The magic sublime
—is rhyme
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
The magic sublime
—is rhyme
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
Does corruption blind intelligence,
does greed devour truth
Will intention cast the final vote,
its motives never moot
As David slew Goliath,
Lilliputians lie in wait
To bind and tie an Angels wings
—the Devil at the gate
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
Vowed inside a rhythm,
married to each sound
The cadence plays a wedding march,
the rhyme to pledge out loud
Betrothed inside their union,
a love forever grows
Verses come and children play
—as heaven only knows
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
To live life as a Poet,
to slay the demon time
Your spirit freed with every verse,
in meter and in rhyme
To reach beyond your passion,
to say what others feel
To bring tomorrow home today,
the devils wrath to reel
To wander past your memory,
returning once again
Each word a ticket through the gate,
its path relined with friends
Their faces each and every one,
a title to a poem
That left your hand so long ago
—with heaven its to roam
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
There’s a poetry to life,
that gets lost between the lines
A secret in each memory,
that the future often finds
A stillness born of movement,
that will last beyond today
Salvation in this moment
—as eternity has its say
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
The Devil not to be believed,
even when his words are true
Intent to spin ‘que es verdad’
old tactics—nothing new
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
I’m not collaborative…
my greatest strength
—my greatest weakness too
My words my own,
as others thoughts
—to them remain as true
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
A custodian of life…
guardian of the coming dawn
Survivor of the truth untold
—protector of what’s yet to be
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
You’ve got the how but not the why,
from heaven so ordained
For that one moment under God,
times fugitive proclaimed
You want to know the reasons past,
but not those left to find
A crown of thorns and peasant robe
—serve only to remind
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
My Grandfather was a Poet,
my Father was a thief
Their spirits fight to own my soul
—my Son in cradle sleeps
My Grandfather spoke of beauty,
my Father spoke of sin
The truth now locked within a voice
—whose key I leave to him
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)