My mind is a garden
  whose plants have grown tall

Their season end harvest
  awaiting the call

Ideas and feelings
  cross over in rows

The laughter of children
  to lead where they go

My thoughts now a storeroom
  the food all put up

Its sustenance waiting
  for time to erupt

The answers gone fallow
  inside of my head

All questions reseeded
   —and pointing ahead

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2019)

Twilight,
Day surrendering
Light into
Submission,
Taking a knee
Before the night,
Entrusting its
Future
To a darkness
Unknown,
Waiting in the cold
—for dawn to return

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

What I knew before birth
  I will know after death

This slight pause called life
  —where the soul takes a breath

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2018)

Blood,
fires from my pen
like a well shot round

14 karat *******,
mighty wound of
self aggression

Letters,
reducing armies
into a special force

Time dying,
as mortared ink strikes
the page

The raw edge of battle,
...new combatants die,
leaving their mark

Cursive warriors of the
spoken word,
martyred sentinels of a bigger truth,
—walking the line

(Richmond Virginia: December, 2002)

Before I could return to writing prose,
  the Muse kidnapped my pen by decree

Most days fully structured and measured on end,
  but tonight
     —words yearned to be free

Each story cerebral, its words to describe,
  new plots marching forward in time

With fables inscribed for others, not I,
   my true voice
      —wanting only to rhyme

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Before I could return to writing prose,
  verse took my pen by decree

Days fully structured and measured on end
  but tonight
    —words yearned to be free

The stories cerebral, their words bellicose
  new plots marching forward in time

With a story inscribed for others, not I,
  my true voice
      —wanting only to rhyme

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Severed madness….
  the wounds bleed again

All stitches have broken
  stains marking the end

Unsutured indemnity
  ensuring your pain

All flesh now in enmity
—last bugler in flames

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

A hemorrhaging madness…
  wounds bleeding again

Old stitches have broken
  death marking the end

Unsutured indemnity
  ensuring your pain

Flesh burning in enmity
  —uncauterized shame

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Delay success for as long
As you can…
Living up to an image
Will only cloud your judgment
Stealing what you can least
Afford to lose
Dragging you into the illusion
And myth
That could take a lifetime
To rail against
Dragging you into the
Vicarious trap
Of praise falsely given
—and wasted dreams

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Fighting my memory,
I watched the calendar turn
Flashes of my grandfather
Racing through my mind
Age wasn’t supposed to be like this
Or then…maybe it was
Darkness
Followed by darkness
Then more darkness again
Where is the light
Hours of larceny
Time being stolen
Waiting, waiting
Fighting with my
Memory
—watching the calendar turn

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2013)

Palliative to hospice,
  I jump from stone to stone

The river waits in silence,
—its waterfall unknown

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

Night Guardian

A steward of memory
  —the caretaker of dreams

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)


    The Eagle Cries

A new American profile
   —the look of fear

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)

      
       Its Treasure Calls

Nostrils fill with wood smoke
   a mountain spewing lies

Fifty miles up the trail,
  its legend waves goodbye

Lost Dutchman in my memory,
  the map no longer clear

While buried deep inside the truth
  —its treasure calling dear


(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)


           In Print

Truth outlasts memory
  —on the printed page

(Train to New Hampshire: March, 2014)

Joplin was to Southern Comfort,
  what Hendrix was to smack
Morrison was to masquerade,
  what Dylan never lacks

Woodstock was to 69,’
  what music was to time
Saigon was to those who stayed,
  what Auschwitz now reminds

Kennedy was to hopes and dreams,
  what nightmares were to some
Castro was to leftist thugs,
  what cymbals are to drums

Kissinger was to Nixon
  what Canada was to home
Dr. King to civil rights,
  what kings are to their thrones

Walter Cronkite was to news,
  what intention was to fact
Altar boys were to Priests,
  what pretzels are to snacks

58,000 were to die,
  what a wall was to proclaim
58,000 were to all,
  what conscience is to shame

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Twilight falls onto my
  windowsill

Demon fire in full
  retreat

The stars return
  glowing embers that burn

In whose radiance
  an Angel will sleep

Days grip is unchained,
  the cantor sings while he prays

As the chorus cries out
  “It’s unplugged”

The sun has now left
  with my hopes not bereft

Only the night
  —points to heaven above

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)