Whole Punched

Imperfection keeps me fertile,

like the storm upon the plain

 

Measuring the distance,

of what’s lost and sometimes gained

 

With my thoughts I mark the hours,

left uncounted looking back

 

The choices made and prices paid

—endorsing what I lack

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2020)

Not I

If reality is meant to change,

Buddhists may be right

 

The stops and starts of wasted dreams,

to bury in the night

 

With truth in self-denial,

our awareness springs and grows

 

The burdens of all conscious thought,

released—once letting go

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2020)

The Threshold

My door is made of solid bronze

but doesn’t have a lock

 

Patina’d with the stain of blood

from all the battles fought

 

It swings upon a rusted hinge

and creaks when open wide

 

To welcome back the future-past

the present safe inside

 

(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: August, 2020)