THE SONNET
I Think Therefore Iambic©
"Poets are all who love and feel great
truths,
and tell them." Gamaliel Bailey (1802-1881)
American Journalist and Abolitionist
"Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil." Reginald Heber (1783 - 1826),
English Bishop
APRIL FOOLING
I will admit I am an April fool,
and not in April only am I one.
Like April, I've been known to break a rule
to prove that shattered patters can be fun.
Mixing old and new to make a flower,
April teaches tricks of alchemy:
and I, her aging pupil, use the power
to change discordant doubt to harmony.
Risking ridicule, April and I
have made a game of whim and words and weather.
I juggle words; she plays with earth and sky --
age and youth linked happily together.
Some call her fickle, still this bright dissenter
will be my guide through summer, autumn, winter.
John Engle
Xenia, OH
"A feeling of sadness and longing, that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, (1807 -- 1882), American Poet
--
HOW THE HOURS SUCCEED
You're walking down a road slick as a throat
and dark with wetness shining like a glass
that dimly throws the night sky back. The grass
clenches and waves mad fingers. Like a boat
the moon sinks in gray billows, stupefied.
This is not the worst for you, this known
road in your veins they let you walk alone,
recovering your silence. The bound bride
of day waits, the true terror, full of need
and teasing blankness, crying to be pleased
and filled by your desires. But you can't seize
decision's instruments to paint or bleed
yourself back on the canvas of her light,
nor linger in the mouth of choking night.
-- Jendi Reiter
Northampton, MA
"There is nothing more universally commended than a fine day. The reason is that people can commend it without envy." -- William Shenstone (1714 - 1763), English Poet
THE PERFECT DAY
Man tends to fight the God he cannot see,
while Daniel's dreams confirm the hope of man,
exposing powers that were, with those to be,
a revelation of God's future plan.
Earlier powers crumbled in demise,
replaced by those convinced theirs would
succeed.
I search patiently to find the dates concise
that will arrive to meet my present need.
if we believe in all that Daniel spoke.
If so, the kingdom is about to come
that will relieve us of the heavy yoke
that man will finally be rescued from.
That blessed day promised since time
began
will soon be given for the love of man.
Janet Parker
Lunenburg, MA
and Leesburg, FL
"One merit of poetry which few will deny:
it says more, and in fewer words, than prose."
François Marie de Voltaire (1694-1778)
Roman Poet
AWAKENING
The day I came headfirst into the light
by bravely sliding from my mother's womb,
I ended that mysterious long night,
and squirming, saw a white hospital room.
Did I rejoice to see the world around
or did I miss the warmth I left behind?
And did I welcome all the noise and sound
or did I long for quiet peace of mind?
I had no choice of parents to relate.
I had no choice of poverty or wealth.
I did not choose my country or my state,
nor color of my skin, nor state of health.
I doubt I heard a call to live or die.
I only knew, somehow that I must cry.
William J. Middleton. Ph.D.
Chadds Ford, PA
"Nature and wisdom always say the same
thing."
-- Juvenal (60-140), Roman Satirical Poet
MAY
MAY IS AN EVANESCENT UNICORN
MOTHERED BY MYTH, FATHERED BY fantasy.
DREAM, THE ATTENDANT NURSE WHEN MAY
WAS BORN
DISSOLVED THE RECORDS IN A MYSTERY.
SOME SAY A CLOUD FORMED OUT OF APRIL AIR
DRIFTED TOO NEAR THE CENTER OF THE SUN
AND SUDDENLY A UNICORN WAS THERE
DRIFTING TO EARTH, HORNED AND READY TO
RUN.
SOME SAY THEY HAVE SEEN THIS UNICORN
IN MISTY WOODS WHERE WILD MAY APPLE
GROWS.
THEY INSIST THERE IS A HOLLOW IN HER HORN
FROM WHICH A FRAGRANT HONEYED INCENSE
FLOWS.
ALL AGREE SHE'S HERE AND THEN SHE'S
GONE ,
RIDDEN BY A TINY, LAUGHING
LEPRECHAUN.
john engle
xenia, oh
"He who will not reflect is a ruined
man."
Old Proverb
JUNE
June
is a Gemini butterfly that flits
on
golden wings from flower to fragrant flower.
This
soul of the magic middle month transmits
the
warming peace, the passion, and the power
which
binds all days and weeks and months together.
Linking
January unto December,
she
is the centered nucleus of weather.
Her
butterfly brain forever will remember
all
that is past, know all that’s yet to come.
From
flake to flower is but a moment’s move
from
worm to calm contentment of cocoon--
then
from cocoon to wings--the way of love.
Her
butterfly touch, as soft as a lullaby,
leaves
joy enough to last beyond July.
John Engle
Xenia, OH
"In character, in manners, in style, in all things, the supreme elegance
is simplicity."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)
American Poet
JULY
July, a mockingbird that lives and sings
atop a lofty perch away from woe,
feels
freedom in his heart and throat and wings
as
he makes his feathered music flow.
He
mixes all bird melodies with sport
then
dives into his sea of air and swims
into
the swarming season’s busy port,
singing
and clowning out his wanton whims
with
acrobatics squeezed between his songs.
He
makes it clear to birds and men that he
is
now the one to whom the world belongs
while
he rules summer from the tallest tree.
Argue with him; he’ll have the final word.
But what would summer be without this bird?
-- John Engle
A child can ask a thousand questions that the wisest man cannot answer.
Jacob Abbot (1803 - 1879)
American Author
AUGUST
AUGUST WEARS A CROWN OF TASSELED CORN,
FRINGED WITH QUEEN ANNE'S LACE AND CHICORY,
DRESSED IN A GOWN OF WILLOWS , SLIGHTLY WORN,
SHE DOES HER DANCE AND SINGS HER SONG TO ME.
THROUGHOUT THE HOT AND SULTRY DAYS OF HAZE
SHE WALTZES THROUGH THE MEADOWS AND THE HILLS.
SINGING A GRAPE AND APPLE SONG, SHE PLAYS --
A COUNTRY CHILD WHO KNOWS NO CARES NOR ILLS.
ADDICTED TO HER MOVEMENTS AND HER SONG,
CURVED IN THE WARMING COMFORT OF HER ARMS,
I AM CONVINCED THIS IS WHERE I BELONG,
TUNED TO HER TOUCH IN TREES AND FLOWERS AND FARMS.
THROUGH MEGAPHONES OF MORNING GLORY VINE
RIPE AUGUST CROONS HER LOVE AND MAKES IT MINE.
JOHN ENGLE
XENIA, OH
SEPTEMBER
September is a hungry, buzzing bummer
whose needle-pointed beak's a soda straw
through which he sips the last sweet wine of summer
while breaking every bird land flying law.
Though flowers fade and feeders may be few,
he still retains his acrobatic glitter.
Pretending summer is forever new,
he hums and sips and practices his twitter.
until some subtle signal passes through
and says, "At last it's time for you to go,
so fill your tiny tank with stolen sweets
enough to fuel your flight to Mexico.
where you'll find other, brighter, warmer treats."
Obeying instinct without doubt or fear,
he leaves, but he'll be back again, next year.
John Engle
Xenia, OH
OCTOBER
An Indian Summer Maiden--that's October
She wears a gown of leaves sequined with frost,
And though the Weather Chief may call her sober,
She will be warm and wild at any cost.
She waltzes through the ballroom of the fall,
transforming all the drab and barren hills
to perfect prismed splendor until all
the trees are glowing bright as daffodils.
She blows away the clouds, pulls down the sun,
and tricks the birds into a summer song
Migration waits until the song is done
The Indian Summer Maiden sings along.
But she stops too soon, folds up her tent
and everybody wonders where she went.
John Engle
Xenia, OH
~~~~
WHEN AN ENGLISH AUTHOR WROTE OF A JERK :
"........and dies in the ill-understood reputation of harmless folly which is
more injurious to society than some positive crimes."
Anna Jameson (1794 - 1860) English Author
THE JERK
A sucking vacuum in his conscience place,
the storage bin for lies and swift increase
stayed buried in his brain. His handsome face
spoke of compassion, truthfulness and peace.
All other lives were chessmen, make-believe,
contributor, mark, audience, stage prop;
his roving eyes would brighten and conceive
brain-to-be-picked, admirer, next bus stop,
protector, wise selector, a warm lap,
the lover to discover his rare charm,
investor, poison-tester, beer on tap,
a body-guard to shield his back from harm.
He nursed no thought for any life or limb,
then puzzled when there were no cheers for him.
Mary Gribble
San Marino, CA
"Whatever comes, this, too shall pass
away."
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855-1895)
American Poet
SPECIAL MISSIONS
Do you, dear friend, think Caesar was correct
and that the fault indeed is in our stars;
shall we, by any morbid chance collect
the spoils from any of our puny wars
and is there any way to turn about
the destiny these very stars have wrought?
I look into these stars and loudly shout,
not finding any stars that seem distraught.
I see a sky in perfect harmony,
no sign that any war is being waged,
no raging hostilities aimed at me,
nor any sign that I am being paged.
I sense the stars have something more to say
their knowledge of the ages guide our way.
Janet Parker
Leesburg, FL