The gray clouds gather heavy in the west

For prescient travelers wondering as they look

To what lies beyond, wondering what the rest

Of time will bring. Proscribed, the karmic book

Illuminates the names of those on board

This one last journey to their destiny

Of finally fulfilled passion. The sword

Of surrender tightly grasped, not ready

To pass on gently into ever night,

Not willing to go softly off the land,

And not prepared to accept this, they fight

For precious hours. But then, when time’s at hand

They pray for absolution. He might wait

For some to make amends, if not too late

She walks the night, it’s hot, it’s sweaty there

In dark corners. The commerce of the street

Goes on when other businesses can’t bear

The stench of economy’s dying beat.

When men can’t thump their chests for all to see,

When frightened for the treasure they have lost,

When masters lose that thing that sets them free,

She’s there to ease their pain, but at what cost

To family, to reputation. How

Can ships be righted, bumping in the night

Against her loins? Does the mirage allow

The fool to think that this will make it right?

The chase makes powerful men think they’re kings,

But she knows better. “Tragedy,” she sings.

I stand before you searching, still, to find

The words to tell you just how much you mean

To me. You are my life. And yet my mind

Wants to say more; through volumes I have been.

The principles you stand for–dignity,

Respect, compassion, good, and honesty–

Are values that I cherish. I will be

The equal of your deep humanity.

I vow respect and happiness and peace,

A life of meaning, bless’d as heaven above.

I vow true effort. I will never cease

To earn your trust, your honor, and your love.

What we here share gives meaning to my life.

I’m proud, I’m humbled that you are my wife.

Two giants looming present although gone,

Cast shadows longer than their shadows were.

They darken the horizon at the dawn

In our minds. One looks, still expecting there

To see the columns reaching to the sky

Above the bleak surrounding cityscape.

Still a collective emotional high

Grips our consciousness. We watch the tape

Again, again, yet trying to make sense

Of what was seen. The images remain

Stamped in our mind’s eye. Voices make us tense

And turn; we hear a strange mystic refrain,

The lost beg visitors: “Please don’t forget

The price we paid.” Their absence is our debt.

The Staten Island ferry comes about,

Approaches bleak Manhattan to the east;

Miss Liberty afloat appears to shout

Her rhyme of welcome to the awful feast

That daily tempts the unsuspecting rubes

Who visit this place. Could a town be more

Unfriendly? Greasy sidewalks, sagging boobs

On aging hookers, pissing vagrants, sore

Losers hawking, always on the grift,

Hustle, bustle, tussle, always moving

Buses, subways, taxis, trucks adrift.

Movies make us think of people grooving

On “Gotham’s” thrill. But I can’t find the charm.

The crush of people evokes insect swarm.

March blows its schizophrenic, furious blast

Of snow, of rain, of wind, of cold. It clings

To every ledge. It struggles, strains to last

For one more precious day. But April brings

The spring at last. It pushes some to live,

To sow fresh fields, to reaffirm the hope

In life reborn. And compelled then to give

To others needing more, who need a rope

To which to cling while one who has will share

A bounty born of labor on the land,

Of selfless desire, being ones who care

For hopeless ones who live lives built on sand.

They do but what they can, to do the right

Thing. Only men of God still fight the fight.

I see her lovely eyes, so big, so green,

Her laugh, infectious, ever makes me smile.

A shake of head, brown gold mane, the sheen

Invigorates, captivates.  Her style–

Unique, brash, calculated–and recalls

Another she admires, who’s from a time

She only knows from tales.  This fine, this tall,

Lovely young woman sees a hill to climb

Not reached by many, but by this one, who,

With wealth of skill, with wealth of talent, has

Not yet confronted what she cannot do

Or what she cannot dream.  She will surpass

The wildest notions of her life to be.

And we, behind, await what we will see.

One cannot measure how encouragement

Can lift a soul in need of friendly words

In time of struggle. Poetry is vent

When other forms give no sweet outlet. Heard

A kindness, wishing well, and just in time

To soothe an angry heart. The thunder near

This trembling voice creates a poison vine

That must be rooted out, else friends will hear

The evidence of unplanned emotions

Piercing the atmosphere. But thanks to those

Who lend their kindness selflessly, oceans

Of praise can mollify a heart that goes

Too often to inappropriate rage.

The gift of friendship helps one re-engage.

The sun came up again today I hear;

It’s hard to tell sometimes, obscured by cloud

In March. But year after relentless year

It comes. Another number on this proud

But aging body, bent but not so old

That woman mine can’t re-ignite the flame

Of raging fire in loins that, sometimes cold,

Can heat to loving touch. There is no shame

In periodic failure at a time

When some cannot get rise when duty calls.

While medication helps some in that climb

To passion, these old bones still scale those walls.

She stands behind just now with candle bright

And whispers, “Now!” To bed! To you, GOOD night!