My cup runneth over

  your chalice half full

 

The emptiness suspect

  both murky and dull

 

It shines on the outside

  jewels christened with fire

 

But to drink from that liquid

  —forever a liar

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Children,

  conceived in perfection

 

Born

  to disappoint

 

When the

  idea

 

And the reality

  —collide

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

The Russians have taught me

  that nothing has changed

 

Instead of Nazis and Fascists,

  we have terrorists to blame

 

Whether Turgenev or Chekhov,

  Tolstoy or Marx

 

When our nature’s in play,

 —much of life remains dark

 

(Wayne Pa.-Minella’s Diner: June, 2016)

Stop trying to be a poet,

  and say what you feel

 

Kill off the dilettante

  both hands on the wheel

 

In front of the mirror,

  we all wear a crown

 

Are your verses to be written

  —by a sage or a clown

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Seeing better from a distance

  than you ever could up close

 

The memories play like children

   in voices that you spoke

 

The truth is where you find it

   every season, every turn

 

Where space creates acceptance

  —your soul to file or to burn

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

If the world would only stop on cue

  all promises made would return anew

 

The seasons would rearrange their order

  and lines we’ve drawn—no longer borders

 

If the world would only dance on cue

  and kick up its heels for me and you

 

Then what a show we all could make

  to merengue together—with love our fate

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Knowing 

  not repeating

 

The weakness

  of all refrain

 

A first cut

  true and deepest

 

Once healed

  —its scar remains

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

I never wanted to be famous,

   I only wanted to be great

 

I never promised you an answer

  even now as questions inflate

 

I traveled each and every highway

  as time kept changing once again

 

I never told you it was magic

  —just a wish blowing in the wind

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Raw and uncut, the Poet

  sharpened his edge

 

His entry point targeted

  fury bright red

 

The first cut the deepest

  and clean to the bone

 

A wound bleeding freely

   —all sutures unknown

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Poetry or Prose

  its hand reaches outward

 

A fist or a backslap

 —composure or blood

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)