The General stood looking in the mirror
Perfectly attired, Cap a Pied.
He turned to me and said
"We must not delay this,Mister Marshall.
This bitter cup that fate has handed me"
I handed him his sword in silence.
We'd be fighting in the hills
Were it up to me,
but even I knew that our men
were starving, Surrounded,
there could be no victory.

Traveler was mounted in an instant
Few looked finer on a horse than
Our Robert Lee.
Under flag of truce we rode
to the McLean House,
there to await the modern Ulysses.

Grant rode up dressed in a Sergent's uniform,
mud splattered,
His shoulder straps the only hint
of rank .
He looked more like the man
who had been beaten
Than General Lee who had to play that part.
He took Lee's white gloved hand, offered in greeting
both men's faces  etched with suffering, I saw.
They reminisced  about their other meeting,
when both served Scott in the Mexican  War.
Then General Lee asked Grant
to state terms of surrender.
They sat down and, in short order,
ended the unpleasantness of war.

The Victor was generous to the Vanquished:
No Rebel would be tried, or lose their home.
The men permitted to retain their side arms
Rations fed to men of skin and bone.
We'd Stack the drums and cannon in the field
Give our parole despite our internal pain
There were troops still in the field but it was over
April Ninth, a dark day without rain.

“Number Two, Derek Jeter, Number two. “said the disembodied voice.
A man on second, one man out, It was Showalter’s choice.
He could walk Derek Jeter, choosing to pitch to McCann.
The choice would be unpopular, not that he gave a ****.
With no one warming in the pen, Buck chose to roll the dice.
Derek had two R.B.I., another would be nice.
Antoun danced off second base, Meek delivered fast and low.
Jeter punched it to right field, where else would it go?
Antoun raced around third base and dove headfirst for home.
The crowd roared at the signal “Safe “and they were not alone..
The Captain leapt up in the air, the moment we’ll remember,
our pleasure in an otherwise forgettable September.
He will not take the field again; his time at Short is done.
A handful of at bats remain before his race has run.
Bob Sheppard will go silent now, that voice beyond the grave,
The night that Robertson got the win, and Jeter got the save.

He showers each day,
and he takes out the trash.
He works in the garden at times.
Mostly he sits in his cell and he reads.
He has never admitted his crime.

He seldom gets visitors
and hasn’t made many friends.
He sits by himself at mealtimes.
He serves a life sentence-no hope of parole
Until death he’ll remain here inside.

Conjugal visits? It’s been several years.
Since last she was seen by his side.
At lights out, sometimes,
you can hear gentle sobbing
as a little bit more of him dies.

We met for drinks and music
in a quiet little bar.
A singer, Reno Sweeney,
was the evening’s featured star.
Bob and Shelia never showed,
throwing us together:
You, a dark eyed beauty,
loquacious and quite clever.
I, your unexpected swain,
With eyes an emerald treasure.

Later at the Piper’s inn
We sat before the fire
You sipped on your white Russian
I drank my Pinot Noir.
I could not know, did not foresee
Our future in my glass:
Our sensual adventures
On rooftops and on grass.
Our joys, our sorrows, and our end
Which then could not be guessed-
Just your sweet face upturned to me
anticipating to be kissed.

A star lit night, a harvest moon
and you and I alone.
It might have been romantic
if you were not just bones.
Lucy was a hominid,
perhaps the mother of our race.
At three foot six she's quite petite
with an almost human grace.
Careful testing has determined
the age of your precious bones
which walked ***** and upright
in an age before cell phones.
Driven from the tree tops
that the great apes still call home.
You walked on the Savannah
and scavenged meat from bone.
So much your remains tell us,
bones that never knew the grave.
Those who you loved, all vanished,
like the grass in fire's rage.
You may not even have a name
or a name I could pronounce.
Your finder called you Lucy
so that's the name that counts.
He was whistling a Beatles tune
in Olduvai gorge one day
when you empty brain case
caught his eye, he dared not look away.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.

Did Custer reach the river
before the natives struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.

Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield
An ocean of grass to tame
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

Out upon the greasy grass
George tried to make a stand
Two hundred men surrounded
There was a breakdown in command.

Outnumbered and surrounded
Some men simply broke and ran
But death was not to be denied,
Their blood fed thirsty sand.

Custer, mortally wounded,
with a bullet near his heart.
did not live to see the rest.
His troopers hacked apart.

The position held by Reno
And commanded by Benteen
survived several furious assaults
before the natives fled the scene.

Relieved by General Terry’s force,
They sought their fallen ones-
The bodies hacked and naked,
decomposing in the sun.

No horse to Ride, No sword to wield,
an ocean of grass untamed.
The Seventh lay out in the field
That was the cost of fame.

The Art World knows her face,
and, for certain, her smile;
a smile sad, enigmatic, constrained.
So I read, with some interest,
of a copy that that’s thought
to share an author one and the same.

The provenance of the piece is not clear;
Some detect the Master’s own style.
Others contend an apprentice’s fingers
transcribed the work like a file.

The dispute will continue, for years
I suspect. The work will be x-rayed for clues
If it turns out to be Leonardo’s own work,
I t will certainly be front page news.

He carried the original wherever he went.
He was proud of this work, I am sure.
In a long life of work there would be time enough
to copy this famed portraiture.

I look on it now: She is modest, demure,
her lips bear the hint of a smile.
She’s a thin coat of oil on poplar wood,
done in his unmistakable style.

Are you a copy or are you for real?
Dear Lady, refined and reserved,
in you was the hand of the Master at work?
Mona Lisa’s not saying a word.

When Whitman wrote his "Leaves of Grass"
he was a man before his time.
Just ten years - the span of his career-
before he wrote his final line.
He never asked to have the gift
he could not un-see what he saw.
His sensibilities were formed
in the crucible of civil war.
He wrote beautifully of loss
in words that he was proud to sign.
Now I too know how he felt
as he approached the finish line

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

Spyer and Windsor
Often stayed late.
Out on the dance floor
enjoying their date.
Their love was their secret
concealed for some years
From nosy co-workers
and curious ears.
No ring could she give
To her love of all time,
Same *** love was condemned
in Societies mind.
For richer, for poorer,
for better or worse.
Four decades they waited,
their vows to say first.
Then Death intervened
and put them apart.
Windsor barely survived
What they call “Broken Heart”
Now her day in court beckons
The Judgment day nears.
Were their vows a true marriage,
or not what it appears?
Will she owe Estate Tax-
Some three hundred grand-
Because she wed a woman
Instead of a man?

The earth eclipsed the moon tonight
and turned that orb blood red.
The Sox just swept the Cardinals
and Bambino's curse lies dead.

Old Da had rooted Eighty years
but never saw them win.
Of Buckner, back in Eighty Six,
he never spoke again.

So first I went and bought us beers,
I got Sam Adams best.
Then I crept into the graveyard
where old Da takes his rest.

I poured his drink upon the grave
and raised my bottle high.
We beat the hated Yankees,Da!
Next year our banner flies!

All around me here and there
were Red Sox fans, my peers-
All celebrating with their Dads
and wiping back the tears.

Plato told a fabulous tale
of two souls so meant to be
that when they met together
she completed he.

For so it was with us, my Love,
from childhood's first shy glance.
For far longer than most married folk
we shared Love's sweet slow dance.

Now it seems you want a break
We no longer are a pair;
At parties where we'd both attend
there is one empty chair.

Our once shared bed is empty, too.
This place I toss and turn.
Faint fragrant traces of perfume
remind me why I yearn.

A brief lacuna in our life
I hope this proves to be.
If this parting is forever
were we never meant to be?

I've lost the best part of myself,
our friends so clearly see.
Like part of Plato's soul I seek
the other half of me

Does it matter how the flames began
to creep about and up the stairs?
A mansion on the Waterfront
with seven people sleeping there.
A scaffold on the Second floor
signified that restoration had begun.
An Ember carelessly discarded
burst forth to threaten both old and young.
When firefighters approached the scene
They saw the mother attempt to save
her children on the second floor.
but tongues of fire drove her away.
Her contractor had likewise tried
to save the girls who slept upstairs.
He had two nearly in his grasp
when they both panicked and ran away.
The girls’ grandfather came the closest
to saving one granddaughter dear
He brought her to a window seat
and tried to get her in the clear
but choking smoke and his  weakened heart
brought his attempt to end in tears.

A mother weeps, uncomprehending,
as water hoses douse the flames.
Both her parents and her children dead,
and her home a smoking, ruined frame..

Sophocles, the attic poet
called man a thing of “breath and shadow “.
Too long a life can be a curse
A life too short, a cause for sorrow

When we had first crash landed,
The island was a Godsend.
a refuge from the maelstrom
with fish and fruits to eat..

When a rogue wave swamped Electra
our lives were forfeit., I’d have swore
We latched onto a piece of driftwood
We paddled towards the shore

Past endurance and exhausted
We wound up in an inlet.
We blest the waves that pushed us
Up upon that foreign shore

We learned to live like primitives
with water sweet not brackish,
the island helped sustain us
while we sought help from the sea.

Some months now I’ve been stranded
With my hope of rescue fading
I’ve had no need of language
since I prayed before your grave.

I am lonely past enduring
With no hope of rescue coming
With Noonan’s knife I slit my wrists
I will not see the morning.

For years the burdens had built up,
on rods and brace and wood,
as Mother purchased suits and shoes
for each sale seemed so good.
Her credit cards were overtaxed,
(But she loved those rewards),
So of Course Black Friday found her shopping,
adding to her hoard.
Her selves were packed with memories;
sales too good to ignore.
I heard her scream
As everything
Came crashing to the floor.
Her injuries were minor
For this I thank the Lord
But replacement closets aren't cheap-
My wallet will be gored.
I wish she would discard some stuff
She hasn't worn in years.
I fear I lack the fortitude
To dry so many tears..
She’s been a faithful friend it’s true
I love her for the world,
It just takes some getting used to-
living with a material girl.

Published December 01, 2013

Sitting Shiva in a Yarmulke
is not, for me, routine.
Still it was right that I should
grieve
for a man I’d never seen.

A man who loved his children
and was devoted to his wife.
A man who worked long hours
and was happy in his life.

A man active in his temple,
One who coached the little league.
A man like any other-
If you pricked him he would bleed.

He wore his nation’s uniform
when called in time of war.
And when the guns were set aside
He ran his little store.

There may be some million like him
Yet not so many as before
Men who truly loved this country
and were respecting of its laws.

A strong and vibrant middle class
is what our country needs
Not Parks filled with rootless losers
and boardrooms manned by thieves.

I remember the night we made camp
There on the Sands outside Giza.
The desert air turned cool beneath the stars
As we coupled before the
jealous eyes of the Sphinx.

The Great Pyramid fairly shone
bathed in moonlight.
We thought we were being discreet,
That only the stars saw our pleasure
But the cold eyes of the sphinx saw us too
And she must have sworn a vendetta.

In the valley of the Kings
There was rumor of a tomb.
A tomb untouched by robbers’ hands
My love, Selene, and I
Would enter and there behold.
The face of a pharaoh, a boy,
rendered forever in gold.

There must be some rational reason
For the cough Selene developed soon after.
Like some delicate flower she wilted.
Some virus had strangled her laughter

We didn’t know then of the curse
How could we; we hadn’t been told.
My darling Selene would soon die
And I ,too,  would never grow old.

Between the life I had
and the death I owe
lies the valley of the shadow,
A place of woe.

First, numb, from hearing
the dread prognosis:
A blockage portending of
thrombosis.

Another episode like I just had
might end my life
like it did my Dad's.

Time seems most precious
does it not?
teetering on the abyss-
Cold,now when the day is hot.

Edema swells and fluids drown,
Each stolen breath is bought with pain.
Where once my river was at flood,
now bare trickles of time remain.

Time enough to say" Goodbye."
To reminisce or be forgot.
To say I love you one more time
even should you love me not.

Between the life I had
and the death I owe
lies the valley of the shadow,
A place of woe.

Perhaps this is the afterlife,
A way stop in this vale of tears.
A pause before the journey's end-
Can I say ,like a child, "Again!"

An acquaintance of the deceased,
Hernandez was quizzed by police.
If charged, he'll post bail
for a tight end in jail
cannot even shower in peace!

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

The faces at the table change
it’s the flow and ebb of time
we struggle to remember them
and the days of Auld Lang Syne .

The former faces shared our names
We are their blood and line
We gather now in different lands
in a very different time.

Grandfather James, renowned for brains,
played music and sang songs
Great Grandson James, the chemist,
researches to right Cancer’s wrongs.

There were Margarets and Catherines
in that different age and time
I struggle to remember them
different people, different times

Our Ed is a music teacher
who can read and write a score
Their Eddie died a pilot
in that war to end all wars.

My age lacks a Sophia
and I count it quite a loss.
She was a faithful bride of Christ
and wore a simple cross.

There was a Susan and an Agnes
back in the former age
Agnes nursed in wartime London
as above the air war raged.

The faces at the table change
the ranks are thinned with time
We struggle to remember them
and the days of Auld Lang Syne

He'd broken hearts, he made girls cry
to him twas all the same.
He was, you see, a player,
and "love" his favorite game.
It helped that he was handsome
in a rakish sort of way.
When lovers turned the talk to "Love"
He'd get himself away.
Until one day he met his match;
a colleen with a fiery mane.
Blue eyed and fair,with quite a pair,
Her wit drove him insane.
The knave of hearts was *******
by the mere mention of her name.
Thereafter nothing seemed the same
as back when it had been a game.

It was hidden in the attic, they kept it carefully veiled.
To them it was a symbol, to others, just a rag.
Its’ field was all a crimson red, criss- crossed with stripes of blue.
Upon the blue; eleven stars; the confederacy they knew.

In the stars and bars are memories of numerous campaigns.
It was grand-Sire’s battle flag he’d rescued from the flames.
On the battlefields of glory; it’s said something remains,
But, to those ignorant of the past, I fear they are but names.

Some see it as the symbol of the hated KKK
Who used both rope and fire to take blacks’ rights away.
It’s a symbol of white supremacy, lower it they say
How can Black lives matter in the States where it holds sway?

Our country has a checkered past, to all who are not blind.
To our ethnic minorities we have been less than kind.
Yet to be fair, it was white men who fought to break those chains.
No other race in history, so far, can make that claim.

The soldiers bodies are now but dust, disturb not their remains
I don’t wish to repeat the past; I hope you feel the same.
We must not forget their story; a curse on all who try.
Six hundred thousand, Blue and Gray, were quite enough to die.

At Hagen -Daz it's free cone day
and you should see the line.
It stretches for two blocks or more
in fashion Serpentine.

Those in the loop
will get a scoop
of premium ice cream.
Though payments not required-
it does cost them their time.

For the store it's not a total loss
to give free cones one time.
Its advertising you can't buy
to see those folks in Line.

The sun is bright, the air is cool
most pleasant by degree.
So many people wait on line,
but there you won't catch me.

Its not that I don't like ice cream-
My girth show that's a lie.
It's just there are much better things
a poets hands can try.

I'd write a song, record a score
If I am so inclined
or steal a kiss from my lady fair
since I am not on line.

The years are ever shorter now
and shorter still my time.
Let others waste this precious gift,
whilst i enjoy this wine.

Stephen Hawking is of the opinion
this all came together by chance.
No need for an unmoved first mover
while electrons and protons can dance.

We’re adrift in a sea of dark matter,
loosely bound by invisible force.
Spheres orbit without any music-
background static is all per his thought.

Stephen is bound to a wheelchair,
but blessed with an insightful mind.
Surely God will forgive him for doubting
the intelligence of his design.

It would seem we had little in common,

myself and the grizzled old man.

There was always the family resemblance-

He was, after all, old Granddad.

He had served time in the army

but seldom would say what he saw.

(His buddies who died where the heroes,

They didn’t come back from the war.)

We would go walk his dog in the park.

He would hear out my childish concerns.

He taught me about love of family.

That Love, he said, always returns.

Baseball was our common passion.

We’d root for the Mets, then despair.

At least he had seen them be champions,

For me they had yet to get there.

A single rose dropped on his casket

Is a scant thanks for the years that we shared.

You were there for me from my life’s beginning;

The first best friend I ever had.

It seems, today, a peaceful place,
a sandy beach, a wine dark sea.
The grand assault, the thousand ships;
It rivals Troy in myth-story
.
Fate often hinges on one day-
the moment when the dice are tossed.
Here they breached the Atlantic wall
Here many a Mother’s son was lost.

One sixth of June was such a day.
And on that day the sea ran red.
Mine is a tale of butchery;
of many wounded , many dead.

One sixth of June, the storm now passed,
From out the fog, our fleet, they spied.
The heavy guns commenced to fire.
In a fearful rain of lead, men died.

What was in the souls of men
who breached the wall and turned the tide?
The Tommies and Americans
faced odds so close to suicide.

Some lived to tell of that longest day;
the sixth of June in forty four.
So many others fought and fell
and sleep in Normandy evermore.

The shot rang out from across the street
The Minister clutched at his throat.
He collapsed upon the balcony.
There was little cause for hope.

Dr. King was there in Memphis
to support black men on strike.
To help them gain a living wage
To help all do what’s right.

Jessie Jackson cradled King
as his vitals went flat line..
His words saved for posterity,
But violence would define the time.

A foolish, selfish criminal
Full of hate and self conceit.
James Earl Ray killed Dr. King,
And tempers flared on city streets

Bobby Kennedy called for calm
As riots rocked the City streets
Ironic that he too would die
within the space of several weeks.

Within four years, three leaders lost-
gone well before their time.
These killings poisoned Liberty,
She’s dying all the time.

My friend is gone.
No longer will she feel
the warmth of the sun
upon her face,
the chill of Winter,
or taste the Beaujolais Nouveau.

Still I will remember her;
in the warmth of the Sun.
in winter's chill grasp.
and in the crush of the grape

until I, too, forget,
and am forgotten.

I imagine you in profile,
sitting in the artist’s chair.
Your coiffure, so elegant, yet
wind is blowing through your hair.
Did you feel self conscious
in the crown of Liberty you wore?
Those lips, moist, pink and parted,
That noble nose and chin,
You stare into eternity
as the artist then begins.

Teresa De Francisci
was the face of Liberty
from the roaring twenties’ boom
to the Depressions’ maladies .
Then she disappeared
and was minted just once more:
It was at the Denver Mint,
in the summer of Sixty four.


They coined your youthful face
when you, yourself, were old and gray.
Then politicians changed their minds,
and consigned them to the flames.
Did it break your husband’s heart
that his work met such an end?
what joy it would have been
to see you made young again.
Whatever was the cause,
your husband died that very year:
the year his lovely Liberty
had been set to reappear.

This is
a poem
to bemoan
that a
munchkin
has died
after
a short
illness

In the cold damp stairway
of the Tower I saw her:
Lady Jane
the nine days Queen.
Unperturbed
she walked right through me
heading for the Tower Green.
Escorted by an unseen Parson
to the block, likewise unseen,
Her translucent body
bends before it
Lady Jane, the nine Days Queen.
How many times, I wondered then
has this poor ghost played out this
Scene
bereft at once of crown and life
there upon the tower Green

Now past the days of shock and awe
In a war that just drones on.
The martial spirit has been suppressed,
Save a taste for martial law.
Surgical strikes on Taliban types
**** wives and children too.
Drones lack the flexible response
To distinguish twixt the two
Half measures never win a war
And gradual escalation
Just gets soldiers’ names on walls
And the thanks of a “grateful Nation”

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

This gut I’ve got won’t go away
while I sit at my desk each day.
Munching McDonalds in my car
won’t land me “dancing with the stars”.

Mashed potatoes, I have found,
really help pack on the pounds.
While French cut fries, it seems to me
are helping clog my arteries.

I do no exercise, to speak,-
I think about it twice a week.
This diet soda helps me not
As muscles fade , I’ve gone to ***

I’m gaining weight, my knees are shot
Carting around this gut I’ve got.
Is munching wonder bread the cause
Or am I suffering Manopause.

Bargaining with the Venusians
can prove quite expensive indeed.
(Arranging the transit of Venus
cost me astronomical fees.)

I'm assured it will last me a lifetime-
The last in this century they say.
I've spared no expense to arrange that
it coincides with  my daughter's birthday.

After today I will never
see Venus transit the Sun,
Her childhood, too just a memory
Now that she's turned Twenty -one.

Plastic really, actually,
It pumps and Hemo flows.
The doctors placed it
beneath my breast
How long will it beat?
None knows.

I’m undersized for seventeen,
Brown eyes and auburn tresses
A year behind to graduate
with my friends in their prom dresses

Back when my heart was still my own
before my failed bypasses.
I was like many High school girls,
I slept through history classes.

.Back then there was a boy I loved
We’d spend hours on the phone.
His smile made my heart skip a beat
when it didn’t on its own.

Then I fainted in my science class,
my complexion turning blue
Mister Sullivan saved my life
by knowing what to do.

Now can I give my heart away,
a heart that’s not my own?
Can I feel as I used to feel
when its just us two alone?

Was my soul within the heart
that died when we untwined?
Is that spirit an illusion,
just a construct of the mind?

Will this heart race in your embrace?
Will your kisses taste divine?
Or am I just the Tin girl
feeling hollow all the time?

This day is cold and dry, more March than April.
The wind, from the North, howls mean and low.
I'm here to pay my last respects
to a teacher I knew long ago.

He taught with a passion for all things French
I was an indifferent student though
We both loved music, he could really play
I wonder now what became of his piano.

The school where he taught and I attended
was taken over many years ago.
Of all my teachers very few remain
Even some alums have been laid low.

His soul has taken ship for that distant shore.
That distant borne where all are truly equal.
There, in the Democracy of death, they wait
in the hope of being featured in a sequel.


All are actors in this existential drama
each performing our own lines and parts.
Our curtain drop may meet with scant applause,
Love, Perhaps,from other aging hearts.

TAP, TAP, TAP- Over here! Over here!
We hear their frantic tapping.,
sailors trapped in the capsized ship
with the water levels rising.

We work with acetylene Torches,
work quickly as the December sun dies.
The smell of blood and oil mixes
I'm too numb to let myself cry.

Work is my only salvation
for me and the men down below.
I am racing with time to their rescue
A race I might lose even so.

Tap, tap, tap, the sound growing fainter
some sailors have died as they wait
Others survive, breathing foul air
Praying for deliverance from fate.

My naked back glistens with Sweat
as we manage a breech in the hull
I grasp the hand of a survivor,
a stranger who now I knew well.

The sun settles red in the West
A red ball like I saw on the planes.
Yet Pearl is not totally dark
we continue to work by its flames

He was at the hospital
until he learned it was a girl.
That fact was just in-congruent
with his model of the world.
Don't look to him for child support
for he will give you naught
He'll delay, deny and threaten
and you'll spend your life in court.
He's devilishly handsome
and can complete a forward pass.
If asked to put a ring on it
he'll look at you and laugh.
He was last seen in the minor leagues
but he never got "the call"
There are "Baseball Annies", hangers on
prepared to bare their all.
So today is not his day
He never has and never will
considered Fatherhood
as more than just a passing thrill.

What is this taste
of Honey on my tongue
but a distillation of
a flowers’ sweetness from
a forgotten summer’s day

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

For years, it remained hidden,
behind a picture in its frame.
Seen, unseen, forgotten
behind people now unnamed.

My cousin went to toss it out,
but felt the metal’s heft.
She felt, refurbished, it would look nice
on her Mother’s antique Chest.

Her husband took the frame in hand
with the thought to paint it blue.
“What’s this?” he said when,
from the back, a paper he withdrew.

There upon the yellowed sheet
in a spidery scripted hand
were our maternal ancestors:
Great Grand Ma and Dad.

Great Grandfather was John Devine
of Kildress Parish in Tyrone.
His bride, Sophia Gormley-
a name, till now, unknown.

They had a child named Margaret;
Grandfather’s second wife.
She was mother to my father
and thus my own path to life.

The name Sophia stands for wisdom”
and she married a” Devine.”
Thus I may claim a 1/8 share
of wisdom that’s D(e)Vine.

The old man sat on a log near the road,
with his faithful dog right by his side.
They had been walking
on the trail through the woods
when he’d felt something different inside.
Perhaps if I rest
For a bit T’would be best.
It is a hot day after all.
He looked at the trees
In their splendor of green
But the heat made him wish for the Fall.
He thought of the Love of his life,
Mary, his wife,
And part of him let fall a tear.
For clearly he knew that this pain in his chest
Gave proof that his own end was near

They found the old man on the log near the road
His faithful pet still by his side.
Death had come quickly
And his face seemed composed
Like a poet who’s finished his lines.
They found in his hands
His poet’s notebook
And the EMT read his last words:

You’re my Eve and my Eden;
Please don’t mar with your weeping
the face that I loved most of all.
But take care of the Garden
We tended together
Until I again come to call.

Life is so precious
for look how we cling to it,
enduring all manner
of outrage from fate.

We soldier on
with spirit indomitable.
when life puts a little
Too much on our plate.

Our days are uncertain
Our term here is limited.
We waste precious hours
passive, asleep.

Time keeps its own pace
and its laws are immutable
It refuses to bargain,
no matter how much we weep.

Time, which costs nothing,
yet more precious than diamonds
We've no means to save it
for time will not keep.

The old man at the hospice
was in a world of pain.
His sight was gone,
his heart grew weak
and not much time remained.

I don't recall who asked the question,
but I was struck by his reply.
It contained a world of wisdom
from a soul about to die.

Someone had asked the dying man
"If wishes were for free-
and I could grant you one last wish
what would that last wish be?"

He didn't wish for fortune
He didn't lust for fame
He cared not a whit for money
or to escape his gnawing pain.

" I think, if I had one last wish
before my times gone by-
I'd be a babe in my mother's arms
and hear a lullaby."

" That would be a good way to pass
- not soaked in urined sheets-
but comfortably in Mother's arms
and gently rocked to sleep."

That very night the old man died,
He passed on in his sleep.
I hope he's in his mother's arms
with no more cause to weep.

The Jupiter is on the launchpad.
The count down  is proceeding smooth.
On board there's a crew of robots;
for Man there is no room.

Yes, those androids look like us;
and, once, there was a time
when human Scientists themselves
designed some android minds.

Now AI has progressed so far
that circumstance demands
that the designers of this crew for space
must have titanium hands.

This crew will never tire.
they need no food to eat.
Radiation that would **** a man
they'll easily defeat.

The distances in space are vast
at even half the speed of light.
This robot crew will long  endure
after my last good night.

There are headed for Tau Ceti.
Exoplanets there abound.
They'll transmit their data findings
to those here on the ground.

I worry for Posterity;
Fear clouds my troubled mind.
Once  our species were explorers
now we're  forever left behind.

Imagine being loved! It is a miracle some say.
Love fiercely he advised me for this all will pass away.
For all who seek each other there is no need to remind
That we have all the world, but very little time.
Man of woman born Is but a transient creature.
I only learned to love so well
because I had the finest teacher.

If all my life was perfect,
and all right with the world.
My pen would suffer from disuse.
My parchment not unfurled.
For what fool indeed
would waste his time
scribbling down lines
When Dame Love beckons to the feast
and all the world was mine.

No, irritation is my muse
and I her slaving churl
who palpitates a bit of grit
until it is
a
Pearl.

For those who view abortion different;
As the ****** of an unborn innocent,
There’s a Newtown massacre every day
with nameless victims for whom they pray.
Not wishing to gainsay the law
of privacy or woman’s right to choose.
Praying more for a change of heart,
for children not to be refused.
For there are songs that might have been
That never will be sung.
Blank Canvases, devoid of paint,
That never will be done.
In truth, a generation lost,
As one was lost before;
The first upon the fields of France,
the next on Clinic floors.
No firearms employed this time
but the carnage is the same;
Helpless bodies torn apart
Their blood poured down the drain.
I’ve seen the people up in arms
When Madmen use their right to choose,
But abortionists grow fat and rich
Please understand why I’m confused.