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SONNETS

GROCERIES

Rather than an everyday housewife
accompanied by an elderly husband
as over my grocery cart arthritic'cly I bend
I think of the Beat Poet's life :
Ginsberg trolling the supermarket playing
                                                  his fife.
Spying Walt Whitman whose dreams his heart
                                                  does send
loving, long, or even fleeting hours to spend.
Like all these harried people to find escape from
                                                   each day's strife ;
Somewhere a less harrowing eve'ning to find.
a world somehow more kind
than this crowded store
where likewise each is seeking something more :
A time to rush to peace's arms
find the happiness we've sought in a more friendly
                                                     world's charms !

June 2016 

 

DOPE !

There is really nothing wrong :
Not a cough or a sneeze ;
From my lungs there comes no wheeze !
I should be filled with song
yet life's sorrows hold me like
                                 a red-hot tong !
No longer do the Poles completely
                                 freeze ;
From the oceans comes the hottest
                                 breeze.
We have messed this up all along !

But the skies say
for humanity there is a way.
Still there is a chance
although yet we cannot prance ;
While there is life there is hope -
No reason to turn from our place in space
                                   to die from dope.

May 2016

 

GRUMBLE ! 

Grumble ! Grumble !
my thoughts are a fright.
Upon my wisdom there is a blight ;
my mind, a runaway train does rumble .
With buttons I fumble.
My hopes slight.
My old clothes are too tight.
My dreams are beginning to crumble !

Can I find a good break ?
Guide this car ;
escape that bad trouble ?
Find a life in which I have a stake ?
Come back from so, so far ?
Rise to the top like a fizzy champagne bubble ! 

December 2015. 

 

FLESHY SKELETON

I am my skeleton :
flesh caught today
for my human earthly stay.
I am consuming another bun,
having a little fun.
I reach into the sea from a quay ;
hearing in the darkness. The wolves bay.
I am fleshy in the sun :
Death only temporarily quiescent.
For the moment,
I have captured the present.
Until the end does arrive
I am temporarily sentient
and alive ;
but coming : the waves of the sea
that will drown all there is of me.

February, 2014

 

 ALONE

As if one could unmake
the grind of every day
when nothing goes our way.
I have put my life together with tape,
always bandage another scrape.
But man is created of clay ;
returns to such after his play,
cannot dress his sorrows in gowns of crepe !
What is his chief sorrow ?
From what can he retreat ?
Perhaps he is alone.
This is his tomorrow ;
his sorrow he must repeat
and, like a beast, chew his bone.

September 2013

 

 

GRITTY ON MY TONGUE
Dedicated to Charles Aznavour

When last you heard me
the notes that I had sung
were fresh upon my tongue.
As if all life I could see,
I grabbed at ev'ry possibility.
I was young,
full of the tune new air had brung,
thought I could reach into eternity !
Burned down now
that candle's breathing flame,
gone : all that I had planned.
Before the crown of Time I bow,
ended all that silly game.
My crop drowned in an empty ocean's sand.

March 2014

 

 

AM I ?

the invisible human in Space :
I dream, therefore I am.
In Eternity, I am not worth a tinkers' dam.
My brains might as well be made of lace
for all their strength in a world so base !
Freedom the door does slam in my face,
it goes : ker-blam !
I cannot flee with grace !
Held tight by this world's rounds,
trapped between the future and the past,
now, my thoughts lie dissected on a plate.
Within my head the blood pounds !
I gasp as if the air will not last.
I have too little, too late !

June, 2014


New Pages & New Art
SONNETS
by Mary Barnet & Richard E. Schiff

 



SERVANT AND MASTER
 

I can't start off
to speak about one thing :
one song to sing.
It is interrupted by a cough.
A stranger to me his hat does doff.
The servant to his master a decanter does bring.
A ticket is cancelled as an official pulls a string.
At such misbehavior the mayor does scoff.
But, approaching is the war
which even to this little town is near.
Men and women die
in nations whose fabric bombs tore :
Children gone to whom life was dear.
Both servant and master their own nooses tie.

 October 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyright, 2014, Mary Barnet-Schiff.
All right reserved.