November 20: “Nevada to Jerusalem” by Day Williams



(“His word is in my heart like a fire,

    a fire shut up in my bones.

  I am weary of holding it in;

    indeed, I cannot.”–Jer. 20:9)



This is a country for a holy man:

Deserts like Moses knew, Sierra snows

As white as souls wiped clean, and tourist bands

Who come to plug the emptiness in souls

By playing slot machines: in short, a land

Where Paul and Peter might have rivaled shows,

Teaching Christ crucified upon a tree,

To fill those voids with Gospel truth for free.



A man of middle age cannot aspire

To a youngster’s speed, and plods along to court

To plead the cause of clients, rich and poor,

Sinners all. He’ll bring God a sad report

Unless his bones are burnt by holy fire,

And like a faithful witness he exhorts

Those who prefer to mock and toss the dice

Rather than seek a place in Paradise.



Angels and demons fight an unseen war,

Hendrix replaces Bach, police patrols

Bust drunks and punks, and mourn the liquor store

And crankster’s needle, symptoms of a soul

So self-indulgent Conscience works no more,

A lethal weapon on remote control.

God calls for many, is answered by few,

And battles rage on every avenue.



When Bride and Bridegroom meet in air, foreknown,

God’s trumpet call will stun the West and East,

As He, the chosen precious cornerstone

Who built a nation of his royal priests,

Returns and claims the spotless Bride, his own,

To take her to the Lamb’s Great Wedding Feast

Prepared in heavenly Jerusalem

By Him who was, and is, and is to come.

~Day Williams

Learn a Lot: Day’s Books

Cheer up.


Go read a book:

You’ll benefit;

You’ll smile to read

Some grit and wit.


I’ve rendered the Holy Bible in blank verse.  All the books are on Kindle. I’ve written books of poetry, a children’s story, compiled a law book, and compiled books of quotations. The royalties go directly to my local church, The Bridge Church, in Carson City, Nevada.





Besides my books on amazon and kindle, I have art and photographs for sale at and, and on display on flickr.

my legal website:

Facebook: “Day Williams” and “Day’s World”

Twitter: Day’s World

~Day Williams

Legal communications only:

Day’s Books

I wrote some books

To grow your mind;

Read one or two—

It’s not a grind.

~Day Williams

Collect the entire set.

Most books are available on

Day’s Books

The world will never starve for want of wonders, but only for want of wonder.
~G.K. Chesterton in Tremendous Trifles

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Day Williams

Books by Day Williams

New children’s book: Tahoe Tobin

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Tahoe Tobin

October 4: “St. Francis of Assisi” by Day Williams



(1181 or 1182–1226)

Francis of Assisi 



So humble was the Lord that He was born

A babe in manger’s straw one starry night

In Bethlehem, a King in poverty,


Not raised in palaces adorned with gold,

The homes of earthly kings whose holiness

Flickers like candles when the breezes blow.


“Remember that the Lord takes care of birds,

And clothes the flowers in their finery.

Not even Solomon was dressed like these,”


Christ Jesus told the crowds who followed him

In Galilee, “and you are worth more than

Sparrows, who cannot fall unseen, unknown,


Or unappreciated by the Lord,

Father of day and night, of earth and sky.

As he takes care of these, whose breaths are few,


So will the Lord supply your needs, you men

Seeking for worldly wealth and man’s esteem.

Increase your faith, and walk in holiness,


Surrendering the flesh and its desires,

In poverty of spirit, trusting God.”

When humble men receive the Word of God


In truth and love, as Francis did, their lives

Transform from formless coal to diadems.

I shall relate, dear reader, how this man,


An ordinary youth, was touched by God

And grew in holiness until the signs

That followed him were miracles, the signs


Of supernatural design, as when

He bled the wounds of Christ in hands and feet.

To tell a true biography in verse


About the lives of persons great and small,

Through whom the Lord achieved a mighty end–

That is my goal, though I may pant and sweat


As donkeys do when burdened with their loads,

Hardened in summer sun, as they ascend

A rocky slope, for God called me to write


When decadence has spewed its stones and thorns

As one more century concludes– declines

The way a sprinter’s vigor wanes when heat


And effort drain the muscles’ strength away.

By grace, and not by any righteousness

Of mine, this verse shall triumph over times


Where people value flash of currency

More than denial of the self for God.

My purpose is to glorify the Lord,


To teach how He inspires the meek and weak,

No matter where they live or who they are,

For God works miracles through those who call


Upon the name of Jesus with pure hearts.

God calls to you and me, but we must have

The ears to hear, and hearts that will obey.


Francis’ Youth

Real men are Christians, worshipping in truth.

When Nicodemus came by night to ask

The Lord about His Kingdom, Jesus said,


“Unless a man is born again, he can’t

Enter the Kingdom of eternal life.”

“Can man return inside his mother’s womb?”


Questioned the Pharisee who longed to know

(Much like a chemist, with his charts and tubes

Inquires how catalysts react in tests)


The secrets hidden in the Kingdom’s vaults.

Christ answered by analogy of wind

(Which blows from here to there in mystery)


To God the Holy Spirit, who moves, warms,

Builds, edifies, delights, corrects, convicts

And carries men in ways we cannot grasp.


Why God chose Francis and how this young man

Was born again– these details are unknown.

But that this urban roustabout, who led


His friends in revelry, was stopped, entranced,

We have no doubt; and friends inquired if he

Had fallen for a girl, and been engaged.


“I have a love,” he said, “but do not know

Her name, or where she lives, or how she looks.”

That unknown love was Lady Poverty.


God planted seeds in Francis’ heart and soul,

And they would germinate in time, the way

A sperm may swim inside an egg, and lose


Its tail, the two now fused as one, one life

So small the naked eye may not discern

The doubling of the cells from blastocyst


To embryo then fetus curled within

The womb, one human life throughout the growth,

(Miraculous as walking on a lake,


Or healing one born blind with gentle touch,

Or, with few words, commanding winds to stop)

Until what once was tiny sperm and egg


Spurts forth between the mother’s legs, a child

Who cries in bloody birth, first breath, the hope

Another generation gives to earth


Where God, Creator of the sun and stars,

Eternal, righteous, and all-powerful,

Controls the phases of the moon and tides,


Consoles the downcast, governs atoms’ spins,

Shines on the righteous, grieves for the forlorn,

Performs his miracles for the elect,


The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit: God,

Who formed the mountains from the driest land,

And shaped Antarctica, the Arctic, North


And South America, Australia, Asia,

And Africa, who nurtures men of God,

Who guards and shelters people in His wings,


Makes nations rise and fall, and molds the hands

Of babies as they grow within the womb.

He sends His word like rain and snow to do


His purposes, and by His will he brought

This birth in Francis, son of pomp and wealth,

This second birth with which he wrestled


Like Jacob with the angel, for this birth

Was like a death, the death of self’s desires,

Through Jesus making nothing of himself,


As though a knight (which Francis had aspired

To be, a killer of the infidels),

As bodyguard, received the darts and spears


The enemy directed at the King,

So that the greater person might yet live.

Thus he became a knight of Christ, a knight


Who loved the poor so much that he himself

Became a humble man of poverty.

A grotto at San Damiano, near


Assisi, hid in solitude the youth

Who sought the face of God in prayers and tears,

Lamenting sins that seared his heart and soul,


In war between the spirit and the flesh

Which roared and raged until the peace of death.

In pilgrimage to Rome the beggars drew


His heart, and he exchanged his silks for rags

And mingled with the beggars, begging alms

In joy with them beside St. Peter’s tomb.


Disgusted by the sight of lepers, once

He had turned his back and held his nose

Until the mercy of the Lord renewed


His heart so that he loved as Jesus did.

When at a leper colony two miles

From his home town, the youth confessed to them,


“I hated you!  Forgive me, I beg you!”

He lingered, and before he left, he gave

Them coins and kissed each one upon the mouth.


Inside a crumbling chapel, as he knelt

And prayed before a wooden crucifix,

Christ’s figure called to him by name and said,


“Go, Francis, and repair my ruined church,”

And Francis started with a lamp and oil

To burn and to irradiate the cross


And figure, crucified, which ordered him

To build the Church which lay in disrepair.

Isaiah prophesied the Lord to be


An unattractive man, the same they said

Of Francis, rich man’s son who sold the cloths

Belonging to his father, so he could give


The money to rebuild the chapel’s walls.

His father sued in civil court, which had

No jurisdiction over him who took


His refuge with a priest in poverty.

His father asked the Bishop for relief,

Authority which Francis did respect.


As villagers assembled in the church

To see the verdict, Francis, worn and gaunt

From fasts and prayers, and called a lunatic,


Threw back the money to his father, and

(While he took off his silken clothes, and tossed

Them one by one away, until he stood


Without a stitch to cover up his skin),

Proclaimed his only Father was the one

In heaven, as the bishop covered him,


For sake of modesty, in his robe’s folds.

His father mocked and cursed him ‘til the day

That Francis asked a brother to pronounce


A blessing every time his father swore.

Thus he departed from the merchant’s life,

A rebel with a cause, the cause of Christ,


Because he aimed to follow Jesus’ rules,

Relying on the Lord to meet his needs

As He provided for the birds, who do


Not work nor store their food for future want.

He begged for alms, prayed, fasted, and acquired

Some followers, who had no food to eat


But scraps they begged from door to door despite

The scorn of villagers who called them mad,

These Friars Minor, Lady Poverty’s


Companions, worshippers, and advocates,

Who gave their goods away to follow Christ,

Whose missions brought Good News to pagan lands


Where some achieved the martyrdom they sought.

In God’s Creation is a unity,

A brotherhood with plants and animals,


With fire and water, earth and air, which he

Could feel and know from friendship with the Lord.

When Francis preached, the birds flocked round to hear,


They massed in branches of the nearby trees,

They landed on his arms and by his feet.

A sheep accompanied the saint to his


Communion; a cicada came when he would

Call, lighted on his hand, and sang the praise

Of God with him; a hare from Grecchio


Would follow Francis like a dog; a fish

At Lake Rieta swam to ask the saint

To bless it, for this man of God could speak


Of God to animals, who understood.

He tamed a wolf that terrorized a town

By feasting on its citizens; as one


Would speak to an unruly child, the saint

Spoke to the wolf, whose last two years were spent

As docile as a puppy in a pen,


And, when it died, the people mourned the loss.


The Stigmata

In August of twelve hundred twenty-four,

Led by the Poverello, one small group


Of faithful friars–Brothers Angelo,

Illuminato, Leo (trusted guide),

Masseo, and Rufino–prayed and left


The Portiuncula and trekked through fields

And Alpine meadowlands to Mount La Verna

To celebrate a holy day, the Feast


Of the Assumption of the Virgin to

Heaven, a tenet of the Catholic faith.

In prayer beside a hut the Saint, who made


Himself as nothing, serving Christ, received

The marks, the wounds that showed conformity

To Jesus’ agony at Calvary.


The Friar Leo witnessed Francis lift

Off ground as high as limbs and leaves of trees,

And level with a giant beech’s top,


When he conversed with Christ in solitude.

September fourteen in twelve twenty-four,

The Christians celebrated how the cross


Had been recovered from the infidels,

The Feast of Exaltation of the Cross,

And Francis fasted as he dwelt upon


The sufferings of Christ for humankind,

Reality more real than grass or birds,

Unbearable to face unless the heart


Is humble and contrite, firm, pure, and meek.

St. Francis, who expected martyrdom,

Prayed toward the rising sun when suddenly


From heaven’s heights a seraphim with wings,

Six wings of flame, flew down to him who begged

Two graces from the Lord before he died:


To feel the Passion’s pains, and feel for Christ

The love that made Him sacrifice for us.

The seraphim was like a man, limbs nailed


Onto a cross, two wings across his face,

Two wings across his body, and two wings

With which he flew: Christ Jesus in this form


Revealed Himself to Francis, gazed at him,

Imprinted marks on him, then flew away.

St. Francis had received the marks of Christ:


His hands and feet were as though pierced with nails,

With round black heads upon the palms and on

The feet, and from the back of both his hands


And from the soles of both his feet bent points

Extruded, points of toughened flesh like nails.

From his right side flowed blood, blood


From his fifth wound, which looked as though a lance

Had pierced his side the way a soldier’s lance

Pierced Jesus’ side when He hung dead, dead God,


The Lord and Savior dead from broken heart

At Calvary outside Jerusalem,

Humiliated and forsaken Christ.


“Let no one cause me trouble, for I bear

The marks of Jesus on my body, friends,”

Wrote the Apostle Paul, and said no more


About the miracle to followers.

The first in more than a millennium

To gain the stigma of the Savior’s wounds,


St. Francis at first acted like St. Paul,

Reluctant to say much, until his friend

Illuminato told him, “God gives grace


To you, that you may edify your friends,”

And though he hid the wounds in bandages,

St. Francis showed the marks to friar friends,


The wounds that showed upon him even when

His Sister Death had taken him away.

Three hundred people since St. Francis have


Received stigmata, such as Padre Pio,

Teresa of Avila, Catherine of

Siena (an Italian patron saint)


Therese Neumann, and Veronica,

A miracle that skeptics can’t refute,

An intervention from above to show


The grace and glory of Christ crucified,

Beside which worldly riches count as trash.


His Last Two Years

His fast concluded and his body sick,


Despite the sea that stormed within his soul,

“You are the Holy One, the Lord,” he wrote

In happiness, then bid farewell to Mount


La Verna: “Peace to you, beloved mountain,

Which I shall never see again,” and bid

Farewell to Brothers Angelo, Sylvester,

St Francis 10mb

St. Francis Statue, Golden, CO


Masseo, and Illuminato: “Live

In peace, my children!  While my body goes

Away, my heart remains with you. Good-bye!”


As Jesus, entering Jerusalem,

The holy city where the prophets die,

Rode on a donkey, Francis rode upon


A donkey’s back for his return to home,

The Portiuncula, his forest home,

The humble chapel that he had rebuilt.


His fasts and penances, his loss of blood

From wounds that oozed his blood from bandaged hands,

Had weakened him, and nails within his feet


Made walking hard, if not impossible.

Yet still the Lord worked through the dying man,

Who healed an epileptic friar, cured


A boy whose wound healed over in the form

Of a red rose, and freed a woman who

Barked like a dog, possessed by demons’ snares.


A friend of Christ will cherish those for whom

Christ suffered on the cross of Calvary.

In joy the saint, now blind and weak, composed


A song, the Canticle to Brother Sun,

Exalting God in honor, glory, praise,

And blessing His Creation: Brother Sun


And Sister Moon, with humble thanks to God,

A song so beautiful that enemies,

Who heard the friars sing it, reconciled


And begged forgiveness in humility.

As Francis sang a Psalm, he died, and larks

Alighted on the roof as a white cloud


Carried a flaming star above the seas,

The Little Poor Man’s soul bound heavenward.

For sorrow after holy Francis died,


A pheasant from Siena would not eat,

And Sister Death transformed his body, limbs

As white as stars, wounds as black as nights


When clouds and branches pass across the moon.


His Last Days

For one like him, who sought to imitate

The Lord on earth in humble poverty,


To die and be with Christ was gain.

The cult of self-denying poverty,

A fellowship of sharing in His pain,


An antidote to greed and strife within the Church,

Was timely to rebuild the Church’s faith.

St. Francis reawakened faith in Christ,


Revolted by relinquishment of goods,

Refused to follow after wind and dust,

And traded silk for sow’s ears, gaining God,


Who sits upon the throne from age to age.

He traded vanishing delights for joy

That lasts, the happiness of serving Christ.


The lives of Christians form dramatic plays,

Where Francis played a simple, humble part;

To imitate the Lord was Francis’ heart,


To follow Him in poverty, his art.



St Francis2.10mb

Columbo: Case of Vince Foster’s “Suicide”: Murder Will Out, Lt. Columbo On the Case

Vince Foster Murder Cover-up


Proof of the FBI and OIC cover-up was published in a 538-page book Failure of the Public Trust (2006 ed.) available to download here.

Corresponding exhibits of documents to footnotes in the book are available here.

Ken Starr cover-up Vince Foster Murder
Vince Foster friend of Hillary Clinton

The Starr Report on the Death of Vincent W. Foster includes evidence of the cover-up by the Independent Counsel.

Did Kenneth Starr lead the criminal cover-up inside the Office of Independent Counsel?

Hillary Clinton “was in complete shock and disbelief at the thought of Foster committing suicide.”

Attorney John H. Clarke, grand jury witness Patrick Knowlton, and researcher Hugh Turley co-authored the final twenty pages of Ken Starr’s Report on the Death of Vincent W. Foster, Jr.  


As Foster’s ghost
Haunts clinton halls,
Survivors toast
Themselves at balls.


 O Blessed God, Who art so true and deep!
Lo, how Thou dost turn murder out alway!
Murder will out, we see it every day.
Murder’s so hateful and abominable
To God, Who is so just and reasonable,
That He’ll not suffer that it hidden be;
Though it may skulk a year, or two, or three,
Murder will out, and I conclude thereon.

Laissez Faire Electronic Times ^ | January 2, 1998 | P.J. Gladnick

Posted by PJ-Comix

(President Clinton is sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. A voice is heard on his intercom. It is his secretary.)

SECRETARY: Mr. President, Lieutenant Columbo is here to see you.

(The Oval Office door opens a bit. Columbo peeks in tentatively.)

COLUMBO: I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. President.

CLINTON (smiling broadly): Not at all! I heard that you were visiting the White House. That’s why I had my people take you off the tour line to see me. I’ve always been a big fan of yours.

(Columbo, puffing on a cigar and wearing a wrinkled raincoat, walks in a slouching manner up to Clinton. A beaming Clinton stands up from behind his desk and heartily shakes Columbo’s hand.)

COLUMBO: Mr. President, this is indeed an honor. Let me tell you, my wife is a big fan of yours. Sir, I don’t mean to impose but do you think you can autograph a photo for my wife?

CLINTON: Heck, that’s no problem. I’ll be happy to oblige.

(Clinton pulls a photo of himself from his desk, signs it, and hands it to Columbo.)

COLUMBO: This is terrific! You don’t know what this will mean to my wife. Uhh, before I go, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?

CLINTON: Huh? Okay, sure.

COLUMBO: Could you tell me how much you paid for your suit? I really admire the material.

CLINTON: I, umm, think it cost about $500.

COLUMBO: And so clean too. With a suit like that you must send it out to the cleaners after each time you wear it.

CLINTON: Of course.

COLUMBO: Well, this is what’s bothering me. I heard that your good friend, the late Vincent Foster, was also a nice dresser yet there were carpet fibers discovered all over his suit when they found him after his tragic suicide in Fort Marcy Park.

(Clinton’s smile turns a bit tense.)


COLUMBO: So it seems like a mystery how all these fibers ended up on his suit. You might pick up a few carpet fibers around the bottom of the pants but not all over the suit.

CLINTON: I think the FBI determined that the carpet fibers probably came from his home.

COLUMBO: That is only an assumption because the FBI never actually took samples from the carpet fibers at his home. With all those fibers on his suit, you would think that they would make a comparison.

CLINTON (Slightly exasperated): Look, Lieutenant Columbo, there have already been three investigations into this matter and they all ruled that Vince Foster committed suicide.

COLUMBO: Oh, I’m not questioning the investigations. I’m sure Mr. Foster died just the way they said but there are still a few loose ends.

CLINTON: Such as?

COLUMBO: Such as the autopsy X-rays.

CLINTON: What about the X-rays?

COLUMBO: Dr. James Beyer, the Deputy Medical Examiner for Northern Virginia, conducted the autopsy but no X-rays were taken.

CLINTON: No X-rays were taken? That’s absurd! They must have been taken in a case of this importance.

COLUMBO: Dr. Beyer checked off a box on the autopsy report stating that he took X-rays yet he later claimed the X-ray machine was inoperable.

CLINTON: Aren’t you forgetting the suicide note that Foster left behind?

COLUMBO (slaps forehead with his hand): That’s right! The suicide note! Obviously, it must have been suicide if Foster left behind a suicide note.

(Clinton looks cheerful again.)

CLINTON: I guess that closes the case then.

COLUMBO: It sure does! Mr. President, you don’t know how relieved this makes me feel. I’m sorry to have taken up your time with this matter.

CLINTON: Think nothing of it.

(Columbo leaves through the door and Clinton returns to his desk. A few moments later the door opens again and Columbo leans just inside the doorway.)

COLUMBO: Uhh, there’s just one little point that I overlooked.

CLINTON (looking irritated): What is it, Lieutenant Columbo?

COLUMBO: How do we know that the suicide note was actually written by Mr. Foster?

CLINTON: The suicide note’s handwriting was analyzed and judged to be authentic.

COLUMBO: Yes, by a Capitol police sergeant who only studied handwriting as a hobby. The fact of the matter is that three renowned handwriting experts including Reginald Alton of Oxford University determined that the note, supposedly written by Mr. Foster, was an obvious forgery.

CLINTON: Lieutenant Columbo, are you one of those conspiracy kooks? The autopsy report, even without the X-rays, proved it was a suicide.

(Columbo reaches inside his raincoat and pulls out a couple of sheets of paper.)

COLUMBO: The strange thing is that the official finding says it was a mouth-to-head wound yet take a look at the report of the Fairfax County Medical Examiner, Dr. Haut. It came from the National Archives and was placed on the Internet from where I downloaded it.

(Columbo hands the papers to Clinton.)

Clinton: Hmm . . . It says that the wound was “mouth-head” just like the official report.

COLUMBO: Yes, but look at the word “head.” It’s obvious that was typed in after another word just to its left was whited out. Then if you look on the second page of Haut’s report it actually says the wounds were “mouth to neck.” I submit, sir, that the first page was altered to change the wound location.

CLINTON: The bottom line is that, despite these discrepancies, the investigators have determined that Vince Foster committed suicide in Fort Marcy Park.

COLUMBO: Oh, sir. I’m not disputing their expertise. It’s just that professional police officers are trained to treat every death as a homicide until suicide is proven. In this case, however, Cheryl Braun, the senior Park Police Officer, testified that they determined that Foster had committed suicide before they had even inspected the body.

CLINTON: This is all very interesting theory but the fact is that the Foster case has been ruled a suicide. Case closed.

COLUMBO: I’m sure you’re right about that. After all, if those in authority say it was a suicide, then it must be so. Well, good day, Mr. President. Sorry for troubling you about details that must have some logical explanation.

CLINTON: Thank you for visiting, Lieutenant Columbo, and goodbye.

(Columbo leaves the room. Clinton returns to his desk and begins writing on some papers. A little while later we see Columbo looking from the outside into the Oval Office through a window just behind Clinton. Columbo begins tapping on the window. At first Clinton doesn’t hear him. Then he turns around and opens the window.)

CLINTON: Columbo! What is your problem?

(Columbo bends over and then stands back up again holding his shoes.)

COLUMBO: See all that dirt on the soles of my shoes?

CLINTON: Okay, they’re dirty. So what?

COLUMBO: It’s just like when my cousin Guido visits me. He likes working in my yard which is great but my wife throws a fit when Guido tries to walk into the house because of all the dirt on his shoes.

CLINTON: Will you please get to the point, Columbo!

COLUMBO: Well, the FBI scraped Mr. Foster’s shoes thoroughly but found no traces of soil. Everybody else who walked in the area of Fort Marcy Park where Foster was found came away with lots of dirt on their shoes.

CLINTON: You’re wrong, Columbo. A forensic expert found soil on Foster’s shoes.

COLUMBO: Oh yes. Henry Lee thought he found microscopic quantities of the soil on the shoes long after the FBI carefully went over them. Lee was the same fellow who determined that OJ Simpson must have been innocent because he thought he saw another footprint which never existed at the murder scene. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Lee is the most reliable expert in this regard.

CLINTON: Are you trying to say that Foster did not commit suicide in Fort Marcy Park?

COLUMBO: I think that could be a distinct possibility, sir. I’m sure that you, having been a friend of Mr. Foster, would want to leave no stone unturned to get to the bottom of this matter.

CLINTON: Just what do you expect me to do?

COLUMBO: It would be helpful if you could make the videotape from the White House parking lot surveillance camera available. We need to see Mr. Foster entering his car on the day he died.

CLINTON: That tape is missing from the White House vault where it was stored.

COLUMBO: Then how about the videotape from the vault surveillance camera? Maybe we can find out who removed the parking lot video from the vault.

CLINTON: The vault video is missing too. Perhaps the parking lot camera never caught Foster entering his car?

COLUMBO: At the most guarded building in the world? Not likely. As a matter of fact I’m sure that cameras are watching me right now and that Secret Service guards should be apprehending me at any moment.

(Suddenly several uniformed guards grab Columbo and haul him away.)

COLUMBO (shouting from the distance): This has been a really enlightening conversation, Mr. President! I hope we can pick up where we left off in the near future!

(Clinton slams the window shut.)


Vincent Walker “Vince” Foster, Jr. (January 15, 1945 – July 20, 1993) was a Deputy White House Counsel during the first few months of President Bill Clinton‘s administration.



Vince Foster

Vince Foster, man I never knew, I ask:
Into what pit of secrets did you fall?
Now that you’re dead, I wonder what dark task
Caused you to earn a bullet in your skull.

Ever a conscientious man, the mask
Washington made you wear along the Mall
Aggravated the doubts– and in that flask,
Soiled worldly power, they made you guzzle, crawled

Known venom, closer, closer to the blood
In line of fire, until your heart was numbed
Like Arctic toes and fingers. So the mud,
Like flooded cities, swirled and squished the scum

Ever nearer to those you thought were friends . . .
Dust you are, Vince, and they’ll make no amends.

~Day Williams

Vince Foster II
What did Foster do,

That he should end up dead?
Was it some person that he knew
Or something that he read?
What did Foster do,
That he should end up dead?

I will punish the world for its evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; I will put an end to the pomp of the arrogant, and lay low the pompous pride of the ruthless.

~Isaiah 13:11 (ESV)

Everywhere Hillary goes, evidence goes missing.

Dream and Nightmare

Dream Come True

You’re sweet and kind,
With eyes of blue,
I’m blessed to find
My dream come true.

The sky is clear
The world is new
For you are here,
A dream come true.

The leaves are green,
The pigeons coo,
A world unseen,
A dream come true.


My Nightmare, You

I must be blind,
I took to you,
How cursed am I,
My nightmare, you.

The sky is black,
As is your heart,
You smoked much crack,
My nightmare, you.

The leaves have died,
The birds–they flew,
I plan to hide
From my nightmare, you.


“Perps in Pink”

Perps in Pink

Across the street young men compete
To make their muscles grow
While on the lawn the women yawn,
Prepare themselves to go,
When up comes Cliff, whose walk is stiff,
To greet the pretty ones
And show his stash of petty cash,
Enough to buy a gun.

“This is no place to show your face,”
Said Darlene from the west.
“A bird like you should get a clue
And fly back to his nest;
Nobody here wants gang careers,
You loser on the run.”
“I don’t need you to tell me boo–
Find me a working gun,”

Cliff said, his eyes as sharp as knives,
“Or else you’ll wish you’d stayed
In bed and slept while morning crept
And breakfast was delayed.”
“Don’t threaten me! Your outlaw spree
Will lead you to your grave;
Dan’s men have sworn you’ve killed four more–
No way you can be saved.”

“I never killed men on a hill,
In streets or offices,
It might’ve been my rival Gwen
Committing those offenses.
It wasn’t me, I’ll tell you free,
I have committed crimes
But never killed for thrills or bills–
That’s wet work for the slime.”

“Then where is Gwen? And tell me when
You plan to shut her down.
She set you up, a bitter cup,
You’d best remove all doubt.”
“She dressed like me and framed me, see,
And shot those dirty men.
I’ll be less stressed when she’s confessed,
Dressed pink in jail again.”

Detective Dan had parked his van
And spoke in whispered tones,
“We checked the clip from Jeffrey’s ship.
The killer had a phone
Which wasn’t yours; we learned on shore
The killer was Miss Gwen.
Our snitches are in Molly’s Bar.
We’ll take our spots at ten.”

Detective Dan laid out his plan
To catch her when she came:
“She’ll come to drink, we’ll snap the links
Inside the bar,” he claimed.
Darlene and Cliff asked, “Dan, what if
She shoots or tries to run?”
To which he told the pair, “No sweat,
She’ll have to pay her debt.”

The barmaid brewed the coffee hot,
They lingered by the sink.
“When Gwen comes through, take her to two,”
The copper said and winked.
“One second, Dan, a small demand:
I want to see that clip.”
“No worries, Cliff, it makes no diff–
But let me share a tip:

Watch once or twice, or even thrice,
And you’ll see nothing new
Your rival Gwen has shot the men–
She’s going down, she’s through.”
“I’ll watch for me and I may see
Another side of this.”
“You be my guest, but I’ll arrest
The woman–I insist.”

Five minutes passed, then like a blast
Gwen hurried in the room.
With “How are you?” from Table Two
Cliff brought her close to doom.
“What brings you here?” Gwen asked with cheer
As she pulled up a chair.
“Darlene suggested this is best,”
He told her as she stared

Around the room and darkness loomed,
A sense like clocks were wrong,
When Dan burst out and gave a shout,
“Restrain her! She is strong!”
Out came the cuffs but she was tough
And cracked his skull with skill.
“Give me a hand,” moaned Lawman Dan,
“So she will never kill

Again, my friend–her crimes will end . . ..”
But Cliff snapped cuffs on him
And made him sit to hear a bit:
“I don’t do this on whim,
Detective Dan, please understand
Your wink gave you away.
The killer’s eyes I recognized,
You killed the men that day.

Your bright green eyes can’t be disguised
(I checked that clip up close)
Unknown to you, Gwen’s eyes are blue
As sea waves by the coast.
Your Captain Clint checked fingerprints
And yours are on the gun.
While in your prime you turned to crime
To pay for drugs and fun.”

“I’ve framed a few, like her and you,
He said, dressed pink in jail,
And I was sure your hate for her
Meant that I could not fail.”
“It was an act and that’s a fact,”
Cliff told him with a wink,
“We’re undercover married lovers
Who put the perps in pink.”
~Day Williams 11/16