A Crown of Sonnets
Monday—Old English 'day of the moon' from the Late Latin lunae dies
As pewter hills consume the tired Sun
and shoals of stars amass in shallow skies,
perhaps the Moon considers what she's won;
a shadow land which daylight floods with lies?
At night, while trees recite their soft refrain
to praise the tide's one sister, Neptune's bride,
her fertile rhythms move from wax to wane;
is she then not all birth, life glorified?
No, pauper-pale this bloodless ghost alas,
a runic mistress, yet worshipped below,
in truth is dead—a silent cold-stone mass,
an ash-grey satellite of ebb and flow.
Wherever truths or facts appear unsure
so myths arise, conspire and obscure.
Tuesday—Old English 'Tiwesday' (i.e. Tiw's day—Tiw, Germanic god of war)
So myths arise, conspire and obscure
or maybe lore contains forgotten facts
and hate's red rage infects us without cure
because, in truth, one hand commands such acts?
Then we are creatures of this overlord;
a raw, corrupt and heartless God of War
who calls each feint and parry of our sword,
a brute who craves the evil men abhor.
But no, we fool ourselves if we lay blame
on butcher-bloodied legends, rather than
the blighted beast who slaughters without shame;
our savage truth is man makes war on man.
No pretence may absolve our cold, dark deeds
no matter what our legends, tales and creeds.
Wednesday—Old English 'Wodnesdaeg' (i.e. Woden's day—the supreme god of Norse mythology)
No matter what, our legends, tales and creeds
each talk of many gods within one realm.
Did Nordic folklore pander to these needs
in their belief, with Woden at the helm?
All lesser lords are subject to his laws
and when they wish to move among man's kind
they have to cross his Rainbow Bridge, but pause
'til he alone consents, if so inclined.
But yet, where there is faith there follows doubt
and all of northern lore falls in the end
as his most holy secret is found out;
there runs no path down which the gods descend.
The rainbow spans the heavens without form
amid the shattered remnants of the storm.
Thursday—Old English 'Thurresdaeg' (i.e. Thor's day—the Norse god of thunder)
Amid the shattered remnants of the storm,
what acts of rage assailed day's sunless vault?
What fury's still at play where clouds deform,
which brutal gods do pagan prayers exalt?
As blades of ragged light, like broken knives
honed on a fractured whetstone in Fate's forge,
impale, so Thor's great hammer rises; drives
on havoc's anvil where foul skies engorge.
But, science watches with a skeptic's eye
and sees no Thunder Lord amid the lights;
its able ways show no one stalks the sky;
except in tales for children, on cold nights.
A blind and careless physics casts each flare
as ions charge and discharge though rent air.
Friday—Old English 'Frigedaeg' (i.e. 'Frigga's day'—Norse goddess of beauty)
As ions charge and discharge through rent air
and stars become a torrent of white stones,
is she the night, the Northern Lights her hair,
dark matter; sable flesh on moon-white bones?
Distilled, the diverse grace of female forms
made holy on an altar of desire,
anoints the crown of Venus, which adorns
a single queen to whom all must aspire.
And yet, no woman could embrace all things—
one heart, one kiss of solace, love or pain;
for lover's bonds are not the apron strings
and daughters' tresses not a sister's mane.
No goddess may lay claim upon man's soul
despite old lore and those it may extol.
Saturday—Old English 'Saeternesdaeg' (i.e. 'the day of the planet Saturn') from the Latin 'Saturnus', the god of harvest and the Saturnalia
Despite old lore and those it may extol,
were ancient gods all creatures of restraint;
or did these lords debauch and lose control,
mislead by weakness, fetid with sin's taint?
A lurid force condones our vulgar ways;
a wanton Harvest King perverse, depraved
beyond excess, his moist mouth drips with praise
for each profane display, each base act played.
Except, in truth we hide our own disgrace;
though vast, the mighty Saturn of belief
turns, free of guilt, a lifeless world in space,
an icy realm where winds cut keen, like grief.
A vassal of the sun, its mass attends
till darkness conquers light and all fate ends.
Sunday—Middle English 'Sunneday', Old English 'Sunnandaeg' (i.e. 'the day of the sun')
Till darkness conquers light and all fate ends,
shall day advance its long and untold count,
or may we stay the Sun; our act suspends
the seasons and draws not from life's account?
A boundless span when all may be fulfilled,
each promise met, all duties—finished deeds;
our clock lies dead, its second-hand is stilled
as we enslave the daystar for our needs.
But no, the sands must trickle without pause;
time sows each day yet sowers also reap
and little will we make before night's jaws
enclose us, in a star-stained maw of sleep.
The great wheel turns with so much left undone,
as pewter hills consume the tired Sun.
