I chased my selves

down the hallway tonight,

and called them both by name

 

They stopped and wavered

before looking away,

turning their backs again

 

Subliminal

gravity captured the space,

attraction thrice denied

 

The fusion once splintered

reuniting itself,

me, myself—and I

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

The night a killer with retinas that burn,

all verses running mad

 

Fists of silence coming out of the dark,

opening up to grab

 

Fingers choking the last vocal chord,

strangulation by command

 

The quiet finality of a voice now gone

—gripped in my own hands

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

 

Standing alone

on the altar’s first step,

apprenticeship dethroned

 

Indentured anew,

my eyes turn inward,

disarmed, but not disowned

 

A quarter to forever

in the distance ahead,

blank meadows still to quote

 

The hour glass waiting

upon no man,

to deliver its last joke

 

Seeds scatter freely,

 implanted anew,

words rising where vision bled

 

Each one a new stone

in eternity’s trail

—the unborn baby fed

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

Give it back to the night,

give it back to the day

 

Give it back to the moment,

where time goes to pray

 

Give it back to the future,

give it back to the past

 

Give it up to the present

—forever to last

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

Words of malice, curses flamed,

hiding in the past

 

No license needed to hunt through time

—the present armed en masse

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

In the end…

all we have left

is the music

 

And music,

will be

more than enough

 

(Garrett Hill Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

Poetry and Political Correctness

—the ultimate Oxymoron

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

With eyes that see and ears that hear,

but hearts that look away

 

Each child unkept—all life bereft,

to rue these mournful days

 

(Children’s Hospital Of Philadelphia: March, 2020)

The Country Club of walking death,

calls out across the ferns

 

The 1^st hole starts with pain unmatched,

its traps to flame and burn

 

The 9^th hole calls you back to life,

just to send you down again

 

The 14^th hole, a dismal swamp,

your demons there within

 

The 18^th hole where soul’s are judged,

double bogeyed with a six

 

The clubhouse dark, your blood trail marked

—devil carrying your sticks

 

 

                (Overbrook Golf Club: March, 2020)

Joni said…

“If I tell you what the song is about,

it won’t be about you anymore”

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

‘Watching Joni Mitchell On AXS’