A difficult woman, most people would say.
Stubborn and headstrong,
clearly uncommon clay..
Thick as a mule
Steadfast in her ways
When she went on the warpath
even atheists  prayed
A heart good and faithful
A rock in the storm.
She could drown out the choir
She was never lukewarm.
Her several grand daughters
are  of the same mind
My daughter's just like her
I've been paid back in kind.

When your best friends a canary,
you've been too long in the mines.
The dust that marks
your skin and lungs
is never far behind.
Paler than a Vampire,
hidden from the Sun.
Long hours digging with your pick
wherever the seam may run.
Sometimes the dust
constricts your breath.
Some times you feel undone.
When you're living life in dog years,
you can count on dying young.

She wasn't precisely a criminal,
nor innocent of sin.
An Asymmetrical warrior
and a Republican to the end.
To Londoners, she was a terrorist
To the Irish, a voice from the past.
She wound up, old and embittered,
Determined that Peace should not last.
She 's survived by her sons and her sister
and some tapes that Sinn Fein brands lies.
She was known as the "Old Bailey bomber"
in the time of the Troubles gone by
Her coffin was draped in the colors.
Her comrades in arms standing by.
The living now are greybeards
and the rising moon is  not nigh.

Consider a planet the mirror of Earth,
a place that is nearly our twin,
where Cannabis is legal
and sugar is banned.
Where you can have “coke”
But not gin.

Would moonshiners distill
sour mash in their still?
Would junkies  there “jones” for some “Cane”?
Would addicts have shakes
due to no frosted flakes.?
Would they ****** and steal
for sweet sin?

There, those who like smokes
Would be left free to “****”
While the sweet toothed
were facing hard time.

To rehab they’d go
And be fed sweet and low.
To keep sugar
Off of their minds

I do not blame you, Caesar,
you have ridden history’s tide.
Marc Anthony, your Lieutenant,
Is a loose cannon at your side.
I think I blame the Romans,
those who sought a life of ease,
They, who dance to the music of time,
brought our Republic to her knees.
I know she was imperfect,
(At times our poor were squeezed.)
Yet Rome, Mankind’s greatest hope,
Now succumbs to your disease.
So place the garland on his pate
For I have ceased to care.
Like Catalina, we have lived,
Our epilogue: despair.

I said my plans out loud
and heard a deep throated chuckle.
I felt so foolish and exposed
and in a muckle of trouble.
For there’s many a slip
Twixt the cup and the lip
For those who chance to dare
And though you flee from
City to City
Fate will find you there.
So keep your secrets to your self
and shelter your designs.
Don’t dare to whisper on the wind
The debts you owe to Time.

I said my plans out loud
and heard a deep throated chuckle.
I felt so foolish and exposed
and in a muckle of trouble.
For there’s many a slip
Twixt the cup and the lip
For those who chance to dare
And though you flee from
City to City
Fate will find you there.
So keep your secrets to your self
and shelter your designs.
Don’t dare to whisper on the wind
The debts you owe to Time.

I used to have the names and facts
right quick at my disposal.
It helped in settling arguments
and in drafting work proposals.
Now names and dates elude me.
Appointments just slide by.
Were it not for my Blackberry
you might see a grown man cry.
Yet deep in the recesses
of my bicameral mind
my neural Librarian,Norman
strives not to fall behind.
He's peering into synapses
and looking into lobes
He's hoping I can temporize
till the name he can disclose.
If I relax it comes to me
though too late to save face
Long after she has left my bed
I recall her name was "Grace"

I used to have the names and facts
right quick at my disposal.
It helped in settling arguments
and in drafting work proposals.
Now names and dates elude me.
Appointments just slide by.
Were it not for my Blackberry
you might see a grown man cry.
Yet deep in the recesses
of my bicameral mind
my neural Librarian,Norman
strives not to fall behind.
He's peering into synapses
and looking into lobes
He's hoping I can temporize
till the name he can disclose.
If I relax it comes to me
though too late to save face
Long after she has left my bed
I recall her name was "Grace"

Imagine the outrage
If a band, all-male members,
Refuse to play tunes
for the opposite gender.

Imagine the uproar
The venue would face
For excluding a half
of their customer base.

“It’s rank discrimination!”
The ladies would moan.
If the males got to listen
while the girls  stayed at home.

Yet the Bulletproof Stockings,
That band that wears wigs,
Exclude guys from their concerts
Not just chauvinist pigs.

“It’s a matter of Faith!”
The girl band members say;
No guys at their gigs!
No men hear them play.


Yet I’ve heard pious Pastry chefs
Don’t get to choose.
If gay brides want a cake
It’s a crime to refuse.

An Orthodox authoress
who published a tome
would be most put out
if male buyers stayed home.

So if girl musicians
seek public expression
They ought to think twice
about gender oppression.

Its great that they’re keeping
an orthodox home.
But enough of these concerts
For women alone.

John Charles Buckley with his one man crew
set sail for Boston on the ocean blue.
With a makeshift sail and with favorable winds
they left Ireland behind and their journey begins.
Our cockleshell heroes soon lost sight of shore.
Not even a gull could they see anymore.
The days passed by slowly as they worked, side by side,
Slaves to the wind and the whims of the tide.
The Atlantic holds terrors,I cannot deny;
icebergs and fearful waves twenty feet high.
One starless night as they battled a squall
they were tossed like a cork with each waves rise and fall.
Sunburned and hungry, they started to drift
and their sense of time passing had started to slip
when they spotted a seabird, a sure sign of shore:
The harbor of Boston- their next port of call.
Their small wooden rowboat with the sail ripped and torn
was ******* to the dockside that September morn.
Heroes or Fools? I'll let you split the difference.
Theirs the smallest boat that had traveled the distance

Our bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'd understand.

I'll never hear his voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

The bar was closed,
the dawn approached
like a grey and threatening sea.
He placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
We proposed a toast to you
thirty years ago tonight.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
hard to believe you're gone.


They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'll understand.

I'll never hear your voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

The bar was closed,
Midnight approached
like a scythe swept silently.
Jim placed two glasses on the bar
one for him, one for me.

Black Bush shimmered in each glass
golden in half light
I proposed a toast to Da-
thirty years gone this night.

That day We'd brought you to the church
and the graveyard just beyond.
Larger than life you always loomed
to think its been so long.

They say that when a father dies
a boy becomes a man.
If it didn't happen right away
I hope you'd understand.

I'll never hear his voice again
or share a hug and kiss.
I'm drinking to remember
It was such a night as this.

We speak of "truth" and "beauty"
with a savant , knowing air.
We are the keepers of the flame
who formulate the prayers.
We play with your emotions;
we heighten every sense.
We labor at this constantly
with little recompense.

...but...today... today I saw her,
and for words I'm at a loss.
Like Saul approaching Tarsus;
Like a second Pentecost.
Her beauty knows no simile
indeed , and it's a pity
Only George Gordon, at his height,
could , perhaps, describe her beauty.
I saw her but a moments time
and she's not mine to hold.
but from that brief encounter
I can now tell dross from Gold.

The moon in shadow lay
in solstice's midnight hour.
Distant stars gave off dim light
how feeble seemed their powers.
Dark cloaked Druids skulked about,
They moved from tree to tree
gathering the mistletoe
for their dread ceremony.
Primal terror filled my veins,
the blood borne juice of fear.
What should happen to you and I
if the Priests should find us here?

When they read their “Proclamation”
There was silence, scattered laughter.
It was as if the town folk knew
those boys were soon for the hereafter.

For Seven Hundred years
The Irish nation wore her chains
and, although they chaffed at times,
her second nature they became.

Not comfortable exactly, but
the folk knew nothing better.
Unlikely to be changed, they thought,
rebellions cannot change the Weather.

Imperial might fell hard that week
on both the bold and the indifferent:
The City center left in flames,
Prisoners marched off to internment.

Then the executions followed,
one by one the brothers fell.
With every dawn their ranks grew thin,
but our opinions changed as well.

In the hearts of the indifferent
Love of country grew more dear:
Pride and a sense of Nationhood
and a new changed Atmosphere.

The crops are drooping in my fields.
No rain again today.
My precious topsoil, dry as dust,
threatens to blow away.
It makes a farmer feel like Job
to be afflicted in this way.
No rain dance I can do will help.
I lack the words to pray.
We’re victims of a climate change
which makes the land too dry.
Nor is hope on the horizon
from the high blue, empty, sky.

Soaring on the updrafts
From the canyon far below
My silhouette is made a shadow
by the evening sun’s red glow.

Between heaven and earth suspended
I hover in the sky
My eyes searching intently
as my dinner scurries by.

I pitch myself into a dive
My talons slash and ****
Hunting from the evening sky
Has never lost its thrill

I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.

Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?

I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.

Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.

I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.

Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.

I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.

He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.

He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****!"
His boon companion smiled.

I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.

Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.

As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.

His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"

" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."

So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.

After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.

I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.

We dressed up in our bulky suits
to stroll across the Luna mare.
Old friend of Earth is this rocky orb
both captives of one nearby star.

We walk together glove in glove
until our base is out of view.
We marvel at the sign of earth;
her greens, her browns, her ocean Blues.

Our ancestors in times gone by
On strolls like this beneath Earth’s sky
Could hold each other’s hands and then
Kiss each other on the sly.

On Luna’s vast and dusty plain
Our helmets touch but it’s not the same.
We long to kiss and to embrace-
So we turn and hurry back to base.
Then, with kisses deep and slow
You’re no longer Terra incognito.

Once upon an Earth lit night,
On NASA Moon base two,
I chanced to spy a cute Brunette –
A space Cadet named Yu.

Her eyes were dark and beautiful
Deep as a lunar mare-
And, freed from bra and gravity-
were ******* beyond compare.

Love in Microgravity
Is a curious affair
She brought me to her snuggle tube
And she restrained me there.

She straddled on the launching pad
And docking was effected
And after a few awkward strokes
Our cadence was perfected.

The Moon Child that resulted
From our friendly first embrace
Forced Yu to have to shuttle back
to Earth from outer space.

It seems that Human embryos
Need gravity to grow.
Else their hearts would be too weak
Their reflexes too slow.

So, like Salmon, we go back
to where our mothers birthed.
Procreation’s problematic
beyond the bounds of Earth.

We named our daughter Luna
-Unoriginal, I know.
And now we’re out near Jupiter
getting busy on Io.

A terrible year it was, in everyone’s eyes.
A King and a Prince many loved had both died.
In the Cities there were riots; in the land, discontent-
In Vietnam our money and blood were ill-spent.
So as that year ended, to no one’s surprise,
We all seemed more than happy to bid it goodbye.

Then from the firmament on that Christmas Eve
Word came from Heaven to grant us reprieve.
A quotation from Genesis was read on the air,
much to the dismay of Miss Murray O’Hare.

Then the image that grabbed us, that could not be forgot
The image of Earthrise as a little blue dot
A remnant of Eden, from which mankind was expelled
A beautiful picture of the Earth where we dwell .

The planet seemed peaceful when viewed from afar
And all that seemed missing was a bright guiding star.

She still looks like herself.
They’ve removed the bandages and the drain.
They’ve moved her out of the I.C.U.
She is taking steroids and something for the pain.

Now the long battle must begin
To regain something of all she lost.
To learn to speak and to converse,
It has to happen despite the cost.

We show her pictures in a frame,
Or her wedding book from off the shelf.
In hopes that she’ll remember names;
Yes, even what she calls herself.

She knows her birthday, that she’ll repeat;
Like a captured soldier who had been trained
to give name, rank and serial number.
At least one fact has been retained.

There is intelligence in her eyes
And now she repeats what others say
It’s how small children learn to speak
Repeating what their mothers say.

She was a woman very much in control;
Gracious, kind and worldly wise.
All overthrown by traitorous cells;
If she is to live they, all, must die.

The future is uncertain
And the prognosis has been bleak.
The odds are against her.
She grows frail and weak.

Yet even should she lose this fight,
And depart this world of pills and pain,
The sweet sound of my sister’s voice
In memory echoing shall remain.

As our solar system moved through space
It chanced upon a region where
A cloud of dark matter, like a shroud,
was wrapped around our Earth so fair.

It blotted out the stars of night
It dimmed the light of Sun and Moon
Crops grew stunted or not at all,
Mankind faced its mortal doom.

Rigel, Sirius, Vega gone?
Blotted out of Human sight?
Arcturus and Capella too
fail to pierce the veil of night.

Ignorance of every stripe
Began to fight for center stage:
Ignorance both Left and Right
spilled blood in their righteous rage.

I looked true North in the night sky
and saw Polaris still on station .
The darkness began to dissipate.
Tranquility returned to our Nation.

Some few thanked God
with praise and Prayer
More raised their eyes to Heaven’s bowl;
grateful to see the stars still there.

Dark deeds; Dark times, and desperate schemes,
We had been put through Hell by them.
Now bright sunshine warmed our days;
At night we saw the stars again.

High above the Canyon’s edge,
Far above the ancient clay,
The helicopter hovers there
Like a dragonfly at play.

With my jet pack on my back
I coolly, calmly step away.
Gain separation from the blades,
Freefall starts my epic day.

On stubby wings the jet packs fire
I’m Daedalus in the morning light.
I soar across the canyon’s rim.
Laughing like some hell born sprite

One hundred eighty miles an hour,
The wind whips cold despite the sun
I glide toward my landing zone
The jet packs sputter and are done.

My parachute has been deployed
My guide ropes turn me for my drop.
My wings are just a dead weight now
I touch down one the Mesa top.

At Kitty Hawk that fateful day.
This must be what the brothers felt
Kindred souls who sought to fly
By using wings that wouldn’t melt..

In the summer before the world went mad
Einstein summered at Peconic bay.
He walked the beach in shorts and sandals,
He was quite bohemian in his way.
Soon he would write that letter to Roosevelt
And the atomic age will have begun.
But, for the moment, he was just
A middle aged man
enjoying his last peacetime Sun.
The stars are more numerous than
The grains of sand
And space more infinite
That the sea.
His best days were, by then, behind him,
But happier he would never be.

Un viejo *****, en un mes caluroso y seco,
se sentó a la sombra del árbol Baobab.
Las praderas una vez verdes
estaban secos con la sequía,
víctimas de los vientos del cambio.

"Viejo, me llaman viejo". Pensó:
"Mis setenta veranos me han vuelto gris,
pero este árbol Baobab creció alto y fuerte
Cuando las legiones romanas pasaron por aquí ".

El viejo masticó la fruta del baobab
y se hundió en un estado de trance.
Él estaba en un estado mental;
No completamente dormido, no completamente despierto.

Escuchó una voz: "Tengo sed". Decía:
Aunque estaba seguro de que estaba solo.
Parecía que no era una voz humana:
un monótono desapasionado y seco.

"Por generaciones, hombres como tú"
He buscado mi refugio del Sol,
Pero ahora está terminado; la tierra está seca
Y me estoy muriendo, pequeño ".

El anciano lloró al escuchar estas palabras
Para cuando estos árboles mueren, como deben,
Se colapsan sobre el suelo estéril
Tan rápido regresan a Dust.

"El mundo ha cambiado para ti y para mí,
Los vientos están secos debajo del sol.
Perdono el mundo de los hombres
Porque ellos no saben lo que han hecho ".

El viejo se despertó con un comienzo
y se levantó con su bastón.
Lloró al pensar que este árbol moriría

pero las lágrimas no pueden reemplazar a la lluvia.

El ejército se había rebelado y la República estaba en peligro,
Pero éramos solo una pequeña ciudad, ¿qué teníamos que ver con esto?
Mi padre, Manuel Robles, era un sindicalista.
Algunos lo llamaron comunista; solo ahora lo entiendo

El ejército tenía una lista de hombres cuya lealtad era sospechosa
Y cuando estalló la guerra civil vinieron por ellos directamente.
Lo llevaron a él, y a otros, y los alinearon contra una pared.
Fue entonces cuando oí la descarga y vi a mi padre caerse.

Verificaron su trabajo, no puedo olvidar la cara
Del oficial que usó su pistola para dar el golpe de gracia.
Apilaron los cadáveres en su camión y, riendo, se alejaron.
Todos fueron enterrados en una fosa común para esperar el día del Juicio.

Miré con mudo horror el suelo empapado de sangre y sediento
y en las marcas de viruela en esa pared causadas por algunas rondas malgastadas.
No hubo juez, ni jurado, ni veredicto, ni decreto.
Mataron a una docena de hombres desarmados; esa fue su victoria

Asesinaron a mi querido padre sin pensarlo dos veces.
No iría tan fácilmente; hay otros, también, que lucharon.
Ahora Franco tiene mi país y he tenido que huir de España.
Mi corazón está con los huesos de mi Padre. Continúo su nombre.

Twas a century ago that the last shell was shot.
"The War to end War"- but that part we forgot.
What puzzles me now is what puzzled some then-
Why the guns kept on firing right till the end?
What purpose was served by killing yet more?
Why more fodder for cannons on the last day of war?
Must all shells be used up; could not one be saved,
Were they competing to put the last man in his grave?
It didn't make sense from beginning to end
God help us if ever we do that again!

They gathered in the upper room; they locked and barred the door.
They were fearful of their fellow Jews; afraid of Roman law.
Like sheep who’d seen their Sheppard killed and torn apart,
Their confidence was at low ebb and they were faint of heart.

They were startled when they heard the sound of knocking at the door.
Had Judas sold them also?  Did his treachery demand yet more?
Then they heard the Magdalene’s voice its music heartened them.
She proclaimed excitedly that death is not the end.

At first they did not believe her; who can blame them for their doubt?
They had seen loved ones entombed and none to date walk out.
The Magdalene bore witness; Yoshua’s mother did the same.
Something had happened at the tomb both wonderful and strange.

John and Peter were deputized to go and see the tomb.
The other nine stayed hidden, waiting in the upper room.
John, the younger, ran ahead; he arrived then paused,
For Peter to arrive; For both to see what Mary saw.




The Roman guards had fled the scene.
The Stone had been rolled away.
They who grieved saw and believed
on Resurrection day.

How can I write the story
of a battle fought and won,
when lying close beside me
Is the body of my son?

He was ordered to this field,
a place where his unit bled.
Wounded, left to die,
when even surgeons fled.

The sole object of my interest
Is this, my oldest son.
Does it matter Lee was beaten?
That the Union forces won?

All around me is death’s harvest.
for him, a fruitful one.
I will send you home to mother
and be cursed for what I’ve done.

The photographers are roaming
Through the fields of blood and gore
Taking pictures of the fallen.
They are bringing home the war.

“To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prelates of the Church of England, who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His sake; this monument was erected by public subscription in the year of our Lord God, MDCCCXLI.”


“ ‘Be of good cheer, Ridley; and play the man. We shall this day, by God’s grace, light up such a candle in England, as, I trust, will never be put out.’”- Hugh Latimer.




Just outside Balliol, upon Magdalene street,
There’s a cross made of stone you can see at your feet.
It’s where Ridley and Latimer were burnt at the stake
For that which they held dear; beliefs they would not forsake.
They were Bishops of London and Worcester in life;
now bound by cruel chains to keep them upright.
The guards piled on *******, the fuel for the flames
while Ridley and Latimer called on the Lord’s name.
Martyrs or heretics? I’ll let others decide.
But the crowd was impressed by how bravely they died.
Latimer reached out embracing the flames
and was soon called to glory with an end to his pain.
For Ridley a death that was slow and obscene;.
On his side the wood that they used was still green.
His feet and legs roasted while he suffered in pain
held fast to the stake by the cruel iron chain.
His temporal agony raged on and on
Til the flames reached his face and poor Ridley was gone.


Queen Mary reigned briefly, yet ere she was done,
Many souls suffered death in fire and blood.
England, once Catholic, embraced a new faith.
The Romish persuasion at last was replaced.
Their candle burned brightly, a glorious flame,
and continued to shine as Elizabeth reigned.

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

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

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

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

In Mystic they have built a park in honor of the memory
of Grace McDonnell who was killed at Sandy Hook Elementary.
Elsewhere in Connecticut are playgrounds built to honor them;
the children and the teachers slain, so that we will remember when.
These innocents we could not save have playgrounds where they never played.
These bittersweet memorial parks are a sad remembrance of that day.
We saw their pictures, heard their names, our hearts brimmed full with sad remorse.
For twenty six children who were killed before their lives could run their course.

There are so many others dead, lost lives that we don’t celebrate;
56 million at last count- not one playground in any State.
There are few pictures, they have no names, their humanity; denied of course.
Inconvenient little lives put down like dogs with no remorse.
How different would our nation be? Perhaps a touch less old and gray?
Instead we have built playgrounds where far fewer children get to play.

Libyan Rebels ring the town,
poised to make their final ******.
The defiant wait with loaded guns,
The butcher tallies up the cost
Is this the Arab Alamo?
Defeat presaging victory.
Or just another episode
Of “I **** you and
You **** me.”

The world waits

In ****** anticipation

For their oil to be

Delivered

They do not hold out hope of a cure,
Just a short extended time.
A decent quality of life- however that's defined.
There will be bouts of nausea,
They promise joints will tame.
My husband promised me a wig
in just my favorite shade.
Just time enough to say goodbye
ere the reaper claims the stage.
I know the limit of my days
are numbered in my bones.
Until I'm in a crowded room
resting silent and alone.

When and where does the mind wander
When it‘s trapped within its’ loom?
When plaque obstructs the passageways
Through which her thoughts would zoom?

When she was young the Universe
was all hers to explore.
Little did she realize then
What horrors lay in store.

She encountered the excitement
of new concepts and ideas.
But those memories grow distant
Then, in some dark corner, disappear.

When young, she was a fashion plate;
Vibrant colors every night.
Now she’s dressed in shades of grey
as she stumbles through twilight.

True, she sometimes can recall
a place, a name, a slight.
Yet she forgets to take her medicines
And she isn’t eating right.

When young her nimble mind could play
whole symphonies by rote.
But now all she remembers
is a single plaintive note.

The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white.
Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays.
The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few;
Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed.
Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight,
enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight.
Each move she makes falls before the plan
of the specter’s outstretched bony hand.
As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise
Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise;
“it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said
in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead.
By now almost all ivory pieces are gone,
leaving her only her King and one pawn.
She moves to defend but no chance can be seen
in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen.
Once more her opponent assumes a new face;
Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place.
She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain.
Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame.
“Mom, it is time to resign without shame;
None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

Dancing Queen
of youthful nights,
of crystal globes
and stobing lights.
To say that you
are gone seems wrong,
for we still have your
voice in song.

For one night only,
with no repeat,
I'd join the scrum
of dancing feet.
In tune, in time
with your talented drummer
My Queen ,you gave us
endless Summer.

Once, upon the Salisbury plain,
the English Elms stood stately tall.
Sergent's paintings leave us memories
for there are now few left at all.

Perhaps when you were young you spent
Long summer days beneath their shade.
Then a fungus left them bare
and horticulturists were dismayed.

In Canada's far North remains
examples of the old Elm Trees
In Amsterdam they cultivate
Elms resistant to disease.

So in our children's children's time
I pray that we might live to see
once again on Salisbury plain
Elms such as live in memory.

Our fingers never touched.
Our lips have never joined.
What might have been, forgotten.
What could have been, ignored.

A moment in your presence
is worth a mound of gold.
A hunger left unsated,
as time and chance unfold.

Here in the cold and damp
Of our, sadly, separate lives
Here we have never joined,
thus we have never died

After lengthy calculations, the aged cleric stood:
“This Saturday, May twenty first, those up to no good,
will find themselves abandoned by those who bless the Rood.”
The blessed and the Chosen will be caught up in Mid- air.
Evil-doers will suffer, the Righteous will not care.
It’s been a long time coming, the new Heaven and new Earth
But by my calculations, the four horsemen are at work.
“A time of tribulation will descend upon the land.-
It s’ past time for repentance by the legion of the dammed.

“If I’m perhaps a little off, (as I’ve been wrong before)
Keep those contributions coming, while I check to see the flaw”

There is a place in boundless Space
where constants are not so.
Where entropy runs in reverse,
There Time must backward flow.
Imagine two parallel railroad tracks,
Set across the arc of space.
Our train is bound forever West,
headed towards that sunset place.
Now imagine that I could disembark
at a station on the way.
Eastbound tickets would be expensive
but I’d sure be glad to pay.
I’d buy a seat for Epsilon
and watch the past flash by
like the memories a brain recalls
in the seconds before it dies.
I’d de-train the day before you left,
knowing what I knew not then.
Then we would have another chance
To enjoy what might have been.

This lass, like many others, fair,
Her scent fragrant and sweet.
Her skin, exotic, is caramel toned.
Up North are her twin peaks.

Sweet rubies are my lover’s lips.
Sparkling diamonds are her eyes.
Yes my Lady is pleasing and rich,
She is both good and kind.

One hand explores my Lover’s curves
in search of the Divine.
as I vow  to preserve and love
her for all of  my  time.

together we plumb her deepest depths
She shifts to meet my action.
Happiness is in the moment now;
then, later, satisfaction.

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well."

On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.

Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
Though numerous, they were lightly armed
against our spears and swords.
We burned their ships and slew their men
Their Panic turned the tide.
Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere
urging on our side.
A  Legend holds Pheidippides
To Athens then made haste
to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!”
at the end of his last race.

I’ll sleep within these woods tonight,
That much, at least, is plain.
I’d hiked for several hours
And not much day remained.
The shadows on the ground grow long
As it’s that time of year
when leaves on branches are few or none
and shadows sinister appear.
There is a clearing up ahead;
A friendly glow is seen
A solitary camper sits
beneath an Evergreen..
His smile is warm and friendly
He bades me to remain
with gestures warm and welcoming
Speech lyrical and strange..
I share with him a simple meal
Of pan fried fish and beer.
The meal seems like a miracle
As I know of no lake near.
Dark night has come and both are glad
To spread our bedrolls down
I sleep the night like one who’s dead.
I wake, and no one’s near.
No sign of my host or his tent
No sign that he was here.
I shake my head in wonder
And pack my roll to go.
What the Evergreen has witnessed
is not for me to know.

In form and figure, in sweep and scope,
This is a masterpiece of art.
Its maker, long since returned to dust,
died of a broken heart.
In life his work was “Avaunt- garde”
and never won acclaim.
He passed away at forty three-
Not a penny to his name.
His eyes conceived light differently
than an ordinary man’s.
Street strumpets were rendered beautiful
by his knowing, loving hands.
This piece just sold for millions
and has garnered much acclaim.
(He sold it for a loaf of bread
To one who bought it for the frame,)
It might have made its maker smile
At the irony, in passing,
That what his age deemed worthless
Has brought him fame everlasting

Song Parody to the tune of the Police's
"Every little thing she does ( is magic)"


Though I've tried before to tell her
Of the feelings I have for her in my heart
Every time that I come near her
the Court Restraining orders start

Every little thing she does annoys me
Everything she does just turns me off
Our married life was less than magic
Now she’s contesting our divorce.

Do I have to tell the story
Of those many court dates since we first met?
I have decided not to **** her
But it's decision I may come to regret

Every little thing she does annoys me
Everything she do just turns me off
Our married life was less than magic
Now she’s contesting our divorce


she resolved to call me up
A thousand times a day
It’s hard to work, I cannot sleep
I pray she’ll go away

But my silent fears have gripped me
Long before I reach the phone
Long before I hear her yapping
The ***** won’t leave me alone


Every little thing she does annoys me
everything she does just turns me off
our married life was less than magic
Now she’s contesting our divorce.



Every little thing, every little thing
Every little thing, every little thing
Every little, every little, every little
Every little thing she does

Every little thing she does
Every little thing she does
Every little thing she does
Thing she does annoying

Every little thing, every little thing
Every little thing she does annoys me
Tragic, Tragic, Tragic, Tragic Tragic

Do I have to tell the story
Of those many court dates since we first met?
I have decided not to **** her
But it's  a decision I may come to regret

Everyman had many friends,
and the Sheilas loved his looks.
He spent his days at football,
with not much time for books.

Everyman in the prime of life
was a wonder to behold.
Was any man more full of life?
Could any be so bold?

Everyman came to the day
where he lost a step in speed.
His mates had settled, mostly down,
or sold their souls to greed.

The game moved on to younger lads,
left everyman behind
He, of course, remained a fan
consigned to the sideline.

Everyman began to fail,
old concussions took their toll.
He'd enter a room full of friends
and couldn't name a soul

Everyman, now in a "home",
awaits his morning tea.
Sometimes a stranger visits-
a member of his family.

Everyman sits in shadows now.
The world goes on without.
His strength and wits deserted him
and he never was devout.

Everyman begins to die
with a murmur, not a shout
Nurse Deeds stays to hold his hand
till the light of life goes out.