Sonnet #168

It's spring, high spring, where all the green is true
And all the blossoms break even in deep woods
A walk upon a shaded path, a scent so good
It made me stop and trace the breeze through
To mysteries of vacant copses, shielding trees
What thing, what flower, what bloom is this?
Somewhere in that dense shade a scream of bliss
Exploding in some tiny bloom I cannot see
The passing breeze blows all away and I,
no more certain of any scent but damp
for it rained last night, none left but try
to search the petrichor, the paths of tramps
the sweet rot of vegetation as it dies
Oh, secret flower, oh sacred memory's stamp

Sonnet #167

Poetry hides in poverty, but it isn't our fault
We're doing everything we can to whisper
What we need into the holy vespers
It's just that spirit pays as much as ought
By the community that holds up churches
We live in the age of beggar kings and cabbages
Made gourmet, where all the ravages
Of age creep in without medicine to purchase
Because you say that we chose this
We all felt the spirit move inside our hearts
And I refused to drown it in brute work, bliss
But to be the ascetic of stutters and fits and starts

Poetry hides in poverty, and it isn't our fault
It's yours for pretending we ought to halt

Sonnet #166

To capture all the butterflies of thought
And etherize them gently, that their wings
Will last forever, delicately precious things
That tatter just a little, just from being caught
And fray at edges while time marches
Until a thousand years from now an excavation
of a catalog reveals a puff of dust, a nation
distilled into piles of colored starches
all in piles below the pins, where a librarian
once placed a name, a title, a date
Never betray these words, whereon
the butterflies all lie in glorious state
Or if you forget your self, misuse their clarion,
Deny the breath was here, thyself abate

Sonnet #165

Every spring, when blooms return, I think

This might be last, perhaps the storm

perhaps a cell, falling star, a dread worm;

car accident three blocks away, sink

the teeth of one car into another's cheek, devour

the passenger, damage the drivers, rushing a light

at a left turn, nothing will ever make it all right

but every spring the flowers swell and pour

And push so hard against the dry and cold

The green leaves grow, the day is finally ours

And in the rush, the wreck, a flash too bold

The sirens come too late, the mourning hours

among the flowers, a man just 24 years old

Every flower smells so sweet, every note sours

Sonnet #164

In a thousand years, there will be coral

Kept in glass, where automated tides

Roll in and back, and keepers keep so careful

To preserve the specimens that bide

Away the centuries, unable to evolve

to handle modern oceans, trapped in glass

forever, the albatross we bear, the whole

of them that's left a display in a crass

amusement park, where children are brought

to see the gorgeous dance beneath black light

Kids will be told how this is all that's left

Then, leave for the gift shop, buy bereft

Coming to the TWIG BOOKSHOP on Saturday, in San Antonio, TX

Joe M. McDermott & Friends

Fancy Tea and Speculative Fiction Authors

Saturday, March 18, 2017

2:00-4:00 pm.

Joe McDermott is a popular local author of many Science Fiction books.

Join Joe and his friends to celebrate his latest endeavors with his friends: 

Stina Leicht, Cold Iron

Martha Wells, Cloud Roads and Serpent Sea

  

Amanda Downum, Dreams of Shreds and Tatters

Sonnet #163

Bloom if you must, but know it is risky
Late frosts sweep through and blow it all down
The insects come and lay eggs around
Based on the smell, the borers briskly
Burrow inside baby peaches and plums
And everything will be lost, all fruit
Fallen, rotten, malformed, new shoots
devoured, diseases wake up in the spring
Energy blooming is vigor that's lost
When it's time to fight the enemy host
The chompers, mosaics, and borers, and things
Big things and little things, all come to the feast
Here come the monsters, here come the beasts
Bloom if you must, and in blooming, risk defeat