Our Corner

A man hangs his hat in that corner

where once we slept together

an ignorant or discontent foreigner

to our dislocated nether.

No one knows what happened

to the images our jury pardoned.


It was not always rainy when you came.

There were moments, tucked into our night

we found shelter in our tender shame

knowing neither would ever fight

for all the stories Donne read within

that little corner of our skin.


No one forgets—

not even the man, uncapped, in grey

strolling through space time bid offset

frustrated and sweating through the summer decay

praying for the breath that weaves

through the door, but out the window leaves.



(Pow, right in the feels. And using space, too.)

English: Moon

English: Moon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A saturation of forces holds us,

pirouetting through the possibility of darkness

probing the field in yearning steps.


Many partners share the floor,

but in restraint, the tidal pull of our

reservations tickle together


timeless revolutions, sun-bleached

for the final, shaking breath when time

skips, us tipping into the hooded sky.

Poetic Spotlight: Alas, so all things now do hold their peace

Portrait of Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374), It...

Portrait of Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374), Italian poet and humanist (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

One of the great wonders of the poetic world–at least in the western tradition–is the centuries old figure of one of Italy’s most interesting sons: Francesco Petrarch.  A poet and scholar, his was one of the voices most sought after in the Renaissance–that great pinnacle of western revival in the arts.

For good reason, might I add! Not only was he considered the father of the humanist movement (which would eventually change the face of Europe in a great many ways, I might add–Reformation, anyone?), he gave birth to what is now known as the Petrarchan sonnet, and his works serve as some of the models for lyrical poetry as a whole. You may recall in a previous post I mentioned the Italian sonnet? In some cases, it is another name for these–but on the whole, Petrarch’s words served as the basis for those Italian forms to come.

His brand of poetry was not typically weighed with politics or the like, as seen in many cases today, but rather with the matter of the heart–or to be more specific, the concepts of unattainable love. Beneath many of them lie a great pining the poetic heart too easily recognizes.

Italian, it is often said, is a language of love, and if that’s the case, you might consider thanking Petrarch for the pleasure–the model for the modern Italian language is actually based of a mix of Petrarch’s, Giovanni Boccaccio’s, and Dante Alighieri’s works.

So let us indulge now in a sample of the master’s words, with one of his iconic sonnets…

Sonnet 12–Alas, so all things now do hold their peace

Alas, so all things now do hold their peace,

Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing;

The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease;

The nightes car the stars about doth bring.

Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less.

So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring,

Bringing before my face the great increase

Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing

In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease.

For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring,

But by and by the cause of my disease

Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting,

When that I think what grief it is again

To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.

~By Petrarch, translated into English by Henry Howard

A Haiku Afternoon

Tomorrow, a more fantastical post. Today, a short dose of the poetic:

Rose petals drift

perilous bedside seas–

her breathless touch.

Night gown nonsense–

heat beckons through wood and wind

wild by moonlight.

Note: Don’t forget to check out my guest blog appearance on Jessica Kristie’s “Inspiring Ink” segment today! I may be talking fantastic tomorrow, but today, I’m delving into the imagination…


* A work in progress – critique welcome!

Broad strokes, bedside

broached the topic of

wedded blasphemy,

through bygone whispers

renovated in bravado,

battered with the blue breeze

bloody braggarts call carnal bastardization.

An immigration of conscience

instituted something like incontinence.

Winged Aphrodite pulled hormones

through the shaft of her soul,

but ringed Bast barred in gold;

lovers circled bane and bust,

but the band bonded true—

like a shadow, lust, pulled

through the needle of love’s eye.

When there is nothing

Before abyss come the clock-tower.

The little boy by midnight asks—

her look, lost in the candlelight—

the nature of empty books lain dormant,

the moonless night above a bridge

when there is nothing left to lose—

in sedimentary smiles she sighs:

when there is nothing

there is love.