Thursday, August 22, 2019

Strong Dream (Paul Klee), Sonnets #471 and #472

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

















#471

I ask myself, who dreams the dream?
In real time “I” experience
Oddities and “life.” Like a beam
Flashed along a picket fence,
“I” find in each gap an event —
From where inside me was it sent?
“I” play a game of pool and lose.
“I” feel the loss, see the table.
Who changes the scene? “I” didn’t choose.
Now “I’m” flying as if “I’m” able.
There is another I in the “I” —
Stage manager and audience.
It’s stronger than “I.” This dreaming eye
Sees “me” seeing the picket fence.


#472

He dreamed the sun devoured by the moon.
He dreamed the moon deflowered by the sun.
The stars blinked their tiny eyes at the ruin.
His slinging guitar became a shotgun
And with one blast picked off every star
Then turned back into a slinging guitar.
He took off his wings when he went to sleep.
They kept him as warm as the woolen sheep
Of old counting — that didn’t work at all.
So warm his feet and face had turned brick red,
He rode into a lukewarm waterfall
On a black mule, back as wide as a bed.
I saw all this through his closed eyes, not mine,
Yet he wrote this goggling, every line.

Thursday, August 15, 2019

View From The Dunes (Piet Mondrian), Sonnet #470

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









I asked my youngest why the grains of sand,
After millennia in roiled water,
Grow only so small and no smaller.
(Wouldn’t gold dissolve if endlessly panned?)
“Maybe they’re too tiny,” said my daughter,
“To be abrasive anymore.” Last year,
A storm raked off ten feet of grassy dunes,
Leaving jagged walls and crumbling wounds.
The long-buried sand was the same as here
On the upper ledge, unchanged under tons’
Gravitational grinding of eons.
The waves, gale-wind-whipped, tip over and drop,
And even in the stillest air never stop.
Each grain of sand changes less than the suns.

Thursday, August 8, 2019

Alexander Confronts The Headless People (The Talbot Shrewsbury Book), Sonnet #469

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





A tyrant seeks with tongue or sword to erase
In his conquests every other race
But his own, put defenders to the chase.
He doesn’t have to kill to cut off heads;
He can speak black words of hatred instead.
By dong so, his voice, his anger, bled
Of honor, leaves him only his blunt spear
To throw blindly at what he thinks is fear,
As one by one his soldiers disappear.
The “headless” ones begin to speak of truth
With the insight and energy of youth,
And refuse to accept their headless state:
The tyrant himself, mumbling, twitting, “great,”
And nothing left beneath his balding pate.

Thursday, August 1, 2019

The Catbird (John James Audubon), Sonnet #468

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


















As if ashamed of its homely feathers,
The cowbird disowns its young in the nest.
In those it didn’t build it abandons 
An egg among the eggs of its betters,
Who raise the cowbird along with the rest.
(The intruder will steal from the small ones.)
Parents who can identify their own,
Catbirds fling the parasites out like stones.
They mew incessantly, then sing countless
Notes per minute — clucks, whines, gurgles, clicks, squawks,
Imitations of other birds but hawks.
Even more than most, the catbird’s restless;
Endlessly curious or vigilant,
It flies — the only time it is silent.

Wednesday, July 31, 2019

VILLANELLE

The moment passed and I forget
The reason why or what I meant
In the exact instant I let

It go like a blank letter sent
To someone I don’t remember.
Even Now is an old event,

Both a flaming and an ember.
To hold, even touch, is to burn
Like September in December.

It takes but a second to learn,
What no-one else will ever know,
That all I am will soon return

If I stand not still but think slow,
Say nothing, and as if asleep,
Allow myself to come and go.

Instead, I cannot help but leap
Ahead to what’s to come and let
My self reach for what it can’t keep,
Moments I already forget.

Thursday, July 25, 2019

The Magic Square (Albrecht Durer), Sonnet #467

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


















The summer is an empty hourglass
I tumble through like a clump of sand
That cannot, trying very hard, pass
Through the neck and softly land
At the bulbs’ bottom, top or bottom,
Depending on the hour of the turn.
The asphalts and red bee balms burn
And the sun is a single blazing atom.
The bell has been silent, raising hope
(It all depends on squares and magic
And the diminution of the tragic)
That someday someone will tug on its rope,
Awakening the prayed-for lightning storm
That once our angel promised to reform.

Thursday, July 18, 2019

David with the Head of Goliath (Artemisia Gentileschi), Sonnet #466


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

















It was no small stone that struck Goliath down,
But as large as the giant’s hand, sling-flung,
God-guided to strike just below the crown,
By a future king, still innocent and young.
The task yet undone, David severed its head
With the Philistine’s sword, though it took loud
Chopping to get through much gristle and bone.
He couldn’t lift what, so heavily dead,
He meant to parade for the cheering crowd,
So he brandished instead the conquering stone.
Such battles now will never disappear.
The weak and poor are every monster’s prey,
Yet live complacently and without fear.
Goliaths behead Davids every day.