Sonnet
From Toaster to the Freezer [sonnet]
So now I take my leave from blue and sun
(to make my home in biting wind and snow).
Their work upon my soul has now been done;
but they are not enough for me to grow.
For art must have an edge to be of note
so one can fall and break some bones and bleed.
But when that ‘edge’ with ease I sugarcoat,
withdrawal of the Muse is guaranteed.
Have you seen my Rose? (part 1) [sonnet]
Have you seen my rose? said I, with strangled
vocal chords — my pleadingness distorted
by the criss-cross patterned veil which dangled
down around my face, my vision thwarted.
Why give me eyes and voice then hide my rose
behind a shrouded whisperful disguise
I never asked to wear? But no one knows
and none can tell me where my flower lies.
Thunderbolt Illusion [sonnet]
Whatever happened to good old-fashioned
thunderbolts — those lightning strikes from heaven
drawn from synchronicity, impassioned
by some sudden morethanjust erection?
Self-obsession, shunning incandescence,
fear of being swallowed up in ego
death (returning to the gleam of essence),
we seek placebos — ersatz libeedo.
Sonnet for Restored Knighthood [sonnet]
How hard it is to be a knight today!
Damsels never now confess to feeling
that they’re in distress — caught in disarray
(building their pretences, not revealing).
The concept of his chivalry they deem
to be anachronistic foolery.
Such men, it seems, are judged to be extreme
and not respected for their bravery.
Archontic Stain, Part 2 [sonnet]
We wrestle not with things which we can see.
Yet, unbeknown to most, there is a war
enshrouded with invisibility,
which all who love the Light come to explore.
The world we see is just an outward show
of what is nowly hidden from our eyes.
The truth’s revealed to those who want to know;
for there is more than blueness in our skies.
Archontic Stain, Part 1 [sonnet]
That’s all for now; he’s signing out of here.
He’s wasted too much ink out of his veins.
From now on he will write no more of fear
nor that which all humanity enchains.
His neck’s been stuck out much too far for years;
it’s time to reel it in and fade away.
Words from his heart fall mostly on deaf ears.
It’s time to end that circus cabaret.
Where are the “Goodies”? [sonnet]
When I was just a little boy of ten,
in all the books and comics that I read,
I could take comfort in this fact back then:
That by the end, the baddies would be dead.
No matter what malevolence I saw;
whatever evil deeds they did commit,
I noticed by the end the rule of law
had been enforced and darkness took a hit.
From Skein to Spurt [sonnet]
There comes a time in every small seed’s course
when greenness births to shoot out from its skin.
Until that spurt, all latency’s resource
is dormant, held in check — a life within.
And now I’m like a seed which you awoke;
into my downward darkness you brought light.
When timid leaves have through earth’s surface broke,
my tendrons with the sun will reunite.
Scrawl [sonnet]
When nought but honour matters anymore
a crazy sense of gleedom grips the soul
and flings all hope with gladness to the floor
(for worthless dreams can’t make what’s broken whole).
When nought but virtue thrills you with its shine
and there’s no leechlike selfdom left to pet,
you’ll find you’ve reached a mutant borderline.
All feigning’s then revealed in silhouette.
A Maelstrom in my Soul [sonnet]
So now you woke the serpent that has slept
through years — lain dormant in the cave I made
when sweet remembrances of you I’d swept
into a glorybook, now somewhat frayed.
Your words: “Sometimes I run into your face
within the centre of myself” have raised
a maelstrom in my soul, as I retrace
the furnace steps we took — entranced, amazed.
The Naked Troubadour 