Poetry is different

  when spoken than read

 

The words more musical

  outside my head

 

No longer imprisoned

  or held on the page

 

Their freedom unharnessed

  —the voice of an age

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Each time when it almost mattered,

  it mattered not that much

 

Old feeling’s hijacked and held for ransom

  memories cold and stuck

 

But the day when it really mattered,

  my heart was set on fire

 

My will unfrozen and left to sear

   —in a burning hot desire

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

My spirit will never truly die

  as words continue to give

 

My body once committed to sky

  my soul forever to live

 

Voices I’ve carried inside for so long

  now a chorus of octaves set free

 

The songs they sing from the heavens sent

  ever heartened, enchanted—decreed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

My ancestors were all very simple men,

  so I could be more than that

 

They taught me early and taught me true

  what was special—and then to give back

 

These fathers now sit at my spiritual feast,

  true giants of a forthcoming age

 

And as I write down the words, I am reminded again

   —of the true meaning of being a Sage

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

The past and tomorrow

  —from today only borrow

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Music is more slave to fashion

  —than the written or spoken word

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

You can’t

Or you won’t…

The result is the same

 

The difference

Decision,

And it’s yours once again

 

You can’t

Or you won’t…

Chief excuse of the small

 

When you won’t

Then you can’t

  —and the won’t worst of all

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015

Unadulterated and pure

  the thoughts left my mind

 

Untrained and unschooled

  no restrictions to bind

 

The page below virgin

  as I lower my pen

 

A literary wanderer

  —starting over again

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

No one is going to grant you salvation

  until you try and save yourself

 

Nothing is going to award you redemption

  with cards from others dealt

 

No one is going to save your soul

  until you set your past on fire

 

And nothing is going to make you whole

   —until you proclaim the myth a liar

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

To write poetry on the battlefield…

  intrepid from the heart

 

Its words to cover scars and wounds

  grief peeling back like bark

 

Each verse fired like a rifle shot

  with bayonet attached

 

All volleys sharp and to the point

   the blood spilled—turning black

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)