of them were long estranged.
Had ever they been close?
Much easier to dress in black
if he had given up the ghost.

Rob called her from emergency
that Dad was fading fast.
His breathing was irregular
This night would be his last.

She joined Rob at the bedside
When she saw theirDad she gasped.
How could  he still be breathing
with all those tubes in place.?

The old man on the gurney
reached out and squeezed her hand.
Her father was too far gone  to speak
but hoped she'd understand.

There was no time for redemption
before the old man slipped above.
But, as she bent to kiss his battered cheek
there was time enough for love

Outside it feels like ten below,
so I bask in the warmth and light
of the Fireplace's glow.
No better spot on a bitter night.
A cup of Cocoa to warm my hands
and suddenly the world seems right.
Then Chip, my Chocolate Lab, makes demands;
with leash in mouth he nudged my hands.

Out in the utter dark of night.
We walk together , man and beast,
Chip loves to frolic in the snow,
(and cares not if its ten below.)
Whereas I, on the other end of the leash,
do not enjoy it in the least.
He has fur and four paw drive.
I, old and portly, slip and slide.
I'd much rather be back, warm, inside.
I think it's time for chocolate!

You cannot save time in a bottle,
that's not something a bottle can do.
Sure, time can be lost there
and loves are divorced there-
but saving time, bottles can't do.

For those who spend time in a bottle
will wonder where time has got to.
Time won't be found there,
perhaps a good wine there
is sufficient to compensate you.

And as for "the box made for wishes
and dreams that will never come true."
They will put you inside
and there you will bide
till Gabriel's playing for you.

You cannot keep time in a bottle
experience taught me that's true.
Perhaps whiskey or rye
and a slow way to die
but time will not stand still for you.

Her love proved insufficient,
or , worse, illusory.
So you struggle bravely on alone
towards your Calvary.

Remember One who, too ,faced death
abandoned by his friends.
He, too, felt forsaken,
and cried out at the end.

We prisoners all face one fate.
It is our common link.
We all will share this cup of pain
that you are forced to drink.

Yet In this charnel house of Earth
another lies alone.
One, like you, that a
lack of Love has struck a fatal blow.

An evil illness stalks your days
but Love lives in your heart.
bring Love to an unloved one,
and you will have played your part.

He was certainly buzzed,
Drunk, a better word,
When his convertibles wheel
Struck a tree near the curb..
A woman’s scream;
then silence, shock.
He whispered her name
But no one answered back.

The artist was dying,
But still he observed:
The drip, drip, of his blood
Onto asphalt that’s cracked.
Death imitates art.
Now break, gentle heart.
Sirens sound in the distance
a bright light in the dark.
As all neurons fired
in search of a spark.

No, you will not hear him anymore.
belting out a Broadway score.
You would wait forever
before he walks through that door.
Cory’s golden voice is silenced,
because he was tempted and succumbed.
That often is the price one pays
to be forever young.

Cory Monteith, R.I.P

She moves slowly in her parlor
in the fading light of day.
In her time she was a beauty,
celebrated on the stage.
From ingénue to has-been
was a short eventful trip.
A cup from which a never-was
Perhaps would like to sip.
Even in her eighties
Her pose is ramrod straight
As when she was a lovely teen
pursued by the rich and great.
She loved the man her husband killed,
She never loved her mate.
When Harry Thaw killed Stanford White
Karma chose the place and date.