Storied Lands [Sonnet / Idyll]

In mountain meadows, bleating sheep abound,
and green grass grows as high as their hunger
allows -- about as high as cricket grounds,
but I am lost in fantastic wonder.

It seems to me this is a storied land,
not merely grazing space, but where dragons
once flew, and one might see giants, firsthand --
a place that's never known a plow 'r wagons. 

It's where magic must once have arisen,
if ever such a place had existed --
where sparkling streams still burble and glisten
whose secret is kept ever tightfisted.

If you stumble into this storied realm
don't let its siren sight overwhelm.

The Marigold Dance: or, Party Pivot [Sonnet]

The dance they did amid the marigolds
was such a captivating sight to see.
It made a storied world of the household,
and it filled hearts and minds with quiet glee.

Their bodies glistening, naked and wild.
They stomped in muddy soil with grubby feet,
and hearts did sing as childlike souls did smile,
and all dancers hinged and moved like athletes.

But with an ankle twist, the party lulled -
one dancer fallen from the frenzied horde.
The momentum was lost, and minds were dulled, 
and musicians played only some sour chords.

The flower petals all began to wilt 
and dancers wandered home in shame and guilt.

Apocalypse, Soon [Sonnet]

When time stopped behaving, I should have known
that war was coming - perhaps, something worse.
Those who saw themselves sinless grabbed their stones,
and started chanting bile -- their wicked curse.

The hopeless cried with wide eyes, but in vain
as they were huddled around burning fires.
The best of us opted to go insane,
and build crude armor from old belts and tires.

We'd flank a castle that did not exist
like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. 
Better to charge a false monster and miss
than to have Folly chase one to the hills.

Who says it's worse to slouch to lunacy
than suffer the world's fury lucidly?

Dreaming Evil Clowns [Spencerian Sonnet]

My lungs were burning as I ran through town,
and tried to escape the streets of cobbled stone
and he from whom I ran, that evil clown,
whose paint obscured a face I once had known,

but how could I know something that's unknown
and, thinking that, I knew it made no sense,
though I knew it true deep within my bones.

Then stirred by eyes so burning and intense,
I picked a pointy stick for my defense,
and chucked it at the creature's beastly heart.
I missed its heart by width of a ten-pence.
The clown, in turn, tossed it back like a dart.

Awaking to sharp pains in my frail chest,
the clown had slayed me, or so I guessed.

Horse Latitudes [Sonnet]

I scoured vast seas in search of wisdom lost.
It happened when they made me walk the plank,
like scuttled wreckage, sunk sans thought of cost,
as I began to rise, my treasure sank.
I bobbed in seas that each way looked the same.
How could I find my way back to that spot
carried by currents dastardly untamed,
and found days later by a ragged yacht.
And so I drift upon the choppy seas,
and hope for winds to steer me on my course,
but mostly there's not even a slight breeze,
and I'm stuck in ghost screams of a dumped horse.

I hope one day to regain my attitude,
but not stuck down in these damned horse latitudes.

POEM: Frozen Waterfall [Sonnet]

The world stands like a frozen waterfall,
a river paralyzed, impossibly.
And silence replaces its rushing call.
In stillness, it spurns gabbling audibly.

How can a cataract become so hush,
its business being unceasing motion,
spending its days, constantly in a rush,
dispatching raindrops back to the ocean?

Yet, now it's a tower - still as a stone -
that looms like it's never known transience.
Its icy curtain, hard as a shinbone,
offers a wholly different ambience.

I can see its beauty, but am still sad,
thinking the falls should be beyond the fads.

POEM: Mystical River Moment [PoMo – Day #2: Shakespearean Sonnet]

The burbling sounds did clarify my mind.
Somehow, the flowing stream was one with me,
and sitting down just at the riverbend,
I felt more flowing rhythm than I could see.

Some part of me was whisked in search of sea,
though my body sat at the muddy edge.
I know not how a part of me could flee --
just pure potential, being on a ledge.

I lost the river like one loses blood.
It's there, but [unseen] becomes all and none.
Each is swept along swiftly by a scud,
but seem so still when you and it are one.

The mystic moment comes then flits away,
and I am left with nothing fine to say.

POEM: Given Too Much Spin [Sonnet]

The march of time is chopping at the world
like rugged heels that hack the rocky ground.
It feels as though the Earth, it has been hurled, 
and as it was, sped spinning round-and-round.

A nauseating ride, it is of late,
and only getting faster by the day.
I have no time for dates with my own fate,
and have given up praying for delays.

I'm hit by pounding waves of happenstance,
and random acts of near haphazardness.
I lose some hours adrift in blurry trance.
I'll schedule later dates to feel distress.

Yes, even though I know that date won't come,
I'll play the game as if I won't succumb.

POEM: Ode to the Sun [Sonnet]

We are always eight minutes to midnight,
saved only by that blazing fire, the sun.
Everything dark is thrown into its light,
exposed at speeds that cannot be outrun.

Its warmth still radiates on darkest night.
When covers have been pulled up to the cheek,
its heat still lingers, staving off frostbite,
and trickling drops under the frozen creek.

When sands are burning under tender feet,
and sweat is dripping from one’s flesh and hair,
and even when we curse the brutal heat,
we still prefer that you remain right there.

You’ve got just five billion years left to fire,
I hope someone’ll be sad when you expire.

POEM: The Cabin Trap [Sonnet]

I snatch a coat from hook on my way out.
The gusting winds are rattling the panes.
The sad line of tracks, when I wheel about,
suggests I’ve made little by way of gains.

The cabin keeps me ever near at hand.
I walk and walk and yet it won’t recede.
The slog is slow as if I’m in quicksand;
I lean to snap my chains, and so be freed.

But chains I cannot see, I cannot break.
My sisyphean lean does me no good.
And through the air there falls just one snowflake,
but there’d be more before I reach the Wood.

The cabin wants me back; I hear it call.
I buckle at the knees. So goes my fall.