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.
 

Give me air conditioning or give me death! (Dedicated to Julia Carpenter.)

 

 

In the summer's fevered embrace, where sweat and desire interlace,
Sundry long for steak, seared and rich, for luxury such is their wish.
But give to me not meat's delight, nor pleasure drawn from appetite,
A humbler yearning stirs my soul, my comfort - the air conditioner's role.

While some seek sun-kissed skin and sand, and bodies bronzed by summer's hand,
I yearn not for a sun-soaked scene, with bathing beauties' radiant sheen.
Rather, I dream of icy plains, where snowfall weaves her endless chains,
In penguin's guise, I'd find release, in solitude, in icy peace.

The sun-drenched throng may scoff and jest, to them, my pleasure seems a jest,
Beneath the sun, they dance and sway, but I, in coolness, prefer to stay.
No sizzling steak or sultry beach could ever within my contentment reach,
For me, the summer's burning glare is naught compared to AC's care.

Such is the cool, steady hum, a lullaby to some,
It weaves a world of frost and snow, where heat and hunger seldom show.
Antarctica, in my dreams I roam, among the icebergs, I have found home,
Where frost-kissed winds do freely blow, in AC's steady, soothing flow.

Like penguins huddled against the storm, I feel not cold, but rather warm,
Amidst the snow and silent ice, I find a paradise concise.
While sun worshippers may sneer, I hold my frosted haven dear,
And shiver in my pleasure dome, the cold, my heart, forever home.

The scorching summer sun may reign, but I yearn for winter's domain,
Yearning for the icy blast, for summer's tyranny to be passed.
I call out to the frosty air, Old Man Winter, do not despair,
Hasten forth your frosty reign, bring your soothing, icy rain.

Oh Old Man Winter, hear my plea, make haste, return and set me free,
Exchange the heat for your frosty kiss, grant me my icy bliss.
End the reign of summer's tyranny, replace it with your gentle, icy sea,
Come, Old Man Winter, return and stay, and keep the burning sun at bay.

LGBT History is America's History. (Dedicated to Ben Chapman.)

 

 

In classrooms of stone and chalk, a story left untold,
Of lovers bold, of spirits free, of courage strong and gold.
Not tales of battles fought with swords, but battles of the heart,
A missing piece of history's scroll, an integral part.

In rainbows of identity, diverse in every hue,
Lies the LGBT story, full of life, authentic and true.
To cloak it in the shadows, deny its rightful place,
Is to rob the young of wisdom, blind them to grace.

Each tale spun in the classroom, it shapes the world we see,
For from knowledge comes understanding, from understanding, empathy.
Stories of love and struggle, of triumph over pain,
These are the lessons crucial, etched deep in every brain.

Ignorance breeds intolerance, so let our children learn,
Of the many roads to love and life, at each and every turn.
Tales of Stonewall's fiery night, of bravery shown in the face,
Of intolerance and bigotry, of finding one's true space.

Reflect the many shades of love, in all its splendid forms,
Break down the walls of prejudice, reject the tiring norms.
Equality's not a tapestry woven with a single thread,
But a vibrant, rich mosaic of love's colors spread.

For the youth will craft tomorrow, in their hearts and minds,
A world more just, inclusive, leaving no one behind.
Teach them of the past's mistakes, of love's enduring strife,
And they'll create a future, where all may live their life.

So, unveil the LGBT history, let its truth unfurl,
Paint a more complete picture of our wide and wondrous world.
In our classrooms, let these stories sing, resonate and thrive,
For in diversity and tolerance, we truly come alive.

The years have caught up with me. (Dedicated to Bill Kole.)

 

Now I bask in the warm light of indolence,
No reason needed, 'cept for senescence.
The years have caught up, as they tend to do,
Finally, I am free to sip my lazy brew.

Gone are the days of nine to five,
Now in languor's arms, I joyfully dive.
Reports and deadlines, they all can flee,
For the years, my friend, have caught up with me.

"Oh, you're a slacker!" they used to chide,
But I've always let such remarks slide.
Now that I'm aged, grizzled and grey,
There's no need for excuses, I dare say.

I bask in the glow of my TV screen,
In sweatpants and slippers, no need to preen.
Years of rushing, all a memory,
Now the years have finally caught up with me.

Unhurried mornings, endless cups of tea,
Books and daydreams, as far as I can see.
Ah, sweet laziness, my jubilant decree,
For at long last, the years have caught up with me.

I'm not lazy, I'm just biding my time,
In the rhythm of retirement, a beautiful rhyme.
Why run and chase, when you can be free?
Thank the stars, the years have caught up with me.

So here’s to the joys of doing nothing at all,
To living life slow, letting the time crawl.
I'm not a slacker, just finally living carefree,
Blessed be the years, for they've caught up with me.

The Hollywood Writer's Strike. (Dedicated to Samantha Chery.)

 

 

In the heart of Tinseltown, a discordant note rings,
Hollywood's scribes have downed their tools, silenced are the kings,
Scripted fantasies are frozen, on paper they remain,
In directors' heads, their visions - but their voices, they restrain.

Their words that fuel the dreams of many, stand in stark defiance,
No longer playing puppeteer in the dance of compliance,
TV screens grow silent, movie reels refuse to spin,
In the kingdom of the silver screen, a rebellion from within.

For each has found their power, in the silence and the pause,
They will no longer write on demand, without a noble cause,
No more cardboard characters, no plots absurd and thin,
In the absence of their labor, may a new era begin.

Now Netflix waits in nervousness, its catalogue growing bare,
Marvel's heroes rest awhile, mid-flight in comic air,
The ceaseless churn of mediocrity, finally at an end,
The call for true artistry, the writers did send.

From the ashes of this strike, a phoenix may just rise,
Stories told with more depth, no longer simply franchise,
The slate wiped clean, a canvas fresh, the writers hold the key,
To a future of more substance, where true storytelling's free.

So, hail this Hollywood strike, though it may seem severe,
For in its wake, we may just find, a cinematic sphere,
Where artistry is valued, and stories truly matter,
And the din of vapid content, begins to simply shatter.

For if we see no longer the incessant, thoughtless churn,
Then perhaps we'll value more the tales that truly burn,
Deep within our hearts, they'll resonate and thrive,
Heralding a new dawn, where quality will survive.