"Calamity or calumny,/ the autumn in its hue: is red"
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
Against the Gate
Before the bell tolls, she must
run.
Through garden plot and broken
gate.
Against the gate, the devil has come.
The push
of his fingers on the cast-iron
rung.
The entrance, the last to have entered
defendants,
Commence with sudden diligence to
dream.
The iron in the fire is hot, the cello in its coffin,
quit
and all around the rooftops sighs of jaundiced
women.
_______________________________________________________________ It Might Be True
_______________________________________________________________ Sonnet
_______________________________________________________________
It would be better not to say it
It might be true
That the people in this world, like me and you, are elevated
evening stars. In dark.
A bright idea—
I hear the dolorous bell
In sunset, which is wrapped in fir
Calamity or calumny, the autumn in its hue: is red
as paintbrush: Persephonous, blue. I will you to believe it
If we dwell
much longer under light.
Left
Directed, through legend, to a fatalistic
want. Singed by sun and shown, through
dedication, that to have it is not
to have taken possession
in lit intent—in a regimented lyric
that defines itself by order and
itself
defies through mishap—clasped
discarded, calamitous.
The black-petaled flower does
entail itself generically
through wind, as a cherub, through weather
as barb.