Giving in to the writing

all else went to hell

The bills stayed unpaid

one room left to dwell

Giving in to the writing

I rolled the last dice

Two dots facing upward

—and paying the price

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

I came to your hospice,
I came here to die

I came for my family
a final goodbye

I broke that one promise
I most wanted to keep

Alone on my mountain
no mourners to weep

The doctors and nurses,
they prod and they poke

Their intentions most noble
my spirit on dope

In the night strangers faces
call out my name

And act like they know me
new pawn in the game

If I had that one wish
still left unfulfilled

I would walk to the rim
of the Canyon so still

At dawn I would jump
with both arms open wide

Saying: Thank you, Dear Lord
—for a wonderful ride

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

Writing my way into eternity,

I chose one word at a time

Doing my best to avoid modernity

with rhythm and often rhyme

Staying true to all my senses

shunning the critic and praiser alike

My pen only full of the truest ink

to guide me through the night

Writing my way into eternity

each phrase a step to climb

Caring not a whit for posterity,

all applause I’ve left behind

The light’s become my master

all time its servant—slave

As I write and speak to something more

—than gets buried in the grave

                                           (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Like clubs inside my golf bag

each verse a different face

Some to drive straight down the course

others lift and then embrace

My swing is then adjusted

as words take off and fly

And landing safe beyond the trap

—to make the devil cry

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Often accused of abusing the words,

I stand guilty here as charged

Their purpose to serve my feelings unnerved,

when into the darkness I bard

Used as a shield, my will not to yield

their ink splattered blood stains aglow

No guilt do I bear for those letters unspared

—as their corpses define what I know

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Everyone listened, but nobody talked,

as the Vicar rode on by

His horse an old swayback, loaded with bibles

stove hat pointing up toward the sky

Everyone listened, but nobody smiled,

as the Vicar stormed and raged

“To hell in an instant, to hell you’re all going,”

   bony fingers turning the page

Monday till Saturday they spread their delight

catch-as-catch-can, then again

But Sunday morning to awaken in fright

—and face the Vicars threatening hand

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

If you knew the words were killing you,

would you choose then not to write

Would more calendar days still left to live

make up for the darkness and blight

Would the time by days now measured

equal those countless moments untimed

Would you die then forever—and over again

or just once in an ending that rhymed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Looking over the edge

of an emotional cliff

I saw new feelings

for the very first time

Crying out from the back

of a Seraph’s wings

They were begging for me

to climb on

Promising a flight above

reason and logic

Blinding my eyes

with overpowering rhyme

I fell into the new silence

with the Angels below

Catching my words as they

dropped

—in their song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

Over the fire

and across the coals

We made it to safety

our innocence tolled

The memory enough

   to scare and profane

What fate never mentioned

—as we straddled the flame

   (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015

Listening To Clapton’s ‘Sunshine Of Your Love’

It was Hemingway

early

And Dickinson

late

Those early

exposures

The trail of

my wake

No bar left

unvisited

Or brawl left

unfought

No school that could

answer

Dialectic

corrupt

Now this corner

I sit in

Both welcomes

and warms

And the thoughts

it retriggers

No movement

just form

I once had

looked over

What I now look

within

From this chair

that I captain

Where in virtue

—I sin

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)