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If It Wasn’t For Poetry

From the very depths of my inner being I cherish  poetry,
without the written verse I’d  be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of  laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,

Time Stops

Time stops. The vile hands receive their recompense. Time stops. The fallen rise again. Time stops. Prayers ascend to the inner court. Time stops. The door opens to the needy. Time stops. The night summons the cocooned. Time stops. There is a battle between two worlds. Time stops. The withered meadows bloom. Time stops. The tendrils of darkness retreat. Time stops. The seekers stand by a glowing river. Time stops. I see my mother kneeling by her bedside, faint words escaping her lips as tears stream down her face. Time stops.

August 13th, 2025 – twenty six plus years since awful series of unfortunate events

The following poem posted about a half hour before the bewitching hour that spelled calamity (which though a freaky Friday the thirteenth) did (nor does) not find me exceptionally superstitious, and rather than wait for the morrow, I feel so pent up with aggravation concerning chronic checking account issues linkedin to Citizens Bank a need for a healthy distraction finds me sharing a tragi-comic combination of contusions upon body electric of mine at that time a forty year old father of two young daughters.

Chrysanthemums

In autumn’s hush, they rise like quiet suns, Petals folded in a scholar’s patient grace; The frost-tipped dawn, the season nearly done, Yet still they hold their luminous embrace. Not roses' boast, nor lilies' fleeting breath, But steadfast blooms that weather winter's call; They speak in tones of gold about a death That is no end, but transformation’s thrall. Each bloom a lantern lit for shorter days, A testament to beauty’s tempered will; In fading light they weave their steadfast blaze, And teach the heart how courage can be still. So may we learn, beneath the paling skies, To flower bes
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