Dang, my friend you’ve got the flu,
Doctor Robert.
Night or day, anytime will do,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
You’re burning up with fire,
he can help, if you desire,
to control your hot and fevered pyre,
Doctor Robert.

With a shot he’ll pick you up,
Doctor Robert.
Tamiflu from his special cup,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
Take a stand if you believe,
helps the sickly ones indeed,
there’s no one else that can succeed like
Doctor Robert.

Hope you’re well, and feeling fine.
Sickness sells, he’ll make you sign..
Doctor Robert

H1N1 will sap your health,
Doctor Robert.
pay the price with more than wealth,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
Take a stand if you believe,
Helps the sickly ones for greed,
there’s no one else that can succeed like
Doctor Robert.

Hope you’re well, and feeling fine.
Sickness sells, he’ll make you sign.
Doctor Robert.

Dang, my friend you’ve got the flu,
Doctor Robert.
Night or day, anytime will do,
Doctor Robert.

*** A parody lyric based on… Doctor Robert by Paul McCartney and John Lennon.


(Everybody Says It Couldn’t Be Done)

Lightness of being,
a free bird, free as a bird,
releasing convention and
holding firm to the belief
that love conquers all.
They speak of the impossible
nature of the ability to “fly”.
But, inside your heart, there
starts a flutter, a spark
that ignites your emotion,
stokes your devotion and
brings your soul into the wind,
where you can begin to
speed blindly down the runway
of love and compassion,
allowing you to fashion
wings to let the two of you,
achieve weightlessness;
that lightness, where your
pilots license is a license
to love. Skies are clear
and you’re ready for take off.
Thank you for flying the
friendly skies!


(The Thing-me-wats-it)

Behold the thing-me-wats-it,
the modern mini marvel.
Made of a space-age polymer,
about the size of your navel.
It clears your head congestion,
it monitors your weight,
it gives off light when power goes,
this thing-me’s really great.
They are in mass production,
the assembly line is quaint,
it looks just like an aspirin,
but, be assured, it ain’t.
A half a million are in use,
a million more projected,
airport security bans their use,
(but they’ve never been detected).
They’re coated with a resin,
so it doesn’t need a case,
but use the wats-it with caution,
don’t put in near your face.
This is the ninth rendition,
their condition is just fine,
you can tell them by their label,
They’re all marked Number 9, Number 9, Number 9….


I thought about you last night.
I think about you every night.
It is something I do, because I can.

But last night you were in my dreams.
One of those, “so real you can touch”
dreams that awaken you in cold sweats and

make you clench your eyes, hoping to see
one more glimpse, or share one more moment
before what little sleep you get evades them.

You were there, by my side with smile wide,
and eyes that stayed trained only on me.
When we walked, I became your vision, steering you

around obstacle and hazard in our way.
My arm around your shoulder, feeling the tremor
in your every breath that landed upon my nape

keeping my pilot light well lit, and reminding
of the vibrancy you have given my purpose.
And we walked, because that’s what we did.

Sunshine or rain, our footsteps never faltered.
Snow and sand, our trek was not deterred.
In sickness and in health, as you always said

not promises we had exchanged before God,
but a life commitment we shared in what
our love espoused. You were my sun and moon,

you walk our heaven amongst the stars
we counted in futility, but as endless
as this love remains. A lifeline

that joins our hearts still; a tether
that keeps your being alive within me,
an attachment that illness could not dampen,

and the darkness of death cannot shadow.
So we meet often in my dreams knowing that
your influences and direction serve me still.

In our last moments in life, your beauty,
hidden within the emaciated form you had taken,
your brilliant auburn fire had become

sparsely patched and faded, your eyes were
dim flickers of the enlightening flame
that warmed my heart and soul, but still glowed

for the sight of me. Your voice lay silent,
words of love only played on the periphery
of your vacant stare. Your lips, dried and cracked,

pursed and puckered from your disease still
desired to feel the touch of my own bringing you
the sensation you always awaited. It brought it out.

Your smile. Faint, but apparent, you knew.
Beauty. It lived in you even when death struggled
to wrestle it from my firm grip. I held on.

And I continue to hold onto the meaning
of what we shared. The love. The attachment.
The part of you that never died. The last lasting gift.

From me to you.


Hold me tight
so I can feel you breathing.
The sweet in and out of life’s rhythm
clutching onto the thought of my being.
In return, your presence is welcomed
and most needed in the clasp of
your arms around my shoulders.
You hold me up, keep me secure,
you offer your self as an anchor
to keep me from drifting too far out
from your safe shore. Keep me right.
Hold me tight.


Ignitions sequence started.
“T” minus 10 seconds.
You’re feeling the pressures,
of a conflicted muse.
“T” minus 9 seconds.
The words you use
find you grasping for the
right ones, falling just short
of your objective.
“T” minus 8 seconds and counting.
Your payload is secure,
a seven month journey
into the cosmos of collective thought,
fueled by passions: yours and your “crew”,
“T” minus 7 seconds,
and a steady flow of inspiration
from loves lost and found
feet on the ground but ready to
blast off for poems unknown.
“T” minus 6, 5, 4 seconds.
The countdown continues,
bringing you closer to
your objective, 3…2,
a collection
of your thoughts and notions,
elixirs and potions to take
you to that “special place”;
your own inner space to explore.
“T” minus 1, and cou…
Internal combustion.
Houston, We have a problem.


(Time line)

Score and fifteen etched the faces,
some coming from most distant places,
just to bring the circle closed.

Youthful memories to the fore
for men and women who before
were classmates on the brink of aging.

Over time we’ve gotten older,
mellow now, where once were bolder,
with wisdom lacing our decisions.

Parents now, some grandkids too,
and pride in everything they do,
at this stage of life we share.

And share we did, through the ages,
faces posed on all the pages,
come to life to touch our histories.

Recognition brings a smile,
sadly thinking all the while,
“What the heck is that guy’s name?”

Grouped together with familiarity,
cliques of old held high hilarity,
now accepting, all were welcomed.

And me, a bookish nebish then,
stood abreast with these old friends,
who remembered me with some affection.

Why do situations pose,
a change of manner, do you suppose
I could have been a different man?

For back in High School where life bloomed,
blossoms of beauty in every room,
the directions chosen were our own.

Some, the choices were not theirs,
and death had sadly nested there
to take old comrades from this earth.

Surely in spirit they raised a glass,
to celebrate this reunited mass,
the storied Class of Seventy-Four.

I regret to say, through faults of mine,
I met old classmates for the first time,
thirty-five years past the bar.

The smiles and hugs will surely linger,
and I can count on just one finger
the seconds I’ll hesitate when forty calls.

Long live Lackawanna High School Class of 1974!


(If Only …)

I ply you with the romance game,
a game I love to play,
and something that appeals to you
in every single way.

I smatter you with phone calls
just to hear your sound,
and whisper nothings in your ear
where words of love abound.

I send you cards and letters there
quoting words professed,
poetic nuance Hallmark style,
I care to send the very best.

I have flowers delivered to your house,
roses by the score,
floral fragrance fills your senses,
always wanting more.

I give you gifts without a cause
baubles by the bag,
anything to give you pause,
you’ll know without a tag.

I offer all the things I can,
my love remains devout,
I’ll try and keep you satisfied,
if only the Viagra holds out.


(If Only I Could Find the Words)

If only I could find the words
that would make the difference in your world
and keep you from running to hide
every time you feel it crashing down around you.

Your beauty is an illusion to you
for even in the eyes of the beholder, you will
see what you want to see
and disregard the thoughts of others.

The outward manifestation of that vision
has made people stand up and take notice,
only to have you sit down and blend into the woodwork,
seeking a refuge in clear coated oak.

If only you would know
that all the thoughts that you think
would be deemed as wisdom,
if only you’d share them more.

Your voice is a symphony,
an aria for my ears and a score
to hum throughout my day,
if only you would set it free.

The tenderness and compassion
that resides deep within you,
suffocates on the precepts of indecision,
with no resuscitation possible.

And if only I could find the words,
I would tell you that you are loved
for who you are, as you are, and
for as long as you remain, dear Prudence.