When, as a child, I thought about
a future to be planned,
I saw myself upon the mound
with a baseball in my hand.
I’d fantasize about the game
throwing at our garage door.
Fearlessly I toed the rubber
and reached down for something more.
I learned the basics of control,
a fastball and a slider.
If I could only get my curve to break
I’d really be on fire.
Through long summer afternoons
From sixty feet, six inches.
I’d shake off imaginary signs
and called my own dammed pitches.
There was a problem, I confess,
one troubling me greatly.
My fastball wasn’t all that fast-
It topped out about eighty.
I also stand at Five foot eight
and, even then, was hefty.
But I think I could have made “The Show”
if I had been born a Lefty.
Published today 09.12

Once upon a time
in a nasty little war
Cromwell came to Ireland
like a blight upon our shore.

He waged war upon my people
in a genocidal style
but some revisionists might argue
he was merciful and mild.

At Drogheda he killed thousands,
what a slaughter that place saw,
at the hands of "Christian" soldiers-
surely righteous was their cause.

Then, when the war was over
and all our blood was spent
the Gaels, who used to own the land,
all wound up paying rent

" To Hell or Connacht" is a phrase
sound biters did invent
I don't know if he uttered it
but its surely what he meant!

A good life is much like a good book.
It engages and enthralls
the mind and senses.
The Life, like the book, has a narrative and episodes
like the book has chapters.
Both are meant to be savored and enjoyed.
Too good in the telling to ever
tempt one to skip to the end,
even though one could.

A good life , like a good book
will long be remembered
and treasured by many.

enjoy each page.

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour—

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain—
Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
where the Patriots and Sea hawks will meet,
and all that folks are talking about
is Bill and Tom’s softball deceit.

It’s cold up North this time of year
when the Patriots made their playoff run.
Snow and ice require gloves;
If footballs slip, they’d be undone.

“Taking the air out of the ball”
Once referred to the running game.
Deflated ***** are easy to grip
But it’s cheating, that much is plain.

It seems the ***** that Brady used
spiraled nicely through the rain.
When you ***** are small and soft,
Like Brady’s, it’s a different game.

When Tom was asked about the scheme
He laughed at first and wouldn’t tell.
The truth about Tom Brady’s *****
is closely guarded by Gisele.

Here’s the story of a guy named Eli,
Who is captain of the G men and well known.
He had a ring of gold, from the desert,
but it was all alone.

Here’s the story of a man named Brady
who was living large with three rings of his own.
He’s a hero, up in New England,
and has Gisele at home.

Till the one night when this Eli met this Brady
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch.
that Cruz would dance and Gronk would come up limping.
That’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.
Tom Brady’s lunch, I played my hunch
that’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.

Come to bed, darling, for sure the hour is late.
Most certainly, your conference call can wait.
The children are asleep and I’m abed,
So work must wait, come play with me instead.
Don’t waste these hours with fitful sleep tonight
when you and I could fill them with delight.
Unlace that camisole and let it drop,
A goodly start. I didn’t say to stop!
Then, turning towards me with an impish smile
Lose the slacks and add them to the pile.
Then, taking sight of my most firm intention
Remove your hose, the devil’s own invention.
When we are wearing just our birthday suits
Arch your back like a feline in pursuit.
Keep the heels, they’re red and bold I swear
They spur me to enjoy my favorite pair.
Those orbs of night won’t ignored my dear
As we effect conjunction of the spheres
We stifle cries as we make our cradle rock.
We'll tell the kids it was an aftershock.
Some nights are cold but this one needn’t be,
If you fall asleep held safe and warm by me.

Christ and his apostles
had but bread and wine to share.
At that Last Supper many came
to a table nearly bare.

Gandolfini came by honestly,
his girth and double chin.
The mayonnaise he relished
May be what did him in.

He enjoyed a glass, or two, of beer
He liked his King Prawns fried.
He downed a pint of Morgan’s ***
with foie gras on the side.
Two Pina Coladas for dessert.
But surely that’s no sin.
Some speculate t’was the massive tab
That led to Tony’s end.

How proud King Carlos must have been
as the Armada fleet set sail
He could not know that those brave men
would drown, and the invasion fail.

Charles Stuart thought his word was law
and swore the Puritans would feel regret.
Charles, who was  already short,
would wind up getting shorter yet.


Consider, too,the Bourbon King;
who married Marie Antoinette;
The guillotine loves royal blood too.
The Deluge came and he got wet.

Banksters lusting for their bonus
who really ought to be in jail
made us make good all their losses
because they were too big to fail.

Our nation teeters at the top
of a twenty trillion dollar debt
If interest rates creep too much higher
I think you know what happens next.

I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****,
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.

Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.


Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!

I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****,
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.

Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.


Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!

November of  Sixty-five, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.


this poem is written in honor of Captain Ed "Too Tall" Freeman. the action for which he received the Congressional Medal of Honor was the battle of La Drang, Vietnam which is the core of the Mel Gibson film " We were soldiers" the action takes place on 11/14-15/65

It began quite subtlety, a drop off of the Light.
Then faster, much faster, as day turned into night.
The summer breeze grew slightly chill
in the absence of the Sun.
Primordial fears teased at my brain
But there was no place I could run.
My intellect assures me that this eclipse will pass
That the darkness will be fleeting-
Light shall return at last.
Unconsciously I held my breath
as the moon’s shadow passed.
The arches here at Stonehenge
were bathed in light at last.
This eclipse was long predicted;
the place and hour known
I stand within the circle.
A privilege mine alone
The passing of the seasons
Are remarked by these stones
Our Ancestors who made this place
Millennia ago
Built it as a sacred space;
The soul’s eternal home.

Sickles' corps had broken; the Rebels had them on the run.
Hancock foresaw disaster; perhaps a worse one than Bull Run
How could he plug the gap in the line and rally men to stand?
"What Regiment is this? " he asked of Colville, in command.
The First Minnesota volunteers- they were sorely undermanned.


They were Lincoln's first volunteers, staunch Union men in Blue
Hancock ordered them to charge; a death sentence, they knew.
With bayonets fixed they made their charge outnumbered twelve to Two.

The Rebel regiments were shocked, disbelieving what they saw;
The company sized regiment who'd come through three years of war.
Canister ripped through their lines; there was no time to weep.
Five minutes Hancock needed; for that long their grief would keep.


This field knows many heroes; so many fought and bled.
But let us pause and honor these brave Minnesota dead.
They bought time for the General; the Union held the Ridge.
We might not have a country had they not done what they did.

The blank parchment is wordlessly taunting me
Shall I write out a Will? Or a Plea?
The troops of Santa Anna surround us,
Should I surrender unconditionally?
No! I’ve replied with the cannon!
I’m determined to here make my Stand.
My life and my honor for Texas,
My beloved adopted homeland.
Their red flag of no quarter is flying.
So far I have not lost a man.
Ceaseless is their cannonading,
“Victory or Death!”- My command.

For four years we endured them;
Trumps ' lame, incessant tweets.
He pilloried both friend and foe,
in victory and defeat.

He raised name calling to an art;
His dislikes he made plain
His politics lacked subtlety.
His ranting seemed insane.

Now his account is frozen-
he nevermore may tweet
We will not hear his theories
about how opponents cheat.

He stands  accused ( and justly so)
Of inciting folks to violence
So his social media accounts are closed
and all that's left is silence.

In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore

Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word

In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.

With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames

But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near

Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I  hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?

When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched, regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
around hearths in Dixie Land.

Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense

when Truth is trampled on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore                                                                                                                  
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law

then  truth is trampled on.

There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-

This history must live on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

This history must live on.

Tommorrow is on my calendar
as is every day next week.
I have interviews, appointments,
Dinners at which I'll speak.

I'll make some time for family
and writing ,I suppose.
I may find time to barbecue
and to launder my work clothes.

When evening comes I'll settle back
with a glass of Pinot noir.
I'm a transient immortal,
I'm on loan here from a star.

The future is a game;
against ourselves we play
We act as if we still have left
forever and a day.

In truth we all are transients
For just this moment free.
Self observing stardust
poised t'wixt two eternities

I will never forget the sound
of their bodies as they hit the ground.
How the gutter ran red with their blood
when no other escape could be found.

Our ladders were too short, you see-
They were eight floors from the ground.
All these young factory girls
like bundles of rags falling down.

I will always remember the screams
Of one girl with flames in her hair
who appeared at a window one moment,
then in the next , wasn’t there.

I walked through the ashes soon after
trying to make sense of things.
We counted three dozen more victims
and discovered a number of rings.

It started here on the eighth floor;
a stray ash from a last cigarette.
There was plenty of fuel for the fire
That this city will never forget.

The candy filled hearts pile up unsold, and roses go on sale.
A state of deep distrust divides the female and male.
Would-be Romeos instead watch **** and take no lover to their bed.
All complements are misconstrued and hugs become a source of dread.
It’s all too easy to lose your job for posts you made or words you said.

Our human nature is demeaned; each overture imposes risk.
Males are viewed as predators. The zeitgeist changes can’t be missed.
Before you kiss your Tinder date- get signed consent, you must insist.
If not, she might have second thoughts and your name gets added to the list.

It reminds me of McCarthy’s time when left of center was a crime
Actors and artists were dismissed; their names were added to black lists.
Another witch-hunt has begun; this time it is a war on fun.
Flirtation may lead to citation. Romance is a risky proposition.
To risk your heart seems a suicide mission.

In seeking where true beauty lies
I urge you to seek it in her eyes.
Youthful curves in time decline
with too much food and too much wine,
While upturned breast and graceful knee
in time succumb to gravity.
There are some, I know, prefer the smile
as true beauty’s peristyle.
For me, her eyes hold pride of place-
not just another pretty face.
Google bots may search the web
suggesting dimples, curls or pout.
That true beauty lies within her eyes
has long been known to Love’s devout.

In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
forgiveness followed for the devout..

Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating
the Absolute.

It came at night,
a howling wind,
when gentle Spring
had been expected.
Gumtree pond
Homes destroyed,
bodies everywhere,
devastated.

In the silent
aftermath
there , the sound
of a baby
crying.

Baby Elvis
had survived
when all around
folks keened
for those
who died.

The fallen leaves of red and gold await me and my rake.
As I am in a reflective mood, they’ll simply have to wait.
I am in my sixties now, my body feels the cold.
I know I am no longer young, yet I do not feel that old.
I admire nature’s bold broad strokes; these brightly colored leaves.
(I would enjoy them twice as much if I didn’t have to clean)
Soon I’ll have them raked and bagged for the garbage man to take.
We used to burn them in years gone by, but that was a mistake.
I remember, as a child, jumping in the leafy mounds.
They yelled at me, my parents, but I suspect that they had grounds.
Now in the autumn of my life, on this crisp October morn,
My life’s choices have all been made and all my children born.
Time, surely I must yet have time to sing the song of life.
It’s time now to enjoy our quiet house, just me and my wife.
A time when I’ll compose my verse, time to taste the wine.
Yet who among us can be sure they’re not on borrowed time.
Should I fall, prematurely, like these leaves of gold and red,
I hope all I have loved in life speak kindly of the dead.

The bird outside my window
woke me up all summer long
Every day, like clockwork,
with the same repetitious song.
When I’d rather be sleeping
he would rather I awake.
(Once or twice I thought
of drastic actions I might take.)
These days my mornings quiet,
I no longer hear his song.
My avian tormentor
is ,like the summer, gone

Despite the wind and driving rain,
At their posts they must remain.
In woolen garb and white glove dress,
Twenty one steps, no more no less.
They honor those who came before
Who, unnamed, fell in foreign wars
Entombed forever far from home
in their sarcophagus of stone.
For duty and honor they remain
Despite the wind, despite the rain.

The shadows creep towards the mound.
The late September air is crisp.
No bunting will be hung this year,
Our team is old and in eclipse.

In the box the batter waits.
His knees are sore, his bat grown slow.
In his time he was a champion.
In his heart he knows it’s time to go.

How quickly do the seasons change
from youthful promise to aged despair.
You start out as a diamond star
And end up in a rocking chair.

Baseball is an old man’s love,
each Spring bringing hope of glory.
Yet it is not an old man’s game.
That’s quite a different story.

The stadium this day, half full,
and ready for the wrecking ball.
Mickey Charles Mantle has flied to right
and joined the legions of the Fall.

For a long time, the only sound near Honey’s bed
Was the beep of the cardiac monitor.
Her breaths were long and labored
As breath often is at journey’s end.

No visitors were permitted to come
and gather around her bed.
Now, in this Pandemic age,
We all die alone it’s said.

Still Honey had her cellphone
And she received a face-time call.
It brought a smile to dry cracked lips
Her son, Michael, her favorite above all.

“I’ve worked up a surprise for you.
One I hope you will enjoy.
It’s a song you used to sing for me
When I was a small boy”

Michael’s German wasn’t very good
As he strummed that old guitar.
Still, lullabies are simple tunes
When sleep is not too far.

Honey’s memories hearkened back
To when she was young and strong.
To when her babe had hung upon each word
When she had sung this song.

Michael saw the light of joy
In his dying mother’s eyes.
He put down his guitar and wept
As they said their last goodbyes

Evening comes and darkness falls
Upon us, one and all.
Still, for some, twilight becomes
The sweetest light of all.

Once, in a jungle preserve in Tanzania, there were two elephant herds. One was headed by a wise old matriarch of sixty seasons. The other had a much younger matriarch who had never experienced a severe drought.  When a terrible dry season came to the preserve she kept her herd in place, trusting the water hole would not dry up. The older matriarch knew to move her herd  beyond the preserve boundaries and found a second water source. The herd that stayed suffered severe loss of numbers some literally dying of thirst.   In times of crises experience makes all the difference. This is true of elephants and among men.

A car crashed into our tree last night, one fatal last mistake.
It was a cooper mini; I never heard the driver brake.
My wife, a nurse, ran to the car, then, sadly, backed away.
“There’s nothing I can do for him. This was his dying day.”
I could see there was a lot of blood; the driver’s chest was crushed.
I got the precinct on my cell. I said-“you need not rush.”
An ambulance came and his corpse was freed;
at the scene  he was pronounced deceased.
I knew he’d had a violent end, but reasoned it was quick at least.
The road was dry and freshly paved and, as per the EMT,
There was no hint of alcohol when they pried him from the tree.

The patrol called for his next of kin, and, as the sun rose in the East,
a woman with her baby came, her face a mask of grief.
Her fiancé was thirty and that night he’d tended bar.
He’d been working lots of overtime to save for their new car.
A baby’s needs are many and often dollars are too few.
I didn’t know how she would cope and somehow make it through
Her face betrayed a fresh concern; I saw her check her phone.
“I had sent my fiancé a text- he was late coming home.”
I knew what time the crash occurred; it had awakened me,
But I was unspecific.” It happened around three.”
She showed me then the text she’d sent that may have caused his end
The time stamped on her text message read “2:31AM”

The smell of rockets, all burned out,
lingers in the chill night air.
A thousand voices scream and shout
And slowly dwindle in despair.
I’m clinging to this upturned lifeboat-
Strong hands reached out and I was spared.
I turn to look upon Titanic
But there is only flotsam there.

My friend and I had jumped together.
He went first when I declined.
He was ****** down by Titanic;
a victim of the White Star line.
Somehow I was spared his fate.
I’m dripping wet and freezing cold.
If only I survive this night-
I’ll stay on land till I grow old.

The New Horizons spacecraft, after more than a decade in space,
came upon Ultima Thule- the far point, to date, in the race.
She’ll be sending back photos and data to mission control here on Earth.
Then she’s off to explore and, possibly, learn how a primordial dust cloud gave birth.
It’s an excellent use of our money, exploring the Heliopause.

Just be sure to call home when you’re out there alone
and obey any posted speed laws

fifteen hundred Starbucks shuttered
by a maintenance miscue.
How will I face this morning
without their bitter brew.
Their water filter system
was due for an overhaul.
Now this forced decaffeination
has me climbing up the walls.
Where's my choc o-mocha latte,
topped with whipped cream
cooled with skim?
Without those extra calories
I'll soon be down a chin.
I miss my blonde barrista, Jill.
and her great good morning smile.
Rakeesh at Dunkin Donuts'
lacks her figure and her style.
I'm reduced to getting coffee
from a roadside hot dog stand.
why he doesn't have free WI-fi
I'm at a loss to understand.

“Clear the way, boys, clear the way” said Meagher astride his steed.
The fighting sixty- ninth stepped forth, they were not afraid to bleed.
Upon St Marye’s heights Cobb’s Georgians waited, behind a low stone wall.
The lads attacked that stout defense – how senseless was it all.
There were Irish too up on the hill and they saw the Emerald flag.
“Oh God, what a pity! Here come Meagher’s fellows” one Irish rebel said,
But all obeyed the order given; to fill the air with lead.
The sixty-ninth could not reply, they all carried antique stock.
Muskets are no match for rifles at the distance they attacked.
They climbed that rise into a storm of canister and shot
They got as close as 40 yards before their surge was stopped.
Sixteen hundred had started out from the little town below,
They took the fight as far as any of mortal flesh could go.
As darkness fell upon the field there were wounded men and dying.
Some muttered prayers in their foreign tongue, how pitiful their crying.
It was a dark December for the army Burnside led.
Fourteen assaults in all repulsed with eight Thousand Union dead.
With eighty percent casualties Meagher’s boys had it worst of all:
Fewer than three hundred  were left to answer the roll call.

Love is a gift freely given,
Without chance of recall.
Those who expect otherwise
Have never loved at all.

There are those who prefer to live on their knees when others would die on their feet,
Chabu is dead, but his words still resound, like the echo of shots on the street.
He was a free man with no child and no wife. No attachments can be a mercy.
A man who has paid for his thoughts with his life is a martyr who sets others free.
Vengeance is natural and there are those who will spit on these gunmen and curse.
In the showdown between “faith” and ideas, the artist will always draw first.



Il ya ceux qui préfèrent vivre sur leurs genoux quand les autres mourraient sur leurs pieds,
Chabu est mort, mais ses paroles résonnent encore, comme l'écho de coups de feu dans la rue.
Il était un homme libre sans enfants et pas de femme. Pas de pièces jointes peuvent être une miséricorde.
Un homme qui a payé pour ses pensées de sa vie est un martyr qui met les autres libres.
Vengeance est naturel et il ya ceux qui vont cracher sur ces hommes armés et malédiction.
Dans la confrontation entre «foi» et des idées, l'artiste puisera toujours en premier.

A Pall of Civic Sorrow shrouded Charleston like a mist;
Nine bronze coffins in the church nave waiting to be blessed.
Anger would be natural, doesn’t violence beget more?
Is forgiveness even possible? Many were unsure.
The congregation gathered to pray and understand
in the place the murders happened; a church built by freedmen’s hands.

As they prayed about forgiveness, one shrill voice disagreed.
It cursed the “white man’s Jesus” and all those who bend the knee.
Stop praying to your “*****’s god” and burn the city down;
all those fine homes of brick and wood that stand in Charleston town.

With Faith comes understanding, wisdom denied to the proud.
There will be no wave of violence here, the congregation vowed.
Lord Jesus was not Black or White; his was a brown tanned hide.
He was in chains and felt the lash on the very day he died.

Love is neither slave nor free, as it appears to me.
It is with Love we live and breathe and have true dignity.
So let the White and Black join hands across the Charleston span;
Then we will not be White or Black but each Americans.

There is puppy love and Eros,
There’s Agape, the love of God.
Then there is that sort of Love
That always struck me as odd.
They call it unrequited Love,
The saddest Love of all.
One whom passion has inflamed;
the other ,not at all.
Much better to have breakup ***
When Lust’s crude passions die,
Than wander, lonely as a cloud
and keep it all inside.
If my true Love would pine for me
I’d be more than delighted.
More likely, I will die, alone,
forever unrequited

Lilliana was quite beautiful
in most peoples’ estimation.
Even her name was musical
Her proportions were perfection.
She, being young,
heard her praises sung
by the minstrels of the land.
Of course she was a princess.
His Royal Highness was her Dad.
.
Little gifts began appearing,
anonymously, of course
Often she heard some angel singing
but could not trace the source.
Her little sisters teased her
about her mystery man.
Who would do anything to please her
Who'd ask Father for her hand.

Could his Father be the Duke
or perhaps the son of an Earl.
Perhaps a Prince of Persia,
from half way across the World
But they were wrong and she was wrong
wrong in the n th degree.
for it was Cupid who loved her so,
the son of Aphrodite.

Borne forth from darkness into light

A child is born this Christmas night

A Mother’s pain is turned to joy

as she swaddles her little boy.



Their habitation is the place

where beasts of burden spend the night.

Their bodies' heat the only warmth

on this cold and bitter night.



This child shall be called many things:

A fraud, a Myth, the King of Kings.

But Mary’s heart, a secret minds

This is the son of the Divine.



This night is born to us a King:

A true judge of the soul’s gain and loss,

whose wisdom will enflame men’s minds.

whose arms embrace us from the cross.

The day of execution loomed
And Valentine awaited.
(Just how he'd roused the Emperor's ire
will always be debated.)
His jailer's daughter loved this man,
so saintly and so kind.
Tis said his prayers restored her sight;
she who had been born blind.
Upon the day he was to die
He heard creation sing
The birds were paired up in their nests
To enjoy the life Love brings.
"Please do not weep, my dearest one,
That I have run out of time.
Remember me in your heart and prayers.
With Love, your Valentine."

Vanilla is the flavor that I most adore.
I know that all you chocolatiers consider it a bore.
Vanilla bean for ice cream has long been the favored taste.
and Vanilla butter cream is the icing on my cake.
I love it in a yogurt though some may find it bland.
I eat this bean’s derivative at every chance I can.
Now don’t call me  an elitist ( as I like chocolate too).
I’m just a hungry white man with a different point of view.

The time is now upon us
where I, once more, see your face.
Yet of your wit and wisdom
I cannot detect a trace.
You makeup, carefully applied,
your lipstick, fever red,
but all of the embalmers art
can’t disguise the fact you’re dead.
Your mother who had nurtured you
And cared for you at birth
Was still alive to cradle you
the day you left this earth.
I take your husband’s hand in mine
but have no words to speak.
The handkerchief concession
will do very well this week.
For tears will flow in rivulets;
Unbidden, still they come.
Yet the sea we cannot fill.
There’s nothing new beneath the Sun.

.


Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.

The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.

The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.

The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.

“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now!”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
As Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.

It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body
before North tower, too, would go.

Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.

Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed where Angels feared to tread,
not fearful in the least

Think of it as a thirst for Truth
That can’t be quenched by dry Vermouth.
Those souls  who in the bottle find
a sauce of solace for troubled minds.

Because I can conceive of wine,
Somewhere there grows a fruitful vine.
Existence made certain by concept possible-
an essential premise Ontological.

From the grapes sweet nectar flows
To please the palate and charm the nose.
Its mysteries bring blurred speech and vision
At bottle’s bottom they find religion...

Some seek their Truth on distant peaks
From Fakirs dressed in linen sheets.
Some in bare ruined choirs dwell
With thoughts of Heaven spiced with Hell.  

Still others have declared wine evil
An attitude I find Medieval
Their wine grapes meet a sadder fate
reduced to raisins on a plate.

From Vine to press, from field to glass
A boon companion to Life’s repast.
Red or White, no cause for Schism
A sommelier hears your catechism.

My children both tell me I drive like an old man.
I own up to it proudly for that’s what I am.
I keep cars “forever”, much longer than stocks,
replacing, as needed, brakes, tires and shocks.

Little kids are a handful; let parents take heed.
They need to be monitored due to their speed.
I was driving to Citibank to take out some cash-
from  between two parked cars a little girl dashed

I thank God I saw her dart to and fro.
I also am grateful I was driving so slow.
I stepped on the brake and heard the discs grind.
averting a tragedy, barely, in time.

Her beautiful mother, her eyes close to tears,
retrieved her young daughter, soothing her fears.
Our eyes locked a long moment as our hearts settled down.
Then, with a nod, I relaxed and drove on

This is the Anniversary,
of a gentle night in May.
The call came from the nursing home.
to say you'd passed away.

You lay there still and silent
already growing cold.
The Priest already come and gone
to tend to other souls.

We whispered sweet endearments
to our mother good and kind
Released from her infirmities
marked with the Savior's sign.

I wonder did she linger there
to her our sad amens
like she listened to our prayers
said at our childhood beds.

Voices cast upon the wind
beside her final bed.
I'd like to think she heard the tears
and the prayer my sister said.