Thursday, January 23, 2020

Title Unknown (Yves Tanguy), Sonnet #495

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
















I crawl beneath a cart that’s bearing trees
As thin as matchsticks and wait for love.
I feel not the slightest hesitant breeze
Nor do the sickly branches quiver above.
The cart has no handles that I can grasp,
Which leaves salvation to patient motion
With no guarantees, like the last gasp
Of the flounder stranded on the ocean
Beach waiting for a friendly stretching wave,
One in a thousand, if he’s to be saved.
I can wait beneath the cart for so long
Before risking rolling beneath its wheels.
I am agile enough, but not too strong,
And love, as I have learned, fears how death feels

Thursday, January 16, 2020

Fanciful Ink Drawing II (Franz Sedlacek), Sonnet #494

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









Top-hatted crows fly single file to roost,
Run the town like magicians, all for show.
The snake-tailed cat and Mr. Legnose, loosed
Like all the other inmates, love to crow.
Ostrich-legged, necky racers set the pace
While tittering dancing ghosts dance in place.
But the man-mouthing Eggman’s won the race.
The castle’s prisoners wail from the roof
That they were arrested with too much proof.
A constrictor hangs, his neck in a knot,
From a decayed tree where men made of sticks
Perform unbelievable gymnastics.
The Ringmaster chides his caterpillar,
Though the Boss is a yapping black terrier.



Thursday, January 9, 2020

Knot Eye Tiger (Alice Bea Guerin), Sonnet #493




















The Japanese artist reduces the word
To the image, not unlike a cartoon
In its simplicity and lack of depth,
To find the inessence of the absurd,
The quintessence of the present rune.
Such images never drew in a breath,
But they look at us with knotted eyes
Drawing tight the ends of close and soon,
All to answer our what’s? with why’s?
This is our one tiger, the tigers croon.
You are only yourselves in our disguise,
Only knowing us without being wise.
The tiger has disappeared into the page
To reappear in the next human age.

Thursday, January 2, 2020

State Street Bridge, Sonnet #492

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









The fourth son sat in the middle
Of the back seat as his father
Drove them around their new home town.
For being twelve, he was little,
Wore a brace of steel and leather.
His Mom told him to settle down
When he complained he was hungry.
The streets were unplowed slush and ice.
The river hadn’t frozen twice.
His parents always seemed angry.
He’d remember this wandering drive,
How no one laughed or even spoke
(As if their new home held no hope),
Snowblind to renewing life. 

Thursday, December 26, 2019

Der Luftballon (Paul Klee), Sonnet #491

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














If you don’t know your ego, don’t ask it,
“Who are you really, a hot air balloon
Carrying me aloft in a basket?”
Its likely response? “Don’t be a buffoon.” 
We must accept what is most obvious,
That we are all we are, are all there is.
That town or field below are chimeras
And Aldebaran is oblivious.
We (what are we?) float, afflatuses
Incapable of nothing, kings of all,
Until our fear of ourselves deflates us.
Gasping, flailing, we wither of air and fall.
Courage! Ride the currents above the clouds,
Those infinitely reproducing crowds.

Thursday, December 19, 2019

Portrait of Felix Feneon (Paul Signac), Sonnet #490

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










An anarchist portrayed as a magician
(True, the two have a good deal in common),
Feneon coined “neo-impressionism”
While being shadowed by the gendarmerie.
He was arrested twice on suspicion
Of bombings and an assassination,
Both times acquitted, reluctantly set free
To continue as a leading art critic.
Today we have no such chameleons.
Art is dying the death of the cynic
In a time of humorless deceptions.
The critic’s job has been stolen by sick,
Mad scribblers who only take exception.
Nothing is safe in a land of dim magic.

Thursday, December 12, 2019

In The Loge (Mary Cassatt), Sonnet #489

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
















The Madame has seldom been to the opera.
The loud music and gay costumes are amusing,
But she isn’t bedazzled by the “theatre”
Of bad acting and wobbly coloratura.
Her gaze into opera glasses accusing,
She scans the rows below for her wild creature,
That red-haired freckled feckless little “ingenue,”
Possessing neither loyalty, brains, or virtue.
Madame has taken chances in public before.
Still, this is business — she can’t afford to ignore
The traitorous behavior of a popular whore.
She doesn’t notice that she's being watched as well.
One of her regulars, a cop, an aging swell,
Is outraged — when he sees her next he’ll give her hell!