Thursday, December 13, 2018

January (Grant Wood), Sonnet #435

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









The storm over, the rabbit’s tracks
Leave ghost faces in sifted snow.
The moon is neither old nor new,
Though enough to light the hayricks.
All white-capped, they lean, row on row,
Bowing at time’s ceremony 
In welcome of the end of now —
The beginning of memory —
Like old men who left October
To youths and welcomed December.
Oh,Tomorrow! Don’t come too soon!
The night has so much dark to live
Before it’s savaged by the sun,
That jealous spoiler high above. 

Thursday, December 6, 2018

Boar Hound (Alice Bea Guerin), Sonnet #434

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

















No one knows the golden boar hound's mother,
If she’s boar or hound, or mythic Other.
He was found scratching at our farmhouse door
And though quick to accept a wooden cage,
Was soon released, being more hound than boar,
Nothing to fear, with his eyes of great age.
His eight fleecy legs (some seemed more like arms)
Caused him to stumble and sometimes crawl,
A monster, yes, though not without his charms.
His tusks could draw images, like an awl,
Scrapping planks or smooth stone, which he would hide
(Though we could always find them when we tried)
About the farm — scenes from the past, our past.
The day he left we feared would be our last.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Chrysanthemum (Piet Mondrian), Sonnet #433






















For Ruth

The flower has a purpose beyond beauty,
A regenerative function we don’t see.
Its power, in being, is touched, and gives,
And by this mutual exchange, it lives.
Its perfect kind grows on just to be seen.
Its petals glow, even at dusk, a sheen
That’s inner lit, only darkness can dim.
In sunlight it fills the eye to the brim.
My love, the chrysanthemum is you,
As columbines and tiger lilies are too.
Every summer our garden expands,
Pouring, into the cupping of our hands,
Perfumes, petals, color and energy,
Filling a single life with you and me.

Posted on our 41st wedding anniversary.

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Rocky Mountain Goats (Albert Bierstadt), Sonnet #432

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
















I climbed a 50 foot stage house ladder.
It went straight up, made of bolted steel bar.
Halfway up I couldn't have gone madder.
My hands turned to sweat as I saw how far
I would fall. I was certain I had dreamed
Last night of this moment, how I had seemed,
Like now, unable to move. My hands slipped.
I threw one arm over and hugged a rung
And for more than a lifetime there I hung.
Somehow I got down, my sanity gripped.
Thus, the fact of a goat’s sure-footed hooves
On the steepest mountainside seems unreal.
Is it all a matter of reach and feel?
Or is it only the goat’s mind that moves?

Thursday, November 15, 2018

Autumn (Giuseppe Arcimboldo), Sonnet #431

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


















Almost past its prime, my fruit falls, bruises,
Before the harvest has even begun.
Pears and peaches are picked up in the end —
Even though they rot, they’ve other uses.
The burning bush, ignited by the sun —
The apple trees, whose burdened branches bend
Almost to the grass — are both flaming red.
They’ll soon be stripped of life — barren, not dead.
My grapes tumble into the wine presses,
Where pulp turns to juice from urgent stresses.
The Argiope spider in his web still
Hungers, before hard frost, for a last kill.
My summer mate gone, I am gourd and leaf,
Nothing more. Winter will bring cold relief.

Thursday, November 8, 2018

Battle of Actium (Laureys a Castro), Sonnet #430

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


















The besotted hero allows his love’s presence
At war on sea against the advice of his men,
As though afraid he might never see her again,
Though Cleopatra demanded her attendance.
The engagement lost, her man rumored dead, she flew
From the smoke-obscured scene, not aware that she drew
Anthony after her, leaving his men to drown.
For love of her he lost his honor and his crown.
I believe in “honor,” though not a common word,
As it once was — a life that honors all others.
My definition, at least. Some think me absurd.
And love? It can’t be defined except by lovers.
I do not judge them, overcome by love (not lust).
I honor them whose love and honor’s all but dust.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Wind Storm on Lake Michigan 10/12/18, Sonnet #429

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









The waters are the solution of time,
(I’m not the only being to have said),
Forever stirred in its lake or sea bed
By wind or current; in its essence, prime,
Like 2, 3, 5, 7, or 11,
Or in some quantity, 97.
After all these many eons, “years,”
The solution is not nearly resolved—
Duration hasn’t thoroughly evolved
To nothing. Let us be content with tears.
Today, gale winds beat the waves to a moil
That tore the sand from the beach, turning
The water brown as the next wave’s recoil.
Threw back the sand into the hour’s churning.