Monthly Archives: July 2016

Sonnet #29

Last night I heard the toads again, their song
Like tiny bells of darkness, little birds
That lost their wings but did no wrong
They clamber out to sing one true word

All feathers lost, all flight abandoned
Such tiny souls, such hopeful ones
Creep where no one sees the saddened
The moonlight’s blind reflecting sun

The damp, the mud, the hop that falters
Never flying higher than safe landings
All my little ones, live here, take shelter
Where the water’s deep enough for standing

The tininess of beauty, crawling from the muck
The little, lonely tadpoles dreaming luck

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Sonnet #28

Butterflies know the scent of one species
Pipevine Swallowtail seeks the Dutchman’s Pipe
Bassooning bloom and heart-shaped leaves
That scraggling, scrambling, climb to sky
To love is more than just another’s touch
It’s also where the eggs will stick and grow
There is no love without a world too much
for eyes and hands and feet to touch and know
Why do we stand exactly where we stand?
Why do we choose a secret place for kissing?
It takes a village to raise a child, woman and man
are not enough. It takes a sense of  destiny
a scene, a story, vistas. Butterflies know love
Includes a vine, flowers, sunlight to move

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Sonnet #27

However much we love to talk of history

It is a mythical irrelevance to birds and trees
What memory in wood rings tell the story
Of growth or not, and birdsongs’ creed
Is not to build the blocks of time but stand
and be still on a moving branch, blustering
Where none may know their silent end
And before it comes, all songs mustering
All flowers, all blooms, all seeds hurled to ground
What use history when it can not tell the tale
Of where the eels go up the river, down
Why the salmon remember, leap and fail
When our cameras turns to sky and see the starlight
A trillion suns, all glittering down upon our fights

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Sonnet #26

We speak of death in the bones of a man

But I think of death as a fungal thing
I know my age in my joints in the morning
I feel it in my back, the rot and ruin
The soil of me feels death bloom
Tendril pathways snaking mycorrhizal
Stretch and drink water, read the Bible
In the crevices of bones the creaking swoon
Lie down in the field and look to the cloud
My hair will stretch and fall into the earth
I carry the colony, I am their shroud
They are my body I carry them forth
And when they are hungry they crowd
Into my gaps to transform my rebirth

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Sonnet #25

So, who fertilizes forests? Forests.

The leaves fall, rot – short-lived flowers bloom
make seed and die and creatures live entombed
with all they leave behind. Trees fall to rest.
The death becomes the home for life
Who fertilizes forests? No one
Comes with tractor parts, no one
making rows, pulling weeds, killing  mice
It all becomes the forest with no one’s  hand
No one plucks the flowers, no one pulls the weeds
No one bothers raking up the mass of fallen leaves
No one has such a beautiful master plan
Who mows the grass? Who weeds this place?
No one leaves more beauty than another can replace

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Sonnet #24

Come out, come out, and stand with me in twilight
Look to the south and to the east and to the storm
Witness the way the setting sun paints delights
With a dirty, heatblast sky all humid warm
The stillness of the air we feel, the weight
Everything waits and braces, then like banshees
The vanguard wind whoosh harsh, berates
The dry dust slaps the face, the leaves of trees
This is the wind of change to anger and pain
Stand with me as long as you can stand here
Where the trees flicker and the clouds shout rain
The crack pop and fizzle and electric groans
Come out and stand with me, in the sunset and storms

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Sonnet #23

Upon the tile, in dust, it caught my eye
I held the tiny mace aloft, and thought no worse
Then I knew a rodent’s paw mold and dry
I flinched and felt what did not strike me first
A dessicated vegetable, a forlorn branch
Another mystery of homes with dogs and cats
But, no, a rodent’s paw, no wishes grant
Except the mysteries: a mouse? a rat?
How long it had been there I do not know
It was just another muddy twig upon the floor
Where’s the rest of the creature? The dog would know
This is horror, this fear, I feel at gore:
I can’t stop thinking is a mouse inside a wall
It’s wiggling tail, lost limb, a blood trail crawl

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Sonnet #22

Digging up the weeds below the water spout I found

A single relic of a former gardener’s memories
A piece of trash, to me, because the plant was drowned
A metal sign of chocolate mint that long ago dies
Everything will die, and when they do, the signs
We keep will be the Anthropocene bones
Metal, plastic, stone, and etched with names
Of planted, died, dissolved into the stones
A memory of chocolate mint, lettering stained
With memories of water – rust – twisted up, interred
The bent and ruined sign was barely legible
Poor gardeners call their signage cemetery markers
I prefer to think of them as Ozymandian heads
Once there was a garden here, a gardener, flower beds

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Sonnet #21

A Tribe is just another word for story
These metaphors and allegories wrap
Around a common sense of place and glory
We pick the signs and boundaries that strap
The histories, become the players’ rosters
We follow how the story says to map
We talk the way our heroes speak to monsters
We dream in terms defined by what we think
Of what is possible for players on this team
We never lose the uniforms, we drink the drinks
We laugh and cheer and dance with what it seems
Our story’s just another word for finding glory
A tribe is just another word for finding glory

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Sonnet #20

If life is just a dream and we the dreamers
Then butterflies are souls and frogs are bards
And any moment we could find these sleepers
Transformed into a chorus for a God

If life is just a breath and we the breathers
Then nothing but the breath will last of us
A spirit wind, an energy, a whisper sliver
Of all we pushed and changed against all cusps

If life is just a night awaiting morning
Then find me sleeping late and lost to dreams
I prefer to be dancing than mourning
The moonlight’s loss to daylight’s scorching beams.

If matter dictates matter, and all directions
Then I will be unimpressed with dull creation.

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