911 Ceremony


Our face denies emotion with our stance
though years of suffered loss bring no relief.
Today we view the gas mask with a glance
as firemen-stunned among the Tower’s grief.
Our calm defies the hurt within recalled
that day we ran through dust as panic stings.
Our hair turns white remembering their fall
that day when ashes flew our feet had wings.

For All The Beautiful, Young Men


“For All the Beautiful, Young Men”

I see the courage in their brave-lit eyes

as Omaha becomes their shining hour.

The camera’s caught the morning’s gray, dull skies.

Men wait; committed with the bravest power.

The ramp now opens; there’s the glint of morn.

There is no turning back; no time to pause.

Momentum made and like a muscle torn_ 

yanked from its place_ they move for raging cause.

“Oh, captain! we’ve been born across the sea.

We’ve given you our soul and then our heart. 

We’ve nothing more to offer in this hell.

As water takes our forces, we depart.”

Our beautiful young men with bravest smile;

our heroes lost in such a little while.


(4,000 lost at Omaha landing that day!)

The Flowers of the Field

Photo by Priceless Times PhotographySiyah with Dad

“The Flowers of the Field”

The reach within your baby hands so sweet

make father want to hold back ticking time

but even you, my child , are forced to meet

a different kind of father in this rhyme.

He’s called old Time and steals your innocence

Allows your golden play be thrown away.

You’ll not recall this moment with your Dad.

Time’s jealousy will steal and cause decay.

For now, a trust and love for father’s grace.

For now, your world is safe within his arms.

Within this moment is the safest place.

A moment, stilled, with all its poignant charm.

Yet, all the flowers of the field we know

must yet begin to stretch and then to grow.

For Johnny



(Photo by Jacqueline Casey)

“For Johnny”

When silver leaves sigh, trembling to the ground
a brilliant gold is sprinkled everywhere.
Sure, then I hear your laughter mid the sound
of steps that shuffle up abandoned stair.

When scarlet leaves dance, hesitant to part

lay deep in dusty shadows, they intone

and whisper “I have been here where my heart
knows sad farewell to memories we’ve known”.

When days grow short with bitterness of soul,

among the frost and starry branches bare,

remember warm your humor I still hold
before the light grows dull to dark despair.

Once more I sense your autumn presence where,
among the jeweled leaves, you’re smiling there.

. .













The Morning After on Buckingham Road


“The Morning After on Buckingham Road”

Push open all the doors to house at five.
Breathe deep_ the morning air; keep lungs alive.

A birthday celebration takes its claim;
confetti on the sofa_ in the drain.

We held the starry night so drunk with love
but now, with morning glint, squint eyes above.

The dying ash in fireplace,  she complains:
“The day is new but we are not the same.”

I listen to some early, startled birds
that shout outside my window with their words.

As clouds roll in, we weary souls to blame
as when, the night before, tried to remain

stalemate with smoke and Chanel No. 5
which lingers on with scent of coming rain.

Kyrielle rhyme pattern: aa,bb,cc, bb,dd,bb,ab

Song for a Street Musician

joshua-bell-special-pageSong for a Street Musician”

So heavenly, from other worlds, notes stray
in station of the Metro, Washington.
Majestic music fills the vast arcade
as people hurry on hear Mendelssohn
but Bach is hushed as morning rush has won
though Joshua plays with all his heart and soul.
With street musician’s image, he is shun
as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

An anxious crowd rush by; they cannot stay
to hear this troubadour play on and on.
A fear of being late seems to allay
a man who leans against the wall as one
who listens to the sweet, sustaining run
as Bell now bends his bow to charm; cajole.
Some listen with the morning’s rising sun
as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

There’s magic to be heard at break of day.
Notes float about cold faces, blank and wan.
How busy are the echoed strings that play.
How fast the people moving hither-yon
as Joshua Bell, musician; an icon
with waving bow, his violin extols
the morning air; his music’s lexicon
as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

His precious Stradivari’s a beacon
as seven people stop to hear the whole
‘Midsummer Nights’ bright music for a reason
as someone drops a dollar in his bowl.

The Hearing of Judge Kavanaugh

Salacious allegations now may seize
and rip Scalia’s spirit as it falls.
Inside, bold lies may bend us to our knees 
and rattle glass that shake these hallowed halls.
Lead voices at the hearing speak of law 
yet minutes into speech, a sentence shrill: 
malodorous, her laugh; demonic scowl: 
Her urgency grows stronger as she howls.
She reads from Weiner’s laptop: “There’s no cheer
but tempered with behavior not so nice.”
There’s yearbook nonsense, ice cube fights and beer 
unlike her Bill exempt from all his vice. 
The witch corroborates her vision’s haul:
she is that evil come this morn to call.


“For Lydia”

There’s Lydia; we catch a glimpse of her250px-Lydia_Hamilton_Smith

among the burning leaves where soldiers lie.

She guides her horse with water wagon where,

at Gettysburg are heroes marked to die.

The men, propped there by tree or death’s cold stare,

are left alone, their golden dreams now gone.

They cannot answer captain’s call to share

nor may they rise again so proud and strong.

See, there! She now approaches where they fell;

one lonely figure sent as spirit’s daughter.

In hot and humid morning’s quiet hell

puts crusty lips to cups of cool, cool water.

Her horse now stamps his foot as mid pale cries

she is the angel hears their final sighs.

(Lydia Hamilton Smith, born in Gettysburg, Pa., was the daughter of an African-American mother and an Irish father.  When donations wither away for Civil War veterans, she uses her own earnings to help them.  Lydia was born & died on Valentine’s Day, 1813-1884.)


The Blue Grass Trailer Park

The Blue Grass Trailer Park

The Blue Grass Trailer Park. A crowded court

where sis and I grew up; played in the sand.

Where summers were a hopscotch and cavort

while list’ning to the sound of Dorsey’s band.

Our home a cosy space for count of five.

A closet kitchen with three rooms beside.

A paneled, sandy floor where roaches hide

a mile from beach where royal palms reside.

My Daddy moved us here in Forty-Four

and we were those who lived across the tracks

from Mar-A-Lago glamour I adore.

That bridge too far was minutes from our shack.

The Blue Grass Trailer Park:  life still a thrill

so close to other worlds that are surreal.