Not a professional writer

Not a commercial writer

Not an academic writer

    —of tomes

Not a writer of poetry

Not a writer of prose

Not a writer of colloquy

   —heaven knows

Not a writer of fiction

Not a writer of fact

Not for comic depiction

    —do my words then attack

Not a writer in residence

Not a writer then banned

Not a writer of circumstance

    —just a writer, I am

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Sitting alone

  among my books,

  growing old within myself

A memory came back

  its reflection dim,

  as I lifted one down from the shelf

Sitting alone

  among my books,

  I remembered—then remembered again

More than just words

  are on those pages I wrote,

  it’s my lifetime of searching—in print

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

What kind of love does a man have

  for the offspring

   —he will never meet

What kind of love does a man have

  for the great-great-grandchildren

    —he will never see

What kind of love does a man have

  for a future

   —beyond his control

What kind of love does a man have

  for those distant

   —yet present enrolled

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

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)

Using me as a weapon

  and not a shield

The Muse would

  parry and thrust

Attacking with a message

  that wouldn’t yield

She prowled my light hours

  in disgust

The sword of my fathers

  hers by right

To ensure

  tonight’s salvation

Collapsing the moment

  reversing my sight

Each cut

  a revelation

All time was dead

  its hours uncast

As she thundered out a

  mystery

Her lightning destroying

  all futures past

My soul

  —in forced recovery

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Where science ends,

   poetry begins

The wonder of it all

  —questioned again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Do you need to open your eyes

   to see?

Do you need to have the words spoken

   to hear?

Do you need to pierce beneath the skin

   to feel?

Do you need to first understand

   —to love?

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Using words

  only borrowed

  —but not owned

Wearing clothes

  stolen from a Mime

  —not my own

I placed a token  

  metaphor

  inside a pictureless frame

Giving you everything

  but love

   —time and again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

If you can take your own

  breath away

  —and the breath of others

You will live in a world of

  magic and dreams

  —the shortest pathway home

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Shrinking immortality into

  the moment

Ignoring the impostors

  —future and past

Inhaling eternity’s thunder

   with every breath

Breathing out

  —fire and rain

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)