Columns Muse

Jack RichardSonnets

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The chill of January has, with mercy
Left us, and bright February has come.
Winter's wrath has proven but mere hearsay,
The cold of York 'gainst Southerners is gone.
O! How we cast our eyes t'ward calendar's end,
See how the warmer months approach us near,
And feel the sun that later moons will send
As though already feeling Winter's fear.
Alas! Would that it were so joyous now,
That late-Winter would mean early-Spring;
Instead with hail the frigid wind doth howl
And in cold snaps do all our fingers ring.
Remember: February is Winter still,
One month remains before the snow is killed.

The Dissertation Cometh

Lo! What yonder mass of words is this
That couches stilly on the dark horizon?
What hand that from true knowledge does not list
And Lethe's waters does its craft baptise in?
Not mine. For while I turn eccentric rhymes,
Such that do not always match the form,
Such freedom does not always match the times
In which the scholar's rapier is born.
"Oh shit," I cry, "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,
"What use doth haiku have to all the world?
"What expertise have I to illume it
"To philistines, their ragged lips all curled?"
I have now little choice in this here matter;
All I can do is make this essay fatter.

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