Death is no harder

 than living

—when there’s nowhere left to go

 

(Lenape Trail: November, 2020)

The fire’s gone out

in the last wooden hut

Fresh snow has been falling,

cold hunger abuts

 

The Red Coats emboldened

in far Germantown

The wind carries stillness,

with death all around

 

A General stands watch

on the farthest of hills

His heart never waivers,

his anger instills

 

The firewood gone

but the embers still burn

O’er forests and rivers,

to Paris in turn

 

The Schuylkill runs quiet,

Lenape scouts have returned

“Our enemy grows fat, Sir,

in taverns that burn”

 

The outcome awaiting,

its body count high

Where cabins though frozen

—the stars and stripes fly

 

(Valley Forge: November, 2020)

 

 

How is servant

to what

 

In all I say

—and do

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

Over the horizon

a harp is playing

 

Its call recurring,

its tone Divine

 

Beyond the swell,

a calm is waiting

 

Its breeze untethered

—to flow sublime

 

(Book Of Prayers: November, 2020)

Music is to written words

as icing is to cake

 

Enhancing what you thought you read,

to joyously partake

 

A song can climb between the layers

to make each serving fly

 

Sent from Maestro’s high above

—sweet memories bye and bye

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

Laboring in obscurity,

years behind the mask

 

Wandering through the shadows,

questions poorly asked

 

Looking for one reason,

to leave the past behind

 

Echo’s howling endlessly

—prophecy reminds

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2020)

Victim of his own success…

the treadmill calls,

the hourglass broken

—casualty of what time denies

 

(The New Room: November, 2020)

In fear of your abandon,

afraid of letting go

 

Alone and feeling stranded,

bereft—no kindness shown

 

(Dreamsleep: November, 2020)

Its history was written

in tragedy

 

The period to the last sentence

—was death

 

(The New Room: November, 2020)

Standing redundant

in an echoing wind,

renewing your vanity

with deference to all

 

At home on the fringes

where truth is an orphan,

you line up your enemies

canons shot at the wall

 

A general of

a malingering army,

whose entitled thinkers

lay truth in the grave

 

The devil is calling

his pulpit awaits you,

the olive branch hollow

—your memory enslaved

 

(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: November, 2020)