We worship inside the dark rapture

  of our own becoming

Hiding from the very light

  —that promises to show us the way

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Poetry allows me to combine what I think with what I feel.  It lets me drive toward a point while being pointless at the same time.  The beauty of the metaphor masking the philosophical content, pulling the reader in without questioning why.  Both sides of my brain becoming fully engaged—my spirit set free.

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Present ordained,

  past—future in shame

The Poet and Jester

  as one

Living unclaimed,

  free and unnamed

Archangel and Devil

  —undone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Sleeping with the Muse,

  my nights have grown short

Sleeping with the Muse,

  all senses comport

Sleeping with the Muse,

  words dance with delight

Sleeping with the Muse,

  confronting my fright

Sleeping with the Muse,

  her will tests again

Sleeping with the Muse,

  not lover or friend

Sleeping with the Muse,

  my dreams sacrificed

Sleeping with the Muse,

  all rest put on ice

Sleeping with the Muse,

  the whispers come clean

Sleeping with the Muse,

  excuses demeaned

Sleeping with the Muse,

  my spool is respun

Sleeping with the Muse,

  divorced from the sun

Sleeping with the Muse,

  in darkness I learn

Sleeping with the Muse,

  my spirit confirmed

Sleeping with the Muse

  till dawn’s freeing light

Sleeping with the Muse

   —new verse to take flight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

If we were young men,

  if we were strong

If we had fresh words,

  to add to our song

If we were soldiers,

  with war in our veins

If we were poets,

  our voices reclaimed

If we were lovers,

  of women that cried

If we went wandering,

  our heart’s reapplied

If we were statesmen,

  the world in our grasp

If we were sailors,

  the wind at our backs

If we were farmers,

  with meadows so green

If we were actors,

  on stages supreme

If we were hunters,

  new wolf on the prowl

If we were dreamers,

  all wishes allowed

If we were young men,

  still facing the sun

But alas, we are old

  —and darkness has come                

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Neither over nor under,

  ahead or behind

My position unreferenced,

  your judgment still blind

Not over or under,

  ahead or behind

So easy once labeled
—so hard undefined

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

The livery on fire,

  its horses set free

Misery beckons,

  the future to bleed

The gates are broke open,

  all streets painted red

Death has awakened,

  life dragged from its bed

One bugle is left,

  blowing perdition’s melee

All swords are unsheathed,

  terror sharpens dismay

Tomorrow unpromised,

  today but a curse

The monster has cometh

   —a hell upon earth

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Another day with a voice

  —one more glimpse into forever

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Before I could return to writing prose,

  the Muse kidnapped my pen by decree

Most days fully structured and measured on end,

  but tonight

     —words yearned to be free

Each story cerebral, its words to describe,

  new plots marching forward in time

With fables inscribed for others, not I,

   my true voice

      —wanting only to rhyme

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Prince without a lineage

King without a throne

Master without servants

Lover of that unknown

Hearer of what’s unspoken

Seer of things divine

Lord among the jesters

Voice for all the mimes

Reason, when excuses falter

Questioner, when answers fail

Link between the seasons

  —first breath a baby wails

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)