The Blues fills my memory,

all emptiness gone

 

Its Harp laying claim,

my soul to belong

 

Little Walter cries out

‘that same old somethin’ again

 

Jimmy Reed to remind us

—of the mojo within

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2019)

The house is now quiet,

the children have gone

 

My beard they’ve left ruffled,

as memories grow long

 

With trains and dolls scattered,

where last they played

 

Their love remains buried,

inside of the maze

 

The cupola harkens,

a last candle there burns

 

As the attic sits waiting

for the toys to return

 

The old house is silent,

but deep from within

 

Their laughter still hides

—and my searching begins

 

(Thanksgiving: November, 2016)

Live hard

Write easy

Footsteps washing

With the tide

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

The children left

The memories stayed

Feelings caught

Between

Now and before

 

Doors opening

Doors closing again

Future wish

Written

—hoping for more

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

In the depths of the forest,

one lone candle burns

 

A light into forever,

where spirit still yearns

 

In the trees and the darkness,

 its promise burns bright

 

With eternity waiting

  —just out of sight

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

I never chose to live among you,

and choose to die alone

 

My thoughts in writing here beside me

—last verse my ticket home

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Do you synthesize your anger,

do you cauterize the burn

 

Do you anesthetize the wonder,

as your dreams are drugged and scorned

 

Is your judgment tempered badly,

with emotion fiery hot

 

Is your vision colored madly,

by your choices—sold and bought

 

Does your music play reclusive,

do your words fall off the page

 

Does ego kill your last excuse

—that mask you can’t explain

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

It’s those desolate interludes

that create the new space

 

For our souls to exhale

—and our dreams to escape

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Seventeen children

on a highway to hell

 

Thumbs out—noses down,

perdition rings their bell

 

Seventeen children,

their backs now fully turned

 

The piper calls them blindly

—their futures scorched and burned

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

The tailored line,

bespoken Poet

 

With needle sharp,

to hem and sew it

 

Where thoughts as threads,

stitch out as whole

 

Whose words once seamed

—contain my soul

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)