Nice, France , 2016


We cry for angels on each avenue.

The Devil rides our streets and there are few

may run so fast his evil to escape

when aimed by an ideal so full of hate.

There’s bloody death in Nice we all must share.

When will we take up our ideals; defend

the innocent so destiny’s their friend?

Our sighs still come too late as all those cries

from World War Two? Old souls regard the scene

repeated and repeat as oft we sigh:

“Another angel lost; we hear your screams.”

But when will we defend the little ones

when evil’s had his day by truck or gun.

Enough! Enough! The carnage and the cost:

too late to sigh and scream for Holy Ghost!

A Frosty Love


It seems I’ve lost my way amidst your chill.

Was only yesterday our love abloom

but your intemperance a wanton spill

of words as cold and listless as the tomb.

I’ve wasted quite away from your cold draft.

A sullen gray has settled on my head

and you, your frozen pauses, seem quite daft.

My heart endangered by your talk, instead.

Oh, rose of romance, bent amid the drift

I pray the sun will waken this cold trend.

Will love , now lost before your sullen shift

be gone and dead and never come again? 

A warmer, kinder glance, a tilt or phrase

might yet, my icy sadness, you erase.