Setting sun splinters
on Hudson’s frozen currents.
Sea of gold shimmers.

Palisades prop up
wooded banks of New Jersey.
Springtime beckons boats.

Hazy summer heat
thickens air and slows the steps
of earnest hikers.

Autumn leaves rustle--
wind blows downhill ornaments
of gold, red, orange.

There are two sides to every story,
said the husband to the cop.
She annoyed me ’til I shot her;
how else could I get her to stop?

There are two sides to every story,
said the burglar at his trial.
They had the stuff I needed;
they’ll only cry a little while.

There are two sides to every argument,
said the person without facts.
I’ve a right to my opinion;
I’ve no need my brain to tax.

There are two sides to every story, but,
both may not be of merit.
If one side’s without value,
let’s not waste the time to air it.

1.
We’ll negotiate with our friends and threaten our enemies.
If our friends can’t negotiate nicely,
we’ll threaten them.
We’ll negotiate with our enemies,
once they’re ground into the dirt.
We’re honest brokers, buying low and selling high.
Life is a gamble; make sure you’ve got collateral to damage.

2.
Abraham sacrificed his sons for God—
Rows and rows of them, in airplane bellies,
boxed and wrapped.
God let him have Isaac,
but inflation drove up the price of God’s love.
No more token sacrifices accepted--only real sons now.

3.
Adam will take back the Garden of Eden,
No flaming swords will stop him.
A fig leaf covers his nakedness.
Why aren’t Cain and Abel getting along?

4.
Blessed are the poor in spirit;
they don’t need our handouts.
The meek will inherit the lowlands.
Let them build an ark when the rains come.
Suffer, little children.

5.
Like the fruit fly, we multiply.
Our swarm will cover the earth and feed on its ripeness.
Eat it down to the pit.
We came 5,000 years ago
and stayed just long enough to enjoy the fruits of God’s labors.
We’ll be reborn as angels stuck with pins in God’s collection.

[These are quotes taken from a New York Magazine article around 10 years ago. They are all from firefighters]

"doing funerals....getting the bunting, hanging the bunting...step by step...

When it became a myth, the whole event...

people were terrified, crapping their pants...a woman in the lobby...no legs...her face...like someone took it off with a saw.

Why did I survive?

...None of 'em were ever found. Not even a tool.

I didn't see victims. They were dust... When the wind blew, you couldn't grab them.

long spears of glass...Huge panels turned into shards...a piece of window, a small piece....It's right here in my hands now.

...can't look at a plane landing"

Like water, like flowing rivulets,
notes fly from fingers fast on frets.
Slippery sinuous shimmering tones
(complemented by brash bluesy Bones).
Like storm’s thunder and lightning a chord
brings the sky to us on earth—
or is it that we fly , then die until the rebirth
in gentle reverb of a note two octaves higher?
Strange how rain coexists with fire.
Drench us in the cascade born from your desire.

To eat or not to eat, that is the question.
A doughnut, ******, airy I’ll consume--
adjust my diet later to make room--
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying, sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off, resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save,
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.

“I am a jealous God,” said the Hebrews’ deity.
Ain’t got patience for a jealous God, for I’m a spirit free.
I have many idols, on this terrestrial sphere.
And if I didn’t worship them, I’d surely not be here.
For they are Icons, real, of what I have struggled to attain,
my ideals and aspirations, or of persistence through the pain.
I worship them with love, despite their fallibility.
They guide me and inspire me,
with their strength and creativity.
For example-- modern martyrs, who’ve sacrificed for others;
I'm sure that Jesus would think of them as sisters and as brothers.
And rock and roll; it’s my religion; I know the Promised Land
cannot be much like heaven, without my favorite band.
What I seek but never find is Plato’s ideal vision--
the unseen perfect version of our seen world. My submission
is to something that we know by feeling, and I think it must be said
that the traveling to find it cannot start by being dead.
Surely Poetry and Art are to be followed, as a creed;
they can be read and seen, and then, perhaps, believed.
Music is transcendent, call it the Flesh made Word--
not reserved for us in heaven, but here, on earth, is heard.
Nature is a Goddess; her work is the creation;
we strive to understand it, through rational “divination,”
using math and science, objective experimentation.
I have so many idols; I can’t limit adoration
to just one jealous God and his righteous indignation.
The Bible is a document that’s full of truth, I know;
but it was written a long, long time ago.
I’m keeping all my idols, for they soothe me and inspire me.
I’ll continue in my “lifestyle” of spiritual polyamory.
You may say I’m going to “Hell” for my sinful apostasy,
but I’m not afraid of the future grave,
for I’ll have lived with ecstasy.

(wrote this a few years ago but it's even more relevant today)

Let’s face it; we don’t agree.
I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.
I think you’re a fool and your facts are wrong.
You think I’m a ****** plotting for a Red Dawn.
I think you’re a bigot and big hypocrite.
You think I’m know-it-all who doesn’t know ****.
I think you’ve never read a book by a scholar.
You think I never worked hard for a dollar.
I think your pundits' attacks are ad hominems--
you think I use those big words so I can condescend.
I wish we could debate, but we’d have to stick to facts--
facts get lost when someone always has to grind their axe.
Emotions tend to undermine a rational debate--
it’s hard to listen and to learn when what you like to do is hate.

We are divided, they say--but it isn’t true.
The way I judge right v. wrong is no different from you.
Let’s not confuse acts from a few
with what most people think or what most people do.
Most people wouldn’t strangle a helpless man.
A psychopath did it because he knows, “I can.”
Most people wouldn’t shoot unless in harm’s way.
A cop pulls the trigger because he knows he won’t pay.

It’s about how we don’t do what we must--
we don’t hold accountable those we entrust
with a badge and a gun. They **** with impunity.
To end this we must act with unity:
Some must be indicted and go to prison,
or we’ll have more deaths for no good reason.

[Police were called to a New Jersey school after a student accused another student of racism for calling brownies brownies. In defense of the police no one was arrested]

Brownies are sweet, tasty and brown,
but New Jersey’s schools hear this with a frown.
Color’s off color, don’t you know--
mention it, and the Thought Police
will have you in tow.

Blondies are sweet and a bit greasy--
a tasty snack, not a girl who’s easy.
But better call them cake, or you’ll be dissed
as someone who is completely ***-ist.

Anything you say can and will be held against you--
mot just by the cops, but by those you thought you knew.
It’s the days of Stalin, or “1984” from Orwell;
better watch what you say; they might be listening in the stairwell.

Once we all worshipped the First Amendment.
Now "politically correct" has gone beyond heavy-handed.
Use only approved phrases, or outcast will be your fate--
Political Correctness  destroyed a country once great.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

From the patriotic song--verses 4 and 5, followed by three of my own verses:

   * Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
    All their attempts to bend thee down,
    Will but arouse thy generous flame;
    But work their woe, and thy renown.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves."

    To thee belongs the rural reign;
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
    All thine shall be the subject main,
    And every shore it circles thine.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves." *

When the international banks decree
that commerce belongs to them, not thee,
thou wilt arise and set things straight
and take back thy rightful fate.

When Brussels, and Germany insist
that immigrants from every shore
should find a home inside your door
(despite the people's cry--"No more!)
you quietly vote to resist.

What fire will flame from Britain's spark?
The division has been now made stark:
On one side, the elite's intent--
the other way, the people went.

Say the much-beloved words--
that until now, had been unheard.
A voice and face imparts a life
to a book’s words in black and white.
Imagination can deliver
landscape, drama, suspense (shivers).
But a living human can
turn dream and thought into a man.

falling glass shatters
red wine flows on white carpet
ruined forever

Day is done.
Gone the sons.
The daughters and the mothers,
the fathers and the others.
Tomorrow arises,
and more advisers
will give opinions
on the public’s attitudes
of which longitudes and latitudes
justify our intervention.
And which friends’ atrocities
we’ll ignore, and which we’ll tsk tsk.
But at what risk
do we apply our double standards?
And how many more standards will be borne
by how many ships and worn
by how many caskets?
Does not each double standard double the standards
covering caskets, arriving in plane loads?
Our politicians believe it’s better not to ask it.
Better not to ask that question, and bite the hand that feeds
the coffers and the coffins.

How did it feel when your innocence dried up and blew away on the desert wind?
When you woke from unknowing, blissful sleep
to blistering heat,
acrid smoke and shattering cries?
I bet you wished you could go back to sleep--
the sleep you fell into from a lullaby of lies.
Righteous rhetoric repeated
over and over, soothing rhythms
as you were rocked by a firm hand.
In Iraq, when you took your command
you were unprepared, your men untrained.
Can you bear to think it was in vain?
Mission unclear, you had no guide, no plan.
Now your anger boils when you see the pain
of your brothers, broken in pieces, abandoned, ignored.
And when you tell your tale, your audience is bored.
They don’t, won’t, or can’t understand
the helpless fear, frustration, confusion,
the shots you ordered, the blood trail in the sand.
No more can you believe; you’ve been cheated, betrayed
by those you trusted, followed; those who said
We know what’s best, our decisions are made.
Now you cannot go back to your childish trust.
First steps taken in a foreign land, now a man,
you face the dawn, because you must.

A sunny day lifts hearts from grief and gloom;
I like the rays of warmth and skies of blue.
But in our words of praise, let’s leave some room
for light cast by the sky of grayish hue.
The even light suffuses everything--
no glare to blind us and no shadows cast.
The clarity that cloudy skies can bring
illuminates a future landscape vast.
A chillier breeze refreshes our attention,
and neutral gray reveals the depth and lines.
The way is clear and acts have more intention;
perception heightened, visible are signs.
Sunny days, for picnics and for beaches--
I’ll take the grey for what the soft light teaches.

It hung on a hook on my closet door.
Soft plaid flannel,
blues and grays,
softer with each wash.
At workday's end  
I took off my daily armor
and slipped my arms into sleeves
that hung inches past my hands.
I fastened buttons over bare *******
and tied the hem around my hips.
I held it to my face, breathed
and thought I could smell your scent,
lingering after dozens of washings--
the musk of masculinity--
an essence of strong sinews,
curly chest hairs
and work-worn hands.
I wore the shirt to bed  
and drifted into sleep,
knowing I was not alone.
The memory of you clung to me--
the softness of unspoken intimacies,
the warmth of domestic familiarity.
In slumber, forgetting

(another re-post from Poetfreak)

Poet, weave your words
into a tapestry of desire.
Cross the warp of loneliness
against the weft of tenderness.
Fashion fabric of sweet caress
to keep us warm, awhile.

Poet, spin your wheel;
press the verbs and nouns
into a *** for our hopes and fears,
to catch the water of our tears,
to hold the memories of the years.
Fire a vessel of your renown.

Poet, strike the iron
into a blade so sharp and true.
Forge a sentence with raging heat,
measure a meter with rhythmic beat,
take words from the dictionary, or the street--
let the smoke of pretense go up the flue!

"My Muse"

Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me;
I must chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me--
I turn heartbreak into verses.
Heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired,
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!