Yekaterina Sonnet #1

The artist's dacha lies on the border
Between the wilderness and the fair field.
One winter day a gull flew toward her
As she stood behind the cabin concealed.

She was painting a portrait of a knight,
Unclothed beneath the January sky.
While she tried to get his countenance right 
This lovely visitor and he locked eyes. 

For a moment there they stood so fearless,
Utterly exposed in the snow-fair field.
And under careful painterly caress
His sterner features finally did yield. 

Then she took wing; a seagull's gotta fly 
To freedom in the January sky.

(c) Frederick Ingram
January 27, 2019

A Bard for Our Own Time

So chivalry, they say it's long since dead;

It's not GREAT Grandpa's England anymore,

Where white knights smote the dragon's scaly head

And poets sewed his teeth in tales of yore.

Nor do pining lasses sit in towers,

Just vainly hoping as they brush their hair

That Lancelot will bring them some flowers

And cart their happy ass right out of there.

Now Guineveres have their own careers 

(Rapunzels, princesses, or whoever)

And waves of braying feminists for years

Have tossed the baby with the bathwater.

A lonely row to ho', this life of rhyme;

It's hard to be a bard for our own time.

February 4, 2018 (c) Frederick C. Ingram

Another Walk Around the Lake of Swans

As I roved out around the garden loop,

Australian swans were swimming two by two

And sending ripples through the olive soup.

They bond for life and stay forever true;

What do they know that I don't know?

A pair of South Americans go by:

Their beaks so red and feathers white as snow

They cast my way a sad, imploring eye.

An English swan, the fairest of them all,

Arrests me as she brings to mind my mom.

She's still so stately in her cypress hall

Although she's so far from her childhood home.

She spoke to me as I was leaving,

Reminding me that I'm not done grieving.

(c) Frederick C. Ingram, January 31, 2018

Secret Co(p)y Code

One day I thought as I was trying to move

More stuff for an e-commerce retailer

"At least I have the memory of love. ❤️

(More bloody iambic pentameter.)"

That was enough to get a like from you;

A ruddy heart appeared beneath my own:

Camellia blooming in the snow that threw

A blushing light to warm a heart of stone.

Perhaps one day you'll shop for stuff online,

It could be anything, for home or yard;

Your eyes will rest upon my secret rhyme

And you'll remember when you met a bard.

But didn't trading vessels always hold

Such sweet and tender missives from the bold?

Underneath

Sometimes my eyes will brush across your face

To steal a glance before they run away,

Pursued by looks that time cannot erase

Which catch me empty handed to this day.

Sometimes my mind will wander down your back

Like faithful pilgrim trekking lonely dunes,

Forever reaching for this warmth I lack

Beneath the fullness of these ancient moons.

Sometimes my thoughts will drift between your legs

Like anchor plumbing coral ocean floor

And though the heavy handed sailor begs;

The sand and sea still leave him wanting more.

Under the surface an attraction hides,

That pulls me back as surely as the tides.

Alchemy

First mine a heavy metal from the earth

Then press it into hollow coils of brass;

And since you’ve found a way to prove your worth

You’ve got the mettle for the ruling class.

Unfurl a pencil, sharpen it some more;

Write sermons showing Jesus on your side.

Remember to find heathens to deplore

Then shout it from the airwaves far and wide.

Then help your friends so they can start a coup

And sow those bullets (but don’t write that down).

You’ll find that when their grisly work is through

They saved a piece while carving up the town.

No mystery in turning lead to gold:

Find someone else to die while you grow old.

© Frederick C. Ingram 2013

Wealth Speaks a Different Language

Wealth speaks a different language than ours,
Talking in riddles, concealing in rhyme;
Whispered inside ever shinier cars,
Savored for every nuance sublime.

Wealth uses so many interesting words,
Tucking away all its lucre and gain,
Leveraging everything you've ever heard
Dealing with influence, privilege or fame.

Rolling from tongues that feel cooler than ice,
Syllables gilt in the richest of sounds:
Murmured confessions don't hang themselves twice;
There's no wailing of bugles, no baying of hounds.

Strive as we might for its generative powers,
Wealth speaks a different language than ours.

(c) 2012 Frederick C. Ingram