Poetry’s sacred
prose not so much
One to be read
the other to touch
The verse spoken freely
in a nighttime array
Phrases more conjured
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
The couplets on fire
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)
With Her Love
Each word cutting through
ten pounds of flesh....
The Muse
—killing me with her love
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)