I want to play not manage,

  write not teach

 

I want to drive—all controls in hand

 

I want to be like the rain across

  the mountains

 

Not the river that may turn to sand

 

I want to be that sniper

  with a single bullet

 

And not part of the infantry’s trek

 

I want to be the first

  to cross the tundra

 

Without needing a map to check

 

I want the bugle to blow

  from my own lips

 

So others may advance and attack

 

I want roses free, to line

  my front walk

 

Replanted from the garden out back

 

I want feet that will always

  climb above

 

The timid and reluctant below

 

I want memories to follow me

  out of this world

 

To a place that is just mine to know

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Using letters for wishes,

  the emptiness ended

 

Binding together my present,

  future, and past

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

There’s a higher level

  of being

 

Than you’ve thought

  or felt before

 

There’s a greater

  state of consciousness

 

Once you learn then

  to ignore…

 

All those things that can

  distract you

 

Those that keep you on

  the shelf

 

As the heavens play a

  forgotten song

 

Sung deep inside

  —yourself

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Hitchhiking through the wormhole,

  all time was left behind

 

Distance collapsing upon itself

  reflections other side

 

Waste material of a life unspent

  flowing back in a parted stream

 

Entry to a doorless mystery

  —from a lost forgotten dream

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

I thought it was the words,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the feelings,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the understanding,

  but it was more than that

 

And I thought it was the insight,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the lyric,

  but it was more than that

 

I then thought it was the melody,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the joy they brought,

  but it was more than that

 

And I thought it was the talk I talked,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the times,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the friendship,

  but it was more than that

 

I thought it was the love,

 but it was even more than that

 

And on the day that I stopped

  thinking

    —it was all of that!

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

 

The better the poet

the fuller the sails

  —and the further the lines may stretch

 

The more ranging the verse

set to feeling’s unanchored 

 —the more chances of fair winds ahead

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

Over the fire

  and across the coals

 

We made it to safety

  our innocence tolled

 

The memory enough

   to scare and profane

 

What fate never mentioned

   —as we straddled the flame

 

    (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015

Listening To Clapton’s ‘Sunshine Of Your Love’

 

 

 

It was Hemingway

  early

 

And Dickinson

   late

 

Those early

  exposures

 

The trail of

  my wake

 

No bar left

  unvisited

 

Or brawl left

  unfought

 

No school that could

   answer

 

Dialectic

  untaught

 

Now this corner

  I sit in

 

Both welcomes

  and warms

 

And the thoughts

  it retriggers

 

No movement

  just form

 

I once had

  looked over

 

What I now look

  within

 

From this chair

  that I captain

 

Where in virtue

  —I sin

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

 

A people once censored

  their limbs on the rack

 

All knowledge and freedom

  under constant attack

 

But cream always rises,

  and cows do come home

 

The truth never captive,

  enchained—or then owned

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

If you stare into the Devil’s eyes

 with righteous intent

 

You will always return

 —transformed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2019)