Kids, busy living,
have no use for our
big grownup words —
they know a better way
(the best there is)
to spend this precious hour,
so bite your tongue
and let them fly away.
Let them be children,
though it will not last.
Just let them be.
They’re in that magic place
where time is stalled—
no future yet, no past—
just happy now
shines on the old clock’s face.
© 2014 Sasha A. Palmer
Image: © 2013 Nino Chakvetadze, reproduced with permission.
I’ve no weight, I’m a kite,
Fly me high, hold on tight,
Don’t let go of my hand,
Keep your feet on the ground,
Planet Earth’s small and round,
With its oceans and all,
Like a ball.
You are my universe,
Standing firmly, and bound
To the ground.
I am air, I am light,
I am day, I am night,
Watch me how I go whee!
Fly with me?
Burning bright, burning clear,
From this world disappear
In the blink of an eye
You and I.
© 2013 Sasha A. Palmer
Image: Marc Chagall, The Promenade (La Promenade) 1917-18; displayed under Fair Use.
Catch you off guard they will—do not repose!—
the pseudo truths that with a pleasant smile
mix their false righteousness with a large dose
of sugarcoated horrors, all the while
destroying those who have the courage to
refuse to drink their poison. This is it:
the sacred curtain has been torn in two,
Heaven awaits, so does the fiery pit.
“Choose you this day whom ye will serve” and fight
for what is worthy, beautiful. Defend,
my Soul, at all costs what is just and right,
never expect this deadly fight to end.
The Evil’s strong, the roots are running deep.
Behold: the brutal winds green valleys sweep.
©2018 Sasha A. Palmer, Sonnet #8 of the Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Image: Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Young Mother (Jeune mère), 1881. Oil on canvas, Overall: 47 3/4 x 33 3/4 in. (121.3 x 85.7 cm). BF15. Public Domain.
- Have you put “writing” on your new year resolutions list?
If you haven’t, maybe you should. Here’s why (just my two cents):
Hope you’ve enjoyed this short read. Feel free to share it.
Happy writing to you!
The world is clothed in winter’s flame,
The quiet—like snow—is deep;
Head crowned with holly, Father Time
Rocks New Year babe to sleep.
© Sasha A. Palmer 2017
Image: Father Time and Baby New Year from Frolic & Fun, 1897, Public Domain
I feel no Christmas, cried a little girl,
I don’t feel any of the Christmas cheer,
the tree is up and lit, the garlands swirl,
and Rudolph leads his pack of swift reindeer,
but I feel nothing. Sobbing would not cease…
Old Santa hugged her, Don’t be sad, my dear,
they are not always real — the things one sees,
what’s real is hidden from the eye, but near.
So close your eyes, put on your largest grin,
unlock your heart and let your Christmas in!
© 2013 Sasha A. Palmer (aka Happy)
Wishing you lots of Christmas cheer!
Image: Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Head (Tête); also called Etude de brodeuse, 1904. Oil on canvas, Overall (lower edge irregular): 15 x 12 3/4 in. (38.1 x 32.4 cm). BF553. Public Domain.
The leaves are falling off the trees…
Another one! Folks bundle up so they won’t freeze…oh,
No! The summer’s gone. Where does the summer spend the fall? Where does it go, you
Know? I miss it
So…the heat and all…but wait! How ‘bout the snow? I love that stuff! It makes me
I look up and let the fluffy flakes fall on my chin, and tongue…no, not just yet — I’ll
Visit, where’s that place you say, where now the summer stays? But
I can’t go till in the snow I’ve played for days and days…
No, I can’t
Go till in the snow I’ve played for days and days!
© 2018 Sasha A. Palmer (a.k.a. Happy)
Image: Ernest Lawson. River Scene–Boat and Trees, c. 1907–1910. Oil on canvas, Overall: 25 1/8 x 30 1/8 in. (63.8 x 76.5 cm). BF484. Public Domain.
It started as a prayer, “wrote itself” during April, 2018, and by the end of the month–tragically–dedication presented itself.
It feels like a devotional to me. It has helped me, and I hope it will help others as well.
Never despair. Never give up your faith. Never let your soul slumber.
Alleluia, heroic crown of sonnets, for Alfie Evans
P.S. Several people told me they were not sure it’s okay to share the sonnets without my permission. By all means, you have my permission. Please, give credit to the author, and do share the sonnets. Thank you.
Image: Unidentified artist. Christ Carrying the Cross, c. 1460. Tempera and oil (?) with gold and silver leaf on panel, Overall: 29 3/8 x 51 1/2 in. (74.6 x 130.8 cm). BF396. Public Domain.
Post shared on dVerse
- Michael Ondaatje’s bestselling novel The English Patient has been named the best winner of the Booker prize of the last 50 years.
“The Golden Booker was held this year to mark a half-century of the prize. A panel of judges read all 52 former winners of the award, with each assigned a decade from the Booker’s history. … The English Patient was novelist Kamila Shamsie’s selection from the 1990s … The five books were then put to a public vote.”
“Not for a second do I believe this is the best book on the list …I suspect and know more than anyone that perhaps The English Patient is still cloudy, with errors in pacing,” said Michael Ondaatje.
- I saw the movie first, and loved it. Then read the book, and loved it. To me it’s one of the rare cases when you can love both: the book and its screen adaptation.
Four years ago I wrote this wordle inspired by The English Patient:
Cave of Swimmers
What did she care about transgression–
Silhouetted against the orange desert sun–
When I threw myself upon her altar?
What was the demimonde of others
When my entire grand universe
Pulsated at the base of her throat?
When the ancient rites blew away maps
When the fiery Africa became a gray area
What did we care about death?
For each time a candle is lit
In the asylum of the cave
The swimmers are reborn.
© 2014 Sasha A. Palmer
P.S. Though the poem obviously has nothing to do with the current events, the word “cave” is synonymous with Thailand right now. God bless the rescuers. Praying for the complete healing of everyone involved, and for the soul of the diver who gave up his life saving others.
Image credit: Illustrations for a Rare 1913 Edition of Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’ by English Artist Margaret C. Cook, via brainpickings.
Great Patriotic War: June 22, 1941 — May 9, 1945.
26.6 million lives lost.*
Lay them down in the fields of sweet barley and rye,
Let them pause just a bit till they’re ready to fly,
Do not bend over them, do not morn, do not weep,
Don’t disturb their short rest, let them sleep, let them sleep.
They will gather their strength, and together they’ll rise,
All like one they’ll take flight to the still paradise,
Where the children await, where the wives of their own
They’ll embrace at the gate, where the fields lie unmown.
© 2012 Sasha A. Palmer
*Some Russian politicians and journalists put the total number of losses in the war, both civilian and military, at over 40 million.
Image credit: Soviet soldiers burying their fallen. Public domain.