This last ride almost over,
the train coming to a stop
The mighty engine slowing down,
my ticket punched and clocked
With words I left untendered,
in towns along the tracks
My thoughts there drift upon the wind,
my legacy attached
This journey seemed redundant,
the scenery looked the same
But voices never heard before,
cry out and call my name
The conductor gives fair warning,
his face I know so well
“A turnout waits, the tracks will switch,
to heaven—or to hell”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)
Wild And Free
Do your writings age,
like wine
Or turn to vinegar,
—left behind
Do your thoughts get
old and gray
Or stay well muscled,
—youth in play
Is your will still yours
to bend
Enslaved by nothing,
—sans pretense
Is there love upon
your tree
There for the picking,
—wild and free
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)