Those who insist upon censoring all but fake-news miss the Truth, and Truth is Beauty. Therefore that which is beautiful is forced to go underground, where it whispers secrets in young lover’s ears, or from old men’s sonnets. Not that Truth ever ceases to exist. It is Real while fake-news is not, but ignorance is bliss for those pretentious people who prance and prattle in the limelight of a Titanic they deem unsinkable.
I am continuing to write in a sort of self-imposed silence. Not that I can ever stop the noise of my scribbling while I breathe, but I refrain from posting. My writing cannot be silenced when it is kept safely beyond reproach in a diary. However here are a couple sonnets that have escaped those hidden pages, while I was distracted by the drudgery of doing my taxes.
Enough with the taxes. I'm in the mood To let my mind drift where it will; be led By whim. Maybe predawn stars think I am rude To stray from the course, but man is not fed By being rigidly predictable Like beautiful angels; they do God's will Where men can't see It; whereas we are full Of grand intents to serve sweet tea, but spill Boiling brews in our customer's shocked laps. That's just how we're made. And if God made us That way, I'll be that way. Before dawn wraps The east in roses, before yellow bus Yanks tired kids from dreams to sit in rows, I'll rope a dream and ride where it goes.
A mutter of thunder has meaning to me As I wake in the misty, moist morning. From illogical dreaming hearing can see More that is joyous than warning. It was only one grumble, and yet it spoke Like a cleared throat before a pronouncement. Like an eyebrow gone impish before a good joke It foretold a happy announcement. It hinted that warming awaits in the wings; The cold will back down, and must bow. Such thunder holds music which surely is Spring's And a palm touches calm to my brow. Like a child left too long all on his own I hear front doors open. I am not alone.