"I think," she said,
at ninety-three,
"I have the gift:
longevity."
She said, "I'm sure,"
at ninety-four;
at ninety-five,
"I'm still alive."
"I'm sure to see
one century
and thirty-three!"
I have a casket that tells tales of war
Letters wrote by my late father-in-law
That he sent home to his wife and young son
Those he had missed since the horrors begun.
He was a poet, a pastime we shared
I put his poems into a book, him unaware
It was a gift for his birthday, ninety three
He opened it, loved it, deeply moved was he.
He said it was his best present ever
Those words are etched on my heart forever
It was a pleasure to do and to gift
The time it took was truly worth it.
Now I hold the book since he sadly passed
A treasure of remembrance of the past
An insight into a soldier’s thoughts
When he was living through conflicts of war.
I have no idea how scientists know this.
But they know everything.
Or think they do.
They recently stated that a super volcano exploded
seventy thousand years ago
this volcano wiped out ninety-three percent of the human race
all of us are descended from the seven percent who survived
How they can prove this I have no idea.
But scientists are confident
that they know everything.
their mothers probably agree
(With apologies to Rabindranath Tagore)
Where fear stalks the mind and the head hangs in shame;
Where knowledge is twisted,
Where the country has been broken up into fragments by
narrow walls of caste and creed;
Where words are mouthed for short–term gains;
Where insatiable lust stretches its arms towards seats of
power;
Where the clear stream of reason has dried up in the scorch-
ing heat of the forest of communal flare–ups;
Where the mind is led backward by Thine enemy into ever–
narrowing thought and action -
From this nightmare of licence, my Father, let my country awake.
Sheila cleaned the microwave
And one kitchen counter and the stove top
There are ninety-three empty boxes in the corner.
She congratulated herself on what she had done
And then took a nap
Living in a mess is exhausting
This is her third nap today
Tomorrow she plans to empty the dishwasher.
the hospital corridors were as quiet as death
until loud male-sounding footsteps slapped down the hallway
I peeked out, expecting to see a doctor
I saw no one; but the footsteps were coming
click click click click click click
they stopped right at my door
a chill went through me
I thought of Mr. Eisenhower
was he okay? should I go check?
too late for that, a ghastly voice whispered
directly into my left ear.
I knew what jumping with fright felt like now.
except I was frozen, I could not even scream.
an unknown entity followed me that night
to the nurse’s station, the water fountain,
the soda pop machine, I felt it was a ghoul
not a poltergeist, not a friendly entity
I fell asleep briefly while charting.
My head jerked up as I came back.
“Better check on Mrs. McFee,” the voice hissed.
I was terrified; paralyzed with fear.
Mr. Eisenhower was okay, but Mrs. McFee had vanished.
No one ever saw her again.
a ninety-three-year-old woman who could not walk.
He puffed the magic dragon
Till he was ninety-three
And frolicked in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree
With little pipes and papers
He loved to huff and puff
It made him think such silly things
And munch a bunch of stuff
All red-eyed he would travel
With puff deep in his pouch
To blaze a trail thru rain or hail
Or tatered on the couch
But then one day of sorrow
He could find no puff no more
And from then till the morrow
Was jonesing on the floor
Without his lifelong friend
He died lonely in his cave
Tho everyone that knew him
Laid sticky hops on his grave
Now he puffs the magic dragon
Above both you and me
And frolics in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree
Teacher asked the class, “Who wrote ‘My kingdom for a horse’?”
Timothy jumped up and shouted, “That’s John Wayne, of course.”
The teacher said, “That’s wrong; it’s from the sixteenth century,
It was written by Will Shakespeare around fifteen ninety-three.”
Teacher asked, “Who said ‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat’?”
Timothy jumped up again, “Lord Nelson gets my vote.”
Teacher shook her head, “The line was one of Robert Shaw’s
It’s from the nineteen seventies and it was said in ‘Jaws’.”
But teacher felt frustrated and said, “Answer this one, Laddy,
Who was it that started the expression ‘Who’s the Daddy’?”
Timothy jumped up again, his face was full of glee
That’s Joseph of Nazareth… in about One B.C.”
Every year Mert and Sam got ready
To join the circus, isn’t that right Freddy?
It’s what they tell me, he answered me.
This year they almost got snapped up at ninety-three.
Outside my windowpane
Daylight dwindles
Sunshines sparsely
Further from the new dome skies
Ninety-three million miles away
Imbued in ripened colors
Nature’s mahogany, oak, and cherrywood trees
and Jogger’s grassy paths once lime greens,
Chanting to changing tones of richer reds
Clustered blue-jays adorn
Like shimmering rhinestones
Gayly sing above our heads
Shadows stretch out deep
Swaying weeping willows sweep
Smoke smells flow through the crisp air
Musky scent from stonefire oven pits
Spiced up dishes mouthwatering lit
Lavish and lustrous ambers crackle
Flaming orange leaves swirl around and prance
Seducing all to voyeur their performance
Golden crinkled copper leaves splayed
Reaching, rustling to the ground
Making shuffling sounds
Minty blues peak through scarlet rays
Fall cashmere shawls display!
Autumn gardens
Nights that linger lasting moments
Granting lover’s time
For making romance
I will not forget the day that evil came,
One clear and sunny morning in September.
Terrorists attacked with cruel hatred,
A tragic day that we must all remember.
I will not forget the day the towers fell.
Planes used as bombs, by madmen, took them down.
A sunny day transformed by destruction,
Shell-shocked citizens wept as they came down.
I will not forget the heroes of Flight Ninety-three,
Who, though they lost their lives saved many more.
With resolve and a mighty roar: "Let's Roll!"
They thwarted an attack of D.C.'s core.
I will not forget the first responders,
Who raced to the scene of devastation.
Searching for survivors they were relentless,
Some gave all in stirring dedication.
No, I will not forget September eleventh,
The day that evil came and left its ugly mark,
A day filled with vile death and destruction
A day so indefensible and dark.
You were a talented British actor but sadly, not anymore.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned ninety-four.
You starred in an episode of "Fawlty Towers" and "Dalziel and Pascoe".
Forty-four years ago, you starred in "The Adventures Of Picasso".
You starred in an episode of "Last Of The Summer Wine".
You starred in an episode of "Mogul" and "Space: 1999".
You starred in a short lived British sitcom titled "Cuffy".
After living a long life, you died at the age of ninety-three.
When you starred in Fawlty Towers, you beat up John Cleese.
Today would have been your birthday, may you Rest In Peace.
[Dedicated to Bernard Cribbins (1928-2022) who died on July 27, 2022]
he sat there in his room
gently shaking his head as
he chalked ducks on the floor
which then he carefully fed
over in the corner
watching him with glee
the asylum keeper counted
from one to ninety three
ceaselessly repetetive
each number chanted out
sometimes in a whisper
sometimes in a shout
the warden made his rounds
with his little boxes of pills
each chosen for efficacy
on a multitude of mental ills
they washed them down with water
on sundays gin and rum in lieu
carefully rationing the alcohol
to never more than a tot or two
and there were watchers watching
the watchers as they watched the rest
each watching watcher watched
in that observed observation test
it all made perfect sense of course
he thought as he shook his head
ensuring that each chalked duck
received its proper share of bread
and every single morning
when their clock struck ten
the asylum keeper blew a whistle
and the routine started off again
Saint Joan like us, was flesh and bone
to sinfulness and error prone.
Through grace descending from God’s throne
her life revealed she was his own.
Mother in Israel was she
while fostering her flock of three.
No matter what the plight or plea
she ministered to all for free.
As Jesus did, she sowed good seed
in willing hearts, that gave her heed
not just with word, but also deed
she lived her life, by divine creed.
The trees that from those seeds still grow
only eternity will show.
My life is one for sure I know
to her the deepest debt I owe.
Here lies Saint Joan of flesh and bone
for wisdom, tact and caring known
by all to whom kindness was shown
and even by her very own.
Just like saint Joan, one day we’ll die
with nature marred we groan and cry
and ofttimes wish with wings to fly
to a place of rest in the sky.
If life eternal you desire,
ask God your Father to inspire
faith in Christ who bore His ire
to save you from hell’s fearful fire.
Then when Christ comes from death to free
saint Joan who lived to ninety-three,
you too like her would rise with glee
your savior’s face at last to see.
My little darling went to the dogs,
then she expired.
Her bark I hear no more.
She was blond, maybe,
she was intelligent - maybe
She sure was pretty.
I never knew her in a carnal sense,
but the dog in me howls now.
She is gone, gone gone,
and she only ninety-three.
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