Writing Prose,

 because I can

 

And Poetry

 —because I must

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 

Awareness can be frozen,

 “A watched pot never boils”

 

When perception’s forced upon itself,

 all change in stillness toils

 

“To thine own self” the Bard entreated,

 that one truth we’re meant to find

 

As consciousness—the mind of God

   calls us from inside

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Looking in not out,

 the picture cleared

 

Problems solved,

 both far and near

 

Motion closed,

 entropic sum

 

Space inflated

 —time unspun

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

 Extinction probability,

 ninety nine point nine

 

History’s infinitive,

 the graveyard of time

 

Cosmology winning out

 in the end

 

The hourglass draining

 —last thought to befriend

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Words come to a point

 like the tip of a spear

 

Embedding the truth

 —impaling your fear

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

The speed of a photon,

 the steps of a man

 

The truth pointing inward

 —where forever began

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Your words can rise,

 or your words can fall

 

But a politically correct Poet

 —is no Poet at all

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Answer with passion,

 or don’t answer at all

 

Cauterizing my questions

 —as ashes they fall

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Atheists work on the breaker box,

 as Creationists source the power

 

Rewiring a changing system that’s flawed

 —their lights flicker in an ivory tower

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

We’re lucky to have survived each other,

 in the aftermath of love

 

Those promises made as leaves they fell,

 from a height so far above

 

The seasons changed, a pledge reclaimed,

 buries deep within the ground

 

Waiting for Spring, its first robin to sing

  —a new song of hopeful sound

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)