Are you a conscious Poet

 with unconscious beliefs

 

An eternity of verse

 crying out from your sleep

 

Are your dreams more important

 than your waking hours show

 

Do they tell the true story

 —of all there is to know

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Do I think I believe,

 or believe that I think

 

Are they both the same thing,

 a pen with two inks

 

Does one include faith,

 and the other just mind

 

Or are they conjoined

 —symbiosis sublime

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 

Can you be conscious

 without being self conscious,

 philosophers disagree

 

Being aware of your

 awareness,

 seems logical to me

 

But logic has its

 failings,

 as we pierce the inner mind

 

Perception,

 the most elusive ghost

  —and hardest to define

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 

Death at its zenith,

 the other side of life’s goodbye

 

Eternity waiting patiently,

 to welcome us inside

 

Always the dark misnomer,

 we hold in dread and awe

 

When really it’s an open door

 —to all we’re searching for

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

He climbed the edge

Of uncertainty,

Ever upward

The fall so high

At the height of his

Desperation,

Plunging into regret

And sorrows tide

Hitting his last

Tomorrow,

Broken feelings

Left to drown

One last hope

The flow would wash him,

Into the pool

 —of knowledge found

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 

 

 

The deeper we get into

 the idea of what’s real,

   the further away we become

 

Trying to put our formulas

 into a box,

   is folly zero sum

 

Like the horizon before you

 that you see but can’t touch,

   the truth forever disguised

 

Its costume to change

 with every reason we claim

   —only the search bringing meaning to the wise

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 

 

As a Poet,

 I don’t have to prove what I mean

 

Or reveal the pigmentation

 of colors that gleam

 

Or the height of an Angel,

 compared to a Man

 

Or whether the Devil,

 cannot or then can

 

As a Poet,

 I don’t even have to explain

 

The temperature of a sunrise,

 or a sorrow unplained

 

Or the width of my paper,

 the length of my pen

 

The fact that I’m sitting here,

 tautologies end

 

And thus as a Poet,

 I’m free to espouse

 

The beauty around me,

 without saying how

 

The magic that marvels,

 never revealing its trick

 

The hat with the rabbit,

 the joy in the mix

 

All Poetry a lens,

 through which others can view

 

Life’s focus e’er changing

 —each moment anew

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

The intention of silence…

 to expose or deceive

 

Its power much greater,

 than most would believe

 

Sometimes to say nothing,

 speaks loudest of all

 

The quiet most deadly

  —when falsehood befalls

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Inferable, unknowable,

 all senses on fire

 

Beyond contradiction,

 sans myriad liars

 

Its vision unstated,

 true knowledge unfeigned

 

Born into our souls

 —its silence to reign

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

A hurricane of stimulation,

 a tornado of thought

 

Blowing through the vast unknowing,

 our natures to be caught

 

When doubt sits high on light’s horizon,

 storm warnings there portend

 

Whose cyclones of enlightenment

 —with hailstones shape and bend

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)