Thursday, October 10, 2019

Procession of the Autumn Insects (Matsumura Keibun), Sonnet #479

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









The crickets sing ceaselessly every night.
Are they warning off or chirping the dark?
They’ve a neutral effect, like a chalk mark
On an old slate blackboard, more gray than white.
I walk out into the back yard. Silence.
A crescent moon slides behind a thick cloud.
I shout “yes!” once and shatter night’s nonsense.
When I go in the crickets’ answer, both loud
And incessant, scolds me for my pretense.
I realize they are not scared, but proud.
In autumn, some crickets sound all day long,
As they regale the sun in regal state.
In moonlight, they whisper, winter can wait.
Soon the first frost will extinguish their song.

Thursday, October 3, 2019

Print Gallery (M. C. Escher), Sonnet #478

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














To look through windows, that’s my task —
Through pupils, then my eyeglasses,
Then all framed images, unmasked
By fixed or widened apertures
(Bound as eyes are by eyelashes),
But what I see (I’m not quite sure)
Always changes all the same.
Too much is hidden by the frames.
I take what’s there and make sonnets,
An old form, adequate, fishnets
For ideas the images hook,
My own kind of print gallery.
I ask you not to read, but see
What I have written. Then, please, look.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

Stone Henge (Thomas Hearne), Sonnet #477

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






What confronts us always hurts us,
Duration that doesn’t endure —
An articulate susurrus
In language absolutely pure
Of meaning, yet the understood
Plucking of a stringless oud.
These settling stones are no older
Than my standing here among them,
Though I will sooner grow colder —
The builders having meant “amen.”
I said “hurt” — I don’t know what kind.
The muscles clench and doubts impinge
On leanings and knowns of the mind.
It’s not a stone but a time henge.

Thursday, September 19, 2019

The Red Jester (Jan Van Beers), Sonnet #476

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

















“Now, my dears, keep watching the ace.
My favorite card — it has no face
And just one itty bitty heart.
Hee, hee! It can’t squeak out a fart
The way the queen of spades
Will call to her some dainty maids
To please her king of diamonds
With one who has a showbiz mons.
Now, see? Your lazy eyes don’t peel
On the ace! It has disappeared!
Where’d it go? It’s as I feared,
Some joker has stolen the deal.
Why, that’s me! I rule the whole deck.
Every card’s at my call and beck!”

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Gibbons in a Landscape (Sesson Shukei), Sonnet #475

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



A gibbon will stare at your eyes,
The recognition by an ape
Of an ape, and thus appear wise.
They do not clown, yawn or gape.
They don’t exist to entertain
And seldom become furious.
When they’re bored and incurious
They scatter into their demesne.
It’s said some live entire lives
Without ever touching the ground
Even when a typhoon arrives.
I see them then swinging round,
Dodging or riding the gale
That drowns their ecstatic wail.

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Avalanche in the Alps (Philippe de Loutherbourge), Sonnet #474

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








Each avalanche is renewal.
At times men or whole forests die
When mountainsides shudder and fall
In great slabs and showers of scree.
A single step’s been known to start
A cataclysm, one small stone
Displacing another and one
Larger opening up a fault.
What’s left is a new rapprochement
With gravity, rearrangement
Of the ageless, immovable 
Granite face and tiny pebble.
Never, though, is any grandeur
Made — all things go through the grinder.

Thursday, August 29, 2019

No Image (Memory), Sonnet #473

An insomniac, I wake, remember
My life in vivid, unchosen eras,
(Not so much the fly but the amber),
All real, rediscovered chimeras.
Often it’s place that sets the revery,
What happened each day when I lived somewhere
Decades ago. Names and faces vary
From what they are today to what they were.
Like swimming, eyes open, under water,
A certain fearlessness is required —
At any time the vision can falter,
The eyes go blind or sting, become mirrored.
I can choose a time, but sometimes it’s blank,
Then my eyes water and I blink and blink.