Seasons Recouple (+2)

There’s comfort in knowing,

  things come and they go

 

The wind brings a newness,

  whether lilac or snow

 

There’s joy in all laughter,

   freely accrued

 

Music in words,

  spoken only by you

 

A place to be born,

  a moment to die

 

An ending beginning,

  last chance to decide

 

That question unasked,

  its answer unclaimed

 

Both orphans of joy

  … no adopted refrain

 

To sing from the rafters,

  an unfinished hymn

 

That angel before you,

   the angel within

 

Death’s only proffer

  …remembrance to lose

 

As the seasons recouple

  —your world again new

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

 

 

 

Clever

 

I hate the word clever,

  it seeks to demean

 

With hidden entendre’

  and devious schemes

 

I hate how it sounds,

  as it rolls off the tongue

 

To strike from all language

   —if my power was sum

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

 

 

 

Words Unspoken

 

Have your words stayed unspoken,

   to mislead or confuse?

 

Those phrases kept distant,

  the voice of the Muse?

 

Have your words stayed unspoken,

  as you’ve traveled in vain?

 

Your mileposts painted,

  with fury and pain?

 

Have your words stayed unspoken,

   are your motives still pure?

 

Your thoughts as intended

   —or to even the score?

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

 

 

Never To Last

 

All time shattered memory,

  and faces now past

 

Stare back as I dream

  —meant never to last

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

 

 

Dancing Freely

 

All of our passions

  border on sin

 

The reasoning gray,

  the line often thin

 

All of our joy

  dances freely between

 

That Angel above us

  —and a Devil unseen

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

 

 

 

Only For Show

 

I’m a Type A Poet,

 literarily incorrect

 

In the company of fools,

  my pen goes for their neck

 

They sing to the choir,

  while we cry and spill blood

 

Their trash in the fire,

  their lies in the mud

 

The things that we struggle with,

  just folly to them

 

As their dilettante pleadings,

  ramble on and pretend

 

Their self psycho-analysis,

  and the time that they steal

 

Turn to dead broken promises,

  masking what they can’t feel

 

The thing they most run from,

  we welcome inside

 

As they tunnel and burrow,

  trying harder to hide

 

And their one greatest fantasy,

   for us never to know

 

That their self-proclaimed mastery

   —was at best just a show

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)