Sonnet #19: In fog, despair

The fog glides in to wrap the trees in shrouds;
the tips of all their branches disappear,
and those we still can see are wreathed in clouds
like smokers, lonely in a bar, nursing their beer.

This weather's not for lovers: it's too grim.
Just those alone, forsaken and forlorn
find comfort here, where foghorns sing their hymns
of loss and warning, of longing for a home.

So wise they were, the ones who designed this park,
this curving walk that leads us to the sea:
they must have known despair has a similar arc --
first down, then briefly up, and then, quite solemnly

it leads us to that edge where we must decide 
to rejoin the living, or follow those who've died...

Sonnet #18: Hunter/Gatherer

We humans have two drives: to know, or love.

One gathers knowledge -- a passive receptivity --

while the other hunts with passion, dreaming of

procuring that for which they've a proclivity.

The hunter's motivation? Dissatisfaction,

a hunger, or a longing for love denied.

The knower's quest has far less need for action,

that search is much more simply satisfied.

The hunter's propelled forward by ambition;

the gatherer, storing up that which has passed,

provides the base and fuels the ammunition

for search and discovery; for old ways to be surpassed.

Each type may fail to understand the other,

but the world needs both -- the gatherer and the lover.

Just a note: I first read about this concept -- that humans have a drive either to know or to love -- in Evelyn Underhill's treatise on mysticism.  It is her contention that the drive to love, and the passion that accompanies it, is what moves creation forward -- and I like that, because in my family I am the driven one, and some of that drive comes from a hunger for what I didn't get as a child.  But though my husband's primary drive is to gather knowledge, which is essentially a more passive role (which I do occasionally find frustrating, driven creature that I am) it seemed important to understand that we need both kinds of people. So that's the origin of this poem.  Sadly, the image that worked best reverses the roles to the more traditional pattern, but I can live with that.  Hope you can, too!

Sonnet #17: Humor comes in threes

The mystics claim there are three ways of being,

but of course, each mystic's three are not the same,

so I'd hoped that I might clarify by seeing

what this painting has to say; it's a sort of game.

It could mean living in the future, past, or present,

or perhaps to reconcile, affirm, or deny.

Aggressive (left), depressed, or just unpleasant;

to stride, or maybe sit, or even fly.

It could be faithful, lost, or just agnostic

Might be genders -- male, or female, or some  mix.

Parent, child or just adult (to be diagnostic);

just throw it against the wall and see what sticks.

 

The truth is: interpretations will always vary

depending on who looks: Tom, Dick or Harry.

Sonnet # 16: Better together

We artists go to studios to paint --

partly because it can make a dreadful mess --

but also to create without restraint:

when we're alone, there's no one to impress.

So how can I explain this curious fact:

that two of my favorite pieces were painted in public?

Does artistry become a kind of act?

Does playing the role of a painter somehow double it?

I think of myself as terribly private person,

and tend to resent interruptions when I write.

I'm reluctant to even consider that my introversion

is turned inside out when I paint, because it seems trite

to assume that together we're better than we are alone,

but it seems it's a possible truth that I'll now have to own...  

 

Sonnet #15: So quickly gone

Some years ago I passed this scene and paused

to photograph it, and the result I got

was fabulous, but now that picture's lost:

I've a scan, but it really doesn't match the shot.

And so, each year, I pass this way again,

turn right and cross the bridge, hoping to capture

a replacement for the lost, but something Zen

interferes, and nothing I shoot has quite that rapture.

Sometimes the mountains hide behind fog, or rain.

Other years, like this one, the sky's too blue,

so bright the trees just fade into the terrain.

I know -- I'm being picky, but it's true:

Like snowflakes, each view's unique, and ever changing:

look NOW, for nature's always rearranging.

Sonnet #14: The Big Picture

While driving to the mountains, I saw a farm,

a tree, a fence, a silo and some fog

and stopped to let my camera work its charm;

to capture this sweet photo for my blog.

But here's what I find it hard to understand:

why wasn't this the scene that filled my lens?

Could it have been the place I chose to stand?

What can I possibly say in my own defense?

I've lots of pix of just the tree and the peak.

I've photos of the horses and the shed.

There are barn shots, too, each in their way unique.

But no one shot of the whole scene here outspread.

Thank Photoshop for enabling this compilation,

but I blame myself for inferior visualization.

Not a sonnet: Goose view

Oh, to be a goose, and gaze
upon the water as we graze;
to know that as we sit and chew
we'll almost always have a view
that humans pay a fortune for --
and if it should become a bore,
we'll simply spread our wings and fly away:
some new horizon's out there, every day!