Sonnettics

Tonight I say farewell to all the girls–
To all the wayward girls I’ve ever known–
To all the girls I’ve ever given pearls,
Good-bye to you, and keep them as your own.
I gave them freely, even if you thought
They came with string attached or some design
To lure you toward the traps you often sought
(If you were trapped, they surely were not mine!)
And most of all, I bid adieu to Fame,
The flirt who barely cast a glance my way.
I’m sure she doesn’t even know my name,
Surrounded by her thoughtless boys all day.
And so, resolved and written here this night,
I’m sure she’ll find my bed by morning’s light.

This sonnet is an allusion to one by John Keats:

On Fame

1819

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease.
She is a Gipsey, — will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper’d close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar,
Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

(for Wendy)

1. I Love Your Hands

I love your hands, they seem to love me too
I love the way your fingers touch my skin
My hands applaud the things your hands can do
Come place your hand in mine as we begin
The journey that our hands already know
Along the paths and trails our hearts define
I love the places where, our hands will go
And if your hand gets cold, I’ll give you mine
I’ve got to hand it to your loving hands
They handle life with soft and subtle care
Your handiwork unfolds as peace expands
Your loving hands caress me everywhere
Come press your palms where loving hands belong
And let your hands conduct my simple song.

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I’m awed at how he twists the glass to art
I saw it in Tacoma, then . . . surprise!
Chilhuly’s glass in Pittsburgh touched my heart
At Phipps, where art and orchids filled my eyes!

He overcame an accident, like me
We both know what it’s like to hit a car
But Dale does more with glass than injury
I’m glad that he displays it near and far!

I’d like to twist my words like Dale twists glass
So beauty, peace, and strength can be displayed
Can light reflect from words that I amass?
Can words or glass display what God has made?

I’ll be forever awed by art like this
Chihuly art that brings poetic bliss.

I am in Pittsburgh with my wife. We came here to visit her friend, who is also a triathlete, and I have been able to get in some good training with her. Yesterday we swam at a local pool, then we went for about a 16 mile ride through some of the “decorative” north hills. After our ride we went to dinner at the Church Brew Works, an old Catholic church that has been converted into a micro-brewery! Awesome food, beer, and service! (Their napkins say “On the 8th day, man created beer.” I told them that on the 9th day, God created the hangover!)

After our dinner we went to the Andy Warhol Museum. I wrote the following poem in one of the galleries:

I spoke with Andy, using words of Pop
He said to use Pop words to write my verse
I started writing, then I couldn’t stop
He told me not to stop; it could be worse
What’s worse than writing shit, incessantly?
I wondered with the next words that I spoke
He said, That’s great; you’re flowing musically!
Like opera, when the tenor starts to choke!
I wished that he would come and share a beer
I bought a Stella, drank a toast to him
The man was dead, and yet I felt him near
Like Stella’s foam, he lingered on the brim
I said Adieu; he laughed and flipped me off
It’s only Pop, he said, if critics scoff.

Saint Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans fame
Was born a simple shepherdess in France
And though King Henry with his legions came
To Harfleur, Henry didn’t stand a chance

Although they started well at Agincourt
At Orléans they were greeted by the force
Of Joan of Arc, the heroine of war
At les Tourelles she routed them, of course

Her beauty and her strength were gifts from God
To guide her countrymen to victory
And though she fell to Henry’s vicious squad
She overcame cruel English tyranny

Saint Joan is still alive in France today
In everyone who lives above the fray.

This is the tune I am working into this sonnet:
ellers
****
Come be my song; come be my work of art
My words will match the rhythm of your heart
Come be with me, and let me sing of you
My love is more than words; my love is true

I don’t know any Valentine as sweet
I melt like chocolate melts beneath your heat
As sweet as tasting your sweet lips on mine
Your loving warmth is soft and so divine

I’ll turn my love into a song for you
In harmony with kisses, warm and true
My little songs of love enjoy your kiss
Love in your arms is pure and simple bliss

Come be my work of art; come be my song
Come be within my arms, where you belong.

Surrounded by a quiet sea of words
Unlike the place where I was just annoyed
That coffee shop in Lorton, where the herds
Made noises that I know I should avoid!
I like it here where quietude resides
It seems the words all want to splash my beach
And yet they don’t annoy me with their tides
They’re like the mermaids singing, each to each
And unlike Prufrock, they will sing to me
I’ll dare to eat a peach and drink some wine
I’ll dare to swim in this, their quiet sea
Where words will ebb and flow in grace, divine!
My little songs will linger in this sea
Where human voices wake me, quietly.

I wonder if they know that they annoy
this poet as he tries to write his songs
He knows they’re only little songs of joy
But joy knows where each word of his belongs
The poet and his words might be annoyed
by people in the coffee shop who laugh
a bit too loud for poets to avoid
But seeds of sound sometimes appear as chaff
Was Hamlet interrupted by some fool?
Did Shakespeare make Polonius from that?
Are interruptions just a simple tool
good poets use, like sailors chew the fat?
I’ll try to turn annoyance into art
For that appears to be the poet’s part!

I wish they’d put this cat in every tree
To guide me through my private wonderland
It seems he likes to be and not to be
He tells me things I ought to understand
Like when I ask the cat which way to go
He tells me that it matters not at all
I’ll surely get to somewhere. Now I know
I’d like to make it to my curtain call
They’re mad both to the east and to the west
Poor players strut and fret upon this stage
I guess I like their sound and fury best
But most of all, I like this cat; he’s sage
They tell me he’s a Cheshire cat; that’s fine
I only wish this Cheshire cat was mine!