Poet….

Lone Wolf of the spoken word

Crouching in darkness

—one verse in the herd

Stalking his prey

far into the night

Attacking with feeling

   —that forever bites

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

With ten more miles of fence line

my horse wants to turn back

There’s storm clouds over the mountain

just a small tent in my sack

The fence line sits all busted

from two bulls that went astray

They both missed being neutered

last year on roundup day

My hands are cold and blistered

that salve jar all but gone

Two wolves begin to howling

that lonesome prairie song

The storm clouds now have thickened

light pulls its covers back

Just one more night on the western slope

—with eight miles left to track

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Our years are fated….

Maria’s allotment was short

But no less special,

Each minute becoming pregnant

With what time would not allow,

Each new hour

Becoming the measuring stick

Of what would never occur

In a bed and a room

Where only wishes and dreams

Last

To never grow into memories,

Fate would not permit

Her life to become less precious,

As the deceptive future

Steals tomorrow from today

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

When emptiness
replaces memory

Speaking to not one

but the multitudes,

the prophet raised his head

And serving up his gratitude,

the starving and hungry

were given bread

Starting again

his eyes looked up,

and through a plain white cloth he bled

While standing in the same spot

his father had,

and repeating those words he said…

   “Don’t worship me,

     Become yourself,

     Divinity, yours at hand

     “Wash their feet

   And free your mind,

     Bring peace throughout the land

   “Thank not one,

   But all you meet

   For a soul no longer wracked

   “And with each new breath

   The Angels dance

   —salvation looking back”

     (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

Holding myself emotional hostage,

no ransom note was sent

No picture of the victim

no feeling sold or lent

Locking my heart away for good

ice forming by degree

All pain inflicted on myself

—love in the deepest freeze

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

The Doggie was white,

and the Kitty was black,

as they crouched at opposite ends of the floor

Their eyes never met,

because the rules were set

that the dog would chase the cat as before

At night came the darkness,

and the Kitty stood up

and headed right straight to the door

But the Doggie just lay there with his head

on his paws, and thought….

—today is quite different for sure

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

‘For Kiley, Hunter, Braden & Parker

My Grandchildren

There’s a voice deep inside me

still trying to get out

Ignoring my pleadings,

it screams and it shouts

Its call is the loudest

on those darkest of nights

When my mind seeks new refuge

from Seraph’s delight

I toss and I turn,

but it speaks louder still

As its words start to burn

from new vision distilled

No barter or denial

will turn back its call

The Muse is on fire

—my pen not to stall

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

Escaping into verse,

the base of the tower rumbled,

the ground beneath was shaken

with new cracks inside its walls

Escaping into verse,

all towering deception crumbled,

as the self-anointed jumped and fell

landing prostrate and so small

Escaping into verse,

the mime shouted out enabled,

his silent thunder raining down

with a message now to scald

Escaping into verse,

a new steeple built and gabled

its bell to ring a lyric toll

   —new life to those recalled

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

‘Sermon to the choir….’

the writers group sat motionless

with their heads down

‘Sermon to the choir….’

they listened for their instructor

to announce—“your time starts now”

‘Sermon to the choir….’

they tried to imagine what they had never seen

while wondering about what they couldn’t know

‘Sermon to the choir….’

the writers group then raised their heads

and packed their grief to go

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)