a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №101

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. Also, I should acknowledge that the formal aspect of this “Petrarchan sonnet” is liberally conceived so it’s unnecessary to alert me that at “Petrarchan sonnet” with 17 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 6 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

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THE DAYS are short and shadows have grown long
as spirits flit and phantoms past us glide
as writhing forms of feelings held inside
our hearts and compass us about in throngs
and seek to weave our souls into their song
the tune they played when all the flowers died
mowed down by scythes of frost just in their pride
but let us rise and seek the place we long
so resolved, these damnèd ghosts must yield
then upward striving we will make our way
to lie us finally down in open field
upon our backs before the break of day
where ancient wounds will finally be healed
as angels psalters on our heartstrings play
whose melodies speak more than words can say
in triumph Heaven’s final trumpets bray
no effort spared, no price too great to pay

Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash