Sonnet V – A Lyric on The James Webb Space Telescope’s Regard

This is an entire optic, entirely An Eye, sailing, on a sea of sunlight, To catch the Eternity that, Hourly, Drops like rain, from the heavenly birthright, All these ornaments, of an endless air, Clouds of corpse’d stars, newborn stars, galaxies, Fill the Temple, of the head, from the stair Of space, of such silentContinue reading “Sonnet V – A Lyric on The James Webb Space Telescope’s Regard”

Sonnet IV: Love’s Game’s Gone

If my bare heart shall be your blank, fire onIn words the wounds that’ve wound you up, let looseYour ammo’s shot (that being, your amors gone),On target that beats, e’en till the fuse diffuse, Shoot, here’s fair mark: that hearts hurt (on hearts) hound,Look, fair game, when the hart’s in the clearing,Beastly love pounces itsContinue reading “Sonnet IV: Love’s Game’s Gone”

Anger’s Slough

Now our boat’s journey across the slough, or swamp, had become very bumpy, and I thought that perhaps some rocks our path obstructed. But looking down taught the truth: Our boat bounced along shields, swords, bullets, wings, bursting flak, fishhooks, beartraps, all the weapons of man, and worst of all, men and women, of all kinds, warring in the water.

A Game of Change

As soon as he took it, I was in real trouble. As soon as he took it, there appeared in my hand a large and heavy bag of change – quarters, nickels, pennies, dimes, and other ancient coins – so heavy my shoulders slumped forward, and strained I was to keep my head up.

Black Coffee with Jesse James

We’d hid ourselves in the sagebrush. They covered the plain like silver hills. They covered our black-garbed bodies. Jesse James, and Frank James, and me myself. We were watching the road, and we’d been watching the road for some hours four. We were waiting for the Man we meant to rob.

The Time Travelling Poet

I think the author a rather heart-broken Time Traveler, who intentionally scatters his/her verses among the timeline, as Orlando upon the Arden trees, with an object of wooing not a rosy Paramour, but rather, that rarest of all things, an Audience.

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