The view is always better
from the highest road,
the joy of looking down
Vision bestows
as gravity flows
—beyond the here and now
(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)
The view is always better
from the highest road,
the joy of looking down
Vision bestows
as gravity flows
—beyond the here and now
(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)
Sometimes love just isn’t enough,
as destiny calls within
Orphaning passion, emotions untether,
lost to Cupid’s whim
Never requited, alone and denied,
the search begins anew
Feelings repackaged and searching for more
—to do what love can’t do
(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2020)
The price of love
is loss
Its bill
both old and new
A cost
that must be paid
With feelings
torn and strewn
(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)
You climb up a mountain
for the beautiful view
Its challenge seductive,
a call to renew
The higher it takes you
the farther you see
With freedom the distance
—that lies in between
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: December, 2020)
I can no longer afford
what my folly has purchased
Return not an option
—my bank account dry
(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)
Up is not a direction,
but an intention
Down is not an intention,
but a reflection
Across is neither
intention nor reflection
Towards—a new connection
better bred
(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)
Death failed to show up for work one day,
the clock remained unpunched
Hospital’s waiting, graveyards on call,
all coroner’s out to lunch
Death took a holiday without checking in,
the pecking order stunned
Like a deer on the highway, all headlights turned off
—awaiting what’s to come
(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)
Punching in the numbers
on the celestial dial tone
Eternity became toll free
—its area code my own
(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)
Once was a time
I was young enough,
to know and feel the truth
But the years laid claim
to my memory,
and the seeds to every fruit
Today is but folly,
tomorrow a fool,
the past like fine wine ages true
Where a nightingale sings
in my dreams unrestrained
—that song of myself ever new
(The New Room: November, 2020)
The music
called the dancers
to the floor
The poet
waltzing freely
—with his eyes
(Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania: March, 1980)