What will they say,
  when I’m gone

What will I write,
   as I take
   my last breath

What will they say,
  when I’m gone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)

It’s those desolate interludes,
  that create the new space

For our souls to exhale,
—and our dreams to escape

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

We meet adversity,
  friend or foe

One to run from,
  the other to know

Their dress identical,
  intention the same

Accepted—Rejected,
  the truth is renamed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)

He died that night
In a cheap motel
In Maryville Tennessee
$35.00 Karma mixed with
The smell of curry
Coming from the front office
No one would ever understand
Why he chose to die here
Especially those few
Who claimed to know him well
The gravel parking lot
The towels
You could see through
And the lawn chairs inside
For furniture
Made the connection, and the
Endless search
Real
In a way it hadn’t been before
As he sat outside his room
Thinking about the end
The local construction workers
Remembered his name
As they called out to him
At the end of their day
Marking their time
By a weekly rate
In their rooms down the hall
They remembered the little things
His own family
Had forgotten
Or not so little

AND THEN HE DIED

In his $35.00 motel room
His fortune just buried memory
With its headstone forever blank

(Newport Tennessee: April, 2013)

The ethics of duplicity,
  the killing on trial

One law for the criminal,
  one law for the child

The electric chair savage,
  womb ****** refined

Academia, the father and mother
  of crime

To lie when convenient,
  truth’s babies to cry

An Einstein, a Lister, a Shakespeare,
  denied

Through dark inhumanity,
  their spirits to roam

Living deep in our consciousness
  —our souls theirs to own

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

A mind can love
  an atheist

But a soul must wed
  to God

Each troth professed
  by self possessed

One vow
  —to rise above

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

The older I get,
  the more important words become

The shorter the days,
  the deeper the streams that run

With time closing in,
  I reach for the poems and rhymes

Into the twilight,
—for one last miraculous line

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

My conviction
  —my pen
My blood
  is my ink
My spirit
  my foundation
My faith
  is my link
My love
  is the cradle
Where tomorrow
  is born
My belief
  my transcendence
In this present
—adorned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

Giving birth to new feelings,
  life to the unborn

Eternity now swaddled,
  cradled and warm

A labored delivery,
  nibbed forceps demand

Prying out a new meaning,
  each stroke of the hand

(Plane To Las Vegas: July, 2016)

Thinking more of your constituency
  than they do of themselves…
    —political suicide

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

I don’t write Sonnets,
  or Limerick verse

I don’t write Haiku,
  though often terse

I don’t write Ballads,
  or Horacian Odes

I don’t write Parables,
  to self-implode

But I do write in Rhythm,
  and often in Rhyme

With meaning that’s buried,
  and metered in time

All verbal indenture,
  I must disavow

For the meaning to rise,
  —when the fates allow

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Do You Bore Yourself?

Do you rent the space
you’re standing in,
owning nothing in the end
but default?

Do you recycle words
until their utterance fails,
mistrusting your ability
to say what’s right?

Do you hedge your bets,
never going all in
for fear of losing the very thing
you haven’t got?

Do you count the days,
as tedium destroys spontaneity
and all energy drains
from your lifeless form?

Do You Bore Yourself?

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

A song yet unsung,
  my prayer in the wind

A blessing assured,
—eternity’s hymn

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)

The mish now buried in the mash,
  the dog caught rooting through the trash

With litter scattered far and wide,
  the pieces gather, the Cheshire hides

All lollygaggers out in front,
  those last now first, a noble stunt

The blend what’s vital, layers bake,
  Choo Choo Mamma—Potpourri Babycakes

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
…written while listening to ‘Come Together’
by the Beatles

To pierce todays attention span,
  fewer words are best

A point honed sharp for one deep ******,
  —one is all you’ll get

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

The layman will ask…
  always questioning what

The poet observes…
  always adding a why

The universe inhales
  within the difference

And with each ensuing breath,
—new verse begins

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)

A voice goes silent
  in the distant wind

No tracks to follow
  no path within

Muses cry
  as shadows fade

Their chorus faint
  with dreams unmade

The past abandoned
  tomorrow gone
  
This moment orphaned
  the night so long

Goodbye tomorrow
  farewell today

All hope now fleeting
  —time castaway

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)

Write it big
Write it strong
Write it eternal,
…a poets song

Make your words clear
Make right from wrong
The message short,
…the meaning long

This time only lent
The whispers uncloud
The opening prescient,
…reasons abound

Write it forever
Write it out loud
Within the moment,
…happening now

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Choking on her greatest asset,
  America is dying
  from freedom abused

Twisting in the wind, a talonless eagle,
  her heart ripped open,
  —her power accused

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

I hate the ‘Body
Politic’

Whose wave blasphemes
and grows

I battle to swim against
its tide

Or be abandoned in the
flow

I hate the way it stunts
my voice

‘Old Dominions’ chosen
side

I hate the fact—it’s hate
I feel

With the truth a captive
lie

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016,
  Inspired By Neal Hall)

There’s a hope that exists beyond reason,
  like the refrain of a well written song

There’s a tragedy entrapped in each season,
  where right is still captive of wrong

There’s an Angel waiting to take you to heaven,
across that river of torrent and pain

Where true joy in the act of forgiving,
—washes guilt completely free of its stain

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)

Life’s too short for modesty,
  like the rooster strut and crow

Leave no regrets to follow,
—and a comet’s tail to glow

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)

My Poem still an open wound,
  unstitched by edits snare

Running free on a salted page,
—new blood for all to share

(James River Writers Conference: October, 2016)

The Emperor walks naked
  past eyes fully cloned

To his subjects he panders
  his pride for a throne

His strut his true signature
  exposure supreme

Your opinion no matter
  —he colors you green

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)

I said no to the man,
  and made my own bed

I cut my own trail,
  with eyes straight ahead

In debt to myself,
  but thankful to all

My words freely spoken,
  their verdict my call

I beat my own rhythm,
  on multiple drums

I structured the lyrics,
  to sing and to hum

The nighttime began,
  what the mornings forgave

A living refusal,
  my back to the grave

The years have renewed,
  all memories collide

What was old, what was young,
  the truth and the lies

A comet yet burning,
  new verse in the sky

One word still an orphan,
  and homeless,
   —‘GOODBYE’

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)

Celestial things massacre time  
  with their importance

Like Carlos Santana playing
  ‘Black Magic Woman’

Earthly things embody the moment
within their transformation

The caterpillar—the butterfly,
  the wood before the fires glow

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)

You say you went childless,
  so where are your riches?

All wrapped up in numbers
  or locked in a vault

You say you went childless,
  but where is your fortune?

You’ve already been forgotten
  —your grave has been robbed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)

Is anything more beautiful
  than a Tchaikovsky waltz

The Nutcracker sublime,
  Swan Lake to exalt

Where violins elevate,
  and horns renew hope

Archangels in heaven,
  by his music elope

Is anything sweeter
  than a Tchaikovsky refrain

Wind instruments sonorous,
  flutes pouring like rain

Percussion calls out,
  as you rise from your seat

No choice but to dance,
—your circle complete

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)

The Lost Generation
  now lost online
  Paris, a web of postings

Its cafes are fed
  fresh verses unread
   —new Seines left overflowing

(Montmartre Paris: March, 2009)

Sages and broomsticks,
  motherless pearls
Witches that threaten,
  fatherless girls
New curse of the ages,
  old grudges remain
A coven of stages,
  to hide from the rain
The mark then of Satan,
  the touch of the Lord
The death plated sunset,
  and winner forlorn
This trap now a quandary,
  and you must break free
As with all soiled laundry,
  to burn once unsleeved
The truth is not distant,
   its first word never feigned
And the peace that you’re seeking
  still inside you unclaimed
So let go of the dogma,
  and the medals will melt
As new songs to arrival,
  you will write most heartfelt
But the moment is now,
  and the moment is clear
Once the moment is christened,
  new joy spins from fear
So to those who still threaten,
  with eternity ******
Say:
        “Away with your blasphemy,
          stop where you stand
        These wings have now sprouted,
         my eyes looking in
        A new life has been gifted,
        —I’m blessed to begin”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)