231

Posted on March 2, 2011 by urbansonnets

It seems like spring is finally breaking
through! And with it new flowers to collect!
New stems to cut, new dreams for the taking,
new passions to taste, new scents to respect!:
We have new pages to turn, like Paola
and Francesco, swooning juntos over
the Arthurian romance; loves howl a
constant murmur 'cross the crimson clover:
But I'll never forget; I'm not ready
to join the masses in their blind uptake
of Primaveral fantasies; steady
impulses in my heart are hard to break:
And that is as it should be, I am sure,
so that by next spring, I am fully pure.

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230

Posted on February 27, 2011 by urbansonnets

What sweet madness we possess 

when straight time is at our throat;
our breath flows under duress;
pure respiration is a threat:

Inspiration is release,
so find your form and do begin
to set intentions to the East,
where lunar cycles do begin:

Sun and Luna, lunar light;
radiant depths across the frame
of the painting – day and night
share their colors, notes and name:

And when sun and moon oppose
the truth will pop out on your nose!
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229

Posted on February 27, 2011 by urbansonnets

I am a distillation process,

turning sage leaves into fragrance,
turning disgusts into knowledge,
turning chaos into arrangements…

Of flowers, dreams and truths,
I am the mystery extracted,
the essence of our youths
strengthened strong but not protracted:

I am the eye of the inner child,
of the approaching hurricane
that kills to comfort the reviled,
to purify the social brain:

I am from where the poet leaps:
the dusty cracks where genius creeps.
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228

Posted on February 27, 2011 by urbansonnets

Snow all across the ground

containing so much heat;
above the frigid crunching sound
are made a million feet:

The water is one form,
the ice is yet another;
Nature inverts the norm–
the man becomes a mother:

The pages flip and pop;
bright eyes can truly see
that true stories do not stop;
they simply cease to be:

The waves of spring approach: the salty air
is near and dear; its heart is everywhere.
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227

Posted on February 27, 2011 by urbansonnets
Am I tardy for the party? I guess.

Did I start my stride before I hit it?
Why, yes. And time is such a bloody mess.
It's so easy to hide or to split it.
But I'm still moving, the stride will soon hit.
And then will my strength be enough to change
time? Possibly. I'm in tune with Spirit
movements that make of time a spatial range:
We are all blessed with a most noble gift,
but like candlelights, we must keep it bright,
or we run the the risk of going adrift,
of crashing our raft and drowning our light:
I'll put psalms in the air that caress you
as you fake sneezes to hear snakes "bless you."
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226

Posted on February 26, 2011 by urbansonnets

Where were the smiles that I saw so clearly,

beaming across the lip's threshold like lights
on trees reflecting off the snow, dearly
and nearly in touch with the Source's heights?
It went low though, for the time being, while
being for the time, the mundane won out;
but all hope is not lost, 'cause I've got style,
miles and miles of style – Sun-in to Sun-out:
In lieu of you, I'll beam with my own soul,
protected from harm by its very peace;
no one can disturb my tranquil whole-
ness; you purchased this piece of warm, brown fleece :
And it keeps my insides golden and warm;
I send you sweet vibes, a most sincere swarm.
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225

Posted on February 26, 2011 by urbansonnets

With one sudden cut, I knew the wound was

endless – not with pain but with time – so deep;
all I can do is plunge like the spoon does
into the eternal brown sugar heap:
This is a karmic matter, I feel a
stronger sense of duty after this loss
than I ever have before; I steal a
glance into the void, see a purple cross:
Flowers and vases with peppermint paints
reveal the cycle that links our noses
and eyes, and hands, and feet, and gods, and saints;
some kind of tension whose release chose us:
Am I quirky? Yes. Weird? Doesn't matter;
things fall apart, intentions won't shatter.
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tres

Posted on February 26, 2011 by urbansonnets

Tu magnánima flor se marchitó ayer,

un infinito momento que atormenta
los sueños de este ciego que quiso ver
al Amor que toda verdad aposenta:
Sentí la verdad en ojos dilatados
cuyo brillo hoy día me mantiene vivo
con visiones de tus labios abrogados
y tu tierno contacto, por ahora esquivo:
Con esperanza, mi trágica esperanza
me moriré yo atendiendo tu llamada
que nunca vendrá, ya que nunca descansa
mi fe en ti, fe que no te vale ni nada:
Intuyo tu bondad, cual la flor que danza
por encima de la tumba, noble, mansa.
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224

Posted on February 25, 2011 by urbansonnets

Magister, master, maestro, Mister

Good Deeds (or Goodheart), sir, why did you die?
"Well, son, I died for something sinister,
meaning on the left-hand side of the sky."
Isn't that a bad omen, Mister Miss?
"Well, no, because the law isn't what's right.
I know that many languages claim this,
but what is 'straight' is the heart that shines bright."
Mister Misther, do you miss us on Earth,
exiled so on your orbitless planet?
"Well, my son, I only missed your first birth,
but my fate is to act as Fates plan it:
Regardless, you're my constant apprentice;
tell your mother that I really meant this."
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223

Posted on February 25, 2011 by urbansonnets
Img_0046

New paints, swift strokes, blind hopes, quick breaks, lost cause,

faith gone, now found again, true eyes, bright dreams —
all these things ground the image in the pause
that the heart takes when the universe screams:
I loved tulips in Amsterdam, and now
I love them just as much, despite the loss
of contact with their utopic stemmed glow;
as the world does turn, constant do I toss:
The soldiers collapsed, identities crossed–
one hand was a gavel, the other was
a tulip, red and ripe, with dew well glossed,
its fragrance eternal: is, will be, was:
That's the hand I play, a full house of petals;
my winnings are priceless, not priced out by medals.
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