Within a poem I found little things -
The scent of earth, the summer of youth
Within it I found the comfort of words
A restful haven of solitude.
I found, too, the thorns that bleed
The world and life when the heart breaks
I saw the beast of wasted lands
And heard the fire of the cannonade.
And within a poem, I found art and soul
I felt the core and the residue
And with every thought shared
Each word written -
Within a poem, I found you.

I can taste the kiss of last night’s rain,
its touch so gentle, as if my body
were a pond rippling from drizzle.

We humans have a language
we choose not to speak,
a brimming tower of gestures meaning

nothing, at least, until we say them.
Hands that float like foreign syllables,
twitching legs that jitter in time

to the anxiety of others’ conversations.
Posture can hold an argument of its own
the way it makes us sturdy as bronze.

In this darkness, I shake my silence
like a bad dream. I want to be honest.
I want to be a silver thread sown

into this patchwork quilt world. The rain
whispers yes. It says let me kiss you
so that your lips feel like they’re dancing.

To throw someone a rope
inscribed with the words
time heals all wounds
is the cruelest of jokes.

The words wrap around us
like a time glass noose
strangling the chance of healing
as it pushes complacency
into our throats the same as
misplaced sentiments of sorrow
lodge under ours tears where
they cannot escape.

No.
Time most certainly does not
heal all wounds.

On the contrary,
time is the biggest advocate
of learning to live
with the pain.

Dream as if you will live forever;
endeavor to rise from the ashes.

Live as if you'll die tomorrow;
devise a plan because there will be
an invariable end.

Tomorrow might rise...
and hell, the world will still be turning,
but tomorrow might not come...
and today was all I had.

I knew I tried my best
and dreamed as if I'd live forever.
and lived as if I'd die tomorrow.

My former hopes are fled,
My terror now begins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead
In trespasses and sins.

Ah, whither shall I fly?
I hear the thunder roar;
The Law proclaims Destruction nigh,
And Vengeance at the door.

When I review my ways,
I dread impending doom:
But sure a friendly whisper says,
"Flee from the wrath to come."

I see, or think I see,
A glimmering from afar;
A beam of day, that shines for me,
To save me from despair.

Forerunner of the sun,
It marks the pilgrim's way;
I'll gaze upon it while I run,
And watch the rising day.

I want to die
in the winter,
—when it’s cold

With the reality
of being alive, stronger,
—than all fantasy of being

Where branches
break crisply,
—like a soul in decision

And the wind carrying away
on its distance,
—all strength and pain

I want to die
in the winter,
—when its cold

(Chicago Illinois: July, 1977)

I’ve written now a thousand Poems,
  in search of just that one

Each word to slay the demon time,
  each phrase my soul undone

I’ve come so close a hundred nights,
   to see but not to touch

Then left to limp between the lines,
 —their failure now my crutch

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)