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.

Rocky Mountain Goats (Albert Bierstadt), Sonnet #432

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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?

Autumn (Giuseppe Arcimboldo), Sonnet #431

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

Fall of Rebel Angels, detail (Pieter Bruegel The Elder), Sonnet #428

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My Human Disguise.

Did each cease to be an angel

The moment he or she rebelled?

What creatures were they when they fell,

Who spewed and farted, bled and yelled?

A kind of dead, not devils yet,

Before the rest of time in Hell,

They must endure a monster’s spell

In payment of their Master’s debt.

So men today learn to betray

Themselves and all they ever knew

As truth. They haven’t lost their way,

They’ll say. “We’re just making things new.”

The air is full of monsters’ lies

Falling like newly wingless flies.

Pikes Peak (Albert Bierstadt), Sonnet #427

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My Human Disguise.

I lived on Custer, a white hood

Filling my living room window.

On a June afternoon I stood

On the summit in blooms of snow,

An hour later in sun below.

The peak was seldom where you were

And never where you were not sure

A great presence of white and pink,

As if by thinking, made you think.

The Utes called it “Tava” or sun,

As if there must be more than one,

Needing light close enough to touch,

To take away, but not too much,

Or soon the mountain would be gone.