Poets believe

they were born out of time,

each era too early, too late,

out of rhyme

 

Creations main doctrine

for those so inclined

connects what’s unspoken

—to a far greater mind

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2021)

I walked the same path I had always walked,

but the flowers and the bushes were changed

The birds had stopped singing, the woods became dark,

and my memory a tiger untamed

I came to that spot where tomorrow began,

but the gates to its entry were closed

The path veering inward where remembrance escaped

—to wander both free and alone

 

(St. David’s Pennsylvania: December, 2021)

The artist may tarnish,

but his art remains clean

His intention stays ageless,

his wishes pristine

 

Though rust covers over

what’s harder to see

The base is still there

—and the spirit still free

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2021)

We turn a deaf ear

as they live with the pain

of those who we cancel

with biting disdain

 

Unable to rise

above selfish intent

with opioid bias

our progeny bent

 

Pontification

colors the flow

young ears once thought distant

to reap what we sow

 

The world as we leave it

our tracks in the sand

forever to haunt us

—as children disband

 

(Radnor Pennsylvania: December, 2021)

 

The Agent Intellect…

God speaking loud

Aquinas his servant,

empirically proud

 

Action is needed,

the soul lies in wait

The body left wanting

—new pearls for the gate

 

(Villanova University: December, 2021)

I rest in the memory

of things that I’ve loved

where time is not finite

 below or above

These pockets of joy

hold the key to my fate

as the dreams of my father

in slumber gestate

To live past tomorrow

diving deep in the past

with time still a virgin

the moment to last

And rise resurrected

each day with the sun

knowing fortune awaits me

—when sleep again comes

 

(Rosemont Pennsylvania: December, 2021)

If the message complex,

the delivery simple

 

The meaning the magic,

the words zero-sum

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2021)

This word or that word,

the length of the line

 

The meter, the rhythm,

to rhyme or not rhyme

 

Each voice comes unsettled,

new phrases diverse

 

Is it this way or that way

—when penning the verse

 

(The New Room: December, 2021)

The bark of my knowing

is rotting away

With grain left exposing

what memory betrays

Those things I pushed outward

 root deeply within

As the oldest of wood

—makes the best violin

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2021)

I’m not asking for approval,

that belongs to time

The spoken words I cherish most,

to you seem out of rhyme

I’m not asking for acceptance,

my muse rejects your praise

In darker moments light is found

—your comments weakly phrased

 

(The New Room: December, 2021)