Monthly Archives: November 2017

Sonnet #222

The birds will not remember me, nor bees

nor butterflies, but that they lived better and more

will be legacy written in every shadow in the sky

When I am gone, and mud drowns all my sores

There will be living birds that sing memorials

and do not realize to whom their song adores

The honey will be sweet where flowery vials

bore the bounteous nectar and butterflies tore

chrysalises open for gardens painted on the wings

And generations of the flyers hid among these leaves

next to my door, where otherwise was nothing

lawn of grass, mowed, ignored, wilderness bereaved

Where now there is a garden because I lived here

Pilgrims fly in memory of my gardens that were

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Sonnet #221

The ghosts are always here where we – Remember
their Reflections – Trace the story of
the death of those – Who bear our crass dissections
– Giants striving after giants – They
linger in the wind – Where breath calls to
the ghost of giants: a name and all their sins
For all good art is built on mis’ry – Sorrow
sings all songs – And memory of loss, a story
– That echoes far along – The music bends
to voices new – Who reinterpret painted
stones – Master builders born anew
-Build ships from giant bones – haul dreams
Of giants, new made kings – all makers
rise to carry – their ghosts shape hopes and beams

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Sonnet #220

I have been asked to take a side – I take

no sides with thee – whatever sides there are

I will prefer to take the side of trees. We make

a world of men and say we are glory and the power

But our faith demands we seek the lowest beggars

clothe the naked, heal the sick, and feed the poor:

The forest is not naked, is not sick, and blooms forever

But we beggars take until remaining is no more

I think, in faith, we must investigate what makes us poor

For if the world abundant sings, and we in poverty –

It was the treatment of the trees that give us all we are;

The trees are never crying, never tiring, have no snobbery

The trees and blessings of the trees go to elephants and insects

Accumulated mysteries in between make bounty’s architects

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Sonnet #219

Walk deep into the wilderness where you are

Be it desert plain or forest hills or swimming out to sea

Where there is no sound of the roads running cars

No sounds of the rumble and bustle of we

Listen where the leaves fall and you can hear it

Where the slightest breeze whispers music

And autumn paints pictures where tree roots sit

And birds recall a world where their cries acoustic

Are all that sounds like a song, are the brooks

there babbling? Are they singing a new song?

Are the waves upon the shore roaring, are you shook?

Do not confuse these noises with peace, that’s wrong

Your only peace in that place is that you can go home

Once upon a time, that was the song of the ruins of Rome.

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