a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №150

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 16 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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IN FIELD of furrows where they drove the plough
through the plot and substance of our days
has sprung and orchard where a child plays
who’s over-watched by apple-laden boughs
a ship that parts the ocean with its prow
whose wake of foam then traces out its ways
which, folded back into the sea, yet stays
and standing aftwards or upon the bow
the only time there ever was is now
and tomorrow only comes but as todays
and life’s the only form that Heaven takes
as it enwraps us in its hidden folds 
alone estrangements are the ones we make 
forgetting love will not be bought or sold
but when our prideful hearts will finally break
that day they’ll be restored with veins of gold