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

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

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.

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.

A Letter to Albert

imagination-albert-einsteinA Letter to Albert

Dear Albert, your resolve was well disposed
To conquer knowledge thitherto divine,
By which prophetic insight you disclosed
Deep secrets that our science could not define;
For only relative extrapolation
Can reconcile with objectivity,
Conflicting views—to give an illustration,
How time can march and fly, yet be a sea;
For while the poet’s verse portrays in reverie
Envisioning existence’s transpose,
Time flows and flies and marches the most verily
As visualized in your numeric prose;
For General Relativity decrees,
Time’s wings beat to the flow of marching seas!

The Wedding (2 Sonnets)

Eros (Greek Cupid) and Anteros. Image:

Eros (Greek Cupid) and Anteros.

Wedding Invitation

I must confess my acumen is witless
To thwart the hex by which I am possessed,
To which these presents bear conclusive witness
By virtue of to whom they are addressed;
For though my want continues in delighting
To freely roam among the blooming flowers,
My will no longer finds the jaunt exciting,
My passion’s bent usurped by stronger powers;
For Anteros (the Greek) has worked injustice
And filled both she and I with like devotion,
And you alone, dear Cupid, my accomplice,
Can spite his dart and nullify the potion.
The wedding’s at the church beside the river,
Be sure to bring lead-arrows in your quiver!

Wedding Epilogue

Imagine, if you will, my situation,
Delivered by Anteros to the altar,
When prompted to assent the consecration
My spell-besotted tongue declined to falter!
Yet in that blessed moment of despair
A-heel of my I do’s reverberation,
Your leaden-arrow sped to my repair
And doused the flame of my infatuation.
Your second shot, dear Cupid, went askew,
And, missing my betrothed, it smote his reverence
Who, when my clarion Not! provoked ado,
Expressed his just approval of our severance:
My Son, he said, the devil has you fair,

But better damned in Hell than wed to her!


Drinking-bacchus by Guido Reni Image:

Drinking-bacchus by Guido Reni


The bottle, to the wine, is of small matter;
Can pewter not conserve as well as glass?
The wine will either disappoint or flatter,
Fine crystal makes cheap fare taste no less crass;
But when I pressed the rarest of my vinery
In your exquisite vessel to ferment,
My cup (befitting, gem-encrusted finery)
Brimmed acrimonious quaff to my lament!
For bitter is the cup served with deceit
When poured from cherished vessels of affection,
To penalize the heart’s naive conceit
And taint love’s sweet bouquet with rank deception.
By this, dear Catador, you are forewarned:
Keep fine reserves well-corked and unadorned!






A claw to gouge the craggy feldspar face,
A fang that’s meet to chew the brittlest flint,
A scale to thwart the cleaving cutlass trace,
Through sparks and brume your fiery eyes a-glint.
Behind hooked-claw, a jealous rage serrating,
Behind sharp-tooth a taste for mortal flesh,
Behind bronze scale a thrown-down gage awaiting,
In scathing eye a hungry look of death;
And looming on the threshold of your parlour,
Intent to raid and steal your hoarded treasure,
Two-score and ten of juicy men in armour,
To satisfy and stay your hunger’s pleasure;
For thirty-days you’ll dine on manly grub,
But where to put the bones—now there’s the rub!



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!



Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada Image:

Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada


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.


Woman Silhouette... Image: geralt,

Woman Silhouette…
Image: geralt,


Lone orb, that in imagination’s vision
Ploughs silver wake through cobalt seas on high,
Your solitude enkindles passion’s fission,
Love’s avatar eternal in the sky;
What ocean could contain those endless tears
Or valley ring the cries of sorrows torn,
Or tome contain the words of countless fears
Borne up to you on winds of sighs forlorn;
On every heart a sonnet you have written
And every heart in you has sought solace,
Though you can never cry for lover’s smitten
Too arid is your ancient dusty face;
Yet still you bear the scar of every trace,
Of wounds on tender hearts love’s scorn did chase.

On The Bottom

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon vues de derrière Image:

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon vues de derrière

On The Bottom

My muse has reached the bottom and is resting
In contemplation of that lowly seat,
Which, when one’s legs are aching and protesting
Is happy to alleviate one’s feet;
Oh comely and alluring derriere,
You captivate the eye and fuse the muse,
Your symmetry will always cause a stir
Among the boys—a sight they can’t refuse!
Accommodating, fain and unobtrusive,
Though partial to the putting on of airs,
For some upon occasion too protrusive
And over-enamoured of comfy chairs.
And while it’s true you’ll always cause a hum,
Still, wouldn’t life be sad without the bum!

Spring Eternal

Eternal Love by Jahar Dasgupta

Eternal Love by Jahar Dasgupta

Spring Eternal

Upon the touch of Erin’s clement breeze
‘Cross beryl seas where vernal currents flow,
Through feldspar rime of winter’s icy freeze
Blooms verdant spring where lay the barren snow;
What bent pervades within those wisps a-fleet
Whose touch can pass so subtle and unfelt,
That with one kiss from Gaia’s lips so sweet
A season’s empire falls and glaciers melt;
But nature wrought in you her work’s increase
When I, in Uller’s bondage you did kiss,
And from the frosts of Holda’s field release
My love to blossom in your season’s bliss.
Now every day at dawn the swallows sing,
To cant the birth of yet another spring.