Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. This is more-or-less an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
THE MOON sheds forth its liquid silver beams
and even though that I may seem to sleep
an inner pilot ceaseless watch will keep
who stands at helm and charts my course of dreams
for nothing in this world is what it seems
with scythe in hand, the lonely farmer reaps
and leaves the fields, new-shorn, with straw in heaps
while setting Sun, from westward aspect gleams
I see that I must needs confront my fear
and let that western fire my courage steel
my will to temper and my frailties sear
for in my soul, a god has set his seal
and now I see myself as in a mirror
with stone in hand, my broken heart to heal