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)
If every day to matter
If every moment counts
If every word to chant and sing
If every phrase be stout
If every coin pound sterling
If every debt marked paid
If every feeling dubbed divine
—salvation pre-ordained
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
A whirlwind to the ages,
I gave up on today
All voiced precipitation,
for someone else to spray
Writing above what’s forecast,
for readers yet unborn
My words beyond the thunder
—to ride on distant storms
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Is there a thread that binds and ties…
an artist to his art
Is it thin or thickly woven,
will it hold or come apart
Is it there to free or strap one down,
with the memory of its form
Does its very nature reattach,
when in fury it is torn
Does it link in stark remembrance,
all that’s past and gone away
Does it keep the truth within arms reach
—when again we’ve lost our way
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
