Category Archives: The Sonnets

Sonnets 61 – 90

61 Things are often more beautiful at a distance, but not you. The closer the more inevitable you become. Before I thought beauty was what I saw, that the superficial awed but I was wrong. Your skin is really you as fragrant as the rose […]


… Like the dried up dead wasp with its venom gone rolled up on the windowsill like a ball of dust my mother slumbers with her head bent near a bowl of fruit Pat Maples sent listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing, a dying lady and […]

Sonnet 111: Almost December, Thanksgiving over

111 111 Almost December, Thanksgiving over outside is frozen once again. The warm TV is on and logs burn in the stove as I’m eating Aunt Fern’s dried tomatoes desiccated skins like mummies from the pyramids. Yum Yum Yum all of her love is ripe […]


… I wake the snakes on the way to the lake Coiling in leaves, slithering at my feet Half-seen in the low branches, thick brown waists Headless, tailless stone still in wait for me To trip them into slithering again. Are they going to bite? […]


… There was a transitory spider’s web clinging to a metaphoric branch of birch that I undid stupidly touching it as I was going down the mountain side, the troubled spider in the middle clinging to a strand of its work in the wind. Happily […]


… Out of the drizzle and the fog they come boys dressed up like soldiers though they’re more like the hands that wind around a clock. Out of the Scotch mist’s chilly smoke and the cry of gulls they stop and click and turn their […]


A squirrel just walked across my shoulder Like I wasn’t there and didn’t matter Part of the bench, a kind of nothingness Who thought for a moment that a hand pressed On him like an old friend’s familiar Enough to touch, but that was peculiar […]


How do you teach someone something they don’t Know? The first thing that comes to mind is by Example. Look a student in the eye Even if she’s blind; otherwise she won’t Understand you. The stone deaf will hear love When they are touched by […]


… … To be understood words are objective yet we understand them subjectively. When Willa Cather writes, “The long main street began at the church, the town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring,” the prose forms naturally from the simile. […]


… Everything’s happening at once. Ugh! Exhausted, nothing done, at a flower where I just saw the most beautiful bug I thought about staying for an hour to simply watch that spectacle of real gold and black, indigenous art deco on an indigenous plant. Ever […]


… The night comes with a chill not on but in my skin—A spider web at the end of summer stretches in the wind. Decayed dock swaying with my weight sways and sways. Water spiders molest a fallen fly whose wings have trapped it there […]


… Bird in the tree you are singing to me as if you know and care that I am here each note intended to put in my ear a song. What is alone can be pretty sharing itself, staccato before the profound pause and silence […]