Dragon’s Blood

Long ago, each dragon had its slayer.
The hoarding of gold was always a crime.
Armed with only a sword and a prayer,
The young knight tracked the serpent by its slime.
Some thought the worm slept on his rug of gold,
Never wakening, but like all creatures,
It must eat -- a lady perhaps, not old,
With pleasing form and nice facial features.
Surprised by the knight while guarding its lair,
The dragon, too sated to run, plunges
Forward as the terrified knight lunges.
Its last thought glimmers: "This is not fair."
The bloody sword drips on the knight's fingers.
He licks them. Only the gold smell lingers.

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.

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.

Sunrise After Brief Ice Storm, Sonnet #333

The world is made of casual captures:
A rising sun caught in branches and leaves,
Branches coated in quickly melting ice,
The mind held by momentary raptures,
Concatenating chains and nested sieves,
A seeking, grasping, imprisoned device.
The light and time is really all we own,
The owning like the ear processing tone
From cracked oboes to make it musical,
Its fading, if not quick, eventual.
I must capture myself in the ice tree,
Permit no release to fear or distraction
Or the sun will melt waking inaction,
And in my next moment let darkness free.