Most days writing filler,

the Muse to appease

 

The words poorly chosen,

no ace up my sleeve

 

Each phrase a fulfillment,

old promises made

 

With feelings in Limbo

—my pen to enslave

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

 

Theoretically,

we die from the moment conceived

 

Functionally,

we die when beset with disease

 

That space in between…

the land of our dreams

 

Where spirit’s transform

—our souls to release

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

 

 

My life is a Poem,

not one chosen line

 

And travels within me,

each mountain I climb

 

It dwells symbiotic,

between body and soul

 

To hearten each moment

—keeping me whole

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

Religion levels the playing field,

money replaced by hope

 

For those destitute with hills to climb

salvation—heaven’s rope

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

The footsteps of darkness,

approach from behind

 

On death’s quiet tiptoes,

to shadow and find

 

Once shoulder to shoulder,

the clock starts to stop

 

The future detaching

—last cradle unrocked

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

How many sunrises will I see,

how many poems will I write

 

How many Spring’s to then deceive

—until Autumn surrenders to Winter’s night

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

Death is not a failing

—only its denial

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2019)

All history must we study,

but not enslave ourselves

 

As we forge on in tribute

—intrepid to foretell

 

(Dreamsleep: December, 2019)

Are you lost inside nostalgia,

blinded by its call

 

Self convinced the past is king,

old romance to enthrall

 

The facts proclaim much different,

in science and the arts

 

Awareness of what we’ve become,

the most illusive part

 

What you bought for fifteen dollars,

that CD with thirteen songs

 

Now can buy the music world,

Ipod’s carry on

 

The doctor’s diagnosis,

beyond mere life or death

 

An MRI can then confirm,

and protons will arrest

 

The scope of human nature,

to hold on and not let go

 

Ties us to a bill we’ve paid

—resent from long ago

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)

In the land of my once fallow youth,

old phrases bury deep

 

Where seeds of time regrow the rhyme

—their crop my soul to keep

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2019)