A Sonnet For All Seasons


April spring blew life onto the lilies.
We sat and talked loudly of Elvis
And of theatre, our souls warmed by the breeze
That wetted dry streets, kindly with a kiss.

A kiss? A dream? Do I dare thus to dream
Of what might never be? Like parched flowers,
My thirsty pages crave the ink, and beam
With tender white when calmed by rising showers.

Not yet have nineteen promised winters passed
Nor twenty summers eclipsed by your grace.
Can I share the spring with you on green grass?
Autumn rains will come. ‘Til then, let’s embrace.

There you were, dreamlike you, fresh, young, aroused.
And I? No rage here; just a cloud in trousers.


Two fires, unknown, may rage at summer’s break,
Enflaming dry roots of their separate lands;
The trees are coarse – beauty – the bark is fake,
While men fight fire that offers them fair hands.

Yet fire will meet with fire, with power won,
When once the shields rest by the rusty axe:
Remember, beast, do not fight swords with guns;
Forget beauty, when worms crawl on their backs.

Yet summer’s rage is screaming like raw meat
Within the entrails of my shattered mind;
Fire might destroy, but flames can bring retreat,
When on white and black folds you dare be kind.

Winter chill is now a ghost; we are changed.
You are here, I am now – passion deranged.


The black forest in autumn teems with lives,
Upon which we sat quite still, drank full and
Taught the trees our only song who still thrives
Amidst your absence and my art’s garlands.

What new paths did we not rediscover?
What the hand that fed us while we wondered
How best to retrace and to recover
What we had won and what was not plundered?

Water drops on hot rocks; I envy you,
My keeper, my sinner, my dream, my ghost.
I see your lips glistening with fresh dew,
My eyes looking up at you, my kind host.

Dear reader, love could be my only crime,
Now you’ve seen tears in a fistful of rhymes.


Sterile winter was sleeping like a dog,
Its embers embers, its poison dormant.
Grey beams struck my heart, all about a fog
Seized my pen, while my mind could but lament.

You suddenly from nowhere free arose,
Muse, singing softly by the coppice gate,
Ghost of earthly shivers, beauty as rose,
Last night’s Eve re-found, harbinger of Fate.

As long the roots to Hell, so long live we;
As high the clouds, the stars that burn so bright,
The birds that soar in our own infamy,
So deep the love I have for our one night.

But, with morning dew, my dog become wolf,
Awakened with a start, you’ll scream “enough”!

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