Sophia

December 6th, 2024
I love Sophia like my love is new
Sophia knows my love transcends my heart
Imagine, if you will what she can do
Fulfilling her divine and noble part

Sophia is her wisdom and her grace
A god to worship everywhere she’s found
A god who knows her high and holy place
She speaks to me at times without a sound

At times I hear the music of her voice
Within the words I find I need to write
To signify that my belief is choice
I choose to dwell within her holy light

Sophia has been with me from the start
Within the thoughts that dwell within my heart.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

November 30th, 2024
I danced with Mary Wollstonecraft last week
Then danced with Mary Shelley late last night
I asked them both if they would let me speak
I heard them laugh and tell me that they might

I only had to find bright words to say
To garner their permission to be heard
The Mary of my heart will always stay
If I present her with a fitting word

And so we dance with language as our tune
We dance as though we are ménage à trois
Our voltas always seem to come too soon
Or late. They always seem to bear some flaw

But Mary knows that words are only games
And that is why she uses both her names.

The Gnosis of Mary Magdalene

November 29th, 2024
The Mary of Magdala came to know
That knowledge of the self is most divine
The paths of Galilee where she would go
Revealed such things to her by their design

Salvation is complete when one is whole
To know oneself, salvation may be found
The beauty of the spirit of the soul
Reveals itself as one eternal round

The Mary of Magdala lives within
The gnosis she discovered and now shares
To mark the paths where knowledge will begin
It shows how much this holy Mary cares

Her gnosis has a firm but subtle call
She learned this truth and teaches it to all.

White Lady

November 11th, 2024
She floats above the village streets at night
In search of some forgotten tale of old
Her ghostly form is beautiful and white
Her ghostly tale is one that's often told

Her life became the sorrow of remorse
Her death became the sorrow all can feel
A ghostly essence runs its ghostly course
A hidden tale the teller can reveal

The teller of her tale this time is me
I saw her in the village where I live
She seemed to know the tale she sought to be
In me she found a teller she could give

Her tale of unrequited love and more
Of life and death, a dark unopened door.

Why Sonnets

November 8th, 2024
I think the world needs sonnets to survive
Survival is the perfect lyric art
The sonnet form, a heartbeat still alive
The perfect sonnet dwells within the heart

The heart of every poet beats in time
With nature, like a song of subtle love
The love of every sonnet is sublime
Like rains that quench the world from clouds above

The sonnet turns its theme to fit the sound
Of everything the human heart might hear
It finds its voice where every voice is found
It sings to every person, far and near

Survival of the sonnet, on the whole
A metaphor of our collective soul.

Pig Shit

November 7th, 2024


The cost of doing nothing is too steep
I guess that means it’s time to “roll up sleeves”
We’ve landed in some shit that’s more than deep
It doesn’t matter what the Trump believes

The “shit” is his election. What the fuck?
How many millions wasted precious votes?
I guess too many like to press their luck
Obtuse to what their orange choice denotes

So, time to scrape up pig shit one more time
A job nobody ever wants to do
But pigs will shit like criminals will crime
And cleaning up will fall to me and you

Democracy requires work that’s tough
Sometimes it stinks, but we are strong enough.

This sonnet is an allusion to the re-election of Donald Trump. It also contains an allusion to a summer job I had as a teenager, shoveling shit out of a pig barn. I still remember the farmer telling me that I was the first kid he’d hired who wasn’t afraid to get in there and scrape the pig shit off the floor. I use the metaphor of “shoveling pig shit” as a reference to anything that may be distasteful, but still needs to be done. I think it works perfectly in this case. For the next four years we need to roll up our sleeves, plug our noses, and wade boot-deep through the shit as we do all we can to clean it up.

Coventina

October 21st, 2024
I call to Coventina in my need
To bring to me her blessed healing rain
She calls to me with words I feel and heed
She sings with showered notes a soft refrain

When Coventina hears the parched who thirst
She sings the dulcet songs of living wells
When water came to be, she was the first
The first to learn the stories water tells

The stories and the songs she shares with all
Are filled with brilliant life and brilliant love
She loves the life of every waterfall
She sings of rain that falls from clouds above

The goddess Coventina comes to heal
With water simple words cannot reveal.

The Word is God

October 19th, 2024
The Word of God is everything you write
I write The Word of God in structured verse
It’s not The Truth, The Truth is not The Light
The Word is God like everything perverse

Perversity is such a clever Word
It turns away from normalcy with cheek
It’s also God; at least that’s what I heard
Perversity is when you hear God speak

The Word of God is found in every book
And every song whose lyrics are defined
By words the poet finds where they might look
Whenever God might linger in their mind

So speak or write and know that Thou Art God
And know that Words are words and might be flawed.

A Foraged Sonnet

October 18th, 2024
I found a sonnet on my path today
Ironically it sat right on the trail
Just past the point where nuts would often lay
I often forage words to no avail

But this time I picked up a whole damn verse
The squirrels had passed it by like something bad
A nut with weevil larvae or much worse
I guess they didn’t see it like I had

I heard the sonnet fall through autumn leaves
I heard it just before the bridge, the brook
Inviting me to cross what it believes
That sonnets may be found if one will look

I think i heard the brook call out my name
A forager, a sonneteer, the same.

A Pathway of Leaves

October 15th, 2024
I walk a path adorned by fallen leaves
It must be autumn now, the air is crisp
A treasure trove of colors, not for thieves
Although I steal their colors like a wisp

A wisp of little metaphors, all mine
Oh look, the final sigh of maple’s breath
The trees prepare to sleep; the trees are fIne
The forest path is not the way through death

I walk this living path to comprehend
That life is full of seasons to enjoy
These vibrant colors do not mark an end
They simply show the art the trees employ

The pathway bearing leaves, a living thing
Reminds me they’ll be back again in Spring.