Thursday, March 11, 2021

Jealousy (Laszlo Moholy-Nagy), Sonnet #554


 












The lady with the clever smiles

With two lovers and a husband:

She keeps the little boy in one

Suspicious with her playful wiles,

Thus perpetually unmanned.

As though he is her only fun,

The lover two knows the others,

Sees them as his loving brothers;

He thinks nothing is going on.

The husband she calls her “ape-pun.”

Horny, he must wear her apron.

He shoots her with his be-be gun.

This is their peniletimate line,

Uncoupling with the final rhyme.


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

Thursday, March 4, 2021

Pears and Apples on a Table (Juan Gris), Sonnet #553











I see some things straight on or one,

Others flower, flake and fracture,

Like cracked ice and cloud-splintered sun.

We don’t even guess to be sure

Sight isn’t feeling or idea

(Pointed pointless logorrhea),

Content with being what we are:

A peggy leg, bunches of grape,

An unwashed cup and rotting pears,

The glass rings on an ancient bar,

Manipulations of an ape,

Uncountable senseless errors.

Be calm. It’s only verity,

Its grapefulness and pearity. 


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

Thursday, February 25, 2021

Winter (Peter Breughel the Younger), Sonnet #552


 








The snow in the back yard rusts like a plucked white rose,

Rutted with the tracks of rabbits and raccoons,

Leaf-pocked and stained with coal ash the wind blows

From factories on the river — a field of runes.


Couples skate, boys race, a man falls through the ice,

Though no one seems to see. Two drunkards play with dice.

The drowned body won’t be found until the spring thaw,

With no consideration of conscience or law.


The air is bitter, unignited by the sun.

The wind stings the cheeks, blinds the eyes, numbs the ears.

It hasn’t been this damned cold in a year of years.

Yet the day is a festival for everyone.


For now, winter distracts women, children and men.

The next snow storm will wipe the world clean again.


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

Thursday, February 18, 2021

Stacks of Wheat, End of Day, Autumn (Claude Monet), Sonnet #551


 








Most of my dreams are black and white,

A sickly world lit by moonlight.

Golden wheat under setting sun

Igniting quickly fades to dun,

To dim, to shadow, then to black.

A full moon won’t bring colors back.

Night is no dream, but serious.

Even if it hinders vision,

We can’t become delirious —

We’ve no excuse for misprision.

Fear is something other, the end

(Not of meaning or misreading,

The touch of warm flesh, or needing)

Of sight only the sun can mend.


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

Thursday, February 11, 2021

Sea of Ice (Caspar David Friedrich), Sonnet #550


 









A god we don’t know wields

A hammer on ice fields.

One blow is all it takes

(Or flutter of snowflakes).

Then like careening ships

Each floe striking floe flips

Skyward in great stiff sails.

The meaning of ice fails

The seal and polar bear,

Who run beyond nowhere.

Men are not to be found,

Their craft long since ice bound.

They swim below like whales

They’d come to weigh on scales.


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

Thursday, February 4, 2021

Escape into Life (Yves Tanguy), Sonnet #549


 












A baby sits on a giant cherry

While the depleted sun falls through a cloud.

We escape into life not knowing how

We got on and off the forgone ferry.

We’re next to nothing, an ignorant crowd,

Unmovable when we don’t start a row.

The unrecognizable in our minds,

A blurred landscape that writhes, twisting, and winds

Around ideas, resolves from nameless shapes

Into the wonderland of snakes and apes.

All’s not dust said old iron to its rust.

Shrill winds erase the nothing gust by gust.

But the baby will grow and see beyond

Terrors, his mind become a magic wand.


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

Thursday, January 28, 2021

Rain (Van Gogh), Sonnet #548


 










Not even he could paint the rain.

(Imagine trying to touch each drop

With the fingered tip of a brush!)

Perhaps trying drove him insane.

He was the master of the crop

Of wheat, of twisted tree and bush.

He caught killers dying in bars

And erased the night sky with stars.

He effaced himself with his eyes,

Made more of sunrise than sunrise.

Rain he could only imitate —

Slashing the canvas with his sword

Again and again — intimate

What is clouded inside the word.


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