Caveat: Poem #814 “Semiogenesis”

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The reasons we do things
remain inscrutable,
our thoughts spin, running rings,
with motivations dull

and grayish clouds that drift
within their bony domes;
while outside visions lift
away the seething foams

of seas that beat and thrash
against perceptions, so
at last a tiny cache
of meaning falls like snow

which leaves a pallid face
which tilts up into space.

– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.

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Caveat: Poem #813 “The rain asserts mastery of the world”

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The raindrops fall, suggest,
and ruminate on wood,
on steel, as if possessed,
as if their tapping could

interpret sweeping time
or render grasping trees
immobilized; their rhyme,
their syncopated tease

of meanings never found -
unfindable besides -
just apophenic sound
and rhythm that just slides

all down the edges till
the world dissolves its will.

– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.

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Caveat: Poem #812 “Pastoral”

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The rain will take a pause,
a surging tide will rise,
and thus the dawn's chill cause
unfolds to draw my eyes.

Two seagulls squat below
upon the dock's damp wood,
their wings their feathers throw:
a raucous talk is good.

Across the water, clouds
embrace the looming trees:
a hillside's worth, like shrouds
of purple filigrees.

The sky collects its light
then, tossing motes of white.

– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.

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Caveat: Poem #809 “A DMV Ode”

A DMV Ode

Waiting is a kind of hard training.
Yet it requires nothing active.
One simply should still the mind.
Those spinning thoughts hinder.
One can look outside.
There's a nice view.
One sees trees.
Rain falls.
Wait.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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