Twig the Grounds – Sonnet

The fire is dwindled down to logy coal.

Ay, my roaring stove has been exhausted.

It kindled warmth, with passion sang its soul;

then in frigid darkness – somehow lost it.

Hours ago, the hottest I remember,

I felt it toast my face and proof my core.

Now it crumbles cold to crusted ember,

and long is night to go on empty store.

I try to stoke it, feed the famished fire,

but every piece I pile only smothers.

The birch, the oak, and all that I desire

overwhelms the remnants like the others.

It seems the only hope to stave its death

is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.

Stalking a Stag- Alexandrine

I hiked deep into woods | while breaking virgin snow.

I saw some tracks pass through | they appeared to be fresh.

The hooves of a large stag| wandered into the brush

So I veered from my path | curious where they’d go.

They meandered around oaks | and no hurry was had,

but then I saw the tracks | suddenly had more space.

I guessed the deer had heard | my presence in his place

and so by leaps and bounds | the buck jumped from his pad.

Hoping to catch a glimpse, | quietly I pressed on.

I would peer through the trees | as I reached a hill’s crest,

but all I’d see was tracks; | he’d left me in his dust

for every time I’d look | he was already gone.

I knew not where I was, | though lost and on a roam;

I seemed to know this place. | I had seen it before.

Then looking up the hill, | I saw the roof next door.

Though I never found the deer,| I’m glad he brought me home.

November Maple Sonnet

Think upon a maple in November:

Just standing dormant, drab in shades of gray.

It had color, scarcely I remember;

When first its spectrum faded, I can’t say.

Recalling vernal days when blooming bells

rang hope for verdant clouds to fill the wood.

Then later raised to glow when autumn fell,

the acer blazed in glory where it stood.

‘Til the wind and rain stripped off its vigor;

its impetus now lifeless on the ground.

Fallen, leaves it barely stand in rigor,

and yet suppose there might be promise found.

For in dregs of winter it will offer

sweet returns that spring from hidden coffer.

Walking on Pillows

As walking on pillows-
on damp pillows-
on damp, carpeted pillows
of emerald and gold leaf,
and red velvet cake;

Each step I take unboldly.
I wince and apologize
for the compression,
impressions that materialize
with every step.

With each step my foot tries
to step gently,
step respectfully,
but the lightest step feigned
isn’t feather enough;

And it’s a tough terrain,
like lumbering through those
piles of drifted snow,
searching for new,
simpler ways to go.

Exhausted, slow, subdued,
and not half-way across it,
I stop and nestle down
upon an ottoman-unorthodox.
My tired body sinks.

I think a paradox:
This waterbed, so tiring to traverse,
but so relaxing to lounge.
I beg pardon to the pillow deflating;
weighted by my rest.

In duress I straighten
and rise from the sponge, continuing on
toward the far sedgy edge
where the green walls rise and billow
to intimidate.

Stumbling late through pillows
of emerald and gold leaf, and
moist red velvet cake;
I wince with every tired step,
for dents that I make.

A Fortress of Solitude

Approach
the frozen throne
and find some peace
that’s all your own!

Peer,
trembling,
into the ravenous mouth
of this frosted Sarlacc
who’s hungry to devour
all of your frozen assets.

Sit, if you dare,
on this Pit of despair,
but you may find
that when you stand
a piece of your derriere
is left behind.

Relax, if you can,
on this quiet hut,
but don’t retard
to think about
the crystal shards
that long to cut
their teeth into
your tender butt.

Stop, excrete
on ice and snow!
Forget the seats
you’d rather go!
Take the crate
that’s sure to freeze
and lacerate
your hind with ease.

As last resort,
I’m sure that you’d
employ, enjoy
this port, this Fort
of Solitude.

EC93CE42-ED4C-4E8E-AD91-B64155C1B069

a bijou

A bijou

found on the ground
and placed in the pocket:

A tightly closed,
geometric,
serotinous, and
silver-plated locket.

Rumored to open
only under heat or stress.

Placed in the pocket
to fidget and fondle.

a psychological talisman
a cognitive charm
a token of anticipation;

and for months it sat.

A year:
untapped,
uncracked
unopened,
but armed.

Occasionally rediscovered
by a pocketed hand
rolled over in fingers
to be clutched and clasped,

this locket

without hinges,
without chain,
without hasp.

And then one day
it was withdrawn
from the pocket
into the palm

and noticed
to be opened
(slightly)
on its own.

It had found its heat.
It had found its pressure.
It had opened with time
from external stressers,
and it was ready to release
its full potential.

But it was quickly re-pocketed.
It was pocketed to be pondered

in order to wonder
as palms grew sweaty,
the bijou had opened,
so why wasn’t I ready?

It had opened,
but I could see
that the picture
in the locket
did not resemble
me.

And while I thought
and failed to do,
impatience grew
in that distraught
and pocketed bijou.

That bijou,
that locket,
then found a hole
inside the pocket
and freed itself
from being confined
so that it could find
a place where that hold
would cease to block it.

And now it’s gone-
gone where to?
Somewhere growing
beyond being
a pondered
and pocketed
bijou.