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

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

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 WikiPaintings.org

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet
Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org

Beauty on a crowded street

Beauty on a crowded street

Axons swoon
to hues of amethyst redolence
in eyes that drink passion
from the fusion of her essence
with the air.
Demure Aphrodite?
Wielding the vine of Pothos to a deluge of lust?
Or just some other Lady of Cythera
inciting carnal passions
with the guile of Venus.

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.

Orb Romance

cool-pic-of-spaceThe sun arose before the dawn
The morning of his day of rest,
With rays a-trim and beams a-shorn
He donned himself his Sunday’s best;

The astral aura fringed his crown
And cloudy frills bedecked his vest,
With trousers wrought of misty down,
His coat–a braided, cobalt crest;

And up he shone in dark of night
His wake a golden vaporous trace,
While off a-far stars twinkled bright
Below the world in sleeps embrace;

Into the heaven’s vaults serene
Beyond translucent silver billows,
That parted to reveal Selene
Reclined across her argent pillows;

And oh how radiantly he shone
To see her pale complexion flush
With love’s white heat reflected from
His ardent passion’s burning rush!

Then all around the Milky Way
Resounding o’er ethereal seas,
Celestial strings began to play
The waltz of Fate and Destiny,

And all night’s creatures awed to see
Their star a-waltzing with his queen
Go dancing ’round the galaxy
Enraptured in their lover’s dream

As hand-in-hand they twirled and swayed
In Gaia’s ballroom of the night,
Reciprocating hearts portrayed
The joys of sharing love’s delight;

‘Till in his luminosity
That passion’s bent his soul enkindled,
Like a tide gone out to sea,
Night receded, starlight dwindled;

‘The eastern skies turned fringed with light,
A draft churned mist in valley’s deep,
As birdsong broke the spell of night
And cocks crowed from the rooftops steep;

Then dawn broke o’er the world below
And Gaia sighed delightedly,
To see those love-struck orbs a-go
A-waltzing off beyond the sea.

Fashion

 

Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada Image: wikipaintings.org

Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada
Image: wikipaintings.org

Fashion

My passion I had tethered in disdain,
Denied for higher virtues to fulfill,
Denied I say, but to no greater gain,
Pressed to compel with such a blunted quill.
What folly I endorsed to my lament
Possessing such a rapier never drawn,
How worthless was that coin I never spent,
If not to virtue’s then my profit’s scorn!
But beauty did in you my blunder heal
And cause my stoic heart to brim with verse,
That sword—my quill—now keen with ardent zeal
To vanquish all things trite and dull and terse!
Neither for love nor vanity, but passion,
Your beauty, while it lasts, will be my fashion.

The Hunter

 

Orion--The Hunter

Orion–The Hunter

The Hunter

Take aim, o’ hunter, stretch your bow
Drawn tight on arrows flight,
And loose that star-tipped astral bolt
This hardened heart to smite;

To rend these wretched tower walls
For passion’s tortured cries,
To find release and be consumed
In your eternal skies;

Behold the sparkling sequined belt
That girths your hunter’s waist,
Those tiny sparks of glittering light
That transcend time and space;

From such a nebulae am I
Conceived in newborn suns,
My DNA is stardust-laced
My blood with sunlight runs;

Yet though my heart with passion swells
Your majesty to see,
Dark-matter rules this feeble soul
Blind mortal that I be;

So shoot your arrow true and swift
That virtue’s light may flow,
Transform the dark crypt of my mind
With passion’s starlit glow;

Then I will fill my quill to brim
Galactic mists I’ll fly,
To write about Orion’s Bow
Upon the parchment sky.