Spring 2020, Sestina

Spring 2020 Sestina

Why should incompetents impose such laws

As kill off liberty to save what is

by its nature finite, life? And do we own

our freedom? Is it really ours to end?

By what right do we kill it now?

And will it from the ashes ever rise?

Why bargain, why take risks?  Why not surprise

the Devil and point out his dreadful flaws?

Our freedom was so dearly won, we know

the priceless thing it is.

A thing on which we thought we could depend,

a thing we thought we never would disown.

Our liberty, so cherished has been known

to lift us up and help us rise

to greater things than otherwise.  Defend

it now, before it’s taken.  Devils claws

will tear it limb from limb, when it is his,

and leave us nothing of it as we know it now. 

But blood will not be spilt upon the snow,

no corpse within the grave which can be shown

to children wondering what they’ve lost.  It is

not freedom when it must comprise

some stunted version of itself, its laws

do not set limits, only bend.

It is our dearest love and greatest friend,

we knew it in our infancy and know

it best at death when we are outlaws

when all that can be known to us is known

and we can finally apprise 

ourselves of what it is.

And yet, then even that will be a précis,

its boundlessness incomprehensible can’t lend

itself to understanding. Yet if the dead could aphorise

they’d tell of liberty to make the living know

it was not something they should seek to own

nor curb, nor cage, nor crush nor seek to name its flaws.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, 

world without end.  Freedom we can never own,

we’ll rise above these petty laws. 

Spring 2020 Villanelle

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,

You knew not truth, thought death incompetence,

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

For fear of freedom is a foul disease

And so is bossiness and arrogance,

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease.

We see our hard won freedom wither, freeze.

Though death’s the thing you couldn’t countenance,

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

We’re gone and yet you could still us appease,

If you nursed freedom, gave her sustenance.

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease

At birth we start our dying by degrees,

Accustomed to it, feel ambivalence.

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

You used us, badly, liberty to seize,

Expect revenge and anger, vehemence.

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

Spring 2020 A Sonnet

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,

We are the dead, who fret and barely slumber.

We are the dead, the ones you cannot please

And still we don’t exist in extra number.

And yet our end you’d barely countenance.

Because you feared the truth, you knew not death,

The end of life you thought incompetence

And so, in fear, stole liberty’s last breath.

We are the dead who would have always died,

We are the dead who never could survive.

We’re those who gladly would have fought, denied

Each sad attempt to keep our flesh alive.

We do not rest in peace, but rest in dread:

You tried to steal freedom in our stead. 

Enforcing Sadist

Enforcing sadist. They tend to be military sergeants, deans of universities, prison overseers, police officers or people with other authoritative functions who feel they should be the ones controlling and punishing people who have broken rules, regulations or laws.

He’s the enforcing sadist with authoritative function,

He feels it should be him enforcing law and regulation.

He’s full of smug, self serving earnestness, or unction,

And is thrilled to snitch, for the good of the nation. 

He doesn’t like louts who get above their station

And wish to walk their dogs in peace, without compunction.

He feels they should be put in camps of concentration.

He’s the enforcing sadist with authoritative function;

He thinks a spell in prison, in conjunction

With contamination

Is just what rebels need, if he can’t enforce expunction. 

He feels it should be him enforcing law and regulation,

He relishes the thought of total, social isolation,

Or solitary confinement, and would issue an injunction

Against socialisation.

He’s full of smug, self serving earnestness, or unction

And knows his bossiness is simply an adjunction

To his saintliness, worth endless admiration.

He only wishes to protect his peers from bodily dysfunction,

And is thrilled to snitch, for the good of the nation. 

He’d love to impose fines and spells of vile incarceration,

Thinks punishment not severe enough at this particular junction.

He wishes men could hang, based on his simple allegation. 

Liberty for him is societal malfunction:

He’s the enforcing sadist.