I've been over the rainbow
and danced with eagles
when the storms below raged
where i walked in forbidden dreams
placed teasing kisses upon stars
where others have left their wishes
have denied life its trivialities
defied its insurmountable
capitulated to the trailing winds
upon sails unfurled
and sought no harbor
while yearning for distant shores
preferring at times moonless nights
lest they deny me calling constellations
while others witnessed madness
i bathed in the love of God
Oregon 9/19/26
WILL S Sonnet 71
A typical Shakespearean (quatorze 12+2) sonnet form- with no title (preferring the verse to speak for itself:traditional first word capitalisation: in three abab quatrains for the body (meat of its content) :with the couplet (goto it)summary.In this case in an negative (selfish?) epitaph like ' voice from the grave ' advice to his once loved one to 'let your love even with my life decay' a half empty ' sentiment perhaps to a lost love rather than 'widowed' one.
I know it’s a shame but isn’t it clear
That I have no possibility
To change a thing in what’s going on here
Maybe others have that ability
So either they work it out fine
Or they’ve just given it up
Whatever happens I keep my line
Preferring to drink from my cup
The private life is by far the best
Invention of the Englishman
Stuck to your own, leave all the rest
To choose what is chosen for them
To hell with that new and old rubbish
My privacy sends me stuff
That I dare sometimes to publish
You’re entitled to cry or laugh..
Everyone thinks Elves are all males, Edwina complained to me
I had not realized this, but saw she was both touchy and angry
How can they all be males? It makes no sense at all.
I am not sure everybody thinks that, I said in a voice really small
When people generalize and say, “ everyone” they usually mean one
Two at the most, but my suggestions and comments were done.
I could see she was miffed by someone other than me.
Preferring it to stay this way, I decided to flee.
The more I learn about people,
the more I like my dog.
~attributed to Mark Twain
She is decidedly anti-mingle,
preferring her cozy hermitage
in the verdant valley meadow.
She feels like Rip Van Winkle
waking at last to find the world changed,
but really it happened so fast!
While she wasn’t watching,
the world remained unrestrained
in its quest for pleasure.
Her hermit house was secure
with boundaries to keep people out,
except for delivery drivers bringing this and that.
Even a hermit has to eat,
so she mingles on social media
a little bit chagrined she needs technology…
because she talked it over
with Pippi and Poppi, the Pomeranians,
and they agree it should always be.
just we three!
When I was a girl, I watched the 1982 movie "The Last Unicorn" with my sister in the early 2000s. My sister and I sat on the beige living room carpet. Growing up, beige carpets and white walls were expected in apartments. On the TV, soft rock flows beneath the animated picture. An ethereal unicorn stood poised before the blue sky and hills. The fairy tale painted the white and beige real world. I loved that movie despite preferring pegasuses over unicorns, and wished to craft my own fairy tales. Fairy tales where the beautiful heroine possesses brown skin, brown eyes, and coiled ebony hair. A childish wish, a thoughtful adult could make true. As an adult, I've thought fairy tales through, and it's not just enough for the beautiful heroine to inspire brown and black girls like I was. I've read The Last Unicorn novel a decade past adolescence. The film is a dream swaying to soft rock on the black sea of memory. The Last Unicorn was aware of its fairy tale nature, like an adult reopening the fairy tale book with a cracked spine. Familiar but new to wiser eyes. The unicorn leads the way for me to write a fairy tale not for the girl I was, but for the woman I've become.
not all among us walk the talk
preferring instead to debate
both for and against the motion
ego continuing to stalk
sealing vulnerable soul’s fate
doomed to drown in earth life’s ocean
The Florida schools I knew—
Were fashioned to undo—
A Child—of unassuming Mind—
They tested—what was True—
They pressed my Thinking—into shape—
Too narrow for my own—
And struck me—when my Answer leapt—
Untethered—yet full-grown—
They bade me show the Steps I took—
Though Insight has no trace—
It blossoms—like a Lightning-flash—
Too swift to Keep my Pace—
And Bullies—stationed at the Doors—
Were given quiet Leave—
While Teachers—kept their knitted Peace—
As if Pain—might relieve—
I wondered—had great Einstein bent—
Beneath such daily Blows—
If Relativity—could of Bloomed—
Where Hostile Classrooms grew—
For Elementary—Middle Years—
Were Corridors of Trial—
And every Day—another Proof
That Learning—ment Exile—
So—long before the Eighth was through—
I slipped beyond their Chart—
Preferring Freedom—Hard and Vast—
To lessons—taught by Hurt—
And though their Purpose—was to break—
Some piece of Me—remained—
A quiet Sum—no Blackboard holds—
By the Suffering—I sustained.
they move so fast, at first, I think they are bees
I rarely see a big one, but I did yesterday
I thought bumblebee until I got a bit closer
she was nowhere near my hummingbird feeder
Preferring my real flowers
flitting among my lilies; I watched, in awe
she is magnificent, her colors are iridescent
a bit of green, blue, and a sliver of silver
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
zany zippy zambo
rarely watches Rambo
preferring cartoons
watching Saturn’s moons
persnickety ways
does not waste his days
doing what he wants and only that
brought home five dogs and one straggly cat
zany zippy zambo is the king
of doing only his own thing
he had a wife who ran away
every day for him is full of play
What’s happening is clearly understood.
Apollo has one hand around her waist,
one predator, one quarry, interlaced.
He’s coming up behind her (which is good),
but she’s a tree (two lovers, getting wood!)
She’d rather change her state than be disgraced,
preferring to be chaste than to be chased.
She’s choosing abstinence, above life's blood.
Is love a trauma, to be undergone?
Arousal something ugly, to be faced?
Should Nature’s process be looked down upon?
The carnal act, a tactless lapse of taste?
Or might the thing be ardently embraced?
We, formless fragments, merging in The One?
You'd tell me and I'd feel so good
Together we both understood
Our paths would meet perhaps one day
If-then, maybe, who could say?
Some bumps and dips along the trail
When quiet lips from you prevailed
Such times are when I'd walk alone
Preferring that you set the tone
Yet undeterred I'd still write lines
My heart in words, remembering times
Through odes that here for you I'd post
But only you'd know who's the poet
So unhurried we do not begin at all,
preferring to remain in tranquil repose,
as divine inspirations in mind snowball,
arising from a fulcrum God alone knows,
we are as we are thus, bliss drenched and complete,
enraptured as polarities meet and greet,
conjuring a verse with no need to rehearse,
since our soul is entwined with the universe.
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