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Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Riding Through A Dead Place

On 10 May 16

Homage to the remains of Connecticut

Racing south
Through an aged land,
On a train that can't tell time,
Crumbled rocks that once were foundries,
Skeletons that once were mills,
Now tagged and painted
Bright as clowns,
Mock my childhood memories.
Memories of hosts of men,
And women too,
Who once punched clocks.
They fashioned things,
They loaded trucks,
That now are still,
Rusted out,
Or shipped where they were useful,
To China or Brazil.

A lonely stack
Stands by itself,
In a field of trash,
And crumbs of brick.
On its side a long dead name,
Spelled with care in a long dead time,
Laid into it,
Brick by brick,
By long dead hands,
As if to last
Its work has now gone far away,
Its peoples' hearts are stilled,
And now it rests forever cold,
A sentinel to vanished toil.
The pride that built that stack of bricks,
And laid that name so proudly in,
Has vanished with its kiln.

We don't know why the stack was spared,
While the mill was turned to dust,
The stack,
A man made fossil,
Bears witness to another time,
A Proof that once real things were made,
Right here,
Where now they don't make much,
And each day less and less.
God bless the Nutmeg State
That used to be.
Free trade?
It isn't really free.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016


Mourn me not
Avenge me.
Their children bear their stain
Even yet.
My soul will not sleep,
Until the last knot
Is untied.

Saturday, February 13, 2016

14 February 2016

Of all the places you can never touch,
My heart is not one of them,
For it is yours.
I love you,
For who you are.
May our hearts entwine,
‘Til the end of time,
In that special place,
Where lovers kiss,
And no one bothers,
Or notices.
Have you noticed,
Our kisses fill the air,
With smiles?
I seldom notice;
I am too busy kissing you.
Happy Valentine’s Day
To my Favorite Rose,

Your Misch.

Monday, February 1, 2016

A Most Unusual Year

The warm winter rain,
Kisses snowy fields,
Drawing up
White cotton fog.

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Last Things

To my Rose

When I die,
I want to be,
In a container,
With your love.
Let my soul,
 Sleep with yours.
Let what remains,
Of me,
Abide with what,
Remains of you.
I shall have,
No eyes,
So let the place,
Be any place,
As long as that place,
Is within you.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016


Was so long ago.
We are not Guernica.
The world mourned us not.
No painting marks our deaths,
We take our children
To the grave
In silent mourning.
We patch our holes
And help the world
Forget our name.