morals corroded
humans live like skeletons ---
phantoms play ballets
centennial
wooden chapel
summer hours
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
The great American Songbook
whose words march off the page
Its music now a footnote
—to a century of rage
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Born January eighth, nineteen thirteen
No champagne, no birthday cake
No celebration or even a banner
Only memories of a party
That might have been
January eighth, two thousand thirteen
Taken too soon
You would have reached a hundred
What your eyes have seen
All the progress you witnessed
For better or for worse
A century ago
Impossible for us
To even imagine
How times were different then
With so few fancy cars
Different priorities
And preoccupations
A different era
A different world
Happy hundredth to you
Cheers. Love you. Rest in peace
We’ve tried to move on without you
For better or for worse
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~ALWAYS WITH ME~ 2020
AP: 3rd place 2020
Born January eighth
Nineteen thirteen
No clinking champagne flutes
No blowing out birthday candles
Only impressions of a party
That might have been
This reverent January eighth
Two thousand thirteen
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on November 5, 2017 for contest 8-LINE POEM sponsored by RICK PARISE - RANKED 3RD
I often visited this forest,
making acquaintance
with a centennial maple tree;
there I conversed eloquently...
as if I were talking to a trusted friend.
I went back yesterday around nine
to admire its shimmering green foilage,
and discovered it was cut down to a stump...
before crashing and breaking the brenches of birch and pine,
as black ooze bleeded, fuxed and bubbled under its cracked bark.
And wondering what causes its fall,
I searched for a cause by examining its trunk...
leading to its rotten roots detached from loose soil;
was it too old to withstand a fierce Autumn's storm?
Or did a violent torrent add to its toil?
Unfortunately, nothing I do or say will comfort it,
its death has came too suddenly and violently,
taking down many beeches and firs beneath it;
now, a wide space above it has let in sunlight...
taking away the cool shade that sheltered me.
I grieve for the anguish and helplessness that it felt,
not having been there to embrace it...
as soon as it plunged to the untroubled ground below;
ah, if that tempest had never come,
I wouldn't be weeping and be overcome by sorrow!
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