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

And Dreaming of Things To Come

Here we are, midsummer days and nights upon us. Many things have slowed the cart from rumbling further down the road, but c'est la vie. The work goes foreward and the fruits of my most recent efforts will soon be posted. For now, please check back soon. In days we will have more new material. (Mostly, I wanted to see how the new Blog works).

elm

One Of My Earliest Poems

High away into the careless night
Where not so much as songs
Could sing me in my hour of death
Comes things that nothing matters,
Comes things that nothing teaches,
Comes on the wings of the priested cry
The darling myths of angels dying
In another ancient night
And I no more the age-drift maiden
Nor the dumb-fell man
Wing away all things that skies
And dreams create.