The Last Bell (+4)

Senses untamed,

spaces to reign

Bodies that die,

spirits to fly

By length or by width,

time is a myth

Dimension aground,

essence refound

Eyes looking forward,

eyes looking back

Eyes looking inward,

soul reattached

All that was spoken,

providence sings

Grand sublimation,

—last bell to ring

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

The Debt

Buying my life back,

a Poem at a time

The debt was slowly paid,

in rhythm and in rhyme

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Still Lost

Though great were Joyce’s writings,

—his preference was to sing

Irish ballads and Welsh folk songs,

his raucous nights to bring

With transience his dearest Muse,

words speaking for themselves

His truth to roar from greater depths,

—still lost within himself

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Transfusion's Masquerade

 How can you teach Poetry,

or breathe for someone else

Sharing what your soul has freed,

deep within yourself

Can you cross a bridge unbuilt,

its toll not yours to pay

Squeezing blood from wounds long healed,

—transfusion’s masquerade

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Distant Thunder

We were there,

but we weren’t

We took part,

and we didn’t

There was war,

with all affected

There was death,

and some objected

There was music,

we got lost in

Assassinations,

left us frozen

Alienation,

drove us inward

Graduation,

for beginners

Half a century,

now forgotten

Ten short years,

in time begotten

Raged a storm,

of hope and wonder

Alive today,

—a distant thunder

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)