What kind of love does a man have
for the offspring
—he will never meet
What kind of love does a man have
for the great-great-grandchildren
—he will never see
What kind of love does a man have
for a future
—beyond his control
What kind of love does a man have
for those distant
—yet present enrolled
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
A Lifetime Of Searching
Sitting alone
among my books,
growing old within myself
A memory came back
its reflection dim,
as I lifted one down from the shelf
Sitting alone
among my books,
I remembered—then remembered again
More than just words
are on those pages I wrote,
it’s my lifetime of searching—in print
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
Just A Writer
Not a professional writer
Not a commercial writer
Not an academic writer
—of tomes
Not a writer of poetry
Not a writer of prose
Not a writer of colloquy
—heaven knows
Not a writer of fiction
Not a writer of fact
Not for comic depiction
—do my words then attack
Not a writer in residence
Not a writer then banned
Not a writer of circumstance
—just a writer, I am
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
My Heart To Chime
Poor in stock yet rich in spirit,
my clock does bow and sway
In rags and tatters all unstitched,
with joy do I still pray
My flesh is weak, my home now burnt
just embers to remind
Within this trouble and burning ash,
on the hour
—my heart still chimes
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
‘From The Book Of Prayers’
To The Bone
Like maggots on a piece of ham,
the critics do their work
Devouring just because they can,
to maim, destroy, and hurt
They eat through flesh right to the bone
never missing one last scrap
Not even a scribbled, half-done poem
—have they ever given back
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
Embracing Your Fear
I’ve always been good at making an entrance,
never choosing to stay
I’ve always been good at passing through,
most often forgetting the day
I bypassed adulthood, becoming a child,
as your legions mocked and jeered
And answered those voices calling out of the wild
—embracing everything you fear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
From Bended Knee
You can take away health,
you can take away riches,
you can take my ability to see
But it will only cause me to feel
you more
—as I cry from bended knee
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
‘From The Book Of Prayers’
Call To Heaven
Poetry’s sacred…
prose not so much
One to be read
the other to touch
The verse spoken freely
in a nighttime array
Phrases eternal
to outlive the day
The medicinal magic
that hides in each line
Lifts my body to flight
in a nocturnal climb
The prose gets pounded
and pounded again
And its linear sense
I find hard to befriend
As twilight appears
from the corner of my eye
Each couplet on fire,
and I look to the sky
With my very last breath
not taken in vain
It’s with meter and rhyme
—I call to heaven again
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
‘From The Book Of Prayers’
Morning Flower
If I a man of simple mind
and simple faith
Could hold your love within my heart
for just an hour
On bended knees my arms would raise
toward heaven’s gate
Like petals reaching out
from a morning flower
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
‘To Kathryn’