All the Dead are Poets

  1. All the Dead are Poets — A Sonnet

This poet’s muses are not passed that he
Need seek in Asphodel his sonnet’s fashion;
Though were it so and in that place they be,
What meadow rich to nurture blooms of passion!
Yet not to descant praise for that perdition
Nor frame in gild the state of such repose,
But cantillate in triumph life’s transition
That transcends earthly terms in it’s transpose;
For whom at rest in that so cold embrace,
Bereft of life in death’s eternal night,
Whom could they breach the void of time and space
Would not ten-thousand godly sonnets write!
    When passed beyond this mortal realm’s divide,
    All souls are poets on the other side.

French Pendant with Monk and Death Image: Wikipedia

French Pendant with Monk and Death
Image: Wikipedia




What fate torments you, spirit of twilight,
Forever cursed to chase the setting sun
And be pursued by spectres of the night
Borne on that cobalt shroud from which you run!
Your wake cuts like a knife through coalescence
Of colours bleeding out from sunset’s prism,
To drip in pools bereft of luminescence
That fill the chasm cleft by your incision;
Yet even as that fiery orb descends
Horizon’s crimson line, on eastern quarter,
Her speeding chariot’s argent light portends
The visage of Hyperion’s eldest daughter.
    By destiny decreed to never know,
    The dark of night, nor daylight’s warming glow.

Twilight On The Farm Image: Charles Rollo Peters Click image to visit.

Twilight On The Farm
Image: Charles Rollo Peters
Click image to visit.



The greatest irony in man is this:
That primal fears abound imagination.
Yet, that which he contrives them to dismiss
Is often wrought from like fancification.
For willingly does he embrace delusion
When acumen and reason can’t aspire
To produce some commensurate illusion
Of purpose that is meet with his desire;
And comprehension gleans but a few drops
Of knowledge from the sea of mystery,
Then noesis ends where understanding stops,
Unleashing boundless creativity.
    When ignorance gives rise to fear’s commotions,
    Imagination conjures up nice notions!

The Thinker

The Thinker

Voices in the Mist

Voices in the Mist

Line 1: Anapestic Trimeter – – / – – / – – /
Line 2: Dactylic Tetrameter / – – / – – / – – / – –
Line 3. Trochaic Hexameter / – / – / – / – / – /
Line 4. Iambic Pentameter – / – / – / – / – /

In the first living hour of my day
Even in infancy destiny called to me,
Sweet the voice that drifted from beyond your shores
On misty Irish seas o’er Mersey Bar;

And I knew in the heart of my youth
She would not suffer for me to remain with you,
Softly she would call my name one fateful day
And take me over ocean waves afar;

As the hour of my day approached six
Destiny’s yearning was burning consuming me,
August’s balmy waves echoed distant cries
With passion I embraced the nymph of fate;

On the wings of adventure elated
Borne across oceans of darkest profundity,
Into crimson skies where setting sun declines
To lands of carefree days and starry nights;

Then at noon on the day of my life
Far from the land of my ancestors legacy,
Boldly in exotic fields of passion’s fruit
I harvested sweet bounties of desire;

But that lady of fate is capricious
Destiny’s fealty endures only fleetingly,
Cruelly she imprisoned me in my delusion
To drift a northern isle in Carib seas;

Left to drown in the depths of contrition
Caught in a vortex of turquoise-blue misery,
Breathing long forgotten threads of carefree youth
Recalling mid-December’s summer days;

In this last living hour of my day
Gazing through mist in the North the pole-star I see,
Sweeter still your voice that drifts from those fair shores
O’er misty Irish Sea from Mersey Bar.

Crosby Beach, Liverpool By Will Daviess

Crosby Beach, Liverpool
By Will Daviess

Distractions in Infinity

Distractions in Infinity — A Sonnet

I do not dwell on time; but time on me
Imposes thought that distracts meditation,
With chiding memories of what can not be,
A man derided by his own creation.
While high above infinity’s endless ocean
Where, from temporal realms, no echo rings,
The angel of existence orders motion
And time is but the beating of her wings.
She flies along the shoreline of mortality
Where waves of life break ever on the beaches,
Her touch imbues the living with vitality,
Her shadow is the threshold of death’s reaches.
    Her flight is clearly audible in the clock:
    Those silent booms between the tick and tock.

Walkowitz at Home -- David Burliuk Click Image

Walkowitz at Home — David Burliuk
Click Image

Willow Me (A Sonnet)

Willow Me

Interred within the soil of youthful prime
A willow seed lies sown in dormancy,
That with the daily watering of time
Grows old and dies, a withered, weeping tree.
And years are petals on the bud of life
That when she blossoms unfold to display
A sapless flower; her petals, passed and rife,
Hang virtueless, bereft of sweet bouquet.
Yet what possesses virtue, worth or reason
Save framed within this frail mortality?
Or whence derives one’s passion for the season
If not from this temporal symmetry?
And if in life I find a love to cherish,
Then I shall gladly live and love, and perish.

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet Click Image to visit

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet
Click Image to visit



all my life
you have
and my
you are
my life’s bane
every time i
see you
seeing me
my heart
the tears
i now weep
for the
tears and
the pain
in the
that I love
when i’m

James Ford broken mirror

James Ford broken mirror



This morning I discovered a hair
growing on the tip of my nose.
I’ve always cast myself as the bearer of
an unblemished nose, attractive even,
in the manner of those perfectly
symmetrical marble appendages
adorning the gods of Rome.
Oh well.
Tweezers flashed.
Pilus expelled. Antinous again, sure enough;
but the nose reneged its place
and refused to cede to vacuous
space the foreground of my
Clever nose.
It sensed, in a whiff that wafted on
the noontime breeze from across
the expanse of time to,
emerge from my neighbour’s kitchen window,
the redolence of school meals.
I am sent.
An eternal instant: I’m a happy,
clever and extremely cute little boy,
standing eagerly in line in my grey
short pants and pullover, holding
my dinner plate and breathing
deeply the delicious aroma of
cheese pie ‘n’ chips, now
transmuted into
the poignant essence of
Yes, my neighbours cooking can
certainly get the juices flowing!

The "Lansdowne Antinous" Image: Wikipedia Click on image to visit

The “Lansdowne Antinous”
Image: Wikipedia
Click on image to visit



Click on image to visit zaputonemo's blog

Click on image to visit Nemo’s blog

Yesterday I feasted
On the exquisite prose of hitch-hikers.
This morning I extricated myself,
Shed the trappings of substance,
Turned my back on the phony
Surface of banal existence,
And hiked without a hitch.
Hitch-hikers seek-out the art of life.
They hitch rides in strange cars
And jump in and out of lives.
They view celluloid-like dimensions
In alternate realities,
Through alternating windscreens.
Hitch-hikers go with the clouds
Not in them nor under them.
They take cameras and capture
Drips of eternity in the instant of splashing
Unrepeatable patterns on the canvass of mortality.
At night they sleep in abandoned doughnut shops
And see Salvador’s clock oozing through
Shadows between broken tiles in the ceiling.
They see reflections in paneless windows.
They dance with fate and lose themselves in life.
Then, filled with creativity and a sense that
Everything is a metaphor for everything else,
They return and write beautiful prose
For us cyber-hikers to delight in.
I only got as far as the park,
And my adventure only lasted two hours,
But in that brief time
I saw a sonnet, three Haiku’s, and this.

Autumn Loaf

Autumn Loaf


A plastic bottle and a well-licked
tuna fish can, both flashing topless
in shadows that strobe the gutter
on the street below my balcony.
Between them, misplaced,
A leaf.
My shirt sticks to my back like cling-film
on well-kneaded, well-risen dough;
a languid simile,
but it’s far too humid for cool metaphor
in the suburbs of Santo Domingo
this mid-September.
Even the simile doesn’t cut
hear that hollow sound?
Means I’m done.

What is Love

What is Love?

Image courtesy of Steeve Wheeler at Learning with 'e's Click image to visit

Image courtesy of Steeve Wheeler at Learning with ‘e’s
Click image to visit

You ask me what is love, I say it’s naught.
For love can not be framed in logic’s reason;
What mind can comprehend those yearnings wrought
In hearts enraptured in love’s vernal season?
Behold the rose in bloom ‘neath summer’s sky,
Drenched in the morning dew, her fleeting fashion
Sparks fission in the musing poet’s eye,
His quill is filled to brim with ardent passion;
For passion’s root lies buried in mortality,
Yet love transposes finite mortal measure,
A moment shared becomes perpetuality,
A stolen kiss, immortalized forever.
    Two mortal hearts flushed bright with love’s vermilion,
    Walk boldly, hand-in-hand, into oblivion.



From behind the face,
Instances impact between
Eternity’s drips.



Volcanic titans
Flain by Gaia’s elements,
Land of sheep and bards.



One white and one black,
Against a grey, cloudy sky:
Monochrome moment.


Don’t be Silly

For a billion years
This earth has recycled life;
It belongs to us.


Golden Kill

Rabbit watches hawk
Swooping down to catch a mouse…
Alas! poor rabbit.


More coming soon…

Ship of Dreams

Ship of Dreams

No sailors muse ought tarry on the stars
When cast upon life’s ocean deep and far,
Though caged in sextant’s gauge the star he sees,
His guide amid those treacherous stormy seas;

Yet when those stars revealed through shrouds of dark
Cast misty spells of slumber on my barque,
Then Hypnos comes upon the waves of night
To take me to the land of sleep’s delight;

To ship at anchor on eternal shore,
A mighty craft of refuge from the storm,
The steady hand of Morpheus at her helm,
To navigate her safely through his realm;

Tall masts of sloom to harness winds of whims,
Unfurled imagination’s canvas brims;
Exotic currents of capricious flight
Now speed my ship of dreams into the night;

To realms devoid of sorrow and attrition,
Where fronds of peace alleviate contrition
And children’s laughter brings the soul’s respite,
Exulting in the freedom of the night;

And further on, beyond a mortal dream,
Where isles of gods in paradise I glean,
Unto a sky-bound river of desire
That burns with torrid waves of passion’s fire

Wherein do surge a billion sparkling gems
Of hopes and prayers ascending godly realms,
To reach the throne in Destiny’s great hall,
Upon who’s ears those whispered yearnings fall;

And anchored all around that estuary
The masts of ten-score Ships of Hope I see,
All bearing wishes from a hundred worlds,
That pour o’er gunnel’s rail in wispered swirls;

Wherein the winds abate and sails fall fallow
And anchor drops to grapple sandy shallow,
And hatches breached reveal her brimming hold
Filled deep with priceless treasures to unload;

And O’ such precious plunders do I bring!
Trite jewels of pleading souls in suffering,
That in their darkest hour of despair,
From Destiny seek peace in ardent prayer;

And raw do those stones burn with tortured pleas
That bring my hardy sailors to their knees,
Who send those gems of suffering with their tears
To race that river’s flow to godly ears;

And when the final wretched gem is borne upon that stream,
And all the tears of every soul upon that ship of dreams
Are mingled with sweet offerings that float unto the queen,
A ghostly stillness then descend upon that spectral scene;
And I can feel infinity raining down upon my heart,
Yet through the storm I see what joys in rain she does impart;

For stars of love descend in wisps of gold,
That shower answered prayers for those poor souls
O’er empty ships where silent hope endures
To carry dreams come true to mortal shores;

And when my ship with pity’s booty reels
And mercy’s golden wisps do fill her keel,
With anchor hauled and sail unfurled anew,
We plow again night’s seas of darkest blue;

‘Cross astral waves of endless time and space,
Poseidon’s chariot guiding schooner’s chase,
Till gray approaches through receding night,
Revealing shores of day in dawn’s first light;

And now my worthy spectral oarsmen haul,
To bring my lovely ship close in to shore,
And rest at anchor in the Bay of Day
Across mortality’s threshold does she lay;

And in the silent birth of that new morn,
Released those answered prayers on winds are borne
To fall through slumber’s mist upon the meek,
Souls blessed to wake and mercy’s harvest reap;

Sailors of ethereal oceans
Nomads on a sea of notions
Tides of night are now abated
Slumber’s oarsmen rest elated;

Mind awaken, spirit rise,
Morning’s beauty fill these eyes,
Ears awash with nature’s din,
Airs of life caress this skin;

Debark the ship of sleeps delight
Now harbored in the land of light,
And disembark her mortal crew
To tread the solid ground anew;

And face again that worldly storm
With soul restored and worries shorn,
Hold fast that course in tempests wind
Till evening does the squall rescind;

And when you can resist no more
Your soul lets out that stifled caw,
Then turn about on buckled knees
To look for gold in wisps of breeze;

And when another mortal day is done,
And Nyx’s dark domain usurps the sun,
Return again to that eternal shore,
To sail the mighty ship of dreams once more.

I Do Not Pray

I do not Pray

Gorse blossoming in snow Image:

Gorse blossoming in snow

I do not pray to increment my days
Nor plead to ease my modest situation,
I care not for a life of lavish ways
Nor seek the power to rule over a nation.
Though least among the blooms the gorse revive
To flower midst the winter snow; yet I,
Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive,
But struggle forth and in one season die.
To what then might this mortal weed aspire?
Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain,
But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire!
You are my joy, though you shall be my bane;
For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite,
Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.



Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer Image:

Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer


A craftless ship afloat ill-tempered waters
With neither star nor compass to avail,
Blown on those wintry gales far from safe quarters,
Caught-fast upon a reef my yawl did flail;
For tempests of the heart will hard pursue
On passion’s tides that run love’s ocean deep,
Those ships of lovers seeking harbours new
In ports where love’s rare booty they would reap;
And wisdom’s compass is no guide for lovers,
Infatuation’s stars do but deceive,
To foil intrepid sailors, like all others,
And dash them on those ragged rocks to grieve.
Lament no more my barcarola triste,
For love is least where doleful tears persist!

Little Dog

Little Dog

The little dog is old and grey
From childhood you loved him
and you gave him to me
a lover’s sacrifice
on that far-away day
when you kissed him in playful parting
I held him often
seeking something
of your essence
yet no comforter was he
most pungent
The void you left those many years ago remains
derelict somewhere in my soul
He was beautiful bathed in the fragrance of you
Just a tatty old stuffed-toy
that we both loved.

Gaia’s Ball

Gaia--Borrowed from the Mission Galactic Freedom blog. (Click on image to visit)

Gaia–Borrowed from the Mission Galactic Freedom blog.
(Click on image to visit)

Gaia’s Ball

When hurly lows and lazy highs
Succumb to youth’s melodic spells,
To waltz around the ballroom skies
And whirl above the rolling swells;
And summer’s milk-and-honey voice
Imbued with vernal-passion’s sighs
Intones the chant of her rejoicing
Borne on winds of fairest guise;
Then hark the heron’s hawking wauls
When from across the bay she brings
Forebodings of impending squalls
That follow on her fleeting wings,
For sunshine soon shall be repealed,
Occluded by the tempest’s shroud,
The winds will blast, their guise revealed
As lightning rips though torrid cloud;
And when the grand finale vent
Leaves Gaia’s voice in quiet remission,
Summer’s youthful passions spent,
Again it rains with sunshine’s fission;
Then hurly lows and lazy highs
Shall once again sedated be
To waltz around the ballroom skies
And whirl above the rolling sea.

Treadmill Express

The-down-escalator-London-006Treadmill Express

Morpheus, healer, hold me fast,
Perpetuate your sea of night,
For tides of dawn a-cull with might
To strafe me back to shores of light.
Yet purged I’m torn from slumber’s arms,
From balms of soothing bliss I’m wrenched,
My wounds unhealed my thirst unquenched,
In verity’s cold grip I’m clenched;
And stark emerged from surf of sleep
To climb once more the cliff of day,
Through dawn’s chill-mist I make my way
To join the masses in the fray;
And make again that steep descent
Into suburbia’s heaving numbles,
Where Miller’s dirge relentless rumbles
E’er the subway stairway trundles
Down to that tube. Beneath the earth,
From platform packed to dire excess,
I step into the swelling press,
The seven-oh-five—Treadmill Express.

Cold Steel

george_bernard_shaw_art_540Cold Steel

Cold steel and steel can never meld
Sans fire and flux to make the weld,
In separate states forever smelt
Bereft of heat to make them melt;

And in the furnace of the mind
Where thoughts and words transform combined,
What heat but passion from the heart
Can catalyze those unbound parts?

What flux save for emotions feel
Can fuse imaginations steel?
What fire but creativity
Can fuel the forge of poetry?

In every mind a world unique
Portrays its own reality,
In every heart a soul that seeks
Release from passion’s ardent heat;

And you, sad pedagogue of writ
In ivory tower’s heights you sit,
The literary bourgeoisie
The wannabe-a-Pharisee;

With sanctimonious pedantry
And shallow rationality,
You sermonize reality
And repress spontaneity;

Where is your heart? Where is desire?
Where is your passion? Where is fire?
How privileged has your life been
That you can’t speculate and dream;

Your whetted acumen is blind
To know the world within my mind,
Your intellect can’t comprehend
The depth of my experience;

Pursue release from your conceit
Try standing on your own two feet,
Throw-off the robes and go without
And learn what real-life’s all about;

Go live in Haiti on the street
To beg for food and go bare-feet,
You’ll seek relief in destitution
Abstraction’s wisdom in affliction;

Your erudition will be free
To ruminate exquisitely,
When misery and deprivation
Bring to naught your education;

Then spend some time with UNICEF
Attend some starving children’s deaths,
And look into their parents eyes
To tell them not to theorize;

And when you’ve learned to wonder why
Compassion’s tears have wet your eye,
When you know your own contrition
And seek relief in dream and vision;

Then go back to that ivory tower
With all your rationale and power,
And sprinkle petrol all around
Then strike a match and burn it down.