The Wages Of Sin (+9)

A late night deposit

from my spirit to my soul

 

A transfer without interest

its currency stole

 

The main door won’t open,

the drive-thru is dark

 

One last check to write

with my chariot parked

 

The clerk’s eyes on fire,

as she asks me my name

 

“It’s there on the check”

I repeat in refrain

 

“Your last transfer I see,

we’ll be losing you now

 

“The account to be closed

—take the elevator down”

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

 

In Virtue I Sin

 

It was Hemingway

early

 

And Dickinson

late

 

Those early

exposures

 

The trail of

my wake

 

No bar left

unvisited

 

Or brawl left

unfought

 

No school that could

answer

 

Dialectic

corrupt

 

Now this corner

I sit in

 

Both welcomes

and warms

 

And the thoughts

it retriggers

 

No movement

just form

 

I once had

looked over

 

What I now look

within

 

From this chair

that I captain

 

Where in virtue

—I sin

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

 

 

 

Straddling The Flame

 

Over the fire

and across the coals

 

We made it to safety

our innocence tolled

 

The memory enough

   to scare and profane

 

What fate never mentioned

—as we straddled the flame

 

   (Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015

Listening To Clapton’s ‘Sunshine Of Your Love’

 

 

 

Catching My Words

 

Looking over the edge

of an emotional cliff

 

I saw new feelings

for the very first time

 

Crying out from the back

of a Seraph’s wings

 

They were begging for me

to climb on

 

Promising a flight above

reason and logic

 

Blinding my eyes

with overpowering rhyme

 

I fell into the new silence

with the Angels below

 

Catching my words as they

dropped

—in their song

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

 

An Ending That Rhymes

 

If you knew the words were killing you,

would you choose then not to write

 

Would more calendar days still left to live

make up for the darkness and blight

 

Would the time by days now measured

equal those countless moments untimed

 

Would you die then forever—and over again

or just once in an ending that rhymed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

 

A Threatening Hand

 

Everyone listened, but nobody talked,

as the Vicar rode on by

 

His horse an old swayback, loaded with bibles

stove hat pointing up toward the sky

 

Everyone listened, but nobody smiled,

as the Vicar stormed and raged

 

“To hell in an instant, to hell you’re all going,”

   bony fingers turning the page

 

Monday till Saturday they spread their delight

catch-as-catch-can, then again

 

But Sunday morning to awaken in fright

—and face the Vicars threatening hand

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

Those Letters Unspared

 

Often accused of abusing the words,

I stand guilty here as charged

 

Their purpose to serve my feelings unnerved,

when into the darkness I bard

 

Used as a shield, my will not to yield

their ink splattered blood stains aglow

 

No guilt do I bear for those letters unspared

—as their corpses define what I know

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

 

Beyond The Trap

 

Like clubs inside my golf bag

each verse a different face

 

Some to drive straight down the course

others lift and then embrace

 

My swing is oft adjusted

as words take off and fly

 

And landing safe beyond the trap

—to make the devil cry

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

 

Something More

 

Writing my way into eternity,

I chose one word at a time

 

Doing my best to avoid modernity

with rhythm and often rhyme

 

Staying true to all my senses

shunning the critic and praiser alike

 

My pen only full of the truest ink

to guide me through the night

 

Writing my way into eternity

each phrase a step to climb

 

Caring not a whit for posterity,

all applause I’ve left behind

 

The light’s become my master

all time its servant—slave

 

As I write and speak to something more

—than gets buried in the grave

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

 

 

Snake Eyes

 

Giving in to the writing

all else went to hell

 

The bills stayed unpaid

one room left to dwell

 

Giving in to the writing

I rolled the last dice

 

Two dots facing upward

—and paying the price

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)