I look in the mirror and all I can see Ain’t the image staring back at me I got a lot of regrets that I just can’t escape Like a load of my own wretched mistakes Written ‘cross the brow of my own soul Making me look deathly like Hell and Sheol Day after day,…

My wife! Ah, my sweet wife! She is my one whole life! A smile and a kiss Both come forth from her lips, And form in me a bliss That upturns my own lips, As I plant my own kiss On her lips and light bliss In the heart of my life, My wife, my…

Sing, O shout: Happy Resurrection Day! Now, it is calling from a long way off– Now, it is here and at my very door! Rising, it stands forth with the new Day’s Sun, With each degree more and more manifest In all brilliance and magnificence,  Arms outstretched to illuminate the Sky– That vast ocean overhead…

“Sex” is a dirty Word, so This poem will not be about Sex, Nor about what goes on between The sheets, Nor about how loud or long She cries, Nor about how long or thick His thing is, Nor about widened and penetrated Orifices, Nor about the undulating rhythm Preceding orgasms. Because “sex” is a dirty…

One more poem of mindless Chatter Empty words that speak the Matter Recounting echoes of no Matter Simply sounding out the Chatter Chit chat rat a tat Sit back and relax Listen to the sounds that Beat upon the habitat  Random words random words Fly about like random birds Make a rhyme every time With…

I could not find a single poem of love That was quite right for our sweet, rich romance. Not one poem I could find with the words of How it is that we play and prance and dance, Of how it is we sing sweet lullabies In the bright light of the high noonday sun…

Because one sole poem is never enough To encapsulate the love that I hold  For you, bound up in my heart as the pulse, Which pounds forth the pulse of the beat of life For you, my love, my life, my e’erlasting, I write you this verse. Because you are precious and you are mine,…

It has been said that Writing a poem is an endeavor To be taken on By giants. Giants write poems because They have to, because No one else can or is able  To write a poem— As all-encompassing, As massive an endeavor It is to write a poem. For the page stares up  At the…

To my love, the soul of my life, To my love, my one and only wife: What has been written  With the ink of our blood, Borne forth from the fount Of our one, united heart; What has been written With the pen of our lives, Deep within the bones Of our one, united flesh;…

Redemption comes from on High—and it must be so, for none of us could e’er atone for the sins we have committed against the One Who sits on High, enthroned above in the perfect purity of endless harmony within Himself, Who knows no end of the perfection of completeness nor vicissitudinous needs as though He…