All the pure thinkers

are slave to the Poet

Their theories self-serving

whose quotients divide

 

With ‘facts’ that convict them

to prisons constructed

From every transcendence

— their numbers can’t hide

 

(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: May, 2025)

In their formative

moments

artists live alone

Sharing themselves

only when

the pain has dulled

 

In corners

of dark musings  

their spirit’s hide

Calling out  

whenever the lights go down

— and the rush is gone

 

(The New Room: May, 2025)

I had

all the wealth

And I had

all the fame

I had all

the glamour

One life

could contain

 

I had

all the friends

And I had

all the foes

That now sit

as equals

On the end

of my nose

 

I had

all these things

But one message

rings true

To have

and to hold

Is but folly

— adieu

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)

The older

I get

the simpler

it seems

 

Each day

growing freer

divorced from

my dreams

 

Each year

brings the seasons

of Summer

through Spring

 

And months

in transition

new changes

they bring

 

The answers

I chased for

those questions

I asked

 

Rest quietly

dormant

in the future

and past

 

As time

now a mistress

no longer

a wife

 

My world’s

come full circle

in this magic

— called life

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)

The loss of

each simple

thing

hurting the most

When drama

subsides

and time slows

to its worst

Your shadow

still living

inside of my

pain

To darken each

heartache

again

— and again

 

(The New Room: May, 2025)

 

Sebastian

couldn’t live

without saving

the walls

His paint

covering over

dire messages

 scrawled

 

All passersby  

witnessed

each canvas

restored

Reframing

dark alleys

with hope

evermore

 

Sebastian

a warrior

of brush

and stroke fame

Graffiti

a pockmark

his quest

to disclaim

 

Alone

in his wander

where shadows

hold court

Each wall of new

slander

his palette

— retorts   

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)

 

 

What stays

unwritten

 silence claims

forever

— to remain unchanged

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)

Not so much

a lie

with little

truth to tell

 

Not so much

goodbye

with greetings

gone to hell

 

Not so much

romance

with feelings

dead or pawned

 

Not so much

to dream

with sleep

— bereft and gone

 

(Bryn Mawr College: May, 2025)

When verses

run dry

do you hide

in despair

When the Muse

is on fire

only ashes

you’ll bear

With silence

embedded

on each

empty page

Your fear

is the foundling

that kindles

— the rage

 

(Ronald McDonald House: May, 2025)

 

 

 

 

Trimming fat

off his soul

he searched

for the bone

 

With every

new slicing

his consciousness

honed

 

All waste in

the fire

to sizzle

and fry

 

Excesses

like smoke

rise forgotten

— incised

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)