We are often the

  most critical

 

Of what we are the

  most guilty of

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2015)

My words the result

 of the times I’ve lived

 not a classroom exercise

 

My feelings all paid

 with the blood of my fears

 not a rambling diatribe

 

My trail has been lined

 with each tear and misstep

 to mark the way ahead

 

My life a memory

 telling a tale

  —whose direction my soul has led

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2018)

Surrendering very little back to life,

 the time became solely my own

 

Which I spent on myself and the ones I loved,

 protecting what inside was my home

 

The years raced along with my memory endowed,

 regrets being seldom and few

 

Each choice that I made—every promise I kept,

  my spirit enthroned sovereign and new

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2019)

 

I discovered this morning

  after all these years,

  that everyone is really different

  from me

 

Whether rich or poor

  black or then white,

  it goes far beneath the surface

  to see

 

When I look in their eyes

  only questions stare back,

  as I try to keep my thoughts

  to myself

 

But along with those thoughts

  comes the promise I bear,

  and its hard to stay up

  on the shelf

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

 

Never writing for the unholy dollar,

 but that kid in a hundred years

 

When the world has irrevocably changed,

 and lies are all one hears

 

If he could happen to chance upon my words,

 just once while searching blind

 

Then my humble verse would come to life

 —within his ears to find

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Would I trade the words…

  would I trade for a song

 

Would I trade the words…

  for a life ever long

 

Would I trade the words…

  for a pulpit on high

 

Would I trade the words…

  for the moon and the sky

 

Would I trade the words…

  for immortality insured

 

Would I trade the words…

  for your love still unheard

 

Would I trade the words…

  for all fortune and fame

 

Would I trade the words

  —would my soul then remain

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

Within every verse,

  many meanings reside

 

The reader determines

  in which couplet you hide

 

The words both descriptive

  with colors aglow

 

The eyes as important

  as what the ears know

 

When backed in a corner,

  don’t ever explain

 

Words beckon discovery,

  refusing one name

 

The same reader may leave

  with a differing view

 

Each time he goes over

  and finds something new

 

A question once opened

  can never be closed

 

And verse penned inherent

   forever to know

 

With time of no consequence,

  your poetry waits

 

For the next searching pilgrim

  —your words to relate

 

(Rosemont Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Religions survive

  through subjugation

 

Without it,

  they are lost

 

Wielding guilt as a weapon,

  they proffer salvation

 

Enlightenment and freedom

  —their cost

 

 (Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

We have no idea where it goes,

  when the spider leaves its weave

 

We have no idea what’s left to dream,

  when the sandman robs of sleep

 

We have no idea the day nor hour,

  when our maker calls us home

 

We can only hope that the love we’ve shared

   —is enough before his throne

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

      From ‘The Book Of Prayers’

Are all notions of time a trap…

The perpetual present

The greatest one of all

Are all capsules of existence

Just graves we dig for ourselves

Each shovel full of denial

Burying us deep

  —within an empty reference

 

 (Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)