Spenserian Pie

My first "spenserian" sonnet.

A poet, or a cook of written word,
with Lingonberry lips from Christmas toast
is staring from my mirror. “It’s absurd”
I hear me tell myself, “you are, at most
an imitation cyber bard. You roast
with cuts of wordy morsels pilfered there
and here about the net. You’re but a ghost
of others baking words. You are, I swear,
chefing written nothings-- but no one seems to care.

A Swelling Tide

Swelling with tide from a heavenly moon
the sailor or soul of a sailor, the sea,
knowing the sun’s at antithesis noon -
lost for the interim - sets his love free;
opening depths that are wonders to see,
mirroring light from the deepest abyss,
fondling beams from his lover to be.
Moon answers sweetly, be certain of this;
she is waning away but she blows him a kiss.

On Leaving

On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not...
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the body, now a temple sense forgot.
The reasons for the Christmas presents bought
are gone, like bows and papers, in a bag
somewhere behind a fence. The hearts besot*
with cheerfulness; with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret; to new years sulk and drag.

Reflections (for Marty)

Having spent Christmas with my "rock hound/UFOlogist" brother in law and his family...

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In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…

and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.

An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known;

the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.

Circle Circles

The circle circles roundabout
and finds a way to, neatly, close
without a pause or any doubt.
You’re smiling Mother, I suppose
for, now, it’s mine to hold the hand
to soothe the ego, slightly bruised;
to wipe away the tear drops and
repeat the phrases often used…

“My little one, ignore the pain--
tomorrow brings another dawn.
No rose can grow without the rain.
Until the fear and pain are gone

I’ll hold you thus; encircle you
as circles must”-- as fathers do.

How (v 3.0)

How like a flame in fickle wind;
how fragile love, if old or new,
that with a breath comes to an end;
that with another glows anew.

How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a distant shore.
How love erodes as earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.

How can I live if love will die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was your goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know

that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?