Poetry is a journey…

each word life’s misstep

When placing them together,

one voice binds and sets

Its map inside a puzzle,

to point beyond the wind

A road that’s never ending

—all travelers within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

From deep in the shadows of Tin Pan Alley,

the Sage called out my name

With a voice that haunted and eyes concealed

—she made her only claim

(New York City: West 28^thStreet- March 2017)

Living as if already dead,

his words new

That morning he first understood,

the verse flew

The closer he got to the edge,

the deeper his voice

That day he fell over himself

—the ultimate choice

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Forty years a Poet,

sixty years a man

Calling to me distant,

my last Etesian

Time at best deceptive,

a trinity of masks

Present truth accepted,

the one not first or last

Drums now beating softly,

their rhythm stills my heart

My spirit free to chase the wind

—this world I now depart

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

“Abuse yourself if you must My Son,

but you are never to mistreat your words

“Untainted they connect your feelings and thoughts

—your true legacy still unheard”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

For those who love the concept of power,

but hate its execution

A raging tiger has just left its cage

—to feed on your confusion

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Is your poetry now dusty,

abandoned on the shelf

Have your dreams become dismissive,

do you live for someone else

Is there mold inside your memory box,

questions all long gone

Do you walk that lonely road alone

—your heart to drag along

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Poets write from experience,

dilettantes rave and rant

A price demanded to feed the Sage,

wishing and hoping can’t

Magic to wrap around the words,

feelings and thoughts hard won

Beauty when lyrics belong to you

—in songs now others sung

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

I was somewhere deep in Kansas,

on a Triumph 69’

When your song came on the jukebox,

and hit me from behind

I was headed for a bad place,

and cared for nothing much

When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’

my heart and soul were struck

Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
like nothing had before

When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’

I headed for the door

But something made me turn around,

and grab another dime

Ten more times in that diner’s booth,

still lost within your rhyme

Now back inside the bus station,

and sleeping on the bench

I scratch your words into the wood,

last dollar gone and spent

My bike outside against the wall,

the kickstand now long gone

And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,

that unrelenting song

Waking up at ten unsettled,

across the street I pushed

The sign said Triumph-BSA,

the owner Mister Cush

He asked, “What’s with your motor,”

I said “nothing—out of gas,

“But worse I’m out of money,

can I sell the bike for cash

“Would you please just buy my Triumph,

I know it’s old and worn

“It got me here through seven states,

runs great both cold and warm”

“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,

on that can we agree?”

We walked back up inside his shop,

three bills he handed me

I thought about a bus ride home,

my thumb looked more in line

Facing East on old route #50,

my heart in deep decline

The first big rig that came along,

was bound for York Pa.

The driver said “If you like dogs,

I’ll take you on your way”

In York I caught a fast ride out,

two ‘dodgers’ going North

And got back home with hat in hand,

your song to guide me forth

Two years then passed, I met my wife,

four more and our first child

And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’

her dad back from the wilds

Now forty years have come and gone,

my beard and hair both gray

I owe you Gregg, and always will,

your song, her name—that day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

For Gregg Allman

I Sent This To Gregg In March 2016. It’s on His Website.

We Spent TwoDays Together In Richmond Va. In A

Blizzard In 1982.

The only way to become a writer

—is to write

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)