Shakespeare's Sonnets Re-done


[Re-done by Bruce Hamilton]

All beauty, we believe, should multiply,
since thus its every fragrance might endure
eternally, not have to fade and die
without such progeny as keep life pure.
Yet, you, so much in love with your own eyes,
feed your fine flame with nothing but yourself
and thus bode famine where abundance lies -
as if to stick all beauty on a shelf.
You, who right now are truth's main ornament
and life's main augurer of one more spring,
within your own bud seem intransigent
in your desire to blast all blossoming.
Pity the world, or else let gluttony
so rule you you unhinge eternity.

On Snow and Ice

Snowy Field

The chill of winter snow produces ice
whose frozen qualities numb everything
possessing semblances that might entice
the human heart away from every sting.
I notice as more snow accumulates
my tendency to be a sort of lump
that gathers little from the world's debates
except in terms of harboring some thump.
Our fingers measure coldness carefully
as takers of large steps that could suggest
protracting parts of human misery
to proof despair is always at its best.
When snow and ice combine, then harden up,
we might suppose the time has come to sup.

On Birdfeeding


By giving birds our seeds and crumbs, we tie
their lives to ours & make them so depend
on what we have to offer they might die
if we withdrew & failed to be their friend.
They come & peck & peck, & we enjoy
observing them as they consume the food
whose attributes they likely will employ
to feed themselves & rear some wondrous brood.
(Though many come, with colors as diverse
as separate the autumn from the spring,
we still enjoy the task of playing nurse
to all of them -- whatever songs they sing.)
We too are birds, of sorts, & we presume
the universe will always find us room.

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