Emotional Poems, how we live and how we die. Some will make you think, others will make you cry.

Tucson (or Anyplace*) He came in the door. It was a political meeting. No one knew him, so there was no greeting. He went right up where the Representative stood. He raised his pistol and thought, “This should be good.” Shot at point blank range, one bullet’s enough. Now he began shooting randomly, “I’ve got the right stuff.” Two old men pushed their wives to the floor, And covered them with their bodies. They couldn’t do more. Suddenly came quiet. Empty, time to reload. Self preservation should prevail. Run for the road. This didn’t happen with this diverse group. Several converged on the madman in one fell swoop. One unknown smashed a folding chair across his back. Another twisted his arm to stop the attack. A lady grabbed his ammo clip and tore it away. Two men crashed onto his chest and legs in the foray. A young man outside, heard shots and ran in. Rather than taking off, no thought of his own skin. He cradled the Rep’s head to stem the blood flow. Maybe he saved her life. No one will ever know. When the cops arrived, it was time to take stock. Six dead, thirteen wounded, all from one Glock. One old man took two, and his wife died. He wasn’t successful, but by God he tried. It was better for the other old man as it was his intent. His wife’s life was saved while his own was spent. Another elderly woman, and the Congresswoman’s aide, A judge who just came by, all died in the raid. The worst of all from that killing spree Was a nine year old girl, just as innocent as can be. Her interest in politics was why she was there. Maybe in twenty years she would have occupied that chair. The Representative survived her devastating wound. What will the future bring? Has her life been ruined? People ask, how could this madman have slipped through the cracks. No one blew the whistle to preempt his attack. Unfortunately, in our society, we can’t arrest for what might be, And mental hospitals have to let people go free, Unless they’re a threat to themselves or others, Which no one can tell, even their fathers or mothers. All in all, from this disaster, what did we learn? Heroic people step forward at every turn. Their duty as human beings, they’ll never spurn. *Why? Because it’s my hope that anywhere people will act heroically. A Child’s Message The Christmas Pageant was to be performed in a week. Little Billy was shy, and could he speak? Such a nice, sweet boy. He should have a part. Could he learn his lines? He certainly has the heart. The teacher mulled this over in her mind, Then had a great idea, a part she did find. “He can be the inn keeper. There’s just one line. I’ll get him started. Now we won’t be in a bind.” Billy was happy and practiced again and again. “There’s no room at the inn,” he said it then He repeated it some more ‘til it sounded just right. He was fully prepared for that wondrous night. The auditorium was full of parents and friends, Grandparents and siblings, people without end. Then it began. There was anticipation all around. All looked at the stage, and none made a sound. Mary and Joseph approached the inn door. They asked the inn keeper, “Is there one room more?” “There’s no room at the inn,” Billy said with a loud clear voice. The couple turned away. Was there another choice? Then a plaintive call that came out as a boom, “You can come to my house. You can stay in my room.” Well, that one simple line brought the audience to their feet, This shy young boy had said something so sweet, It will always be remembered, a Christmas time treat. It has been said, “A child shall show them the way,” And so it was on that memorable day. The Empty Box Mom, he’s coming back. We don’t know he’s dead. We can always have hope. That’s what you said. I know that the great building crashed to the ground. And people caught there have never been found. Maybe Dad got out somehow. Let’s think about it. He climbed to the roof. Dad would use his wits. He’d tie some rope to plastic sheets, And make a parachute to drop to the street. He’d see the Hudson River and steer that way. A boat would find him before he reached the bay. I’ve always hoped a helicopter got him off the roof. We shouldn’t give up hope ‘til we have proof. I won’t believe he’s dead though his funeral’s today. That empty box won’t stop my hoping in any way. My Dad will come home, I’ll always pray. Final Day My doc said I’ve got a month. That’s the score. Does he really know? Is it less or more? They tell you that so you’ll settle your affairs. I’ve already made arrangements except for one care. Marsha’s been sick, but she’ll get by. She’ll be financially okay when I die. But there’s no way she can care for our son, we agree. For 40 years we’ve done it. His mental age is about three. The state would warehouse him with impersonal care. I can’t bring myself to put him there. Dear Lord, I hope I’ve chosen the right path. If my sin is too big, I accept your wrath. “Son, we’ll get in the car. It’s time to go. I don’t want Mom to hear, but she will know. I left her a note to explain what I’ve done. I’ve always loved you my poor needful son.” “Boom!” and now one more, and then I am done. Tough Love I loved my son dearly and tried my best To prepare him for the future when he flew the nest. A father’s duty is to help a boy become a man, To accept responsibility and to do the best he can. I told Rob about the dangers of tobacco, drugs and booze, With familiar examples of how they are abused. That’s why I was so surprised when we found out Rob was using stuff. By his actions there was no doubt. We talked to him and asked a teacher to do the same. He brushed off our concerns. It was a kind of game. Then it became serious. He started skipping school. He stopped doing his work and thought he was cool. Rob quit the band and tennis and dropped a course. This was bad, but it was about to get worse. Money started to go missing, then my credit card. The wife’s jewelry disappeared. We should have been on guard. When we confronted him, Rob just ignored what we said. What could we do? A counselor proposed what we’d dread. Have him arrested and then committed for observation. This would only last a few days, not a salvation. We didn’t do what the counselor suggested we do. Then things got worse. My worries grew and grew. He hit his bother and sisters and then my wife. Everyone was afraid, each afraid for his life. Then, “Rob get out of the house. You must stay away.” “What are you gonna do, call the cops? That’ll be the day.” “Yes, I will if I must. Now take your stuff and get out. I have to protect the rest of my family,” I’d shout. This was the hardest thing I’ve done my whole life long. I know tough love could work, or maybe go wrong. How will he survive? It’s a cruel world out there. Maybe he’ll get help from someone who cares. I know he’ll only be cured after bottom’s been hit. No one else can cure him even bit by bit. “Sir, I have some bad news I must relate. Your son Rob has died. This I really hate. It looks like he O.D.’d. They’ll know in a day or two. He had a note, “I’m sorry, Dad. You did what you had to do.”