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:

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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.

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Sonnet II: Exiles

More tragic are those Gods who still remain.
Olympus fell; yet cast about Them thrice,
You’ve wrapped Them up in filthy sheets of ice;
And jeer that none will recognize Their Reign.

Though hidden in plain sight, so great remain
These Paragons of Beauty; Their Devices–
Their Sublime Creations–could entice,
Enlighten, and inspire, if Their Domain
Were not so hidden, frozen, and unclear.

Yet through your filth, such Gods might still be seen;
Though locked beneath a century’s demean.
If one unbidden eye should chance to turn,
A mortal soul might taintless beauty learn;
And this is what you meretricious fear.

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

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Sonnet I: Waiting Is

And I…  have lost all life, all breath, all heart,
All sound, all sight; all sense hath left me blind.
For all I run to thee while sleep, apart…
I dare not hope but glimpse thee so confined;
But crystaled tears, this vision, showeth art;
And only then should know thy tears as mine.

I know thy lidded eyes press forth my tears;
And beg thee ope’ these jewels; see me there
Entreat thee, from this blindness, end my fears;
Wake thee, and wake thou me, from out this sleep,
This phantasm, this darkness, this nightmare;
And dare I thee to wake, wherefore I weep.

For thou, thy faith, thy dream, as pure whereby–
Waiting…  hoping… ever for mee… as I….

  • To my love;
    who hath for me
    ever waited.

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

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