Repeating on and on without changing,

the boredom settled in

 

Lost in endless repetition,

ten miles South of what might have been

 

A broken record skipping, skipping,

the groundhog’s prediction thin

 

Burrowing out the same old hole

—ten miles South of what might have been

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)

The view is always better

from the highest road,

the joy of looking down

 

Vision bestows

as gravity flows

—beyond the here and now

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)

Sometimes love just isn’t enough,

as destiny calls within

 

Orphaning passion, emotions untether,

lost to Cupid’s whim

 

Never requited, alone and denied,

the search begins anew

 

Feelings repackaged and searching for more

—to do what love can’t do

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2020)

The price of love

is loss

 

Its bill

both old and new

 

A cost

that must be paid

 

With feelings

torn and strewn

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)

 

You climb up a mountain

for the beautiful view

 

Its challenge seductive,

a call to renew

 

The higher it takes you

the farther you see

 

With freedom the distance

—that lies in between

 

(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: December, 2020)

 

 

I can no longer afford

what my folly has purchased

 

Return not an option 

—my bank account dry

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)

Up is not a direction,

but an intention

 

Down is not an intention,

but a reflection

 

Across is neither

intention nor reflection

 

Towards—a new connection

better bred

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

 

Death failed to show up for work one day,

the clock remained unpunched

 

Hospital’s waiting, graveyards on call,

all coroner’s out to lunch

 

Death took a holiday without checking in,

the pecking order stunned

 

Like a deer on the highway, all headlights turned off

—awaiting what’s to come

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

Punching in the numbers

on the celestial dial tone

 

Eternity became toll free

—its area code my own

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

Once was a time

I was young enough,

to know and feel the truth

 

But the years laid claim

to my memory,

and the seeds to every fruit

 

Today is but folly,

tomorrow a fool,  

the past like fine wine ages true

 

Where a nightingale sings

in my dreams unrestrained

—that song of myself ever new

 

(The New Room: November, 2020)