Too craven to take his own advice,

he stumbled over time

 

A distant echo of what he proclaimed

—an alien unrhymed

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

I refuse to talk with bigots,

does that apply to you

 

And freely open up my mind,

to greet the world anew

 

Discriminatory and hateful barbs,

divide and tear apart

 

What poetry tries its best to mend,

inside an honest heart

 

Those few most vile hide behind

their fear inspired views

 

That bring about the worst in us,

to slander and accuse

 

As days grow short, my time is spent,

beneath a sun that shines

 

Speaking to the highest traits

—humanity divines

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

You filled my eyes to overflowing,

and quenched my thirsting heart

 

You poured your vision into my soul,

beatific to impart

 

All banks you flooded as dreams wade in,

and currents gently surge

 

My spirit safe within your flow,

re-baptized to emerge

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

 

Tears well shed rewash our dreams

—of nightmares filled with lies

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

Scientific theory,

modernity’s ego trip

 

Its pay grade maxed, its mirror cracked

—empirical ellipse

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

The Universe,

 imagination

 

God…

existence Thine

 

Each Soul,

His essence passing through

 

Individuality

—Divine

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020) 

Keeping it to yourself,

while giving it away

 

Only poetry is split,

and structured this way

 

Keeping it to yourself,

then passing the torch

 

A deft oxymoron,

as light is re-sourced

 

(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)

Where you stand tomorrow,

based on where you sit today

 

Your principles determined

 by what you get

 

The ground below you moving,

feet shuffling back and forth

 

Saying this and saying that

—remembering to forget

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

 

I see someone I love,

in everyone I meet

 

The wellspring eternal

—its blessings complete

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

I write prose so I can write poetry,

and poetry so I can write prose

 

Never prose that calls itself poetry

—or poetry that’s lost within prose

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2020)