The Piper of destiny

 calls from the unknown

 

Without lyre or harp,

 his truth so intoned  

 

All sirens left deafened,

 tumbling over themselves

 

As a choir of Angels

 —from his flute are bespelled

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Is beauty connected,

 or to a vacuum condemned

 

Is truth then required,

 for it to enter within

 

Can beauty be measured,

 by the heart or the mind

 

Can it chase, or displace, or replace

 what it finds

 

If beauty is truth,

 let all reason be shown

 

Why judgment and logic,

 to our hearts stay unknown

 

As semantics untangle,

 and the linguists all kneel

 

The question stays formless

  —to astound and congeal

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

 

Trying to be present,

 I gave up the master plan

 

Sacrificing what’s past beyond

 —reclaiming who I am

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

As warlord of the ticking count…

 time marches uncontested

 

Avoiding every scrutiny,

 defending every lie

 

All seasons caught within its grasp,

 each day a slave in training

 

Order becoming disorder again

 —complexity denied

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

The truth of hope is faith

 —the hope of faith is love

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Words of conjecture self destruct

  —when veracity holds its sway

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Is randomness designed,

 can the dice roll more defined

 

Is entropy a map,

 less complex as time adapts

 

Can ignorance be renamed,

 as a home for knowledge gained

 

Can the circle then be squared

 —arcs and angles still to share

 

(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Once truth is judged delusion,

 we choose the lesser of two lies

 

Abandoning that voice unheard,

 stillborn—a baby cries

 

The ideal in dark remission,

 all hope now cast in flames

 

Making bargains with the Devil

  —as the future writhes in pain

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Not a student of Poetry,

  more a student of life

 

The words fell  before me,

  stepping-stones of delight

 

Not a student of Verse,

  but of musings inspired

 

My days withdrew inward,

  the years stoked and fired

 

Not a student of prose,

  but its lover the same

 

As words strung together,

  and called out my name

 

Not a Poet or Novelist,

  but a writer for sure

 

Verbal stepchild unnamed

  —asking for nothing more

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Alone with my thoughts,

  together in this moment

 

The light cast off its shadow

  —all prophecy reclaimed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)