When Loden Henry arrived

fibrillating with starlight

from a winking yellow moon

the clocks were all stopped

by a .7 Richter scale.

Orion and Scorpio

were snug in their place,

the sun was eclipsed

by the Drums of Thunder

who rolled out a fanfaronade;

trumpets blared loud and clear,

red roses unfurled, and everyone wept

to see that he was all there

with all fingers and toes.


He’s a barrel-chested descendent

of  horn-brimmed Swede sea-going Vikings

who sliced across  mountainous

ice waters without sextant

or compass to explore Labrador

in sub-zero temps


His eyes beam wisdom, a DNA gift

from bearded forefathers from Chelm

and Boronovitch who wandered

from Shtetl to Shtetl in search

of safe haven on the run from the Hun

to the Black Sea and finally the safety

of the blue Danube’s Berlat.


Though not the last Emperor

he’ll be a consummate mench

and may soon have the smarts

to find a gamma globulin that would

immunize the world from another

Auschwitz, Dachau or Treblinka.

He may also surprise us by opening

blind eyes and deaf ears to the beauty

of Rembrandt, Vermeer, Beethoven and Bach.

He’ll stave off the apocalypse with laughter 

and kindness promulgating peace

and good will in a world weary of war, 

the unending gnashing of bloody cold steel. 

Milton Ehrlich