Sunrise On The Matterhorn (Albert Bierstadt), Sonnet #507

There is in sunlight no matter of chance.

Even concealed by fog or thunder storm,

Or the earth in its rotational dance,

Sunrise will mend the dark’s misshapen form,

Making a mountain of the Matterhorn,

And tipping the point of the smallest thorn.

Like a flower’s blossoming, the sunrise

Blooms too slow for even the quickest eyes.

It’s best to turn away for a moment —

Turn back to measure the burning’s ascent.

Eyes closed I watch my eyelids brightening

And concentrate — a mental lightning

Transforms a thought into a warming star,

Renewal of hope brought home from afar.

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

My Human Disguise.

Vitruvian Man (da Vinci), Sonnet #506

Even da Vinci needed a compass —

No one draws a perfect circle freehand.

(You can see the pinhole at the navel.)

He had to be careful not to press

Too hard before the line came to an end.

A ruler kept the square true and stable.

Much harder was the sketching of the man.

(Or is it someone who is his own twin?)

In length, are all four of his arms the same,

Or are the upper two slightly longer

To reach the curvature with his fingers?

When I first saw this imagined figure,

I knew I’d seen him many times before,

Past recall, him seeing me from afar.

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

Almond Blossom (Van Gogh), Sonnet #505

April after a winter mildly cold,

With neither blizzards or dangerous ice.

The blossoms burst early and gently bold,

Aerating my back yard with perfumed spice.

A sudden drop in temperature,

Lasting a day, is not enough to nip

New life — an hour of light snow seems pure,

Yet leaves on some blossoms a tiny pip.

Then a week of cloudless sunlight reigns.

Snowdrops and crocuses proliferate,

Escaping from their gardens to the lawns.

Now for an hour most mornings it rains,

More to refresh us than to irritate.

The sleeping soul doesn’t awake — it dawns.

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

The Dance of Life (Edvard Munch), Sonnet #504

The beach sand is gone, cut away

By high waves from the winter storms,

So we dance as if we feel gay,

Madly whirling, twisted forms. 

The band — drum, violin, guitar —

Knows only waltzes, jigs, and rags;

Its sense of rhythm races, lags.

Some of us linger at the bar,

Leaving women alone and lost,

Heartbroken at their rejection,

While others twirl till their feet ache.

The sun sets like a golden host

In a chalice of its reflection

In the still waters of the lake.

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

Brushwood School House, Sonnet #503

Photo courtesy of ACRES Land Trust.

In ‘03, they built this one room school

And hundreds more throughout the state.

I sit fidgeting on a three-legged stool,

Drawing my figures with chalk and slate.

My mother drives me three miles each way

Unless it’s a planting or harvest day.

They’re mostly gone now, torn down,

Become hazards for ghost-hunting teens.

People live in some, rebuilt, far from town.

Brushwood hasn’t fallen, though it leans.

I was the oldest. The teacher looked nice.

Her favorites were the smallest ones.

When I was 18, she looked at me twice.

We wed. I died at Marne. She schooled our sons.

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

Unbridled Folly (Francisco Goya), Sonnet #502

He liked to ride bare-assed on a stallion,

Which he left unbridled and unsaddled.

(Some said his mind was idled and addled.)

He thought he commanded a battalion

Of shiny battleships and rugged tanks,

Would tolerate no genius in the ranks

Who suggested the firing of blanks

To force the surrender of cash-stuffed banks.

Clutching golden mane he charged the fray,

Screaming “Fare forward, you fools!” at his troops,

Spanking with his crop his poor mount’s sore croup,

Reducing that proud steed’s neighs to a bray.

The exhausted beast reared, bit the nightshirt

Off our hero and tossed him in his dirt.

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

Storm (Sesson Shukei), Sonnet #501

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

The mighty sea is slave to storms

And fishing boats slaves to the sea

As men are enslaved by all three.

The deck, stout mast, and taut sail form

The only threat to fend off death.

The sea drowns beneath the typhoon,

What men call an angry god’s breath,

Waves caused by his stirring his spoon.

A gibbous moon runs through the clouds.

Suns skip among the fog and haze.

In a lull, waves, in rows, look plowed,

Then boil in an unsolvable maze.

The ship sights land, rocky, tree-lined,

Safe harbor for the terror-blind.