I've passed my past,
My whole collapsed
Into this moment,
Now.

My days long gone,
I soldier on
With just this moment,
Now.

How can it be that all of me
Is held within a thought,
The days I've had, both good and bad
Are gone and count for nought.

So is this it?
Is this all I can be?
Is this all life had planned for me?

Am I lost in a moment where all that I was
Is what happened?  Because
If I am then the wars that I fought
Were for nought.

I am lost,
Lost in the moment and I yearn,
Yearn for a change.

All I was
Was lost in a moment and I've learned,
Learned life is strange.

Now that I'm here,
Now that I've come to this moment and found
That my life in this moment is good,
Understood, for a brief single moment,
I know that I'm here,
And I'm here for this moment of joy.

But why?

Why did it take so long?

All things must have a counterweight;
Each Yin, a Yang; each soul, a mate;
An arbitrator to the form,
A becalmed eye to quell the storm —

And LOVE! Oh LOVE!  You too shall find
That you and GRIEF are kin combined;
That one comes not without its twin,
For one to end, one must begin —

And so poor mortals face this plight:
To love AND grieve, or flee the fight?
For LOVE may be the greatest pleasure,
But LOVE and GRIEF are no half-measure.

My love is like the morning sun that rises
To blush the bold horizon with her glow
Her dreams are pillowed clouds in many guises
Of silken sails on heavens lazy flow

Her eyes reflect the warmth and many splendours
Of every spring and summer ever flown
Her hands are cool as autumn that surrenders
To winter's ****** lily bridal gown

Her lips are sweeter than a mermaid calling
Enticing with each promise of a kiss
Her lullaby that summons is enthralling
Beguiling me to sink in her abyss

Her movement is the lulling of the ocean
Her footstep is the echo of the sea
She drowns me in the depths of her devotion
To flounder as her humble devotee

LOVE is intangible, it has no taste,
You cannot touch it, hold it, let it go —
It does not spoil, nor ever go to waste —
It does not float, nor sink, nor ebb and flow —

Love cannot be sleight conjured from the air —
It is not sold in bottles, nor in jars —
Love has no weight the bearer has to bear
And cannot be constrained in any vase —

Yet all who loved have bent beneath Love's weight —
Know well its touch and taste, and bear its scar —
And know Love cannot die, but dissipate
As light escapes the clutches of a star —

LOVE is intangible, a force unseen —
As wild as wind, as lucid as a dream.

Upon that day and in that park
Two lovers lorn in statued pose
Entwined limbs, tight as tree to bark,
Soft as scented summer meadows,
Orchestrated by the larks
As timeless as a river flows

And passing by, an endless stream
Of strangers came and stragglers went
And all who stared upon the scene
Of statues carved with love's intent
Would oft' recall their sweet serene
Beguiling stares of merriment

And time that brings to man the dark
Of endless nights in sleep's repose,
To leave a stately stony mark
Where flowers wilt beneath the boughs,
Will oft' recall a peaceful park
Where lovers stood in statued pose

My love desires but ev'ry dream
Love knows and holds love tight,
Desires and carries on our dreams
But holds on through dark night
Ev'ry love our dark yearning takes
Dream tight, dreams night takes flight!

LOVE swings upon a pendulum
And reaps hearts to and fro —
The ‘Bold’ fear her momentum
And the ‘Sturdy’ feel her blow

And back and forth her scything blade
Will cut and shape and trim —
Till all true lovers’ souls are flayed
In deference to her whim

Love is not lust tho' lust may lead to love
As seedlings basked in sunlight spring to flowers,
Young blooms may make a golden treasured trove
Where tender tulips kiss in huddled bowers

Love ripens like straw-nested berry fields,
Plump, juicy, flavoursome, and blushing red
As nature's bounteous sweet harvest reveals
Her shapely form resplendent in her bed

Love is an acorn to the mighty oak,
Deep-rooted and unbounded by the sky;
Love ripples like a genteel puddled cloak
Laid bare to keep a silken petal dry

    Love is but love and life is but to love:
    So poets write and lovers seek to prove

To strive to know the heart of one so pure,
To contemplate the fate of one so young;
With heavy hearts, uncertain and unsure,
We honor thee and praise thee with our song;
To stand alone, amongst the enemy,
To take a stand, and stare them in the face;
With courage in your heart, to let them see
That you alone can walk within God's grace;
To burn and burn and thrice to burn again,
To turn the skin, and flesh, and bone to ash;
Discarding all remains unto the Seine,
The stains upon their souls will never wash;
        Old men of cloth, long deaf to voices sainted;
        Her name condemns your black-hearts ever tainted.

A ewe once wandered freely to the slaughter
And feared no evil in the farmer's glare,
The wolves that pounced upon her noble daughters
Were sated not by chastity laid bare

Her fleece succumbed to ravaged fingers clawing,
Her eyes were drowning in her childrens' fear,
Her heart became a stone, her knees were sprawling
Through blood and mud, her gaze was held austere

She raised herself and looked up to the night sky
And shouted to the gods to hear her name,
With vengeance in her heart she raised herself high
And vowed revenge on those who brought her shame

She led her flock to trample through Colchester,
She led them on to trample London town,
The wolves arrived in battle to ****** her,
They won the day and put her vengeance down

Whistle a Dixie marching song
And wave the colored cotton
Remember days when we were young
Lest old ways be forgotten

From Robert E Lee and freedom rides
Was birthed our greater nation
Where trust in liberty resides
United with a passion

Old voices echoed through the South
Emboldened with a fervour
As children full on sated youth
Implore us to remember

Judge not a man but by his deeds
Lest lessons be forsaken
Presume to know naught of his needs
The less to be mistaken

The past has passed, the future lies
Unguarded and unguided,
Whose liberties shall be denied
Has yet to be decided

Whistle a merry marching song
Let each man show his colors
Our children judge us right or wrong
By how we treat our brothers

Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold --
Heedless be not or headless be thy trim;
How thin a strand to bind the downtrod bold
Is law's decree?  It quivers at their whim,
Like dusted snow that grey's the mountain's locks,
Each flake unseen, a pauper, cold and damp,
Wherein the voice of scorn, the hand that mocks,
May shove these brothers down steep mountain ramp
And each to each must cling and garner speed
As sisters, mothers, fathers, join the throng,
Their flags unfurled, their voices raised in song,
Onwards unto one prophecy, one deed --
    Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold;
    The time is nigh her tale shall be re-told.

I can hear the music all around me,
The thrum of long-boat hulls against the shore,
And drummer boys with stockinged feet resound me,
And heavy hammered horse shoes pound the floor,

And gunners with their twenty-ones astound me,
And diggers crash their picks into the floor,
And cannoneers launch volley fire to pound me,
And bayonets clash like cymbals on the moor,

And fighter pilots boom above to ground me,
And tank commanders rumble to the fore,
Submariners slosh water up to drowned me,
And infantry sing heartily of the corp,

And all around I hear their music roar,
The ghosts of all our heralds gone to war.

Could I conduct you with a flute?
Could you play trombone sans a suit?
Is baton waving with my arms
Necessity for Bach and Brahms?

Would jeans or tracksuit so offend
To cause the notes to break or bend?
Do shiny shoes impact the pitch?
Do taut bow ties do aught but itch?

Could one less trumpet cause the brass
To sound too hollow, weak and crass?
Would changing colours of their strings
Impinge the sounds of violins?

Would triangles still work as squares?
Do snare drums also work as snares?
Could pins be instruments, if dropped?
Is it not time this nonsense stopped?

Hell has no torment
Like the Heavenly angel
Who fell to Earth
And stole my foolish heart

Saturday night
in the usual hole, drinking
and looking
looking at familiar faces
dancing and drinking
and I'm thinking this
is the last night
I waste getting wasted
in this joint

and my eyes fall upon a beauty
unlike any I've ever seen
long red hair
bright blue eyes
radiant as a fresh spring rose
just off the dance floor
and with a wistful sigh
-- if only --
I retire to the bar

music slows
and I'm grabbed and dragged
into the arena
a lug of a girl
has me tightly grasped
and behind
just off the dance floor
she's looking
looking and laughing
and I'm shrugging
helplessly pleading
with apologetic eyes

flash forward two weeks
to a Saturday night
in the usual hole, drinking
and looking
looking at familiar faces
but now I'm looking
for a familiar face
among a sea
of wrong faces
and she's not there

music slows
and I'm in the arena
a lone gladiator
amidst sparring partners
when a familiar face
long red hair
bright blue eyes
radiant as a fresh spring rose
is smiling and dancing
and my old world vanished
and I was reborn
in the throes of Sunday
February fourteenth
nineteen ninety three
and that's
how I met
my Valentine
wife

Ah, memories, capriciously you choose
Such wondrous moments worthy to retain;
Important things, so oft' you're apt to lose,
Yet how you cling to those that brought us pain.
You offer but a glimpse of yesteryear,
And fill the gaps, with things which might have been,
So oft', we find it's never truly clear
If what you show was real or but a dream.
How can we trust that what you say is true,
When all we know is what you choose to share?
Do you record the tales of things we do,
Or conjure up our stories from thin air?
        Without you, all my past would cease to be --
        My life is naught but one long memory.

A blighted tome lies hidden -- He who seeks
Enlightenment, or yet may on a whim
Pursue to find the secret that it keeps,
Be warned that there upon it’s vellum skin,
In silvered lines and swirls, the epitaph
And reckoned days of mortals; those once heard,
Now seen, or yet to feel; each trodden path
Foreshadowed, from the womb unto interred --
Would knowing of your winter cull the woe
Of knowing that your summer is too short?
Would spring be wasted waiting on the snow,
And autumn shade diminish in your thought?
        Before you seek, be sure you wish to find,
        For secrets learned may yet torment your mind.

She smiled awkwardly, too young to drink,
And I wondered was this her first time,
As her muddled words tumbled out,

    “It’s not bad news.”

She looked at me, half-expectantly,
Like a child on Christmas morning,
And I wondered was she silently
Counting to 8, or 10, or the exact seconds
Some think-tank had determined was
Right, under the circumstances.

    “Do you want to see the body?”

I shook my head, as the image
Of my father, ever a thin man in life,
Sat up on a gurney, bare-chested,
Wired up to bleeping machines,
Flooded my inner eye.  That was
The last time I saw him, and the
Last time I ever would, and that
Is how I always remember him.

Unguarded fool! Know this,
Thy kind words and thy gifts
Had bought for thee a mortal bliss,
Yet never healed the rifts

Within; no love redacts
The balance unredressed,
Despite thy wanton saintly acts
Thy remnants lay unblessed

Whence comes thy ill? Thy brooding bitter pill
Ploughed deep in fertile soil, sprouting to seed
Snake-like tendrils crawling to sprawl and spill,
Choking lush verdant fields with poisoned ****;
Wilted young peaches, withered pears dying,
Irises blinded, red chrysanthemums
Faded to white, strewn petals borne on sighing
Dark fitful clouds rend'ring the landscape numb;
Oh bitter pill, thy loathsome poisoned thrill
Afflicts one tainted by unsated need
To wilt and wither, blinded, faded, ill
Craving for thee with hollowed hateful greed;
    Sweet bitter pill, thou will be coveted
    Till once ripe lush and verdant fields lay dead.

Fair maid, your beauty sleeps on marble stone,
Yet warm spring color drapes upon your breast,
Whose rise and fall like splendoured kingly throne
Would overthrow all doubt you are at rest;
How delicate, how soft each gentle sip
Of morning air delighting of your tongue,
Playfully dancing over your sweet lips,
Flitting away to voice your slumbered song;
How sound you sleep, your tranquil dreams expressed
By chest upheaved in rhythms, gaily dressed.

Far far beyond awaking, do you roam
With kindred spirits through a leafy glade?
Nymphs born of elder days welcome you home
To bathe in springs beneath old forest shade;
They sing of love for when the world was young,
When forests grew unhindered o'er the land,
When each new day was blessed by endless sun,
When fertile earth knew naught of desert sand:
Your voice rejoiced to join their merry cheer,
My ears rejoiced with every song they hear.

Fair maid, I wonder will you e'er return,
Or will the dreaming keep you for its own?
My eyes behold your beauty, yet they yearn
For tho' you are still here, I am alone;
Bid farewell to the forests, to your kin,
Bid farewell to each cool refreshing stream,
Return to wear the beauty of your skin,
Your kin will wait in some forever dream:
But now I pray you'll wake, return to me,
To see the dreams my eyes reflect of thee.

There lies one in Rome
With whom all England was blest,
Whose bright star came home;

And if thou wouldst roam
To seek for all that is best,
There lies one in Rome

Beneath stately dome --
A spirit too young to rest,
Whose bright star came home

And whose living tome
Gifted the heavens their crest --
There lies one in Rome

O'er seas laced with foam,
Whose words still quicken our breast,
Whose bright star came home --

His name gleams as chrome,
Where water writ his bequest --
There lies one in Rome
Whose bright star came home.

One sip of thee sent giddy all our senses,
Thy soft bouquet hung sweetly on the tongue,
Full-bodied ripeness broke down our defenses
To leave us addicts stuck on thee lifelong.
Wine is a friend when wine is freely flowing,
Yet all who raise a glass and toast a cheer
Know days will come when all their pours are slowing
And even finest wines must have their year.
Take thee a rested breath unto that meadow,
Be free and eased to ponder o'er that stream
Gleaming with gold and silver, wending below
That shimmered crossing wrought of heaven's scheme.
        Until we meet once more at rainbow's end,
        Farewell to thee our lifetime treasured friend.

A lake as still as still — a cloudless sky —
A bird-less forest — silent as the page,
That monk-like sits reflecting for an age
On pious deeds exalted upon high,
The page gilded in wisdom, lauded by
Its maker’s peers, wherein is set the stage
For Nature’s bountied beauty — I give homage
Unto its gifted craftsman, one that I
Have oft’ with envious eyes admired afar,
And matchless to his art, have grasped for skill
Far far above my grade — From him to me
Has come a gift as bright as Keats' Bright Star —
        Unto thy lake, may this stone rend the still,
        And loose thy songbird skywards, Timothy.

The poet's plight, to write
an ode, replete with sweet
nothings, that might delight
a lover's feet to meet
at night; the promised sight,
so neat and so complete!

A playful beat, complete
with airs so bright, I write
for her; how right! The sight
of her a treat, so sweet
and so much heat! We meet,
dancing tight, such delight!

A kite may know delight
above the street, complete
with string and sheet that meet
the wind; tonight I'd write
a suite of kites! My sweet,
quite lovely is thy sight!

Oh wistful wight, to sight
thy sprite, is sheer delight!
I cannot eat, my sweet,
tongue tied to bleat! Complete
outright the song I write,
the feat of how we meet!

We turn to greet, and meet
in flight, the wondrous sight
of doves! "Alight!" I write,
and they ignite! Delight
fades with their tweet; complete
shock! UNDO! DELETE! Sweet!

How fleet our tale my sweet!
Our low-flung ***** must meet
defeat, our tune complete!
I'll recite oft' thy sight,
and cite oft' thy delight,
in ev'ry height i write!

Bare boards and whitewashed walls are canvas made
For palette, born of starlight, born of stars
To paint the night, her shadows and her shade,
Where fingers stretch to reach beyond the bars;
Sad blinking eyes accustomed to the gloom
Reflect on light and life, reflect the night
That fills the mind as darkness fills a room,
That pilfers hope as blindness pilfers sight;
How silent is the bird song on the air?
Their mute lament that revels in despair.

Look East to gaze upon low rolling hills
Awash with midnight blue, a gentle hue
That gleams the more for taken tiny pills;
Look East to see the old, to see anew
Each folded band, each friendly contoured shape
That undulating, sweeps down mountain side
To drape horizon with majestic cape
And paint the world as water paints a void;
How flightless are the birds upon the ground?
Their useless wings that fail to make a sound.

Look down beneath the hills unto the square,
Perfection of a frame within a frame
Where many ears are waved without a care,
Where wheat is grown and reaped and sown again;
Look down upon the cypress border fence
That guards the golden realm within a realm,
Enter that inner world of wild pretense
That threatens to consume and overwhelm;
How woeful are the birds among the wheat?
Their hunger grows and yet they do not eat.

Explore that inner space, that magic place
Where thought is real and real is but a thought,
Where dreams are born to die without a trace,
Explore to see the lies that eyes have bought;
Look down upon the wild and bustling town
That sits beneath the hill, with busy lights
That paint the scene with colors yet unknown
And lift the world to fresh imagined heights;
How distant are the birds that wander here?
Their loneliness relentless with its fear.

Look high above the world into the night
Where palette, born of starlight, born of stars
May tempt a soul to soar in endless flight
Beyond the room, beyond cold iron bars;
Look high to see the bold untainted white
That holds the key to every color born,
Behold her ****** sweet unsullied light,
A Goddess Venus, solemn and forlorn;
How can a man behold one such as thee
Yet be content to live a mortal man?
A soul must learn to fly, yearn to be free,
To reach the stars, to be all that it can!
Yet here for all the yearning, all the dreams,
For all the numbered nights that counted stars,
Long nights awake to wonder what it means
Forever trapped behind these iron bars,
A soul has learned that even artistry
That elevates a man to greatest heights
Can not unbind the chains and misery
Of one condemned to live a mortal life.
*How thoughtless are the birds without a care?
Sometimes I wonder if they're really there.

Dim witted pupils born of ignorance,
Long shadows loom to weave thy blinkered veil
Blinding closeted mind to innocence,
Till hope for love nor love for hope prevail;
What sweet delight does darkness serve to keep?
What hidden treasures lurk inside thy door?
Wise Solomon was wise enough to seek
For truth beyond the grains of his own store;
Yet thou embrace the dark, keep it to hand
Lest all thy world may crumble where thee stand.

Look not with shuttered eyes, but yet perceive
For senses fill the void, bring unto thee
A truth for which thine eyes might yet deceive;
Inhale to taste the world thou dare not see,
How fragrant is the fallen petaled rose?
How sweet the apple fading to decay?
Breathe deep as autumn reaps what summer sows,
Let bounteous harvest spirit thee away
To sip perfume, fine fragrance from the vine
That lingers like a sweet bouquet of wine.

Slow shuffled steps, each footfall amplified
Through trepid corners of thy darkened mind,
A conjured dread that cannot be denied
As useless eyes strain urgently to find
Its course; Hark! Tap, tap, tapping at thy door!
Thy breath abates, thy racing heart resounds,
Thy trembling toes cajole thee o'er the floor
And pressing of thy ear, to hear the sounds:
A pillowed voice as light as silken spin
Whispers, "Open the door, I will come in!"

Fear grips thee in a vice, thy voice is lost
As thou were lost, yet now thou has been found:
What stands without?  A madman or a ghost?
What stalks its prey?  What hunts thee like a hound?
Thy eyes are struck by blinding haloed light
Beneath the door, around its weary frame,
As dark recedes away to flee its might,
Abandoned thou must play the hunter's game;
Down through thy quivered spine, cold shivers creep
And kneeling to the ground, thou starts to weep.

Look now upon thy door with eyes reborn,
Thy savior and thy keeper through the night;
Eyes crowned with sight like pillows to a thorn
Harsh punctured with each searing twist of light;
How oft' thy mind has drawn its simple form,
Thy fingers run to feel each knotted grain,
Yet with thine eyes, thou see it now transform,
A handle hidden neat within the frame;
What clever hand, what love of labored skill
Had crafted of a ring so neatly made
That in its recess, fingers found no thrill
To find it in its secret wooded glade;
Yet now that light is gifted to thy sight,
Thy fingers trouble not to raise the ring
And taking hold and firmly gripping tight,
Thou contemplates the actions of a thing:
Does fear of light reduce thee to a shell,
To quake within thy boots, to shake with dread?
Will darkness cloak thee from a living hell
Or bring a living hell into thy head?
Thy hand is poised, have thee the strength to learn?
Thy will be done, to turn or not to turn.

How Morrow weaves her evensong
For buds, unwary, sweet and young,
Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees,
Still blissful in their infancies,
Beguiled by wind and rain and sun
To crawl to stand to walk to run!

And Oh! How Morrow ever-long
Shall pluck with purpose from the throng
Aged thorny vines on withered knees,
Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease,
And all betwixt whose yarns have spun
Out from the void whence they begun.

And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long
Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas,
Thy cold enticing webs are strung
On oceans calm and careless leas;
A twilight rests on mountains flung
Unto the heaven that oversees
A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow
For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

For I mingled grateful as the fountains
Borne through cracks from ocean waves,
And sought for Heaven amidst high mountains,
And spent my grief at familial graves,
And shared of myself, not a silent stone,
And kept thy faith in spite of all,
And for this and more, thou bade me alone,
Unanswering thy call?

Now, the fountains dried and the Earth may mourn
And the ocean flooded from salt-cracked skin,
And the flowers have choked to the strangling thorn,
And the ossuary opened, and beckoned me in,
And the sun has waned, and the clasp of night
Had me bound in a beam of the moon's device,
And these lips felt the kiss of the barrow wight
As thou denied me thrice.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

My wild and doll-like mannequin
Cast in the light of lovers' moon
A sculpture wrought of waxen skin
To keep eternal beauty bright
Her likeness in your eyes tonight
Does make this lover swoon

Come come my sweet and dance a while
Beneath the light of lovers' moon
Yet still my love thou does recoil
And fear my heart as tho' once felt
Might cause your waxen heart to melt
My love for thee is doom?

Make haste my love for sun's first light
Will plunder light of lovers' moon
Despoiling of our loves delight
As warmth embraces waxen skin
To make a formless mannequin
Too soon my love too soon

Alas my love you leave a fool
Once bathed in light of lovers' moon
Now standing by a waxen pool
To sculpt a candle in your name
That burns with your eternal flame
To guide me to my tomb

He reminisced of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost, upon the dunes
Where memory was drowned in golden strands
That faded to the fresh new autumn moon

oh roiling sea, what angered thee that night?
how dreadful was the fury of thy might!

Thin shredded fingers, torn by jagged cracks
In jagged rocks, were blessed by numbing cold;
Raw crimson eddies swirled and circled, sacks
And boxes strewed on tides that ebbed and flowed

oh woeful sea, how bittersweet thy kiss
that dragged unwary souls to thy abyss!

Behold! Did shadows play on weary eyes?
The hunters' moon revealed a pallid hand
Awash among the flotsam; hope denies
The wonted outcome of the seas command

oh jealous sea, why make young widows weep?
their souls you take, their hearts you cannot keep!

Alas! A lass as still as still is calm!
Her breathless lips as deadly as the sea
That knew the siren, knew her sailors charm,
That knew her song, her haunting melody

oh wicked sea, why did thou birth a maid
for whom the debt of life was never paid?

In evil things a beauty still prevails
And beauty is a poison to the wise;
The siren, borne on stretcher, born of sails,
Was dragged back to the depths of all her lies

oh mother sea, take back thy child of grief!
though thou would steal my soul, I am no thief!

Water filled her nose, her mouth, her lungs,
Convulsing her to sip a salted breath;
Her parting lips prepared to voice her songs
That fated those who heard to blissful death

oh hungry sea, thy daughter does thy deed!
take then thy fill to satiate thy greed!

Yet from her lips there came no haunting sound,
No siren song came forth from frothing sea;
Her saddened eyes beheld the soul she drowned,
And in her grief she chose to cease to be

oh grieving sea, what loss thou must have known!
thou took the rest, yet could not keep thine own!

A tale is told of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost; upon the dunes,
A siren with her hair of golden strands
Stands with a sailor 'neath new autumn moon

Oh wondrous light, enrapturing my eyes,
Reflecting from her sweet and gentle form;
Do you deceive and trick me with your lies,
To break my heart, and leave my soul forlorn?
No maiden now, or e'er has looked so fair,
Her warm soft skin, her eyes begot with jewels,
Her countenance refined beyond compare,
Oh wondrous light, you take us all for fools!
Should I believe the image you portray,
This beauty on the canvas of my mind?
Her portrait ever hung on proud display,
Where I alone can ever hope to find;
        If she could see her light the way I do,
        She'd know my love for her is always true

An ode to thee, fine masters of thy craft

    "Oh great, just what we need, another bloomin' sonnet!"

Excuse me friend, why does thou so intrude?

    "Can't you write something contemporary for a change?"

Perchance for you the sonnet's days are past?

    "Hmmm yeah, like a hundred years out of date!"

Perchance I think my friend is somewhat rude!

    "Perhaps YOU should try writing something modern!"

Does thou not like the rhythmic sonnet beat?

    "Too dull for words, try free style for once"

Does thou not like the couplets formed in rhyme?

    "Oooh lets see ... Heart ... Apart ... Love ... Dove...!"

Does thou not like the sweet iambic feet?

    "I'd prefer to chop them off and make you eat them!"

Does thou not think the whole thing sounds divine?

    "If I never hear another one, it will be too soon!"

But friend, your modern style, it has no rules?

    "That's what makes it so utterly brilliant!"

No need for beat, for rhythm, or for rhyme?

    "Yup, you can literally write anything!"

So those of us who choose to rhyme are fools?

    "You said it pal, not me!"

Through all these years we've just wasted our time?

    "Consider it a learning experience!"

So rhyme and meter, these are not allowed?

    "EVERYTHING is allowed, no rules remember!"

Then modern sonnet writers can be proud!

    *"Eh?  What?  No, I didn't mean ... oh ... **** ..."

The blazing eyed old matriarch
Stands vigil o'er her clutch;

Two bodies sway to rhythmic march,
Yet never dare to touch.

Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Bright lights echoed through voids they leave behind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Born of old dust, born of a mothers son,
Born fated to repeat a mortal grind,
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,

One sparking flame igniting dreams anon,
Defying darkness drawn to drowned the mind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Bright stars that brightly burn oft' seem alone
Where lesser lights eclipsed are hard to find;
Old stars shine on long after life is gone.

Old stars must end when all their days are done,
But light once shone goes on to raze the blind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

From dust to dust, from ash to ash, they shone
With fiery hearts fanned by a gift divined:
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

O Mistress Moth! Leap not unto the flame;
Fear not the night that cloaks prey from its foes —
Light is the unforgiving dais of fame
And seeking of its joys unveils its woes —
The pointed pyramid has but one capstone;
Yet many storied stones may crave its peak,
And trampling underfoot the very backbone
That urges strength may make the structure weak —
Be guided not by falsehoods ever bright;
The fairest candle lit beyond a pane
Of crystal glass may dream of freedoms flight,
Imprisoned in its lonely lead-lined frame —
        Be at peace —  Night demands no keen redress;
        And suffer not through fear of loneliness.

O Mistress Moth!  Too swift the curtain came
To billow through a broken pane the throes
Of light and life anointed on your name —
A miscreant by each appointment grows
Until upon a trove it stands full-height,
And towering hence commands with regal reign
A Queen’s demise — So was it done this night —
Let all who bore their malice wear this shame,
For in their hands this sin will not atone;
It grows as shadows lengthen in the wake
Of shuttered light — To be as one alone
Was much to bear, too much this one to take —
        So by this end an end we now possess;
        Our trial to bear this loss for loneliness.

O Mistress Moth!  A clamour and acclaim
Born of deeds born of sadness softly goes
On — On with gust and grateful to remain
An itch to tease far far beyond repose —
A single truth makes many falsehoods moan —
And some that made your vow no longer speak,
And some that speak speak things to them unknown,
And who knows true the boldness of the meek?
Yours lives eternal blazing in the light —
A hope borne beacon fated to retain
The dreams and fears of one short mortal plight;
A star that echoes like a lost refrain —
        If light was all your heart sought to caress,
        May boundless light repeal your loneliness.

He was a brawned and ugly gun-slinger, and he came from the wild west;
He had the names of six dead Texan boys, tattoed on his chest;
His hat was 15 gallons tall, his long-coat midnight black;
He wore his holsters mighty high and he said his name was Jack.

He rode a palamino horse on the day he came to town;
Three deputies were in the street, and he shot those suckers down;
Dismounting by the sheriffs door, he hollered out a cry,
"Get yer no-good chicken *** outside, today yer gonna die."

The sheriff boldly stepped outside, a shotgun in his hand,
"You'd best be coming quiet son, or your life aint worth a ****."
Jack tipped his hat and curled his lip, he turned his head and spat,
"You shot my brother, sheriff, and yer gonna pay for that."

The sheriff paused to ponder, then he slowly shook his head,
"Your Jimmy robbed a stagecoach and he left the driver dead."
Jack grimaced at his brother's name, and his hands twitched by his side,
"You can call it how you like", he said, "But I'm gonna have yer hide."

The sheriff put the shotgun down, and they faced off in the street,
His hands were poised above his guns, he was sweating in the heat;
He waited till he saw Jack flinch, and his hands flew lightning fast,
His trusty colts were smoking as they fired their deadly blast.

For a moment they both stood stock still, then Jack fell to the ground,
His face was full of shocked surprise, but he never made a sound;
The sheriff felt a tinge of pain, and he saw his badge was bust;
As the blood came seeping from his chest, he fell into the dust.

The townsfolk still recall the day, when Jack rode into town,
And every year they say a prayer, on the day they both fell down;
They were buried up on old Boot Hill, their graves were side by side;
The sheriff renowned for killing Jack, with the man who took his hide.

There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.