Thursday, June 13, 2019

Landscape with Lanterns (Paul Delvaux), Sonnet #461

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.









The doorways are too small for grown women,
Who’re as tall as the ever-lit street lamps.
This is a city of unspoken sin,
Surrounded by ancient stones and armed camps.
Litter bearers take angels to the lake,
Where wing-naked once again they wake
In the warm waters off the stoney shore
Only to find that they’re angels no more.
On the flagstone street a mother, praying
Or reading from a book, awaits the Change,
The moment when she and all her daughters
No longer hear what men are unsaying,
When all they’ve understood becomes deranged
And their minds (if not their souls) are slaughtered.

Thursday, June 6, 2019

Tyrannosaurus Rex, “Sue” (Field Museum), Sonnet #460

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.







It’s thought s/he was a filthy scavenger, 
Like rats, roaches, or the turkey vulture.
Her arms were just too small and weak to fight,
And all a ruse that prodigious bite!
Absurd, a monster roaming on and on
Looking for whose leftover carrion?
They say volcanoes or an asteroid
Killed them all off in a few years or days,
Leaving earth a dark and near-lifeless void,
Blind for millennia to solar rays.
I loved them as a kid. Now I wonder
Why we don’t tremble today at thunder
Of beasts. New catastrophes loom, some think.
Will we live long enough to be extinct?

Thursday, May 30, 2019

Philosophy, 1899 (Gustav Klimt), Sonnet #459

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.


















That being and nothing and time
Are the three dimensions of mind,
Qualia same in sense, not kind,
Is more than a plausible rhyme.
All unquestionable questions
Have been asked, answers propounded,
By men who offer suggestions
As truth — and we are astounded!
But what takes me is the beauty
Of one idea (though not its words,
Elusive as murmuring birds),
A glimpse of my own purity.
Combined they’re an absurdity.
Nothing is found in surety.

Thursday, May 23, 2019

Rose-Breasted Grosbeak (John James Audubon), Sonnet #458

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.

















The grosbeaks war at my backyard feeder,
The males windmilling their black and white
Wings at each other until one relents.
And the female? For now none heed her,
Fueling themselves for the next long flight.
If she left first would they know where she went?
The male’s breast is fuchsia more than rose,
A color less real but iridescent,
A jewel in a ring when the birds’ wings close —
In flight they stir red, black and white air
(Yes, everywhere in nature red is rare).
The first seen in spring seems a miracle
In a yard home of sparrow and grackle.
When they leave they fly with their own free will.

Thursday, May 16, 2019

The Story of the Universe, Sonnet #457

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.









There’s light and its divisibility
Or blackness and invisibility.
We get distant glimpses of genesis,
Stars that could blink out at any second
Or bloom like a lovely woman’s kiss.
No, in our beginning is not our end.
Time is a thrown bone, not an arrow,
Flung end over end, sucked of its marrow.
The story of the universe, begun
Long before the kindling of our sun
Has been acted out, but never told,
A dumbshow of the older growing old.
A boy in leg braces has his star; stares
At it when he can. It is always there.

Note: Photo artwork by the author.

Thursday, May 9, 2019

The Moon Calf (Franz Sedlacek), Sonnet #456

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.
















I once rode the moon calf 
Over the city roofs.
He was only a half
And made a nice saddle.
(Please don’t ask me for proof.)
Both of us were addled
By his mother’s mooning,
As if she didn’t mind
I might be marooning
Her boy from his own kind.
My ride bucked and I fell
Into a wishing well.
I said, “You go home now.”
The calf became a cow.

Thursday, May 2, 2019

Powehi, Black Hole, Sonnet #455

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.





From every point three axes extend,
Of height, dimension, and depth in all
Directions; each axis points to each point.
But what if the point is not just the end
Or start, let’s say, of an horizontal
Axis, but a kind of reality joint?
Passing beyond each point axes enter
Neg space (unless we’re the minus center).
The black hole boils like a witch’s pot
Turning what there is into what is not.
Does it spew what’s left into a new space
To launch galaxies or an alien race,
Or the negative of our universe,
Everything here created in reverse?