Does your writing leave room

for intrusion

 

With spaces for listeners

to crawl in

 

Are your words like a sponge

that the reader can drain

 

Your verses to flow through

them again

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Is remembrance now a hidden tenant,

that lives throughout your home

 

Does it lurk in every corner,

to come out when you’re alone

 

Is the voice heard down a distant hall,

a lost child once left about

 

Does that face now staring through the dark,

draw you in—or turn you out

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

If you don’t write

everything down

 

Then at least take

everything in

 

Seeds once planted,

ripen and grow

 

A blind eye

—the killer within

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Devoted to my writing,

a prayer with every word

 

Faithful to each line I write,

my verse—my spoken Lord

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When you’re old,

  and the signs are in letters so big?

 

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When you’re young,

with it’s messages trapped in the wind?

 

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When it’s winter,

and the cold bellows loudly with fear?

 

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When it’s summer,

love teasing, its distraction so near?

 

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When your life has been bartered,

the present dismissed?

 

When should you get ready

to die…

 

When your soul has been mortgaged

—last payment remiss?

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

 

The mouthpiece of ignorance

is gossip

 

The wellspring of gossip

—is lies

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2019)

Losing all faith

in miracles

 

His wishes went to

live astray

 

Where hope becomes a

distant cry

 

Lost memories

—in the wind

 

(Dreamsleep: September, 2019)

 

 

 

 

Bogged down in the details,

truth is undone

 

Swimming through the corn flakes,

milk overruns

 

Looking at the forest,

seeing just trees

 

Life micromanaged

—big picture tease

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

As a writer,

I create my own freedom

 

And as a writer,

I invent my own friends

 

As a writer,

I espouse my own truth

 

And as a writer,

my will never bends

 

As a writer,

I travel the world

 

And as a writer,

that journey’s within

 

As a writer,

I dive for more pearls

 

And as a writer,

each moment begins

 

As a writer,

the moon rises at dawn

 

And as a writer,

the sun burns through the night

 

As a writer,

my words play immortal

 

And as a writer

—all heaven in sight

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Each Poem wrought,

another day of

freedom bought

 

Each verse proclaimed,

one more abandoned

night renamed

 

Each line unleashed,

new light is shown,

old shadows hide

 

Each word I speak,

my soul elektric

—truth alive

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)