Sonnet: Shrug

If Atlas’ Eyes were burning from our stain
Of  festering foul collectivization;
Shrieking of our dehumanization,
Bloody streamt His Ears with piercing pain;

His Arms, and Knees, and Shoulders, bled with strain
With the weight of our dying population;
Retching! from the stench of our starvation;
Weakening Resolve! at our disdain

For men who build; who might, His Burden, ease.
So, would ye dare to task Him; “Hold Thou, Muse!
One moment more, ’til we depose these smug,

“Self-righteous beasts!  No more! shall we appease
Esurience’s philanthropic ruse!”?
Or fear our thousand-years, and bid Him “Shrug!”?

Sonnet: Thieves

Through turns and twists, an endless beat, we ran;
I’d spurn the mists, descend to meet with thee.
We’d turn a bend upon a stone, and we
Would earn an end, and on our own, began.

But for a while–and never knowing when–
Once more to smile, then time to go, it was.
Through turns, we twist, an endless beat, and us
Returned, we list, pretend, and meet again.

You’d wrest some rest from lies and flight, and stole
From me some paradise, not quite forlorn.
I took, from you, a measure of that sworn
A garden, too. You stole no treasure, whole;
But gave us shrift, though magical and brief.
Forgiveness gifts me gratitude, my thief!

Sonnet V: Bad Times

Love, have I hurt you, yet you love me still;
When I am bitter; still you understand;
You knew I was alone, and took my hand;
And knew I loved you as I always will.

Love me, as I love you, though you’ve hurt me;
So fine you are, how could I but forgive;
The girl whose magic taught a boy to live;
The woman who would teach a man to see.

We never let our circumstance prevail;
And ever after felt our bold belief;
What power, this, may triumph over grief;
And leaves but little meaningless travail.

Not fire for strength, to grist the mill, nor more
To climb–No hill–but bad times to ignore.

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


Sonnet IV: Sandcastles

Is there a way that might I ache yet more?
For, missing thee is more than can I stand;
Yet also, do I ache by my own hand
For fearing action, boyish on that score,

That would us bring together all the more.
How pure would be our life were I a man?
If rather built, a castle than of sand,
I could, a dream produce in granite, or

At least, could give some substance to our life,
Which long we spun with threads of gossamer.
Remote, has been our touch–not man, nor wife,
Could we, ourselves, have truly called, for fear
Of facing a reality too sad,
Dispersing but what little web we had.

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