Horror Movies. (Dedicated to Stephanie Palazzolo.)

 

 

When shadows danced with dim moonlight, we reveled in our spooky plight,
Screen flickering with monstrous delight, nightmares conjured in the dead of night.
Dracula's charm, Frankenstein's groan, filled our hearts and chilled our bones,
The Blob consumed, the Mummy moaned, youth's laughter met with eerie tones.

In PJ's huddled, faces aglow, we'd journey where few dared to go,
Witnessing terror's grand tableau, amid the flicker of the picture show.
Oh, how we'd gasp when zombies crept, secrets of the undead kept,
The fearsome tales that made us wept, in our minds forever slept.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon, under a melancholy moon,
Struck a note of haunting tune, made us shriek and howl like loons.
Yet, it wasn't simply fear's embrace, but the wonder of that eerie space,
Where we could meet a monster's face, and feel alive in that chase.

Then, beneath the quilt we'd dive, as if to hide or to survive,
Every scene, so alive, made our young hearts strive.
Eyes wide in terror, hearts ablaze, lost in that cinematic haze,
In those times of naive craze, we lived our best of days.

Each monstrous tale, a treasured lore, left us always wanting more,
Sleep would find us on the floor, dreaming of what was in store.
In silver screens of yesteryears, we found joy amongst our fears,
Echoes of those laughter-tears, still resound in aging ears.

Now the reels of time have spun, those days of monsters, fear, and fun,
A glorious era, forever done, under a setting, ghostly sun.
Oh, the tales we could regale, of moonlight monsters, ghostly pale,
In the heart of childhood's tale, our love for horror will never fail.

The Sandwich. (Dedicated to Tim Carman.)

 

 

A noble BLT in daylight's glimmer,
Bacon crisp, lettuce fresh, and tomatoes prime,
Layered in harmony, each ingredient a star shimmer,
In its simplicity, a testament to time.

The fried baloney, humble, yet so rich,
In its ordinary guise, an unsung song,
The sizzle and the scent, a satisfying itch,
In each bite, a place where hearts belong.

Oh, the grilled cheese, a canvas plain,
Bread and cheddar merging in delight,
Golden crust, inside a molten vein,
A comfort clasped in hands so tight.

The turkey club, a tower tall,
A hearty feast, in three-layered might,
Bacon, lettuce, turkey, echo the call,
Of hunger quenched, in day or night.

The hot meatball, a tale of bold,
Marinara, mozzarella, a spicy dance,
Each morsel savored, each story told,
In every bite, an Italian romance.

For in each sandwich, there lies a glory,
Of simplicity and skill, of tale and truth,
An ode to the humble, an epic story,
A timeless testament to the wonder of our youth.

China Smoke. (Dedicated to Lisa Friedman.)

 

In smoky shadows of the east, a dragon wakes, it's feast,
China's industry churns on, unchecked, nature the least.
Smokestacks tower high, belching clouds that never cease,
The sky an open canvas, for its dark and deadly piece.

A ballet of stark emission, where clean air should prevail,
Coal and steel, relentless, paint a sombre, ashen veil.
Factories work tirelessly, in pursuit of growth's Holy Grail,
Sacrificing earth's green garment, as we watch, turning pale.

But let's not point just eastward, blame's a mirror in our hand,
For the problem's not just China, it's a global, burning brand.
Our own consumption feeds the flames, across every land,
We demand, they supply, this truth we must understand.

Yes, China's footprint's weighty, their course dire and unjust,
Yet we all share a role, in this breaking of earth's crust.
A dance of shared destruction, in consumption we trust,
Where in this blame game, ponder, who holds the greatest thrust?

So let's not scapegoat nations, but to ourselves be true,
It's our collective actions, that turn the sky from blue.
With each choice to consume more, our blame too does accrue,
In this tragedy of the commons, we all play a part, we do.

A challenge vast and urgent, in unity we must engage,
To turn the tide on climate change, is our shared heritage.
China, yes, must curb its course, this modern industrial age,
But the blame is ours together, written on the same page.

Barbie for President. (Dedicated to Maura Judkis.)

 

 

In the grand theater of our nation's dance,
Let's elect a leader of charming stance,
Who can rule with joy, radiance, and advance,
Not of brain but a symbol of balance.

No, not the intellectual, not the severe,
But the one with a smile from ear to ear,
A painted grace to soothe, not to fear,
A Barbie for President, let's make it clear!

With her optimism, she'll light our days,
In the haze, she'll find the sun's radiant ways,
No debates, no strife, no political frays,
A beacon of hope in the people's gaze.

Her glamour and style, we cannot ignore,
In the White House, she'll add colors galore,
With a sparkle and glimmer like never before,
A Barbie for President, forevermore.

She needs no brain to lead with heart,
In this complex world, a different art.
Unsullied by scandals or dart,
A symbol of purity, a fresh start.

Against the Raggedy, clothed and bland,
It's time for our Barbie to take a stand,
For a nation of dreams, vibrant and grand,
In her painted smile, we find a land.

So, let's vote, my fellow Americans, let's unite,
For Barbie, our leader, our beacon of light.
With her plastic charm and spirit bright,
She'll lead us with hope, with love, with right.
 

They lost their legs. (dedicated to Jessica Silver-Greenberg.)

 

 

In hushed halls where Hippocrates once reigned,
Unscrupulous surgeons play a wicked game.
Promising cure to those in ceaseless pain,
Yet their actions bring nought but cruel shame.

With scalpel's gleam and soothing words they lure,
Each patient desperate, seeking a sure cure.
Yet beneath their hands, health takes no leap,
Victims crippled, in agony they weep.

The clink of gold, the profit from despair,
A theatre of horror, cloaked in sterile air.
Operations botched, lives forever marred,
A charade, where trust is brutally scarred.

A leg, once strong, now bound for amputation,
An ironic twist to their sworn obligation.
Innocents marred by this malicious greed,
While the guilty shroud their deeds in needless secrecy.

Shadowy giants of medical device,
Entangled in this scandalous vice.
Their truth concealed, their connection discreet,
In this tangled web of deceit, they beat their retreat.

Yet the cries of the victims echo, loud and clear,
A haunting chorus for those who'd hear.
Against the greed, the deceit, the lies,
A call for justice eternally cries.

Oh, beware the surgeon's mask that hides a grin,
The twisted game where no patient can win.
In the quest for truth, may light expose the night,
And bring an end to this ghastly plight.

Bankruptcy. (Dedicated to Becky Yerak.)

 

 

In the chambers of power, they twisted the law,
Where money speaks louder, it's raw and it's flawed.
The little guy's burden grew heavier yet,
In a system of debt, that's cast like a net.

Bankruptcy's refuge, once open and fair,
Now wrapped in red tape, with a cold, stony stare.
For the small, humble debtor, the path is much steeper,
While the rich man's escape grows notably cheaper.

Fat cats in silk suits, they chuckle and grin,
Knowing the laws help their kind to fit in.
They dance round obligations with a sly, cunning wink,
While the little guy's hopes continue to sink.

Once a solace for many, now a game for the few,
The laws that were just are now askew.
The scales of justice seem weighted, not right,
Favoring those who can afford the fight.

High and dry are the creditors left,
Victims of this acquisitive theft.
Yet they're the ones with the strength to endure,
It's the little guy's pain that is harder to cure.

In the dance of the debtors, the music's gone sour,
Echoing the tune of the powerful's hour.
The promise of relief, once real and near,
Is lost in the wind, to the fat cat's cheer.

But let us remember, as the night falls deep,
The strength of the small is not cheap.
For laws may change, and the fat cats may thrive,
But the spirit of the little guy will forever strive.

Editors. (Dedicated to Katie Kokal.)

 

 

In the hush of the creator's solitary night,
A tale blooms, bathed in imagination's light.
Unseen world to paper bound, with words unfettered, free,
Born of a mind, unhinged yet tethered, in sublime soliloquy.

Enter now the editor, with sharpened eye and keen,
Bathing in red, the woven dream, cutting through the scene.
Defaced, the crafted word falls prey to unforgiving knife,
In the name of clarity, it's purged, such is the writer's strife.

Love and loathing intertwine, a tango of the mind,
A creator craves approval, yet to criticism, often blind.
A custodian of language, the editor stands tall,
A necessary torment, the bitterest gall.

Each alteration, each correction, a wound so raw and deep,
Yet in their wake, arises a tale more worthy of the keep.
The editor, like a smith, in the furnace of revision,
Tempering the narrative, with unflinching precision.

To hate is easy, as love’s effaced by indelible ink,
Yet underneath this struggle, a deeper bond, we think.
For both are sculptors of the tale, through tumult and tranquility,
The writer spins the yarn, the editor shapes reality.

So, here’s to the symbiotic dance, entwined in love and hate,
To the writer, the dreamer, and the editor, the slate.
For stories, like diamonds, are formed under pressure's reign,
From chaos comes the masterpiece, from struggle, comes the gain.

In the love and hate that intertwine, a truth rings pure and clear,
Without each other's guiding hand, the story disappears.
Writer and editor, in the dance of creation forever twirled,
In concert, they bring forth new worlds, and thus, they shape the world.

A combat-ready militia in the Sunshine State. (dedicated to Lawrence Mower.)

 

 

From where the palm trees sway and pelicans glide,
Where sunsets kiss the Gulf in sweet goodnight,
A change unfurls 'neath the Floridian tide,
In shadowed halls and dimmed, uncertain light.

Once stood the Guard, in hurricanes' fierce throes,
A beacon in the dark for those displaced,
Now their purpose wavers, evolves, and grows,
Their true intentions subtly encased.

The Governor’s words stir worry and dread,
As DeSantis molds a mightier Guard,
Visions of combat fill the public's head,
And the implications hit all too hard.

They fear, for peace, a price too steep to pay,
When a militia's mustered in the fray,
Rumors of coup, in hushed whispers they say,
Could Florida's own face an inner affray?

Unnerving questions cloak the Sunshine State,
A future obscured in a cloudy slate,
What are these changes that we tolerate?
What hidden storm does this new Guard await?

Yet hope persists in every Floridian heart,
For strength in unity can play its part,
In face of uncertainty, they'll not depart,
Standing together, they'll make a fresh start.

So, may truth triumph in this southern land,
For the power of the people is close at hand,
And in the face of change, they’ll make their stand,
As the tides shift upon the sun-kissed sand.
 

California's Housing Market. (Dedicated to Ryan Fonseca.)

 

 

California's housing market is a wretched mess,
Where the price of homes breeds such duress.
The coastal dreams, once within reach,
Are held aloft, like a sun-kissed peach.

Gilded mansions stand tall and bright,
Underneath them quakes strike in the night.
Along the shorelines, floods rise high,
In the tinderbox hills, fires light the sky.

Each year brings more threat, wildfire's bloom,
Homes wiped away, leaving just gloom.
Yet the costs spiral on, with unending increase,
A merciless cycle, offering no release.

The burdened buyer, weary and fraught,
In a merciless market, their dreams are bought.
Bogged in battles of bidding and claim,
In the Golden State, the game's in the name.

And where is refuge? Can safety be found?
Not in these prices, skyward bound.
Even the heartland, away from the coast,
Hosts haunting prices, a ghostly host.

Mortgage rates, a treacherous sea,
Robbing the hopeful of their glee.
And the agents, oh, their ethics wane,
In the pursuit of profit, in the hunger for gain.

California's housing, a troubling tale,
Where dreams are sold on a grander scale.
Yet beneath the glitz, and the golden gleam,
Lies the hollow echo of the Californian Dream.

I wish I lived upon a boat. (Dedicated to Colleen Wright.)

 

 

I wish I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
Where marina life's the antidote to worries and to guilt.
To rise with sun, to sleep with moon, amongst the rhythm, the flit,
To be one with the morning's croon, and the seabird's sunlit lit.

Ah, the public marina, where dreams float at modest rent,
Where laughter echoes off the brine, and hours joyfully spent.
Every dawn, a canvas bright, every night, a star-kissed token,
Life's simplicity at its height, unspoken words, yet spoken.

To the market, for daily bread, to the dock, for friendly chatter,
By humble means, yet nobly fed, where the world's woes do not matter.
The endless tales of ocean's might, in each boat's weathered lines,
Where every day brings sheer delight, and even sorrow shines.

But a shadow grows across our berth, a bitter, hard-drawn line,
The scent of change upon the earth, the taste of sour wine.
St. Pete's marina, once our home, now taken by the grand,
Where once was freedom's vast, blue dome, now stands the private land.

They raise the rent, beyond our reach, the dream begins to wane,
This haven, now a forbidden beach, filled with unneeded pain.
Where life was sweet, and joy was cheap, only echoes remain,
In our hearts, the wounds run deep, the loss feels like a chain.

From our boats, we must depart, our homes upon the wave,
Each farewell, a breaking heart, yet we must be brave.
The dumpsters wait, with open arms, a grim and bitter jest,
Yet even there, amidst the harms, we'll make the very best.

I wished I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
But now the dream begins to float, on waters of the guilt.
Yet hope endures, as tides will turn, and dreams might yet revive,
For in our hearts, the sea-lights burn, and keep our spirits alive.