Peace on Earth

December 19, 2016

Image result for cartoon of trump


T is for titillating trash talk,tarnished tales for tabloid takers
R is for reckless reprehensible ridiculous racist repugnant rhetoric
U is for ugly upsetting unbelievable utterings
M is for maniacal misogynist mad malicious moronic mannerisms
P is for putrid pompous pubescent prattle /this ain’t no shtick,he’s a pri–!


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nine was was

September 11, 2015

It seemed a time of respect.

Skies were skies,
no chalky lines.

Only bird, cloud

Booty and bullets

Terrorism was not yet

Reflection and restraint
a  brief national value.

Never to return,

We lived briefly
in the eye of a blood storm.


he is a coward

August 26, 2015

he once stopped by
and promised to resolve
my shattered bones.

he dried my tears,
placed a candle in my heart,
but not a flame.

he proclaimed,
I will never abandon you.
then he left.

he left to have sex
with violence – like John Wayne
slapping a woman.

although he showed up again,
he never returned.
he is not a builder.



November 11, 2014


until there are no soldiers
we have all died in vain

speaking with tongue

August 8, 2013

We rationalize:
it’s a jungle out there.

We possess the language
to scaffold a lasting peace.

Yet we continue to speak
only reptile.

television lives

August 7, 2013

reality is
a corporate skinner box.

we scurry like rats
through a maze of aisles…

Must See TV
leads the way…


July 15, 2013


No more

just spycurity.

No more sleeping
in peace,

only sleeping
while watched.


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My father was born in 1920. His dad left one year later.

He was raised by his mother and his aunt. He was ten when the great depression hit his world.  Dad eventually left school to find work.  He joined the CCC,  and later enlisted in the U.S. Army – a truck driver in the 262 Infantry.

His battle and campaign credentials include:  Normandy, Ardennes (the Bulge), Northern France, and the Rhineland. He brought home some intense memorabilia. We seven kids destroyed it, as the war could not.

Dad did not talk about the war, except for the cases of wine diverted from the headquarters’s staff, or the time he chauffeured Omar Bradley.  He said the captured Germans seemed just like them.  Only they were on the losing side.

He died at sixty.

Each Memorial Day my parents had a picnic .  It was an open house and lasted late into the night.

The following poem is  about my father and makes reference to such an occasion:

Dad Wore Hats

Not when he should have.

On a cold bright day
he would call out
where is your hat?
while the wind played
in his hair.

Nor the way he should have.

It was always
crunched atop his head
by a nephew or daughter
running around our backyard
at a picnic.

Nor what he should have.

Into the dewy night
the adults would sing,
heads touching in harmony –
dad smoking a Chesterfield
wearing a bonnet.