Ninth Step

For "Her."

Do not presume your ninth step is my first
Toward granting absolution. In truth, your
Effort is wasted on a man well-versed
In scorn; possessed of a heart love abjures.
Struggling to amend rips open old wounds
Festered in a decade of bitterness;
Revealing a soul where malice abounds.
Of sin I stand not guiltless, but confess:
‘Tis not my place nor power to excuse
Others, while I cannot forgive myself.
No, I am a fool whose mind is abused
By allowing hate to feed on itself.
Though pardon’s a grace that sets conscience free,
You’ll have to go on healing without me.

A Whiney Lament O'er Dying Form

No one wants to read love sonnets these days.
We’re busy following what Paris tweets,
And devouring each word Gaga says.
Why think, when you can “stream” while Snooki bleats?
Will writes, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
How accurate that is today seems sad,
As we gauge our success by total “hits;”
Courting fame on electronic doodads.
We prefer shock to awe – ignoring art
And substance in favor of flash. ‘Tis crime
To celebrate invention wrought sans heart,
O’er iambic pentameter and rhyme.
The coffin nails arrive with little flair:
“We wish you luck in placing them elsewhere.”

Theós Dó̱ro̱n

For TK

Ariel: Do you love me, Master? No?
Prospero: Dearly, my delicate Ariel.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest (4.1.48-49)

I am transfixed by a spirit of air –
Sublime Ariel – and stand enchanted.
For 'tis by thy art my heart lies ensnared
In magic, and reason is supplanted;
O, command my eye with grace that transcends
Corporeal, theós dó̱ro̱n – thou gift
Of God. And as you, quick’ning muse, ascend
The stage, thy glory will become my shrift;
Tribute would o’erflow thy ears if you’d hear
It from my lips; though highest praise shall fall
Short of thy deserving, and ne’er come near
The admiration which leaves me in thrall.
I commend the beauty of thy nature,
And, thus, expose my soul to your censure.