On the occasion of Shakespeare's birth
Three words from the Bard illuminate more brightly than the sun
And standing in his shadow one is most likely there to fade
As a flickering candle placed beside the light of that bright one
And measuring one's own image thus will leave most all unmade
One wonders whence the ink was drawn that this Alchemist turned to gold
The moment that his sharpened quill touched down upon the page
As genius in sequential thought upon the parchment there unscrolled
Which lapped upon the shore of love where seas of passion rage
And yet the spark still licks the wick encompassed now in tallow
Not giving thought to where it might land one in history
Unlit 'twould render darkness cursed and all to wade there shallow
Should all stand cowed and trembling bowed without posterity
Surely mortals mere as me serve but to burnish what surrounds
The gilded steps up to the treasure, measuring there what still astounds
With invisible ink you have written
your name upon me like a spring flourish
of flowers budding anew each morning
to remind love is a fragrant ribbon
binding together the ones we cherish,
and thus you have never left me yearning.
You are a thread writing the tapestry
of beauty that life will softly burnish
as love flows and is endlessly warming
our hearts, world and infinite galaxy~
forever transforming.
Pink the sunset which filtered through the leaves
to burnish your skin on one afternoon,
when fireflies glittered like radiant weaves,
Vanishing in the grass. We knew that soon
those ebony clouds gathering would force
us to flee the glade through a birdsong’s tune:
Enticed then to stay, stay madly on course,
dare the oncoming rainfall ...and a smile
enlivened your face with such insolent force.
Till lightning crackled as we wait a while,
you gasped, and oh we fondled everywhere;
while a conniving star reeled to beguile.
A wildcat rushed out and paused low to stare,
While we huddled tightly ... too close to care!
First Place
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Married for more than fifty years, and happily so, I’ve often faced this question from today’s young generation. This sonnet shows how.
_____________________________
Mid-eighties as nudge my memory’s door
Time and again-- how the same love I loved--
She in twenties, me some harvest moons more,
Onward as our voyage of wonder moved.
The mystery of my long married life
Lied in falling for same love whilst on move,
Love grew, got deep to burnish, buff its knife--
The way I loved moving up high above.
At forty she loved respect, not romance
So much, more of partnership than passion,
Promise of love’s presence, lasting fragrance,
A bouquet of picks as if from heaven.
Rivers of love when flow in lively flux,
What miserly if love draws only once!
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Sonnet | 07.03.2026 | life, love, marriage, mystery, river
Damsel in
distress
Virtue
to redress
Reputation
scorned
Honor
most forlorn
On the field
we face
Lances
and a mace
Blood to burnish
clean
Lies
— that death redeems
(Rhymes From The Nursery: February, 2026)
to wend through golden grasses of my past
with chill winds at my back from o'er the hill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
thus far behind me stands that boy, miscast
while just a jester, much too bright and shrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
the latter lad, thus pressed to love too fast
so saved his heart to burnish, soft and still
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
he stumbled into manhood, loves amassed
with wisdom gained from tragedy and thrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
encumbrances and burdens grew too vast
while finding warmth in darkness and a pill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
so now I cross the fields of time, steadfast
renewed with all the love one heart can will
to wend through golden grasses of my past
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last.
a shady place where
burnish Asian lily blooms....
purple tail lizard
Between the reaching shades of tall trees
copper-leafed hillocks’ catch fire,
ghost flames
burnish the slow stealth of evening.
A translucent straw-light
seen only through the thumb hole
of a painter’s pallet,
or in that late sunlit wash, that blooms
so openly that eyes miss it.
Redolent are the long shadows
dipped as they are in rich earthy scents.
The flaxen hay is layered between
timbered silhouettes,
where gossamer ribbons of vapor
hazes-over honeyed acers.
Softly a lambent buoyancy of evening
blends amber and russet wisps
with hues of sorrel and orange.
A mellowing sky drapes over the fields
a chiffon fan of muted rays.
The tawny straws turn slowly,
all unclear to daylight eyes,
but by this eventide
we will view this ebbing day
through a golden glass.
Town planners would us astonish,
When they rocks and hills demolish,
So as to new cities polish,
Their smart dwellers make less foolish
And it all turns out Bad Rubbish;
Reason to them all admonish
And Town Planning just abolish…
Town planners should themselves furnish
With what would a terrain burnish,
Not sensitive eyeballs punish;
Town planners watched by all eyes
Can’t afford to be that unwise.
As they neighborhoods garnish,
Their image sadly tarnish.
Forgiving another I'm quick to do,
if forgetting is not also required.
Their echos iterate in an old queue
of actions I, alone, may have inspired.
Forgiving myself for mistakes I've made
(thousands wait patiently to be absolved.)
Another's perception sometimes I'd trade
for I've become much too deeply involved.
I must let things go, erase from my mind
wrongs perceived as caused by others or self.
Not allow thoughts to roam until they find
paths of worry never placed on a shelf.
Rethinking actions: at best of no use.
Dawn's beauty signals a day newly born.
Time flies too quickly to burnish each bruise.
Love, after all, rescues worries I've worn.
January 11, 2023
for Sotto's "Revealing Your Soul and Other Tensions" Contest
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The imagery of death as a faithful companion rather than a cruel thief, gives this piece a comforting, philosophical weight.
_________________________________
I wake one day, again for long to sleep
To just find out if life or death is fake,
And learn, man’s here to sow, and scarce to reap.
Death lives with life, all through our life to creep,
And crawl along--- a slithering old snake,
I wake one day, again for long to sleep.
A faithful friend, a quiet bond does keep,
Death never once would dream a life to take,
Beware, life’s here to sow, and seldom reap.
Life’s just a tiny blip of time, no leap,
It strives, in fleeting time the most to make,
I wake one day, again for long to sleep.
We live, forget, and miss the truth so deep,
We try to swim but sink in life’s small lake,
And learn to sow, sometime later to reap.
To garner light before the shadows creep
To burnish our hereafter do we wake,
I wake one day, again for long to sleep,
Life’s just to sow, let death decide to reap.
_____________________________________
Villanelle | 05.10.2012, revised March 2022 |
Subjects can their Bad Kings banish:
Their Lords that image tarnish
By being decisive and mannish
While proving them a clannish
After bribing schnapps of the Danish
And deceiving wine the Spanish!
Subjects must the details furnish
Of the wrongs by Monarchs to banish
And if they wish some garnish
Or the entire narrative varnish!
Subjects should Terrible Kings punish
Their faults ceases to burnish
Their eulogy for The–Without–Blemish.
Oh yes, I am resolved.
Resolved to heal and not to wound,
to listen more than answer back,
to be more balm than stringent sound
to friend, or foe when they attack.
Ah yes, I am resolved,
to think myself not more exalted,
more worthy of a higher place,
no guile beside my name reported,
no hiding of my truest face.
Steadfast, sure, is this resolve,
to not befriend this hostile world,
to turn and bend and be conformed.
To rather burnish tarnished gold,
redeem, renew and be transformed.
Yes, oh yes, I am resolved.
For me there is no turning back,
a steadfast rock in every hour.
But oh, this power I surely lack.
To will, to do, and not fall back
Lies only in my Lord's great power.
. for public domain
For a moment the world shines brighter
as clouds clear the sky for the moon.
Harvested fields burnish brown with gold,
and the dish runs away with the spoon.*
The view wears a dimming reminder,
of cherished life that passes our way,
shadows of gold, and promises
of hard work for a better day.
And just as soon as easy coming,
the moonlight takes to quietly leave
gold for chosen ones in the dark,
"Patiently await the dawn, or grieve."
* from the children's rhyme Hey Diddle Diddle, the cat and the fiddle . . . .
Keep forever magenta memories,
chased in fields of old mud, barefooted,
allow disgrace and stigma to reveal,
fading amber secrets,
of indelicate curiosity,
scarlet laughter invited burgeoning confidence,
callow and covetous intrigue dissatisfied,
Mother Mary's flower bud sinned against,
when carnal instincts overwhelmed,
aching wounds of then still burnish,
but clemency is forever void of her embrace,
when the sullied clothed in midnight blue,
wept for fading Spanish guitars,
and thunder rumbled to the turquoise sea.
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