J. P. Celia

In former times it was a simple place,Where one could read without a blushing face,With thickly bound and edifying titles,Like Noble Greeks, and red highlighted Bibles,And Shakespeare (sans Andronicus), and Mark Twain,Whose humor, though defiant, was humane. Today it’s more permissive, and . . . . Continue Reading »

And still the letters came.Her neatly printed nameWas clear on every one.A few proclaimed she’d wonA one-time cruise or cash,While others (bright and brash)Would ask her, “how are you?,”Not knowing what we knew,That yesteryear she’d died,Despite what science tried.Yet still they came in . . . . Continue Reading »