Larry Tilander
Guestpage 25

  Come Death-A Sonnet

  Rolled bones, Gods' plans or simple twists of fate,
  By fire, age, or poison from a friend
  Each term of life will some day come to end.
  Come now untimely death; you're much too late.
  These eyes, they've seen so much of life go by.
  The cruelties I've witnessed, senseless war.
  Come death, be kind and close at last the door
  That lets these memories flood my poor mind's eye.
  "How lucky." people say, "To live so long."
  And hope that they may reach this bitter age,
  But should they, just like I they too will rage
  And curse the heart within them beating strong.

  Had I the strength I'd rip away these wires
  And reach the nothingness this heart desires.

  Playground Of The Mind

  We're children in the playground of the gods.
  Mere time?  Illusion made with flashing suns.
  Eternity, the mind forever runs
  Although the drooling body sits and nods.
  What cares the mind for crass corporal things?
  While souls go echoing through time and space.
  Look past the lines that etch this Earthly face
  To where the child's laughter ever rings.
  'Tis there you find me now, will ever find.
  Escape from drudgery, it is more real
  Than bones, bites arthritics constantly feel.
  Come.  Join me in this playground of the mind.

  We'll play forever in this park we've made.
  While bones and other fleshly bothers fade.


Larry Tilander, sonnet parody of Silver by Walter de la Mare's


Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and a silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

It's a nice poem, and as I said somewhere five double beats isn't an iron rule for sonnets, but I've never seen one that had an odd number of syllables in some lines and wasn't iambic, beat-BEAT, beat-BEAT, beat-BEAT beat-BEAT, beat-BEAT is the perfect form, but a lesser number of such pairs is still a sonnet.

Can we read this
slow-LY, si-LEN, tly-NOW, the-MOON (Not bad.)
walks-THE, night-IN, her-SIL, ver-SHOON (Not great)
this-WAy, and-That, she-PEERS, and-SEES (Perfect)
sil-VER, friut-UP, on-SIL, ver-TREES (Not good.)
Let's take the same subject and make good iambic steps. If I were re-writing it for someone as an exercise these are the changes I would make. My apologies to the author.

Silver a la Larry Tilander

And now, with silent steps the moon
The night, she walks in silver shoon
This way and that she peers and sees
The silver fruits on silver trees
Now, one by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silv'ry thatch
Couched in his kennel, like a log
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From shadowed cote the white breasts peep
The doves in silver-feathered sleep
A harvest mouse soft scampers by
With silver claws and silver eye
And moveless fish metallic gleam
By silver reeds in silvered stream
Larry Tilander's Traditional poetry
Sign InView Entries
On The Carpet

Hello sweet burning pain of heart blown death.
Upon this carpet stained with life I lie
My head where feet were, face down now I die.
Through well worn fibers sucking my last breath.
A trace of Sandy: good pooch; so long gone.
Mint Julep, Liz's favourite night time drink.
My mind begins to shrivel as I think.
A pool of sunshine spills in: my last dawn.
Losing touch with toes; reality
My face where they so recently have trod
My thoughts are turning now, at last, to God.
I wonder if this thing could really be.

Too late, sweet warfarin now take me home
Beneath this coffee table's glass and chrome.

Main Page
On The Edge of Everything

The prostitute from Wichita is chatting up the cop that joined the force down here just yesterday.
They say he had some trouble with a little bit of graft, they canned his ass, no work in Monterey.
He's staring at the duck blind where the rubbies gather now to drink the brand of squuezings of the night.
They burrow in together like a bunch of new born pups, they huddle up for warmth so nice and tight.
The highway bleeds it's tail light hemophiliac red glow, the money's heading homeward in the dark.
The garbage cans all beckon with their appetizing smells, the zombie bums come stumbling to the park.
The cop and hooker went inside about an hour ago, I wonder just who's teaching what to who?
The people of the street are ruling, nowhere's out of bounds, but hey there buddy, that ain't nothing new.
That midget fortune teller Zelda pedals slowly by, her bicycle a crazy shade of pink.
Across the street she goes her perfumed hanky to her nose, trying to avoid the duck blind's stink.
The world of straights is closing down, the other one fires up, the zany, crazy circus of the street.
Getting high and getting off, avoiding getting caught, they crawl from where they hide from all the heat.
My love and I come creeping from our hidden little cave, beneath the ruined house that is our flop
And head down to the diner where she slings while I dive pearls, we talk about the day it's gonna stop.
We're saving up our money, gonna buy a little house, no more fly by nights or crazy schemes.
Like everybody else in this here crazy coastal town, we're living on the edge, and on our dreams.

When Thor Lost Jesus

Well Officer, we didn't mean to have a drink at all, but Rocky had the shakes so bad we did.

See, Thor was whining and she couldn't sleep at all last night; kept us all awake just like a kid.

Well Thor! You know, the pooch we keep down in the swamp, our dog. We found her all run over there last year.

We fixed her up 'cept for one leg that hangs a little crook. She waddles 'long now just a little queer.

Anyway, she lost her pups there in the spring and then she found this squeaky Jesus at the dump.

Kinda like a substitute; she mothered it along. Helped her get herself out of the slump.

It isn't really Jesus but old Willy named it that. Poor Willy froze to death at Christmas there.

Anyhow he said it looked like Jesus Christ to him because it had a beard and lots of hair.

So, Thor lost Jesus and she feels so bad we worked all day cadging quarters so to end the fuss.

We were after a new toy to take her blues away. We were headed down to Toys R Us.

Anyhow, poor Rocky had the shakes there, really bad. Me? I wasn't too damn good myself,

So we hit the liquer store, we got a little loose, got a bit too much down off the shelf.

Officer, I swear we didn't mean to do no harm. Honest truth I swear I don't recall

Who or how or when we got into that church last night and got that ten foot statue off the wall.

Broken English

She was short and rather hairy and yet vaguely oriental and she joined us at our school in grade six.
We were all just recess gangsters and the meanest kind of pranksters and her broken English brought on many tricks.
I remember once at lunchtime when we sent her to the counter and the atmosphere began to churn and thicken.
It erupted into laughter when she asked old Mrs. Beezer, "Excuse me ma'am; How do you milk a chicken?"
The foul wretch was onto us and handed little Kimmie the pint of milk and sandwich she desired.
And Kimmie turned around to see our poor embarrassed faces, red as bricks just new and hot. all freshly fired.
I often think of Kimmie now, her faith that she would make it, and I stop into her restaurant for a snack.
She always gives me free dessert, a big vanilla ice cream. "Fresh from just milked chickens out the back."

    Wounds Of War

The heroes stagger down the street, scuff, scuffle in the dirt
Their colours flying proud above, they cry for ancient hurt
They took a hill in half forgot, half nightmare never land
And whimpered as their blood ran out in half remembered sand

The rendings of their bodies are a sometimes savoured pain
But worse than gas and trench foot was the rotting in the brain
There in the shell shocked countryside did bitter thought waves roam
As half numbed minds turned helplessly to strangled thoughts of home