No one is going to grant you salvation

  until you try and save yourself

Nothing is going to award you redemption

  with cards from others dealt

No one is going to save your soul

  until you set your past on fire

And nothing is going to make you whole

   —until you proclaim the myth a liar

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

To write poetry on the battlefield…

  intrepid from the heart

Its words to cover scars and wounds

  grief peeling back like bark

Each verse fired like a rifle shot

  with bayonet attached

All volleys sharp and to the point

   the blood spilled—turning black

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

March

  brought me closer

  to the spoken word

March

  created thunder

  never before heard

March

  left forever its stamp

  and imprint

March

  so predacious

  April bleeding

     —in red ink

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

I hide in the shadow

  of another’s fear

  so the voice may go away

And then left

  inside an orphan’s silence

  to recount every wordless day

To walk a path

  that another breaks

  under a dark forbidden sky

Crying those tears

  by another made

    —my pen bereft and dry

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

I want to play not manage,

  write not teach

I want to drive—all controls in hand

I want to be like the rain across

  the mountains

Not the river that may turn to sand

I want to be that sniper

  with a single bullet

And not part of the infantry’s trek

I want to be the first

  to cross the tundra

Without needing a map to check

I want the bugle to blow

  from my own lips

So others may advance and attack

I want roses free, to line

  my front walk

Replanted from the garden out back

I want feet that will always

  climb above

The timid and reluctant below

I want memories to follow me

  out of this world

To a place that is just mine to know

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Using letters for wishes,

  the emptiness ended

Binding together my present,

  future, and past

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

There’s a higher level

  of being

Than you’ve thought

  or felt before

There’s a greater

  state of consciousness

Once you learn then

  to ignore…

All those things that can

  distract you

Those that keep you on

  the shelf

As the heavens play a

  forgotten song

Sung deep inside

  —yourself

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Hitchhiking through the wormhole,

  all time was left behind

Distance collapsing upon itself

  reflections other side

Waste material of a life unspent

  flowing back in a parted stream

Entry to a doorless mystery

  —from a lost forgotten dream

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

I thought it was the words,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the feelings,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the understanding,

  but it was more than that

And I thought it was the insight,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the lyric,

  but it was more than that

I then thought it was the melody,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the joy they brought,

  but it was more than that

And I thought it was the talk I talked,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the times,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the friendship,

  but it was more than that

I thought it was the love,

 but it was even more than that

And on the day that I stopped

  thinking

    —it was all of that!

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

The better the poet

the fuller the sails

  —and the further the lines may stretch

The more ranging the verse

set to feeling’s unanchored 

 —the more chances of fair winds ahead

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)