Category Archives: Sonnet

“If Not a Summer’s Day”

“If Not a Summer’s Day”

If not a summer’s day, then let me celebrate
Some last year’s moment’s  fecund random fruit, emerging produce
From repeated seasons; so be it, someone else’s seed deduced
From natural selection reduced to poverty in the actual delight. The penultimate
Arrival of the cycle’s sun has surpassed Orion’s
Yawn, a codicil of peace within the annual rut of reason.  But for the sake
Of natural pleasures in the thought abused, treason within the process is raked,
Its many points become a species, then a phylum
Sealed and steeled as wrapped within a velvet robe, the ripened peach,
With subtle flavour, discrete; its ancient used aroma all but moot
Until at last the weather’s hope of heaven’s born, takes root,
And in the swath of shadows in the other afternoon its child appears
As fit for sacrifice, a single bit in some innocuous familiar rite–
The residue of autumn’s care at dusk before the coming winter’s night.

“Someone Questions”

deep-colours-14s

“Someone Questions”

…a question of mood and atmosphere…

Someone questions; in the soul who asks,
A sense of limitless flight, as in a light cast against
A cosmic scrim, a naked form made indisposed, concupiscence
So well hedged in that even snakes and asps
Imagine kingdoms, place and calling. One seeks
Solace in the stars drawn loosely in the dawn in meadows where the lark
And scissortail fly with grace and prudence safe within the dark
And moonlit bosom of the ether side of night. These may speak
In early evening mists as harbingers of loss or sparks, a dawn’s execution’s stay
For both are lost at first appearances of the other’s prescient rites.
Someone’s asking too many questions, standing, stupid in astonishment―slights
To similitudes, approbation of the moon in the cold blue light of day―
And while away their twilight hours in repetitious casting of the bones and runes,
Hers the scarlet crystals, his the blue.

“The Feet”

Escalator2

“The Feet”

The feet commend the escalators, wise,
Perhaps, yes. No hurry here.
So many trains, so many things to fear
And nothing moves but lies and alibis
In search of something less than action
More than brief delight, a slight distraction
In a brief but numbing journey from less to satisfaction.
Cables flash, that sudden lurch, light abstraction
Sends them tumbling yet they stand their posts
And are not moved unless it be some final
Transfer from incarnation through the wall; a spinal
Tap away in increments, epiphanies in search of hosts
Who until now have given less than ought
To how they lived or what their sanity has cost.

Escalator1

“Well Met this Thing”

seedling

“Well Met this Thing”

Well met this thing, a solace
To the whole as in a natural rhyme, a seedling
Leaning deftly, sifting energies, a grace note from the sun, breathing
Freshly gathered light, a sacrifice of self to self to manifest largess
By choice;  a certitude robed in servitude, sweet volition made
Weathered, shrunk, and wedded to the greater or the lesser daylight gains.
Swelling actions often stagger in the night’s timed shadow’s pains
As simple growth, or guided by the healing spade
And shears—a graft, perhaps—something more substantial
Than what nature had bestowed and then some; a fertile
Gift of place to place and thus in time, itself, beyond the servile
Sum of all its parts; a mortal substance thus a circumstantial
Harvest of perception, there because it’s seen, a simple story
Asking nothing but an audience in brief pedestrian glory.

“Lest Led Ajar”

Agèd

“Lest Led Ajar”

Lest let ajar in blindness, we must surely know
The juggernauts will move again this week,
As highways clog, evacuation buses seek
The higher ground and seeds of fear are sown
Within the airways, “Danger! Friends beware!”
And no one now may turn away and say
He’s not apprised nor moved to reëvaluate
The ground with prudence; diehards raise the fist and swear
They’ll not be first nor yet a second time removed.
But in the main, these , the sparks and fire
Among the cries, pathetic measures kill for hire
Throughout Nigerian muds and Balkan floods, and lewd
Wonders in what traffic walks the boiling streets of Texas and California.
Behold the spectres! closer to truth, of reigns of Cain in nomine Pacis Romanum.
.

“With Abruptness”

trumpimage

“With Abruptness”

With abruptness comes the uplifted fist, a draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter parados, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts cannot discern nor in the discourse
Is it possible for speech to register a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation—
Content, superfluous ballast—the stuff of odes leach sadness
In the breach for fear  that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and all evidence on the floor
withdrawn from all others.
Comes a welling of selflessness for simple gladness
Sealed in radiant acquiescence, futures steeped in martyrs’ crimson inks
at first stirrings of anagnorisis. Here dwells dull
But conscious resignation to what appears to be defeat of all mottoes
Writ in luminous capitals: “The Thing’s Not Working!” And in the grotto,
Then, the chorus spells the penultimate invocation; the last bull;
The space between the lines, in turn the very eye of so vainglorious a day:
“This cannot come to good! Fools react where wisdom merely prays.

“There Are Times”

green-sea-turtle_564_600x450

“There Are Times”

There are times when rocks are all I need,
A shelter, something solid, something half complete.
No eternal covering, nothing dreamed. I just can’t sleep
Right now, and all I want to do is sit a spell, and see
Myself through what it is I ought to feel.
There is so much to think about at times,
(The lunar bride’s not called as yet) my mind’s not clear, but I’m
Not sure I care to do a thing nor move about those eels
I see that make so many close to me so utterly confused.
You know I rarely miss my ride, so, if
You don’t mind, I’ll sit and stare, and sift
Through things I shouldn’t think about, and muse
About myself till dusk. And if you please, I’ll shift
From time to time to let you know I haven’t died,
Abide a while, and let the moon bring in the tide.

“So Where To?”

liner

“So Where To?”

So where to from here; tug daily grind, line
The which depends so much, so little
Upon report, rapport; cement ‘n spittle,
True juice, sap; pure, refined,
Pliant to the touch; spine
Present in the optic and so…brittle?
Caught in upper or lower case, median middle
(And then some)…or is the channel closed,
Blocked for repairs, incognito
For want of words or syntax
Or something less substantial, posed
Between just another meme; revealed though
By no means sealed o’er in blood-red wax?

seals

“The Age”

“The Age”

The age, the arc, the spectre of unspeakables
And contention; a single strike will kill, but with the honeybee
Comes purpose by the lot and ensured harmony,
Do not disturb!” and “Multiples; Invincibles!
Reluctantly, to be sure,  but timely come the constables,
Harbingers of an hour’s solemnity
And stark reminders of inevitable uncertainties—
“A step too far!” is heard, and while the intruder’s able,
The antidote comes in hosts, swarms
And spirits in the multiples and in the interim
Kindnesses in part to save the whole.
No bellicose delivery here, no spectacle of effort to console
The soul but simple missives bearing news of certified afflictions warn
Of death: “The hive or thee, my friend: the hive or thee; attend!”

fear

Placated in the Midnight

Rainbow road

“Placated in the Midnight”

Placated in the midnight for a time, softly moving, flowing purples
Prove longing in a hurried bower. Sentiments, interpreted
In their yearning by a greater sight, a gilded purity, requests to know
A deeper joy in stations far above their own. These! the strident yellows,
Richest apricots, stealth in forest greens, and in their mirrors’ prism others
In a rainbow’s richest hues. Truculence and degradation spawn another
Third, a half note difference that in the hour makes no sense. These! their fellow
Travellers pause but moments in this place and for all intents
And purposes yield to what they think has come pass. Conclusions
Mount in efforts to remember who it was could do this to whom. Confusion
Circumvents the purpose of reunion when their synergies, delayed, are bent
Distorting content, vanities and what they both have willed:
Blindness in the heart and mind while all precocious certitude is stilled.