The little skiff drifted at the mercy of the tides.
Out beyond the breakers, just off the shore.
It sole occupant, unconscious, curled in a fetal pose.
How long had she been like that? Perhaps Heaven knows.

The sail was torn and tattered so it could not catch the wind.
No chance, then, of reversing course. Going back to where she’d been.
Her sunburned skin, her parched cracked lips, her worn and threadbare wear
Gave mute witness to her suffering and her unanswered prayers.

I think it was a kindly moon that made her voyage end.
For sure  a strong insistent tide had brought that wrecked bark in.
That’s when we saw it on the beach; Saw the body, felt alarm.
I went to her, checked for a pulse, then told my mate “She’s gone.”

Breakup *** is oft the best.
That last time you see your Love undressed.
A few last moments to grab for joy.
No time for subtlety or being coy.

I remember it like yesterday,
though forty years have come and gone.
The last time I sampled of your charms
when last I held you in these arms .

The Love triangle I so rued then,
has come to nothing in the end.
We both wed others in Life's comic play
and consigned our Love to yesterday

He never regained consciousness
In all the hours I sat there.
The only sounds were the monitors’ beeping
And his staccato gasps for air.

Each breathe more labored than the last
as feeble hope turned to despair.
His extremities felt so cold,
as I sat and murmured wordless prayer.

A good life, certainly, and full;
Honor and glory both were there
As that old soldier slipped away
and his last breath rejoined the air.

Long before my father's time
this oak had reached maturity,
and, baring flame or lightening strike,
she will outlast my dying day.
her children, all about her now,
were acorns when I learned to read, and,
long before I had my words,
she gave a home to migrant birds.
Biologists say some DNA
is shared in common by man and oak
but somewhere down life's own gnarled tree
we branched off to the forms you see.
The Oak, long Lived, gives thanks to God
while standing sentinel in our yard.
Restless short lived beings like me
sip merlot and write poetry.
Her leaves of gold and red
foretell the coming of the Fall
While fine vintages of Grape give me
cause to write about a tree.

There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.

Eating Brussels Sprouts may extend your life,
but it will be a long life of eating Brussels sprouts.
Be careful what you wish for!

On this unholy Pentecost
I see the tongues of fire rise
From small businesses downtown
and, just like that , a city dies..

The Acolytes of Anarchy
draw inspiration from despair
They break the windows, rob the place
then torch each store without a care.

The writings on St. Patrick’s walls
are unholy and profane.
Over at St. John Divine
The N.Y.F.D fights the flames.

Further down at Union Square
Violence flares with fading light;
Broken plate glass in the street
Bears  witness to this Krystallnacht.


Is this how a great city dies?
First came a plague and now the sack.
Our Mayor is a weak- kneed progressive,
He plucks his lyre as things get hot.

In the little town of Peru, Illinois,
as twenty Eleven wound  down,
We heard the scream of  the fire engines
racing through our town.
The giant Westclox factory,
Abandoned three decades before,
had, at the stroke of midnight
burst into flames with a roar.
Peru’s biggest structure in peril-
neighboring houses in flames-.
We fought through the night
Through to dawn’s early light
wondering who was to blame?
The timing we thought was suspicious.
Was insurance the cause of the blaze?
Perhaps brazen Metal thieves,
looting the “Corpse”,
inadvertently started the flames.
Homeowners, who had greeted the New Year,
now wandered the streets in a fog.
On the sidewalks were scattered time’s ashes:
broken hands, melted Faces, loose cogs

A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.

The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
for Frankie’s intervention.
Frankie lived in the corner house
He was older and quite wise.
He taught me that this green cocoon
would change into a butterfly.
He bade me watch, he had me wait
to see the wonder taking shape.
We saw the Monarch first take wing
once caterpillar, now a King.

Several summers passed us by.
I still lived but Frankie died-
He was nineteen, Young and brave
A landmine put him in his grave.
He died just before Saigon’s fall
His name’s inscribed upon the Wall
Corporal Frank Evangelista Junior,
beloved by mother and mourned by sister.
He was too good, too young to die.
He would have been a butterfly.

Time has traded in his wing-ed chariot;
He donated it to the obnoxious Kars for Kids.
Still, I wouldn’t worry about Time.
It’s not like the old boy has hit the skids.
I saw him, just today, down by the station
He was styling in his Porsche nine forty-four.
Whatever is his final destination-
He’ll be getting there much faster, that’s for sure!

It’s almost as if Time had a midlife crisis;
Realized he’s no stud muffin anymore.
His grey and grizzled beard could use a trim.
He should buy a suit and ditch the robes.
He needs a woman to help him spend his money;
With the miracle of compound interest he has loads.
Thus, while I may drive a Fourteen year old Chevy
and eat my lunch out of a paper bag.
Time is styling in his Porsche nine forty-four;
I guess, for him, the economy’s not that bad.

This time the French have gone too far! This will not stand, you hear!
The makers of “Méthode Champenoise” are suing Miller beer.
For years their spies have regularly infiltrated in the States,
suing all who dare mislabel bubbly made from grapes.
(We cannot call the sparkling wines produced on our own shores
“champagne” according to long, well established, laws.)
Fines and penalties are paid for breaking those mandates
Although to me it seems to be a case of sour grapes.
Today their spy was shopping for a piece of camembert
When he spied a Miller ad for “the champagne of bottled beers”
“Sacre Bleu” the Frenchman cried! “what sacrilege is here?.”
How dare these “Millers” to compare our drink with bottled beer.
They seized the product off the shelf to (ahem) do some testing.
I hear it knocked Jacques on his *** but he claims he’s just resting.

His sentence had been pronounced by Nero.
Paulus of Tarsus would die at dawn.
His race would soon be over; he had fought the good fight.
So many souls for Christ he had won.

Peter had been crucified; Paulus, as a Roman,
would not be tortured like a slave;
The executioner would take his head
for his preaching about the Son of Man.

We prayed with Paulus; he was not alone.
We smuggled his last letters out.
His words would stir the pilgrim church on earth.
His Faith  would inspire all those devout.

A good God fearing woman, Lucia,
Promised Paulus that his remains
would not be fodder for the wild dogs.
She would entomb him on the Ostian way.

They came for him then; he showed no fear.
The master had prepared his Heavenly home.
He bared his neck to the axe man’s blade.
His crown was won by Faith alone.

“There’s nothing here worth saving.”
I knew that she was right.
It ended, oh so calmly, no screaming match or fight.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,
  Call it a Night.

For many years we’d lived a lie, persisting in a sad mistake.
The only Love you get to keep is only that Love you make.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

Some folks will be surprised I guess. Others, knowingly, will nod.
The warning signs were always there; as obvious as God.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

The preying Mantis
said to her mate
“You think too much!”
and bit off his head


The *** was great

I think that I shall never see
a better Carbon Sink than M.I.T.’s

It helps keep green house gas at bay
By sequestering it away

The Carbon Sink works like a tree
but does it more efficiently

When trees in wintertime are bare
The Carbon Sink still cleans the air    

And trees can yield up carbon once again
When Forest fires make them burn

Poems are made by fools like me
But Carbon Sinks are made by M.I.T

Lawrence Davis was a veteran
who died without a next of kin.
He's buried in the cardboard box
That the V.A. shipped him in.

Being dead, he cannot tell
cardboard from Mahogany.
We, the living, take offense
at the insult to this man's dignity.

Some men lie still in foreign fields.
Some sailors sleep beneath the waves.
Larry got a cardboard box
from a 'grateful' nation he helped to save.

After two weeks of fracking shale,
We needed to unwind.  So we
went down to the  Black Hawk
in search of a real good time.
My Buds picked up some “Ladies”
and they disappeared up stairs.
I sat down to play poker
at the gaming tables there.
An old guy sat across from me,
gin and tonic on his mind.
Two guys who looked like brothers
were seated side by side..
I had a decent pile of chips,
(I’m paid well for my time.)
I’m also a pretty fair player
and lady luck seemed on my side.
My pile of chips kept growing
as blue twilight turned to dark.

The old guy at my table pulled
at his tie in search of air.
He started going faint and pale
as he slid down off his chair..
I leapt up in a panic and
raced to the old guys side.
No one else in the casino seemed
to care if he lived or died.
I grabbed my phone, dialed
Nine- one- one and told him
to hold on. But when the
E.M.T’s arrived, the poor old
man was gone.

It was then I saw my pile
of chips was vanished
from my place.
Of those two brothers
who sat in with us
I couldn’t find a trace.
A girl smiled sadly
at my plight
as people often will
whenever age and treachery
Trumps over
youth and skill

Sweet Lesbia, hold me in your arms,
give me kisses without ceasing.
Your husband fights in Caesar's cause
and is no challenge in deceiving.
Your smooth white shoulders,beautiful,
that never see the Sun.
They are a feast for this poets' eyes
when your stola comes undone.
Beneath your tunica intima
are sweet ******* that fed your child.
I hope you'll bare them to my lips
in just a little while.
The shadows of the autumn Sun
creep clear across the room.
but Lesbia's sweet smile is enough
to brighten up the gloom.
Great Pompey has been put to rout,
Caesar claims the curule chair.
Outside the World has gone to Hades
Not that this poet cares.
For Lesbia is world enough
to treasure and explore.
If more were of my frame of mind
what need had men for war?

She was likely in a drunken daze
when she wed, unknowingly.
A Vegas drive in chapel
Was the spot they did the deed.
Twenty years or so would pass
Ere she would finally see
That when she said “I do” she did,
Albeit witlessly.
Now Janeane has got divorced,
her single life to resume.
It seems nuptials last longer
When you don’t know there’s a groom!

There was a man who was a fraud.
Incarcerated, He found the Lord.
“I am here for my dereliction,
But why are you in this situation?”
“I heard a soul call out my name,
a spirit in a world of pain.”
“Tonight he dies by lethal injection.
I came to hear his last confession”
“He killed a young girl”, Charles Colson said,
“Surely, it’s just when he, too, is dead.”
“I see that Justice in your mind
is of the eyeless, toothless kind.”
“On you, the irony is lost,
But his gurney is shaped like my cross.”
“He bears the cross known as regret,
His crown of thorns awaits him yet.”
“Forgive me, Lord”, the Felon sighed
“my rush to judgment and my pride.”
“ Let me be reborn this night,
that I might show the world your light.”
He spoke this as a humble prayer,
to a man no longer there.”
The Lord had moved to the bedside
Of the one who would be crucified.

in the High School cafeteria
there was horror on the menu;
A loner with a pistol
seeking victims and a venue.

Three times the pistol fired
and kids began to fall.
It might have been a massacre
if not for old Frank Hall.

Frank Hall was the football coach
with a short and stubby frame.
While others fled, he charged towards
this criminal insane.

Frank Hall didn't stop to think
he didn't have the time.
As he charged towards the gunman
His life was on the line.

The gunman fired once at Frank,
the shot rang high and wide
It caught a fleeing coed,
put a flesh wound in her side.

The gunman turned in panic
as the first responders came
He fled into the nearby woods,
just some kid named T.J. Lane.

Three teenagers lay dead inside
one more would never stand.
Many more lives had been spared
by the courage of one man.

He comforted the dying
as the ambulance came late.
The moment found the man-
was it providence or fate?

Since I have poetic license
and don't get out much at all.
I sometimes think of words as people
- it beats talking to the wall.

So I had a chat with "Friend" today
after one or several Brews
Thanks to social sites like Facebook
"Friend" is often in the news.

"Friend" you're looking tired,
Exhausted, overused.
People have abused you
like they'd treat a rented mule.

Folks who'd be acquaintances
back in the days of yore,
are now best friends forever
and we have them by the score.

Our brains are not hardwired
to handle friendships by the score
Our mundane lives no longer private
either "liked" or, worse, ignored.

"Friend" has  suffered from inflation
like the dollar now and then
Both seemed once to have value
comparing now to way back when.

This ****** with binoculars
sat waiting in the blind,
half hidden by the rushes
That grew tall on either side.
Perhaps I’d spot a Peregrine
or a hawk on the attack.
My camera is beside me, and,
should I catch one in the act.
I’d photograph a mating pair
(but artfully, with tact.)

So far there’s just a flock of wrens
Not much this day I see.
I start to get the strange sensation
that they’re here observing me.

Guitar practice was always down in the school basement.
I would show up for practice, my guitar case in hand
And carefully place my sheet music on a metal music stand.
There were just four of us would-be musicians that year.

We dutifully tuned our guitars as our teacher played a single note.
We progressed to practicing our chords, my fingers on each string.
I was a mediocre player; what I liked to do was sing.
I did love the cherry wood scent of my guitar.

That afternoon turned dark in the heart of this fair land.
There was a muffled announcement; then the sound of some girl crying.
“President Kennedy has been shot; they say that he is dying!”
Our class was canceled abruptly, for a reason we understood.

I never went back to Guitar class and I never played again.
For months my guitar waited, patiently, with its sweet scent of cherry wood.
My mother finally persuaded me to sell it; I said that I understood.
Camelot had vanished in the mists, and Johnny would never be good.

My husband never liked it- he'd ***** moan and complain,
but it was my place of solitude, being Queen of my domain.
I spent happy hours there, just puttering  in my shed
I had a stash of bourbon there and some intriguing reds.

How the fire started we have never ascertained.
I still suspect my husband, but he'll never take the blame
He says it was a lightening strike that burned it to the ground
but can't explain the empty can of kerosene I found.

Though of suspicious origin, our insurance man came through
accepting tales of lightening strikes out of a sky clear blue.
I'll built my next she shed with brick and you can rest assured
that, no matter what the cost, it's gonna be insured.

I spoke no human language.
I never put on clothes.
The sum of my possessions
was ten fingers and ten toes.

My mother was too rich or poor.
Too scared, too old, too young,
So many reasons for her choice,
by which I was undone.

I never felt the sunshine,
or sailed the wine dark sea.
I had a heartbeat just like yours
until they murdered me.

There are those who would protest my death
But most here are nihilistic.
To some I was a child of God;
to others, a statistic.

I have no death certificate
I have no human name.
I was terribly inconvenient,
but I was human, just the same.

My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a  City of the dammed.

The world is full of good ideas
And rules we really need.
Signs ensure that drivers won’t
Exceed the posted speed.
Plus we have laws restricting drugs-
So nobody smokes ****.
Chicago’s ban on handguns
Has produced a bumper crop-
Of people full of bullet holes
Legislation failed to stop.

It’s clear to me obesity
kills more than bullets do.
Look at your friends and neighbors
And you’ll realize this is true.
Its burdensome to carry them
To their final resting place
After they’ve spend decades
stuffing Stuffing in their face.
It’s past time we got serious
It’s time to walk the walk.
I’m introducing legislation
That aims to ban the fork.

I woke up that Christmas morning,
that year that I turned five.
Everything was blurry
due to an infection in my eyes.
The Christmas tree with colored lights
cast an aura in the room.
A half warm teabag on my eye
gave some relief from haze and gloom.
My brother set up his Lionel trains
on a wood board on the floor.
Any other brother might have resented
that I had so much more
than he did when he was little
growing up in times of war.
We all heard Mass at nine o’clock
at Saint Ann’s on the Hill.
Then back home to break the fast
Presents would have to wait until.
Simple gifts were cherished then,
not all bought in a store.
My parents were the working class
we had enough, not more.
The gifts may have been simple
but love came brightly wrapped.
Before sleep my father told me stories
as I nestled on his lap.
I’m thankful for the memories
which remain  undimmed by time.
but my eyes still get a little blurry
when I think back on Fifty Nine

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
and thus is dear to me.

It is a pleasant spot they chose,
now blanketed in snow.
I place my wreath and give a thought
to a Christmas long ago.

That Christmas Eve my father brought
a tree that filled the room.
My brother worked to fix the lights.
The girls sang Christmas tunes.

Atop the tree an ornament
A star that shone like gold.
Reminder of the miracle
of Christmas long ago.

The house is gone
and they have gone
Their youngest has grown old.
Still I recall my sisters voices
and that star that shone like gold.

I am fleeing from Proscription,
half heartedly at best.
I view death with some ambivalence,
as perhaps a welcome rest.
I would die here in the Country
That I have, so often, saved.
The constitution predeceased me.
The Republic is enslaved.

A Freedman has betrayed me.
I see soldiers block my path.
Like some fallen Gladiator,
I’ve turned thumbs down on in the past,
I will not draw back in fear,
I stretch my neck out to the sword.
By the gods, this man’s a butcher.
My neck is hacked and sawed.

It’s an interesting perspective
as my head rolls in the dust.
They are hacking off my hands
My voiceless lips mouth my disgust.

If Rex Ryan got the nod
and was cast as Cindy’s prince.
The play would run much longer
than it had before or since.

When the royal decree went out
To the maidens of the land
To display their pedicures
Rex would be close at hand.

He would visit every maiden
and some hottie matrons too.
Caressing Paula’s bunions
And sniffing Jennie’s shoe..

And when he got to Cindy’s shack,
He’d take her feet in hand
And ease the pain she suffered
last night dancing with a ham.

“You have such pretty little feet,
I really hope its you.
Alas, I have no way to check,
as I forgot the shoe.”

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Lori didn’t turn many heads
But she turned my life around.

Forty years, has it been
since we were both seventeen?
I remember it a difficult year
Like all the ones in between.

Cherry cokes at the Blue Bay diner
she worked on the school paper with me
She rolled up her skirt like the others
to show off her Catholic girl knees.

With Greg as her steady companion
she was the heart of our group.
They provided a fair bit of drama
and the happiest days of my youth.

For I was an ungainly kid,
nonathletic, inclined to be round.
It was Lori who drew our social circle
big enough to include me in bounds.

We always were friends, never lovers,
never shared one passionate kiss.
She taught me that mercy trumps justice
She made Circles just like God makes his.

At barely five feet with a heel
and being decidedly round
Her face had the smile of an angel
such beauty is rare to be found.

The starters' pistol sounded once
and sneakered feet churn up the clay-
Fame and fortune they pursue
Four hundred meters ahead, gold, lay.

Muscles strain and lungs may burn
inspired by Olympic fire
Faster, Higher, Stronger, yes-
The Motto does serve to inspire.

The race is run and some excel
Others just happy they took part.
Those fastest, on the podium stand,
to hear their anthem, hand on heart.

Obama has a different dream:
He'd make those Medals Lead, Tin and Clay
If no man makes his own success
why give the precious stuff away?

Never mind the countless dawns
they rose to run in rain or heat.
The weights they lifted in the gym.
How hard they trained on blistered feet.

If no man makes his own success
and government is the source of all
Explain to me, Barrack Hussein,
How did the Soviet Union fall?

Manhattan looks magnificent in the moonlight,
especially from my penthouse on this eve.
I sense the young girl’s apprehension;
She’s only just arrived in the City of Dreams.

She wonders about the price of her admission.
What will I demand? What will she do?
Just nineteen; she’s the same age as my daughter.
Her vocals are an Angel’s; her complexion too.

I make a joke and am rewarded with her laughter.
She gratefully accepts a chardonnay.
The days of Harvey Weinstein are now over.
Young women no longer need to pay to play.

I look forward to her appearance on the screen.
I’m grateful for the part I had to play.
If I feel just a little bit in Love
I remind myself I’m old and look away.

Its true girls come with baggage,
be she starlet or plain Jane.
The trick for guys is finding one
whose baggage they would claim.

Its said all girls are crazy,
and experience proves it true.
the secret is to find the girl
who’s crazy about you.

Its not as if we’re perfect,
We have baggage of our own.
It‘s the burden we must carry
if we’re to ever have a home.

There are several approaches to climbing Everest.
Some are easier than some others, none are easy.
This mountain is littered with discarded equipment
and the evidence of loss and unforced errors.
The cold here, at the top of the world,
pierces through your clothes
Like a million acupuncture needles.
The air is so thin
That hypoxia is a constant danger.
There is exhilaration at the summit
For those who reach the top
They stand where Mallory and Irvine stood
before they suffered their fatal drop.
We climb mountains because we are men.
We are addicted to the adrenaline rush.
We climb Everest because it is there.
We climb Everest because we must.

My director and producers names will roll up after mine.
My author will want credit too and His name is next in line.
My supporting cast was fabulous in this game of "Let's pretend"
Now,as the credits start to roll, my "show" has reached the end.
The Play?, alas, a tragedy; the hero had to die.
The Soundtrack? filled with somber notes; this was no lullaby.

I'd love to do a sequel and assure you I'd be back,
but the rushes weren't good enough to make me confident of that.
When the best boy's name appears; he who had the gaffer's back,
The word "Finis" will briefly flash



and all will fade to black.

Mariano is a humble man
In an ego crowded sport.
The greatest closer of his age-
of all time, by some reports.

He never liked the music
That played when he appeared.
None can match the saves he made
as the stadium rocked with cheers.

He wore the number forty two,
In honor of a man
Who in his day took more abuse
than most of us could stand.

When that last batter is retired
When his last pitch has been thrown
When Girardi cannot summon him
by picking up the phone.

Then next winter will seem longer
And next Spring devoid of cheer.
Mariano is retiring,
This is to be his final year.

I remember his great moments
and recall his failures too.
The later are made easy
by the fact they were so few.

What is it with the Americans-?
With their endless cups of “Joe”
Starbucks on every corner
At least it seems that’s so.

Those who overdose on coffee
Are always on the “go”
With palpitating heart beats
And hands that shake like so.

Billions of cups consumed yearly,
The landfills awash with debris
If only my Dad had a Styrofoam mine
Imagine how rich we would be.

Chocolate is much more civilized;
antioxidant rich and sweet.
They say it’s a mild aphrodisiac
and a laxative for the effete.

Those people addicted to coffee
Wake up “Grumpy and groaning”
While those folks addicted to chocolate
can be sure they’ll be coming and going..

When Otto Frank returned to his city
He knew, already, that his wife was dead.
Of his girls, Margot and Ann, he had yet heard nothing.
The silence gave birth to foreboding and dread.

On the day that he learned of his families’
fate;
That day that he learned both his daughters were gone.
Frank took on the mission of finding the traitor:
Who informed the Gestapo? Who raised the alarm?

He once again walked the streets of his city,
Free to enjoy the warmth of the Sun.
Reliving the same day over and over;
The day they were taken at the point of a gun.

Which smiling face? Which former employee
had hated the Jews in the depths of their heart?
Why did the food that he ate taste like ashes?
Why did his girls die just a few days apart?

One man in one lifetime could not find the answer
Otto Frank died still not knowing the truth.
Who had betrayed them, the man and his family?
Who was it who stole away beauty and youth?

Look at you in your best blue suit.
Look at you in your power tie.
They’ve given us this last moment all alone,
a final chance to say goodbye.
When last we spoke I had no time.
I was busy on the phone.
I hurried you off to your bed
Where, as Fate had it, you died alone.
You were kind of heart and wise.
I am the child of your old age.
I chide myself for being brusque
just as you exited the stage.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
one of omission on my part.
Death has stolen the warmth of Love away
And left you with a cold clay heart.

The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.

Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.

Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
Never to see home once more.

Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The ***** that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.

Europe’s Jews gained a respite
From ******’s hate and krystalnacht
Yet soon the surging Moslem tide
May again erupt in genocide

My grandson helps me to my feet.
and steadies me with his strong arm.
The campaign ribbons on my chest
belongs, in truth, to these who rest.

Short is our tenure
on this beautiful Earth.
As brief as the grass
In winter’s cold breathe.
Death, the implacable foe,
Bids us yield.
Faith is our Armor,
our Carapace, our shield.
Denial, our method
of avoiding the shroud.
When Donne is not done,
Death be not proud.
A tenuous tenor may
Give voice to fear.
Yet, turning to face him,
No one is there.
The prize is our self
And possession is all.
All else is but vanity
To hang on a wall.

A Comet passed too near the sun,
and was filmed  disintegrating..
Perhaps its G.P.S. was off
or just recalculating.
The solar skimming comet
surely melted in the heat.
Old King Sol, our yellow dwarf
Enjoyed his slurpee treat.
Astronomers were quite tight lipped
When asked to speak upon it
All I got from one stargazer
Was a terse” No Comet!”

The  same folks who regulate soda size,
and cheer as our youth turn to ***,
Just passed a law in the Golden State
Let me know if you like it or not.

On the college Campus in Cali
before couples can couple you see
both parties must sign a consent form
as state bill 967 decrees.

No matter if she's your fiancee,
They don't care He's  your steady or not,
It's **** if you have no  consent form
There's no excuse if you forgot.

The people who championed Liberty
for the gays and the transgenderees
should stay out of straight people's bedrooms

but will they?- there's no guarantee.

Some Asian folk revere the Tao
the way of Yang and Ying.
Others worship ancestors
and of Confucius sing.
Buddhists seek a one way trip
with no wish to return.
Hindus think we're born again
just not in Christian terms.
Some follow in the steps of Christ,
this life, their cross to bear.
Others say Carpe Diem
and just don't give a D*mm.
Islamiscists eschew alcohol
and never lunch on ham.
This place has many faiths and creeds
to suit our every mood.
The voodoo that you do so well
is with suspicion viewed.
The foodists are the latest cult-
a blight upon the land
like Joey chestnut at buffets
consuming all they can.
To them no cow is sacred
and wine just slakes their thirst
They walk among us and they breed
and I don''t know which is worse!

Paul Wittgenstein returned from war,
feeling half a man.
He had fought his nations’ battles
at the cost of his right hand.
The loss of an appendage
scars anyone, its true.
Paul was a pianist-.
With just one hand what could he do?

Paul Wittgenstein was fortunate
Having Ravel for a friend.
A confidante of Gershwin,
He said Paul would play again..
He wrote a sweet piano piece
To be played with just one hand.
If you close your eyes and listen
You would never guess his plan.
A composer of precision,
With a jazzy playful side,
His left handed concerto
Was one to make the angels cry

Paul Wittgenstein took to the stage
A sea of faces looking on.
He played the piece so brilliantly
None guessed his hand was gone.
Not until he left his seat
To bow to their applause
Some gasped in their astonishment,
But most just cheered and roared.



Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand is one of the most brilliant and important of 20th-century concertos for any instrument. Composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who lost his right arm during World War I, there is no way by simply listening that you would ever know its secret. Both of Ravel's concertos were heavily influenced by jazz--possibly also by his acquaintance with Gershwin--and successful performances must combine his customary precision with a certain ability to "swing" the tunes. --David Hurwitz

Christina Quinn
has made Quality condoms
a focal point of her campaign.

That Anthony ******,
he of modest demeanor,
would be happy to model t'is plain.

As a Lesbian, Quinn
doesn't care for what's in
The condoms she touts on campaign.

If abstinence matters
put her face on the wrappers
and no one will be glad that they came.

I boarded the train at the rush hour peak.
like hundreds of others at the end of the week.
Darkness came quickly at this time of year
It was Pearl Harbor day and Christmas was near.
Dark was my skin and dark was my heart
and dark was the drama in which I’d play my part
In a brown paper page I carried my gun
with enough ammunition to **** the white ones.
Out near Merillon Station, I stood up from my seat.
Whites had ruined my life and revenge would be sweet.
Like a deadly conductor I walked down the aisle
punching everyone’s ticket, high caliber style.
Their screams were my music; their fear was my meat
I served it up raw with blood on the seat.
It took three to subdue me once I emptied my gun
If they hadn’t overwhelmed me I’d have killed everyone.
Six dead, nineteen wounded, some trampled they say.
as the whites in the car started running away.
I sit here in prison with no hope of parole
in this place I am known as the conductor of souls.



( Colin Ferguson and the L.I.R.R. massacre 12/07/1993)