I’ve always been good at making an entrance,
never choosing to stay
I’ve always been good at passing through,
most often forgetting the day
I bypassed adulthood, becoming a child,
as your legions mocked and jeered
And answered those voices calling out of the wild
—embracing everything you fear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
Poor in stock yet rich in spirit,
my clock does bow and sway
In rags and tatters all unstitched,
with joy do I still pray
My flesh is weak, my home now burnt
just embers to remind
Within this trouble and burning ash,
on the hour
—my heart still chimes
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
‘From The Book Of Prayers’
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)
