Sonnet VI: Invocation

Pray now, defilers; pray there is no Hell;
For as you dredge all Greatness through the mire,
Yet fear your acts deserving of Its Fire,
Pray now, to quell this dread you cannot quell.

Pray now; then jeer and mock the Great to sell
Your squalid lie; equate your filth; conspire;
And crave Them all to die.  With shrill desire,
Pray now; deny this Pit that may untell
Your lie–exact Its Payment for your crime.

And I… will pray Its Fires to be true,
That you, the unredeemable, will rue
Its searing brand–unyielding–as you plead,
Demand discarded Grace to intercede,
And beg… and shriek… and burn… for all of time.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Intro 6: Epilogue

Comes now, from the East:
Sun, to turn this evil tide;
Burn it back to Hell.

Permalink

Sonnet V: 1914

See there, what are those pestilent that smother
In the muck? And there, I see, ignored
Within the mire, more are stuck; and Lord!
Behold, one bunches up to bid another

Well! Though unobtrusively, its brother
It disdains with such a tell.  With bored
Enthusiasm, one will slither toward
A wretched thing as if to give the other

An award. But lo! What it intends!
Now can it actually be, to grant
The other honours and a meaningless
Degree? How sweet, if my corrupted friends
Would slyly acquiesce, to grant me scanty
Honours with an automatic yes.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Intro 5: Strange Days

I fell upon, particularly strange
These shores wherein I found myself marooned
Instead of somewhere infinitely light.

My voyage, it began capriciously.
And, though within it lives embedded form,
Possesses also an embedded soul.

Permalink

Sonnet IV: Heirs

Ye Gods: Ye Old and New, and Yet Unborn,
Ye need not climb with Armies of Your Own
To banish each corruption from its Throne;
But light from soul to soul, and each adorn

With Grace; and watch as true believers borne
Will magnify the knowing and the known
Until they have unnumbered billions sown.
And someday, to their young, will point and warn:

See there, my daughters and my sons, that stain
There, crawling nearly lifeless on our height?
Dare you believe it thought it had free reign
To tear down what was Beautiful and Right?

And all the youth will laugh, and never see
How such a foolish thing… could ever be:

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Intro 4: If Only

I expected five.  But for some unknown reason, four came before three, shortly after two.  And that told the whole story.  As well as five could. Reading them over, I sometimes see a fifth there, and sometimes I don’t.

Permalink

Continue reading

Sonnet III: Scions

More tragic still are They Who, yet unborn,
May never be; or Who, once born were not
To ever see what prize Their Birthright bought.
Olympian, Their Blood aflame; yet mourn

They not, for know They not, how They were torn
From out Their Mothers’ Arms while still She fought,
Believing They, with Holy Blood, could naught
But thrive. They know Their Legacy as scorn;

Yet not why They, your legions, chafe to join.
‘Til you, upon Their Mothers’ Throne, decree
And point “This is a god; and this is not.”
Defining ugliness as beauty, point
And sneer “Art thou as beautiful as we?”
But fear to know the answer you have wrought.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink