Archive for the Sonnets Category


Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on July 16, 2011 by familialdiscontent

I’m left to wonder, sitting by the Swan—
our river, on her quiet, curving neck
and looking south towards her ancient back—
I wonder how these places have the heart
to tolerate the engine’s drone, the waves
on windless days, the hammering that drowns
the little laughter of a stream. I know
that nature has the teeth, so why not bite?

Translucence twitches in the sand—a prawn
left out of water by the tide. I catch
it with a stick and send it home. Perhaps
the crime is punishment enough, while those
that care to watch for spineless refugees
enjoy the lichens bleaching in the sun.



Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on June 18, 2011 by familialdiscontent

The Moon is haloed, seven coloured rings
that hang on heaven’s hatstand, snagged on hooks
suspended in the sky; and everything
is draped in linen sheets like ghostly books
forgotten on a ghostly bed and made
by careless hands. They say that sheets when dried
by full moonlight will glow their whitest shade,
reflected silver echoed in their sides.

The slightest breeze will push the blanket south
and bring the tree line sharply into view.
Then, clouds within my lungs escape my mouth
like shades, their icy fingers pushing through
my chest, reminding me of other such
cold nights, your warmth, the fire in your touch.

Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on January 22, 2011 by familialdiscontent

I’ll fuck this poem up if I so choose,
I’ll drop a foot, my rhymes a stinking mess,
a metaphor so trite, so crap. I’ll lose
my reader’s eye in wrenched and anxious stress.
I’ll make them read it back, each broken line
of regimented men that stand and die
before the guns, and tread on every mine
they cross, but still, they’ll fly their banner high
on ground that’s punctuated red and white-
the only summer flowers left in bloom.
On ground where fir trees block the searing light
and earth is cool in bamboo thicket’s gloom.
On ground that’s crowned by dragon tree and oak,
On ground that’s free from fire, blood and smoke.

Dashed Upon

Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on December 18, 2010 by familialdiscontent

Exactly what am I supposed to say?
Just how am I equipped to speak about
despair? Abandonment? A leaving out?
The sunk and twisted knife, no place to stay,
no place to go? Those dreams about the day
that one might wake and not remember bouts
of fear, days when paradise is stout
and doesn’t run, but stops to watch the play
of morning light? No more speaking. Now’s
the time to listen—sharpen, hone the art
of hearing other voices cracked with pain
but speaking nonetheless; and hearing how
they travel through their days, and hope my heart
will kindly let them all come home again.


Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on November 27, 2010 by familialdiscontent

The days are longer now, they’ve yawned and stretched,
decided not to leave so soon. They’ve calmed
themselves to see which prayers are faintly etched
in dappled shadows, listen to the psalms
that ring from tree to tree through restless air
that shimmers on the ground. These days will each
grow longer still, intensify their stare
and glare, collapse the midday shadows’ reach.

But even when the flowers start to fade:
magnolia reduced to prickled clubs,
the jacaranda spent of purple rain,
the pixie mops gone grey atop their shrubs;
the nymphs will swim, await the proper time
to curl, break free, and swarm as dragonflies.

Where Kookaburra Sits

Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on October 9, 2010 by familialdiscontent

As your heart shrinks away, mine pulls toward
you, reaching through the thick and fragrant air
grown heavy with the season’s scent, and there
begins its search through flowers’ golden hoard,
through snaking roots and balga’s narrow sword.
It tracks you through the grass before it dares
to lift its eyes amongst the trees and glare
where kookaburra sits, as if the lord
of all that he surveys, his armour blue
about his flanks, red splashed across his tail.
He sits alone, and so he doesn’t sing,
but waits for questions from one pure and true.
And there the heart may rest along its trail:
On bough, beside this lovely fisher king.

Number 8

Posted in Poems by the Brother, Sonnets on October 2, 2010 by familialdiscontent

The warming, windswept winter light comes through
the thick dark arms of figs, and gently weaves
around a carpet wrought from crackling leaves
that once were held so high against the blue
and shone beneath the springtime sun that grew
them strong and soft, then quickly took its leave
for fall, and fallen, winter doesn’t grieve
for fallen leaves, or colours she once knew;

instead, remembers things that we have seen;
she knows the fiery red, the restful green;
she sees the lovers kiss and children chase;
she knows the sun’s warm hand upon her face;
and you can see her silver in the sky—
the glimmering of spring behind her eye.