Sonnet (2014)

‘Tis told to me that I must heed the rule
of older poets blessed with larger pens-
to cherish all the forms I learned in school
and practice sight through imitation’s lens.
But I in my foolhardiness do balk
at being led to water I’ve not found;
at being steered to join an ardent flock
whose homage to their elders does resound
like thousand year-old hymns, always the same,
rife replicas of patterns proven true.
As worn-out wood cannot support a flame,
so sonnets and their like breed nothing new.
Except to boast a new flow’r on my bonnet
I see no reason to write a sonnet.



Heavy as fruit on the branch,
pulled downward,
a soul can fade, poisoned with ghosts.

Helpless as sea grass afloat,
tossed about,
a soul can waste, menaced by ghosts.

Who is so strong to resist
that longing
for what we have never seen?

What is the seed, planted deep,
that ever insists
on a thing we must need?

Who is the arbiter
granting ghosts form,
and when,
and why is he sleeping for me?

For if I were born without a head
I should not miss it like this.

Desire, be gentle with me who admires
but dares not to hope anymore.

Desire, be gentle with me who only aspires
to love no ghost anymore.