The words flock together
and stretch on the frame
Their meaning runs over,
still wet from the pain
The canvas is porous,
the easel maligned
The curtains blow outward,
faces calling in mime
The streets all a-chatter,
it was Paris in spring
And striving to look busy,
the most important of things
Looking back at my window,
above the tannery so high
A shadow stares back
—and I flee in disguise
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Forever On Hold
A literary sociopath…
Hemingway wrote
Both gifted and tortured,
his words they provoke
A verbal combatant,
new victories untold
His last proving fatal
—all memory on hold
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)