Philip Sidney's "Astrophil and Stella" c1580

19.

On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same?
When most I glory, then I feel most shame:
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.


My best wits still their own disgrace invent:
My very ink turns straight to Stella's name;
And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame,
Avise themselves that they are vainly spent.

Penelope Devereux c1575

For though she pass all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall?
Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,

And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit:
"Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit."

...

A chord strike and I awake
"Penelope!"
Sunlight tendrils drape her face in my dream
My heart has swelled and I'm defeated
Surrendered to her and all to her
The dream ends and the cold answer is given
Realizing in each dream
Her eyes never meet mine
It is my love to own

Unrequited to the last.

...waiting to hibernate...06jan19

intermittent rain

followed by the sun some
grey puddles
wet grass
deep pockets at Boisseranc
cut the turf
a layer of ready mud


neath yellow scrag
missing it
'A long while sick, supposed.'
he didn't look from the shadowed lap
his wiry face
his eyes closed
guilty I say


mine come in cotton shirts
and the smell of Canoe
never tugging on attention
but if I look they are
unencumbered
reminiscent

breathing deep

always there

other spirits come as lighted orbs

their chests raise and fall

but they mock 

the action

mindless

rote

lost

...