New Beginnings, New Works

After a long hiatus, hopefully we're back in the saddle and ready to "rope 'em." Our webmaster has also had things to tend to, so corrections and refinements on the website have had to cease for a while. Now, I expect, hopefully new works will appear which will have some interest for some. It has been a big job getting my works together. I'm having to visit my earliest years as a writer and at the same time I'm trying to move some special projects forward, namely of late, my work on identifying the date Sonnet 107 by Shakespeare. I hope to post this within the next few days.

My intention is to actively use Soundings, to --express myself on a wide range of subjects. Intentions, intentions. . . I realize, being a poet, few people really care about poetry--any appreciation for poetry was probably knocked out of most people before they leave high school. But, it is a big part of my life and so I continue in it--readers or not. Below is a poem I found in my first journal when I was 23, I have collected other of my first journal poetry on my site under Early Poetry. The poem below I missed. More importantly, perhaps, I hope to post very soon The New Dating of Shakespeare's Sonnet 107, which will contain much of my original work that was left on the editor's floor and a wholly new Part II, with, what is, I think, impressive new evidence to make the Oxfordian case that Lord Oxford wrote "Shakespeare's" Sonnet 107. It will be interesting if it gets "legs."

Season Changes

The day has lost its fire

and the yellowing leaves conspire

in dying whispers an autumnal death.

Now all about the hardened paths

winter’s mute and merciless silence can be heard.

Here, where once the flower, bee, and bird

rejoiced in the kingdom of a child’s dream

where the air itself was once supreme—

drowsy as a monarch after a feast,

now all is over. Time’s oblivious beast

stalks even the children of tend’rest roots:

and, yet, how comfortably this suits

the world and the wisdom of the seasons.

The child forgets, the heart begins with reasons;

and, at the silence of the coming doom,

we lock our memories in the largest room.

Journal Vol. 1, pg. 184

 

elm