Strange thing this, to sit with silence –
millennia of regret; cold stones at our backs.
Clutching worry in work-worn hands,
we balance, fearful, on this brittle plinth,
while the gift of the unopened moment
lays unnoticed at our feet.
The distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion~ Albert Einstein
Above concentric circles sits the pick-pocket of time;
grim, malicious grasshopper, devouring every second.
Each hour is marked by clanking chain in place of pealing chime,
golden eyelets blinking, unsuspecting future beckoned.
Mechanical escapement claws its way with steady tread,
creature’s constant motion eats up minutes; won’t augment them.
Though hypnotized by blood-red eyes, observers filled with dread;
twitching eyelid’s inward turn serves only to torment them.
As pendulum stops-stutters-starts; lights lag then race ahead;
life’s irregularities reflected in momentum.
Though insect never falters in persistent eerie grind,
Albert’s sound advice – go on and plunder timeless foundries.
Let go illusion’s obstacles, let waiver sit unsigned;
time quick-steps for those that choose to live inside its bound’ries.
For Paula Belli whose picture of the Corpus Clock was the spark of inspiration for this piece.
This is the Sonnet version of Stress Matrix Dectet/Stress Checkerboard Stanza – developed by Luke Prater
14 lines, 14 syllables per line – aBaB cDc DcD eF eF
where lowercase are iambic heptameter (7 beats/stresses per line), and uppercase trochaic heptameter. This yields a perfect ‘checkerboard’ of stressed and unstressed syllables (14 x 14, equaling 196 syllables). <
Depending on where the Volta arrives (the ‘turn’ – resolution, or at least, change in tone, crucial aspect to a sonnet), there are 3 different stanza layouts (the rhyme-scheme stays the same).
If the turn comes after the first eight lines, as it does in Italian Sonnets, the layout is aBa BcDcD cDe FeF. If it comes after line ten (unique!), then it’s aBaB cDc DcD eFeF (same as English but ending on a quatrain rather than the two couplets).
The ‘futures’ boys
don’t interest me
with their tax-free handshakes,
their trading floor predictions
and their ipad-clad Hades.
Silence the history books,
what’s past is past,
locked in, locked down,
shackled to the mast;
what use a regurgitated
I want here, I want now,
hot heavy molten,
soldered in this moment,
liquid-lost with you
holding me golden.