Tell a good story poorly

  not a poor story well

 

Your current raging over

 —all trough laden swells

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

Money…

  an ungrateful heir

 

Disowning all memory

 —with your ashes still warm

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

When grammar gets in the way

  of the meaning

   —lose the grammar!

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

I dreamed far into the distance

 and found an ocean beyond the sand

 

With no beach around its borders

 no surge upon the land

 

Its depths flow on forever

 no beginning and no end

 

Before its waves my heart to wander

 —within its tide my soul to mend

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

It’s better to let her…

 keep those fancy shoes and bags

 if she comes to bed each night

 

It’s better to let her…

  have the house worn and ragged

  if the trim stays fresh and light

 

It’s better to let her…

 whine and constantly bemoan

 if she smells like summer rain

 

It’s better to let her…

 cash the checks you bring home

   —if she’ll whisper those words again

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

Blistering thunder

Cracking asunder

Craters form

High ground being torn

Its ledges are sharp

Concealed in the dark

The rain blows in gales

 —ancient prophecy hails

 

Blistering thunder

Fate pulls you under

Vows you made

Point straight to your grave

Death’s legions await

You fall through its gate

Your last moment burned

 —no more chances to learn

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

What is the baseline

  of your life?

 

How deep is the chord structure

  of your meaning?

 

What is that riff that no raff

  can destroy?

 

How long is your drum roll

 —at the end?

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

The older I get

  the louder the Muse does parade

 

The shorter the moment

  the deeper her message invades

 

The older I get

  distant voices filter and fade

 

With death on the fringes

  —all focus recentered and staged

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

Belief in the end…

 if truth be your cross

 

To break or to bend

 veracity’s cost

 

Last judgment your own

  hawks chase as doves fly

 

One choice to atone

 —when free of all lies

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

Is there always one verse

  you still have yet to write

 

 And if not—what’s the point

  of it all

 

Are you the repository of

  all you have felt

 

Or the dealer and merchant

  of lies

 

Are your thoughts tattooed onto

  your immortal soul

 

With your feelings exposed

  or held back

 

Are the words disconnected

  from the ink in your veins

 

Do you live within

  all that you’ve said

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)