In the end…

the only thing left

—is what gets remembered

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

Yes, I’m a Poet,

but I refuse to be conscripted

 

I refuse to be a victim,

my words made out of stone

 

I refuse to bleed my heart out,

on a page of blank simpatico

 

I refuse to give you weakness,

knowing strength you have disowned

 

Yes, I’m a Poet,

but my sword is sharp and pointed

 

My shield is scarred and colored

with the blood of firebrands

 

My breath won’t plead while shouting,

every name a future conquest

 

My pen in hand, a weapon sure

 —its ink the truth commands

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

To steal injustice

from the eyes of a child

 

And place it beyond their sight

 

Is to save today,

when tomorrow is gone

 

The future—blinded by fright

 

(Children’s Hospital Of Philadelphia: November, 2016)

Gonna roll me a reefer,

and smoke the past goodbye

 

Gonna empty that last bottle of gin,

and kick this bye and bye

 

Gonna drink that woman away, Lord,

if I have to turn to rum

 

Gonna smoke that reefer till my fingers burn

—her memory on the run

 

(Villanova University Vespers: June, 2019)

 

 

Drowning at the bottom,

  the top so far away

 

                Lifeline snapped, memory torn

—reasons unbelayed

 

(Dreamsleep: June, 2019)

Do you want education,

or just to get high

 

To reach your potential,

or pie in the sky

 

If it’s learning you want,

then take off the mask

 

That laptop you worship

—deceives future and past

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)

The Blues fills my memory,

all emptiness gone

 

Its Harp laying claim,

my soul to belong

 

Little Walter cries out

‘that same old somethin’ again

 

Jimmy Reed to remind us

—of the mojo within

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2019)

The house is now quiet,

the children have gone

 

My beard they’ve left ruffled,

as memories grow long

 

With trains and dolls scattered,

where last they played

 

Their love remains buried,

inside of the maze

 

The cupola harkens,

a last candle there burns

 

As the attic sits waiting

for the toys to return

 

The old house is silent,

but deep from within

 

Their laughter still hides

—and my searching begins

 

(Thanksgiving: November, 2016)

Live hard

Write easy

Footsteps washing

With the tide

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)