Call Me Winston

1984 is now. A sonnet.

In Madness’ Hour

A Sonnet

Perhaps we are, as mortals, made of glass
so certain in the shattering to come
for…

Advice and Warning to Young Poets

Have you seen your own thoughts turn to images,
A sudden vision laced about with words?
Has some…

Prisms

Golden beacons of light trace Abraham’s annihilation, gentle waves ride the deep blue seas with…

Solitary Spring

A fertile planet, its dirt tilled and wet
Seeds are sprouting now, blossoms dot the boughs
Weave flowers into your crowns for the…

The Writer at Home

Hanging all this laundry, I’m distracted
By words that rattle round inside my head,
They shake the bars of their dark, bony…