Are you the hero of your own
  dime novel

Are you the toy at the bottom
  of the ******* jacks box

Are you the name on the wall
  of the public bathroom

Are you the saline solution
  they use to detox

Are you that groove in the record
  that repeats over again

Are you a promise forgotten
  carried off by a friend

Are you a serial spectator
  whose ticket’s not punched

Are you a banquet disaster
  in search of your lunch

Is your mirrored reflection
  left empty and cold

Is the one option left you
  —forlorn but foretold

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2018)

The soul is not
  by nature born

Or by the earth
  breastfed

It kneels before
  loves distant star

Whose light
  —its promise wed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Science…
  a handmaiden of knowledge

The upstairs maid
  in a mansion of discovery

Chauffeuring itself
  along roads it has built

A quantitative valet
  —in the closet of the unknown

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

Is randomness designed,
  can the dice roll more defined

Is entropy a map,
  less complex as time adapts

Can ignorance be renamed,
  as a home for knowledge gained

Can the circle then be squared
  —arcs and angles still to share

(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: May, 2019)

Is there always one verse
  you still have yet to write

And if not—what’s the point
  of it all

Are you the repository of
  all you have felt

Or the dealer and merchant
  of lies

Are your thoughts tattooed onto
  your immortal soul

With your feelings exposed
  or held back

Are the words disconnected
  from the ink in your veins

Do you live within
  all that you’ve said

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)

Our heads so deeply in the sand,
  we thought it wouldn’t come

And would never heed its warnings,
  our denial zero-sum

The result of our inaction,
   this swamp we dwell within

The wolf now shed of Grandma’s robe,
—Armageddon to begin

(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)

My thoughts are my weapons,
  my pen is my sword

My will is my whetstone,
  my Knighthood
    —my Lord

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2014)

A vicarious metaphor
—the writer’s privilege

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Those at my behest…
  know that limits persuade
  and words orphaned alone
  into emptiness hide
  with the snow passing on
  a new robin will sing
  each breath left forgotten
  until spoken aloud
  as memories fall from grace
    —in the silence unnamed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2019)

When your art
Becomes divorced
From any end result
—you have arrived

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2014)

The lack of fame
  my spirit free

A bird uncaged
  amongst the trees

Its weight not lifted
  and never there

My breath in sequence
   above the air

The lack of fame
  art’s greatest gift

My oath to no one
  allegiance kept

As thoughts go hither
  and feelings yon

My soul untempered
  —my words to song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2018)

Are people religious because
   they’re good?

Or good, because they’re
   religious?

The questions remain,
  the verdict unclaimed

The wrong answer deemed
  —sacrilegious

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Are people religious because
   they’re good?

Or good, because they’re
   religious?

The question remains,
  its verdict unclaimed

The wrong answer deemed
  —sacrilegious

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

Without there being a God,
  we could never question his existence

Through the shadows of the interrogatory
  divinity shines

Do apes question, do birds question,
  do flowers question—Aquinas asked

Only through the act of self-reflection
   —is the Creator truly known

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2018)

My window stays open
As my doorway is shut
A vision more focused
Through a lens old and stuck
The horizon now centered
Its pathway so clear
All intention a laser
As death becomes near

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)

Often it’s just sound,
  searching for meaning

Until there’s a voice,
  and words start releasing

Then it’s the story,
  as language takes form

Together now one
   —as ever before

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

The Poet dilettante, pretty words,
—not much else

Your world falls apart, head buried,
  darkness felt

Shangi-la’s luxury, your dreams
  can’t afford

Rome’s pillars under siege, strong words
   must accord

Through hundreds of millenia what has been
  learned

“Freedom is won by blood when all cowardice
  spurned”

Unwilling to fight the enemies fire
  with fire

Your good intentions to burn,
  —your ashes bemired

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)

My tongue inspired,
   words despised

The page on fire,
—ashes cry

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Is memory left immortal,
  once the body dies

Are feelings cast eternal,
  the last crow having cried

Does thought live on inside itself,
  all time enslaved at last
  
One flame to burn the meaning deep
   —all ashes in the past

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2017)

Bending that last letter,
  like Sonny’s wailing G’

My final breath to rock the world,
  old silence breaking free

All lines are set on fire,
  the keyboard then explodes

The stage unhinged, the base is singed,
  the harpist hits the road

Old memories pang, feelings twang,
  the heat burns right from wrong

As words once old, renew again,
  —and ashes sing their song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
              'Blues Poem #12'

The Citizens danced
  Romulus cried

Centurions posed
  in Legions wide

“The world is ours”
   they said in glee

“And death to those
  who don’t concede”

The past unyielding
  future loaned

The present flew
  like David’s stone

Their party ending
  candles burnt

With spoils poisoned
  lessons spurned

And history writes
  that in a day…

What once was Rome
  was cast astray

Whose legend carved
  in stone reminds

What young Narcissus
  hoped to find

The glory that once
  ruled the world

Now left in rubble
  myth unfurled

As time awaits
  to stalk our path

That wolf inside
  —as history laughs

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)