I’m on my fourth lifeline,
  how about you?

The first three pre-owned
  the current one new

This one seems fleeting
  which gives me concern

My freezer now empty,
  no steaks left to burn?

The first one was blissful,
  the second had pain

The third one reflective
  but this fourth one again….

I try to hold on
  and describe it at will

Exceeding my grasp,
  it alludes me and still….

I wouldn’t go back
  to either one, two, or three

The things I see now….
  seeded fruit on my tree

If this is the end,
  and the lights start to dim

I’ll sing the words strongly
  Madonna’s last hymn

More thankful than troubled,
  more joyous than sad

More today than tomorrow
  —the past in the past

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls

After Midnight
The bugles will blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know

After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
All tales to reflect

After Midnight
The ticking won’t stop
After Midnight
The bottom has topped

After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known

After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege

After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Last palate uncleft

After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
A star for the dunce

After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell

After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals

After Midnight
The plain and the slack
After Midnight
There’s no turning back

After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn

After Midnight
The wheels bend and turn
After Midnight
Lost vision relearns

After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn

After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow

After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—new eyes that believe

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

That cartridge in a sniper’s gun,
true Poets kill with only one

The shooters bullet marked by him
one word to kill what lies within

       (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Giving in to the writing

all else went to hell

 

The bills stayed unpaid

one room left to dwell

 

Giving in to the writing

I rolled the last dice

 

Two dots facing upward

—and paying the price

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

I came to your hospice,
I came here to die

I came for my family
a final goodbye

I broke that one promise
I most wanted to keep

Alone on my mountain
no mourners to weep

The doctors and nurses,
they prod and they poke

Their intentions most noble
my spirit on dope

In the night strangers faces
call out my name

And act like they know me
new pawn in the game

If I had that one wish
still left unfulfilled

I would walk to the rim
of the Canyon so still

At dawn I would jump
with both arms open wide

Saying: Thank you, Dear Lord
—for a wonderful ride

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

Writing my way into eternity,

I chose one word at a time

 

Doing my best to avoid modernity

with rhythm and often rhyme

 

Staying true to all my senses

shunning the critic and praiser alike

 

My pen only full of the truest ink

to guide me through the night

 

Writing my way into eternity

each phrase a step to climb

 

Caring not a whit for posterity,

all applause I’ve left behind

 

The light’s become my master

all time its servant—slave

 

As I write and speak to something more

—than gets buried in the grave

 

                                           (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

Like clubs inside my golf bag

each verse a different face

 

Some to drive straight down the course

others lift and then embrace

 

My swing is then adjusted

as words take off and fly

 

And landing safe beyond the trap

—to make the devil cry

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Often accused of abusing the words,

I stand guilty here as charged

 

Their purpose to serve my feelings unnerved,

when into the darkness I bard

 

Used as a shield, my will not to yield

their ink splattered blood stains aglow

 

No guilt do I bear for those letters unspared

—as their corpses define what I know

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

Everyone listened, but nobody talked,

as the Vicar rode on by

 

His horse an old swayback, loaded with bibles

stove hat pointing up toward the sky

 

Everyone listened, but nobody smiled,

as the Vicar stormed and raged

 

“To hell in an instant, to hell you’re all going,”

   bony fingers turning the page

 

Monday till Saturday they spread their delight

catch-as-catch-can, then again

 

But Sunday morning to awaken in fright

—and face the Vicars threatening hand

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

If you knew the words were killing you,

would you choose then not to write

 

Would more calendar days still left to live

make up for the darkness and blight

 

Would the time by days now measured

equal those countless moments untimed

 

Would you die then forever—and over again

or just once in an ending that rhymed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)