The Actor (Picasso), Sonnet #426

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My Human Disguise.

As I am “else,” I am more than I am.

I really only speak thus to myself.

My voice is always sweetly orotund,

But what I’m here to say is all mere sham.

I’ve earned a moiety of fame and pelf

And not once have I given a refund.

My fingers flick about like ten small swords,

No sharper then the edges of my words.

My visage contortions are a mirror

(That’s where I learned them) of your hapless souls;

Mine is a mimesis of your terror

As you nose up squinting from your mole holes.

Ah, sirrah, let’s be friends. I’m just joking!

This playwright coughs words as though he’s choking.

Nearly Hit (Paul Klee), Sonnet #425

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My Human Disguise.

















My brain is a stairway to the arrow,

The one and ineluctable pointer

That flies true as any truth can and strikes

Like the rusted tine of an old harrow.

The arrow’s in an attic I enter

With telescope eyes seeking, like a shrike’s,

What I left here for later long ago.

The progress of the unfletched shaft is slow,

Has yet to pierce the humor of my eye.

Seen darkly, dust-mote-shaded, almost shy,

It moves, like Zeno, only half-way here,

Then half more, hardly trying to arrive.

It’s time I see I have nothing to fear.

It cannot pierce me while I’m still alive.

Marine Fauna (Pompeii Mosaic), Sonnet #424

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My Human Disguise.













When you look into their eye — shrimp or squid,

Octopus, lobster, bass, flounder or eel,

You’ll find no volition except blind id,

A shiny button or a spokeless wheel.

I wonder if the artist pleased the man

Who paid for this mosaic for his house.

The sea discreetly hides the inhuman

The mosaicist serves up like lobscouse.

His art form one of endless accretion,

And his subjects being quick and many,

Did he work from a diver’s memory,

Or pose his dead models till completion,

Not seeing the fauna’s slow corruption

Preserved by a volcano’s eruption?

Tree Cricket and Firefly (Kitagawa Utamaro), Sonnet #423

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My Human Disguise.








When we were kids we used to smear fireflies

With old badminton or tennis rackets,

Unconscious that something more than light dies

Each time. Tonight they seem like opened eyes.

It’s August — there are three sounds from crickets

In my grasses, bushes, oaks, and thickets.

The tree cricket is loudest and solo,

His scraping hesitant and slow and low.

An upper range of choristers sing

With uninterrupted rising ringing.

In the grass, dozens, like an Indian drone,

Emit a mid-pitched and unvarying tone.

In other towns I’ve heard the same tone poem

And thought, crickets are everywhere — their home. 

Ivory-Billed Woodpecker (Audubon), Sonnet #422

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My Human Disguise.


















It was said you could catch but not keep one.

A farmer once tied a male to a chair,

Which soon was kindling and the rope undone,

And, instead of a door, nothing but air.

Just one could rip apart a ten inch branch

In minutes, and ravage an entire ranch

If it was built of bug-infested logs.

Its crazed cackle once filled forests and bogs,

But today it’s feared the Ivory-billed’s extinct.

I’ve watched its cousin, the Pileated,

Hammer a limb with its head into dust

And thought, does such an addled creature think,

“I too could one day be uncreated.

There must be Ivory-billed left. There must!”

A Woman Ghost Appears from a Well (Hokusai), Sonnet #421

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
















1

I once spent nights in a hospital bed

In a building now long empty — thought 

To be haunted with a long-dead war’s dead.

Many have been encountered and some caught

On camera — hazy light, outstretched “arms.”

The locals can’t be hired to tear it down —

A gutted frame beyond the edge of town

Patrolled by one old guard no ghost alarms.

2

Every well needs some kind of dipper.

Hokusai’s snake woman is a sipper

Of the foggy remains of the dead dead,

That dim residue of flesh, bone and head

She draws from below and blows into air,

Spirits all us disbelievers will scare.

Note: The hospital described was at Clark
Airbase in the Philippines. My Dad, an Air
Force Colonel, was the hospital commander
from 1959 to 1961. The ghosts are said
to be Vietnam casualties. I spent several
nights there because of a hip ailment. Clark
was buried by the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo
in the 90's and abandoned. It has since been
turned into a commercial air hub. The hospital, 
completely gutted, remains.

Flambeau River (Sandy Ellarson), Sonnet #420

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


















A thousand years ago the river teemed

With more trout than any fisherman dreamed.

The Ojibwe could catch them with their hands —

Threw back those too small to feed four or five.

The rivers, fields, forests, lakes, and wetlands

Came from good dreaming to keep them alive.

They had little fear of spirit danger —

The wolf, mountain lion, bobcat, and bear.

Only men released the devil’s anger.

After a death the devil wasn’t there.

In waders, I can stand hip deep and cast

For hours and nothing will look at the bait.

One lucky night I’ll hook a fish at last.

The water rushing past me doesn’t wait.