"Winter Beds" (sonnet)
Give him my heart and he would place it back.
Sear him my soul and he would merely sneer.
Laughing at me over bottles of Jack.
Crying to me over buckets of beer.
I may gay his stay and never return.
I muse, as I await his with the ice.
In the chill of the kill I feel his burn.
Blithely majestic and not very nice.
No longer our lingering in the sun.
The cold contempt of morn reveals his scorn.
I conquered his body and yet we run.
To loneliness as our lust is born.
Alone today and alone to my bed.
Our iced winter silence could wake the dead.
"Northern Skies"
(a villanelle)
Under northern skies standing still.
The dawn in shades of rose,
Painting prose upon the hill.
My father’s strength in my will.
In January’s close,
Under northern skies, standing still.
Frozen conifer forests, cut cornfields fill.
Silent iced glades where crows,
Paint prose against the hill,
My father’s strength in my quill.
My hands close in repose,
Under northern skies standing still.
No heart could ever fill,
Or concluding chapter compose,
Painting prose upon the hill.
My father, gone with dawn, ever will.
Warm my journey until close;
Under northern skies standing still.
Painting prose upon the hill.
"A Dream for Winter" (by Arthur Rimbaud)
* Photos: Detroit, MI. Jan. 21, 2022
* "Winter Beds", "Northern Skies" via "The Literary Party" (2011) & "Arrival & Departure" (2014), respectively.
