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




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

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

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…

The Virtue of the Rose

'She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?' Image: DLady,

‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’
Image: DLady,

The Virtue of the Rose

The rose does not esteem her generations
Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion,
She can not prize her fragrant emanations,
In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion;
When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure,
Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade,
Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure
When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid;
From where ensues this virtue she defines?
She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew,
If not that though she fade a thousand times
Those many times shall she travail anew.
Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath,
The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.

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.



Doña Aurora

Doña Aurora


The scent of Eos lingers in her wake,
A rare Shiraz—uncorked, releasing tones
Of aniseed and cinnamon; bouquet
Whose redolence drifts down the alleyways
And blends acerbic-sweet with notes of coffee and cacao
That percolate through slats in unglazed windows;
The sun’s oblique and penetrating rays
Defy the lofty, jealous fronds, and squeeze
Between the crowded planet’s oak and concrete bastions,
To poke through breeze-block slots
And highlight cracks in flaky-pastry walls;
Aurora, time-derided, eroded, cracked,
Heart pitted like the hands that wield the broom,
Downtrodden like the object of her enterprise,
Plays out the litany of morning ritual
And, smiling, sweeps again the crumbling path;
Wherein she sees beyond each bristle’s stroke
A cloud of musty memories exhumed
To briefly spritz, and fall in motes of dreams
Long dead, and now reburied in the dust.
But clouds will gather in the afternoon,
Convective gusts will dissipate stale spice
And August rains will flood the rutted ground
To sanitize with petrichor anew;
And all shall lie in readiness for tomorrow’s
Infusions, diffusions, oblations and sorrows