Sonnets

I Lay to Rest All Written Forms of Old

Italian Sonnet

I lay to rest all written forms of old,

and bare their grand remains to crypts to stay,

so that their bones, their structure, not give way

to the vague lines wrapping ideas once bold.

I reject the modern elites who sold

away the life of structure. Betrayers who say,

“But stepping stones to where we are today.”

Not seeing what dies with form, hidden in folds.

Found in the garden of the crypt of form and structure,

round, was a seed growing bold in weeds.

Green with life, its stem formed a bud

seen atop its crown. The bud ruptured-

Unbound, a flower spread its pedals, freed,

unforeseen life, found in death and mud.

After

Strange this comfort come to us here

When in this place most often times little

Is ever found. Now cast in this brittle

Quietude among the faces of friends, the fear

And the stress, and the doubts can not impinge upon the revere

We hold for this life. It is welcome the comfort, fickle

Thought it may be, for in this moment the little

Comforts, however little, we hold dear.

We cut line direct following the black.

Fire burned ahead, the wind carried it along.

We moved fast the sun beating at our backs.

We worked hard and gained, our backs were strong.

We tied in, hung our tools on their racks.

And after found a little comfort where to belong.