Philosophers may lounge in smokey dens
Imbibing wisdom ‘neath a flowing cask
While by the wordy fires at length hey bask.
O they could speak ‘till God made dry the fens
whilst multiplying arguments by tens
disguising fears. The words serve as a mask
o’er questions Art herself might take to task
could she but see those blots from inky pens.
Yet of their many words none do describe
the spirt nor the method of my art –
how once in sylvan glen the warriors wept,
why bitter, broken love sent forth the gibe,
when music did make whole the wounded heart,
or other moments that my song hath kept.
Petrarchan sonnet (a b b a a b b a c d e c d e) written 9-9-13
The Art Garden
I stumbled once upon a garden large.
Twas bordered by a gate of iron wrought
Well-craft about with many creatures charge’d
For rampant, sleeping, dancing were they caught.
’Twas quick apparent its creator thought
His garden more enriched by many flowers
Some bloom’ed wild but others had been taught
to grow and flourish on the ancient bowers.
Bold blossoms brought the eye to note the towers
Untam’ed ones cavorted at their base
To note them all one need wander for hours
Each stem did have its own distinctive grace.
A garden perfect requires many parts.
How so akin to flowers are the arts!
The Spenserian Sonnet (a b a b b cb c c d c d e e) written 9-9-13
A challenge had been posted that any of us currently “in discussion” about what it meant to be a “bard” or what “bardic arts” included or did not include, was to write a sonnet on the matter as a means of, I suppose, putting our money where our mouths are. These were my offerings.