Not a student of Poetry,
  more a student of life

The words fell  before me,
  stepping-stones of delight

Not a student of Verse,
  but of musings inspired

My days withdrew inward,
  the years stoked and fired

Not a student of prose,
  but its lover the same

As words strung together,
  and called out my name

Not a Poet or Novelist,
  but a writer for sure

Verbal stepchild unnamed
  —asking for nothing more

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)