Couplet

 The moon glides on its blade of light

And leaves not a scratch on the night.

The Black Flag (Rene Magritte), Sonnet #577

 

Multiple shelves of sky

Hold old bric a brac,

Thunderclouds I can’t track

Or meteors descry.

Nothing seems to keep up,

Yet fills me like a cup.

I dance from shelf to shelf

Unburdening my self,

Turning war-bent airships

To innocuous pips

Soon to wing, flag, and drop,

To fill the raptor’s crop.

My dance is never done,

Shelf to shelf to the sun.

Free Curve to the Point - Accompanying Sound of Geometric Curves (Vasily Kandinsky), Sonnet #576

 

Now? Everything points to the now point.

There are no revelations in the joint

But what the curvatures of time anoint

Like ten fingers playing here’s the steeple

When inside there are no little people.

It is a lovely world after all,

When simple, not straight, no awkward bending

Of air, just the eagles’ mad descending,

And the cringing voles’ mute, terrified ball.

Then? A word for time with twined intention —

Then I was and what will I be by then?

Two words (not three) for all of duration

Lead us through the revolutions of arc,

Freely to the point of the question mark.

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

My Human Disguise.

Canal by the Moonlight (Koho Shoda), Sonnet #575

 

We walk along the canal at moonrise.

I ask you, “Is the moon stupid or wise?”

“Ask the moon,” you tell me. The moon replies,

“Ask a lightbulb or the sun. My light lies.”

We wonder how bright it is on Saturn

When here each summer the forests burn.

For now, the evening is cool and dry,

The canal, silent, still, reflects the sky,

The nighthawks don’t know how to whir or fly,

And nowhere is there written the word “why.”

It’s said time is what happens when nothing

Else does, but I think all’s a spinning ring,

Invisible sound, a silent seeing,

A tiny moon dangling on nervous string.

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

My Human Disguise.

The Town (August Strindberg), Sonnet #574

 

We anthropomorphize

The abstract — lips and eyes,

Masks and numberless crowds,

From fleeting thunderclouds.

When did we come to find

The null of abstraction,

The absence of the signed,

So full of attraction?

The painter knew the pain

Of love and betrayal.

This painting is insane,

His obsessions’ dark veil.

The distant golden town

Is a meaningless noun.

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

My Human Disguise.

Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1 (James Whistler), Sonnet #573

 

There’s expectation in her face

Even though she’s dressed in mourning,

But for a bonnet of white lace

And white cuffs and a wedding ring

Half-hidden by a kerchief gripped

So tightly it might have ripped.

Her straight chair sits on a gray rug,

Shoes on a padded wooden rest.

Silver threaded curtains hug

Gray walls as if they hid a guest

Once welcomed and now departed.

I wonder how her son started —

Arranging the grays and blacks square

Or with his mother’s haunting stare.

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

My Human Disguise.

Rose Bushes Under The Trees (Gustav Klimt), Sonnet #572

 

For Ruth

We are two rose bushes

Growing beneath the elms.

We bloom at the same time,

Daubed by two paint brushes,

Yet outside human realms,

Even the gasps of rhyme.

We stand slightly apart,

Touching, turning petals —

Untouchable to art.

The odd leaf falls, settles,

Not a thing we miss,

The swooning of a kiss.

The elms embrace, hover

Above — sweet shade, my love.

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

My Human Disguise.