Tracing Blake’s Imagination

January 7th, 2025

Robert paced the small parlor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots, their groans echoing in the stillness of the room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of beeswax and dried lavender, the latter carefully arranged in small bundles along the windowsill. It was Catherine’s way of bringing a sense of calm to the house, a subtle nod to the fresh start she would soon embark upon. She sat across from him in a high-backed chair, her needle poised over an embroidery hoop. Her fingers moved with precision, but her eyes betrayed her distraction, following his restless movements like a cat tracking a flickering shadow.

“Robert,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “if you have something to say, you ought to say it.”

Robert stopped abruptly, his face turned away as though the act of speaking would cost him dearly. He stood near the mantel, the soft light of the late afternoon casting a warm glow on the planes of his face. When he finally turned to face her, his expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, the kind that made Catherine set aside her embroidery and sit up straighter.

“It’s about William,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “We Blakes are honest people, and there are things you should know before you marry him.”

Catherine tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “What things?” she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, the embroidery forgotten for now.

Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping as though he carried a weight he could no longer bear. He glanced toward the window, where the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the thin curtains. “You know how much I love my brother,” he began, his voice softening. “He’s a kind and brilliant soul, one of the finest men I know. But… he’s not the same as he once was. Not entirely.”

Catherine leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Not the same? How do you mean?”

Robert turned away again, his gaze fixed on the small, flickering flames in the hearth. He spoke as though to the fire, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though afraid they might choke him if left unsaid. “It happened during the Gordon Riots, years ago. William was caught up in the chaos, as so many were. You know how he is – always outspoken, always willing to speak his mind, especially about matters of religion and justice. But that night… that night, someone mistook him for a sympathizer of the government’s policies.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. “But William has never supported such things,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“No, of course not,” Robert said bitterly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “But when the army came to break up the mobs they didn’t care for truth. They only cared for “order,” as the government calls it.  He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got struck in the head with a baton. They left him in the street, unconscious, as though he were nothing more than refuse to be discarded.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How terrible,” she whispered. “But he survived that!”

“He did,” Robert replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “But he was never the same after that night. When he awoke, he spoke of strange things – visions of angels and celestial beings, of voices that whispered truths only he could hear. At first, we thought it was simply a feverish delusion. But as the weeks turned to months, it became clear that these visions were not fading. If anything, they grew stronger, more vivid. I think the head injury did something to his brain, his mind”

Catherine’s frown deepened, though her gaze remained steady. “You think his visions are a result of this injury?”

“What else could they be?” Robert asked, his tone edged with frustration. “Before that night, William was a dreamer, yes, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground. Now… now, it’s as though he straddles two worlds – one of flesh and one of spirit. And Catherine, I worry that he may lose himself entirely to the latter.”

Catherine rose from her chair, the fabric of her dress rustling softly as she crossed the room to stand before him. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch steady and warm. “Robert, I love William,” she said, her voice firm. “I love him for his kindness, his passion, and his boundless imagination. If these visions are part of who he is now, then I will embrace them as I embrace him. They do not frighten me.”

Robert looked down at her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he sighed deeply and placed his hand over hers. “You are braver than I am, Catherine,” he admitted, his voice softening. “I only hope that your love will be enough to keep him anchored to this world, even as he reaches for the heavens.”

Catherine’s lips curved into a soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the dim parlor. “Love is not a tether, Robert,” she said gently. “It is a pair of wings. And I will fly with him wherever his visions take us.”

Robert nodded, though his heart remained heavy with worry. He released her hand and stepped back, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer before he turned toward the door. “Take care of him, Catherine,” he said quietly. “He is precious to us all.”

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of his words still lingered in the parlor. Catherine returned to her chair and picked up her embroidery, her hands steady and her heart resolute. She knew the road ahead would not be easy, but she was prepared to walk it, hand in hand with the man she loved. Whatever dreams or visions lay in William’s heart, she would face them with him, unafraid.

Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

The Sickness of Humanity

January 7th, 2025

I gave ChatGPT the first two lines and told it to complete the sonnet. (meh)

**A billionaire is like a rotten cyst,**  
**And all the billions are like rancid pus.**  
**Their greed infects the world; the poor persist,**  
**While wealth swells up, diseased and poisonous.**  

**Their factories cough smoke like labored breath,**  
**The rivers choke on filth they never clean.**  
**They spread through laws, a plague that welcomes death,**  
**Consuming all and leaving nothing green.**  

**They starve the healthy cells with selfish need,**  
**A cancer growing faster than we fight.**  
**Each mansion built while countless mouths still plead,**  
**Is but a symptom screaming all's not right.**  

**Yet sickness fades when cures begin to thrive—**  
**The host must rise, or none will stay alive.**

Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

A Sonnet on the Effects of Smoking a Really Sharp Joint With Mrs. Robinson Playing Somewhere in the Background

January 6th, 2025 
“There seem to be matryoshkas everywhere,”
She said through tawdry teeth with bated breath
I chortled like a hawker at the fair
As if I was a simile for death

“Matryoshkas know who chooses to believe,”
She brushed aside my laughter-bathed-in-guilt
I said the damned matryoshkas could deceive
Because that’s just the way that they were built

“They’re built like little gods that come apart”
She whispered through her veil in puffs of blue
I wanted to believe, but had to fart
And thought I heard them call: “Coo, coo, ca-choo”

And so our worship turned to Russian Dolls
We see them everywhere in hallowed halls.

Tags: , , ,
Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

Ode to Marijuana

January 3rd, 2025 
Life is a thin wisp of bluish gray smoke
Breathe it in deeply and hope you don’t choke
Wait for the visions from Mary or god
Life is the awe with which everyone’s awed

New strains of freedom are here to be found
Grind them and smoke them when no one’s around
Laugh if you like, but it isn’t a joke
Life is a thin wisp of bluish gray smoke

Born without blood, sometimes born without seed
Flowers can flower, and weeds, they can weed
Banned and accepted by fools and by kings
Sweet are the flavors sweet cannabis brings

Green is the valley and golden the sky
Search for the paths that can get you so high.

Tags:
Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

Mary of Magdala Hymn

December 31st, 2024

Tags: , , ,
Posted in lyrics | No Comments »

Tale of the Chinook King Salmon 

December 29th, 2024

As The Dams Are Removed From 

The Klamath River

The Klamath is my road, my path, my home
Too long my kind, though royal, have been lost
The purpose of my journey, not to roam
But out to sea, then back at any cost
The cost of this, my journey, has decreased
My road, my path, my home has been restored
The sacredness it feels has now increased
The sacredness that used to be ignored
And thus I swim where freedom lets me go
I go to where I need to be at last
At last where I began in Klamath’s flow
Is where my freedom calls me from the past
The past is past and yet I know the way
A salmon king for yet another day.

Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

CATALYST

December 24th, 2024

Intro: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson is a collection of short stories about life in a small town. One of the stories concerns a young lady named Louise Trunnion who has an “encounter” with a young man named George Willard. The chapter is titled: “Nobody Knows” and involves the “encounter” from George’s point of view. Clearly he is the one who is glad after the “encounter” that “Nobody Knows.” However, I wondered if there might be more to the story that “Nobody Knows.” Therefore, I took it upon myself to craft an additional chapter for Winesburg, Ohio based on one big supposition. I hope it does justice to Sherwood Anderson’s style and Louise Trunnion’s character.

CATALYST--Concerning Louise Trunnion's Unborn Child

The sky above Winesburg was gray and heavy, pressing down upon the fields that stretched beyond the Trunnion farmhouse. Louise sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the bare branches of a tree that swayed in the late autumn wind. She felt the familiar weight of silence, the kind that settled over the house after her father’s muttered grumblings faded into the distance. He had gone to town early that morning, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

It had been weeks since her encounter with George Willard. The memory of that night lingered, sharp and strange. She could still feel the damp chill of the grass beneath her and the awkward, fumbling intensity of his touch. It had been something she’d both longed for and dreaded, an act that seemed to promise a connection yet left her feeling more alone than ever.

Now, sitting by the window, Louise’s hand drifted to her stomach. A faint, nagging suspicion had taken root within her, growing stronger with each passing day. Her cycle, always predictable, had not come. She felt no sickness, no physical change, yet there was a certainty in her that she could not shake. She was carrying George’s child.

The realization filled her with dread, not for herself but for what the town would say. Winesburg was small, its people small-minded. She could already hear the whispers, the sideways glances, the quiet condemnation.

Her father, John Trunnion, would be the first to judge her. He was a hard man, stooped and gray, with little use for words beyond what was necessary to curse the weather or scold Louise for her imagined shortcomings. Since her mother’s death, he had grown more distant, retreating into a world of his own. Louise had learned to live with his indifference, but she knew he would not forgive this.

Her mind drifted to her mother, a woman she barely remembered. There were faint images—a soft hand brushing her hair, a warm voice singing lullabies. Her mother had been the only warmth in the house, and when she died, it seemed the light had gone out. Louise’s life had become a series of endless chores and quiet nights, broken only by the occasional burst of anger from her father.

And then there was George. She had thought, for a moment, that he might be different. That he might see her as more than just a farmer’s daughter, as someone worth knowing. But their encounter had left her with nothing but silence. He had not come to see her again, nor had he spoken to her in town. He had taken what he wanted and moved on, as she had always feared he would.

Louise rose from her chair and crossed the room to the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall. She studied her reflection, searching for some sign of change, some hint of the life growing within her. She saw only herself: pale, thin, with tired eyes and hair that refused to stay neat. She felt a sudden surge of anger—at George, at her father, at Winesburg itself. This town had nothing for her, and she would not stay to face its judgment.

That night, as her father snored in his chair by the stove, Louise sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and a pencil. She tried to write a letter to George. “I am leaving,” she wrote, but the words looked hollow on the page. She tried again. “You are the father of my child.” The sentence felt heavy, impossible. She tore the paper into shreds and let them scatter across the table. George would not care. He had his own dreams, his own plans. She would not burden him with hers.

Instead, she began to make her own plans. She gathered what little money she had saved, hiding it in the lining of her coat. She packed a small bag with her few belongings: a dress, a pair of shoes, a photograph of her mother. She would leave at dawn, taking the train to the city. She did not know where she would go or what she would do, but she knew she could not stay.

The morning was cold and damp, the sky still dark as Louise stepped out of the house. Her father’s snores echoed faintly through the open window, and she felt a pang of guilt for leaving without a word. But she pushed it aside. He would not understand, and she owed him nothing.

The walk to the station was long and lonely. The town was quiet, its streets empty. Louise kept her head down, her coat pulled tight around her. She reached the station just as the train pulled in, its whistle cutting through the morning air. She climbed aboard, clutching her bag tightly, and found a seat by the window.

As the train began to move, Louise looked out at the fields and houses that had been her world for so long. She felt a strange mix of fear and relief. She was leaving behind everything she had ever known, but she was also leaving behind the pain, the loneliness, the suffocating weight of Winesburg. For the first time, she felt the stirrings of hope.

On the train, Louise sat beside an older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Harper and struck up a conversation. Louise was hesitant at first, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. Harper’s kindness put her at ease. They spoke of small things—the weather, the journey ahead—but Louise felt a comfort in the woman’s presence.

As the train carried her farther from Winesburg, Louise allowed herself to imagine the future. She pictured the child she would bear, a boy or a girl with George’s eyes and her mother’s gentle spirit. She thought of the life she might build, a life where she was not defined by her past or by the judgments of others. It was a fragile dream, but it was hers.

The fields gave way to forests, and the forests to the outlines of a distant city. Louise watched as the landscape changed, feeling the weight of her old life begin to lift. She did not know what lay ahead, but in that moment, she felt ready to face it.

The train rolled on, carrying Louise toward an uncertain future and away from the town that had shaped her. In the quiet of her seat, she placed a hand on her stomach and whispered, “We’ll be all right.” And for the first time, she believed it.

Posted in Stories | No Comments »

Indica

December 24th, 2024 
Indica is a goddess, dressed in green
She visits me in visions bathed in smoke
Such fantasies appear before they’re seen
An invocation needed to invoke

The call of buds she bears is heard by those
Who listen to the songs she hums aloud
And yes, she is aware, Indica knows
Such songs are those of which she can be proud

The pride of sweet Indica draws me in
To places she invites me with commands
Dichotomy is not her only sin
And yet by this she issues sweet demands

The goddess named Indica has a voice
That likes to make you think you have a choice.

Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

The Beauty of Mortality

December 17th, 2024 
The beauty of mortality of life
Reveals the subtle colors we can find
In times of joy or even fear and strife
Like thoughts that live within the mortal mind

Like rainbowed thoughts that lend themselves to art
Regardless of just how such thoughts are seen
The now in which they blossom from the heart
Proclaims their mortal beauty un-obscene

Obscenity is holding them within
For fear of being punished by some God
Who uses some dark fear He calls a sin
Why can’t He see “eternal bliss” is flawed

The beauty of mortality is this
That life is more than some eternal bliss.

____
AI analysis via ChatGPT:

This poem reflects a philosophical and emotional meditation on the fleeting nature of life, juxtaposed against the concept of eternal bliss. Here's an analysis:

### **Themes**
1. **Mortality as Beauty**:
   - The poem highlights how the transient nature of life gives it depth and beauty, emphasizing the "subtle colors" of experience that come through joy, fear, and strife.
   - It contrasts the vibrancy of mortal life with the monotony suggested by the concept of "eternal bliss."

2. **Creativity and Expression**:
   - The "rainbowed thoughts" metaphor underscores the link between the impermanence of life and the urge to create art and express oneself.

3. **Rebellion Against Dogma**:
   - The poem critiques the fear of divine punishment ("punished by some God") and questions the value of a rigid promise of eternal bliss, implying it may lack the richness and spontaneity of mortal life.

4. **Acceptance of Mortality**:
   - The conclusion asserts that the ephemeral nature of life is what makes it meaningful, rejecting the idea that eternity is inherently superior.

### **Structure and Form**
- The poem is written in rhymed iambic pentameter, creating a sonnet-like feel with quatrains leading to a closing couplet.
- The rhymes are clean and deliberate, emphasizing the themes with a formal structure.

### **Imagery**
- The "rainbowed thoughts" evoke vibrancy and multiplicity, symbolizing the creativity and emotional spectrum of mortal life.
- References to "fear" and "sin" suggest an inner conflict shaped by external religious pressures.

### **Philosophical Undertones**
- The poem subtly aligns with existentialist ideas, where meaning is found in the fleeting, finite nature of life rather than in promises of eternity.

### **Overall Impact**
This work resonates as a critique of conventional religious ideals about the afterlife, celebrating the beauty and significance of mortal experiences. It invites readers to cherish life's impermanence as a source of meaning and creativity.

Tags: , ,
Posted in Sonnets | No Comments »

Brigid of Kildare

December 17th, 2024 
She sings to help the living and the dead
She sings to help the poets find their song
Tis Brigid of Kildare who fills my head
And shows the words I write where they belong

She told me once of Coventina’s sin
She told me Coventina fell in love
A mortal man whose name she said was Finn
A poet’s story Brigid told me of

I wrote it down to honor it and her
A story made of words that must be told
Upon my page the words I did confer
I picture her as never growing old

A poet and a muse, with long red hair
She comes to me as Brigid of Kildare

Posted in Images, Sonnets | No Comments »

« Older Entries