Posts Tagged ‘sonnet’

At Dusk

October 11, 2016

At dusk, as the cathedral frogs sing songs
of unprincipled certainty, the fox
will circle the pond in search of what belongs
to every fox no matter how unorthodox.
It couldn’t matter less. Your theoretical
frog is not just a cliché—softened by
the fox’s growl—it is an inestimable
blunder. Why, if their song could even try
to rival a great graveyard in honest terror,
it would be as if all creation waited for
a mot juste from a bare nosed but blessed warrior:
the word, the frogs, the pond, the neither/nor—
‘Neither’ left the fox too much “to see,
‘nor’ for long—not with all them frogs legs for free

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Olives of Endless Age

June 8, 2016

To love so, truly can become the dawn,
The shining afternoon, a tranquil eve,
Every summers’ day you want, the lawn
So green and free of weeds, rain seems naïve.
But I should prove it. Apollo, you can
Be the Olympian, if you like. Dionysus,
I know you’d rather crawl, your life a span
Between mire and fire. Crawl, though, for us.
For we are poor—poor in poverty,
Poor in earthworms—the lawn is sodden black—
And poor in gods and goddesses.  They flee
And fly–perhaps they never will come back.
So, proof I must confess: it works, for clerks
Of love, this poetry of furor. It works.

Ecce Homo

June 6, 2016

Shall I tell you what rhymes with ‘wait’? What turns
Your shoes wet from the snow into the cold
That’s frozen so inside your soul? It burns
For you. This scorching bait becomes a scold—
Also for you. Breathe now. Breathe slowly. Hold
The air against your chest. His fearsome eyes
Should come into your mind afresh. Behold
The man.  Behold his sin—contempt, lies.
The argument, I’d thought was his, was yours,
Was always yours. And seeing all, you did
Not stay. Nor heard me say, no peace, no wars,
No crowns of thorns.  Ecce homo—outbid.
But wait. Just what is it that rhymes with ‘wait’?
Too late to say. Right now, we must placate.

Lancelot

June 4, 2016

But why do I count on you to fight?
Why count at all? Why fuss as time
Must sting to be apostle to your sight?
Such a slight sight, such a false rhyme.
The birds fly high over the castle’s keep.
The children drown each other one by one.
The clouds roll off the sea, a place to sleep,
When pure poetry becomes the  sun.
The moon must hide the clouds, invisible
To man and boy, to be a symbol so
Irreverent, so indivisible
That the man-boy must be a child of woe.
The day is over, so is night…and plot
Must not intrude…on good, kind Lancelot