Some of my own sonnets

Home Made 14ers 

"... my name is Will."

Sonnet 136.14


The Ghost

 

Borges

 More below

I will add more of my sonnets to this page from time to time. 

       Author Photo                                                         by Sandy Jensen



Click the links in this sonnet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my wife Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Cheryl 

Her painting for sale here


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Richard Sims,

River Guide

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my son and daughter in law







First Honeymoon photo in mirror in Barcelona

 



Once again, for Sandy Mardene Kalles Brown Jensen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


     for the

Kat Pac

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue galaxies

Red Shift

  

 

 

Einstein =

Matter X

See  squared

 

 

 

Always for 

Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

A 14er for B. C. Sandy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written right after 9/11

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 







For my Dad & Mariah & Warren & Mischa & Maya 

 

 

 

 


Ghost Story

        
When Borges met Shakespeare in the library
Of the dead, he felt Will’s face with his finger-tips
And said, “William, please don’t tell me who
The dark lady was or who the youth. I don’t

Want to know your secrets.  I wish to wonder
About your mysteries forever.” Shakespeare
Took both of Borges’ hands in his and said,
“Welcome. You’re the first person to say, ‘Don’t tell.’

But we dead don’t have any secrets! They’re all
Here: the lady, my wife, the youth, my rival.
They’re all quite famous and will tell you all.
No one comes to me when they can hear

My originals perform. But tell me, Man,
About yourself.” So, Borges began.

                                        —Peter Jensen
                                                           12 October 2003


 

 

 

An Interactive Sonnet

What would Will do if he had the web to write                  for? I do, so I can dream new forms                                         to form fourteeners to for fourteen Feb-                          ruary and beyond all neat and normal norms.

To link or not to link to what, to who                                       sings the little Saw Whet library owl,                                   who cries out in the night to outwit and woo                        in lonely labyrinth so dark and foul.

But where should each line go away and then              return with richer meanings to this page?                              A sonnet could become an index when                                 the universe as we know it all's a stage.

But then the couplet comes and ends it all:                      ends lines, ends links, and finally hits this wall.

 

Peter Jensen

26 January 2008


Beadwork

I start with one (clear) Baltic amber bead
Enclosing a five-petal, white wildflower
Resonating in an interglacial seed
Of gold syrup solidified by salt water.

I add a scarlet cylinder of coral
From a Sardinian bay (polished in Naples)
To a Southwest turquoise pebble of blue-green floral
Shade strung with silver droplets under maples.

A disc of dark blue lapis (triple A
From Afghanistan) is set inside two pearls
Cultivated in Thailand’s Phuket Bay 
And finished with two Zuni fetish squirrels.

All these bead words are strung along strong lines
Designed by a string of singers in Renaissance times.


                                            —Peter Jensen



Peregrine Falcons


When my father was alive in Chaco Canyon,
Measuring ruins, drafting plans, thinking
Anasazi thoughts, we visited him.
Up on a cliff, crying like flute-faced Kokopelis,


A nesting family of Peregrine Falcons looked down,
Avid raptor watchers ready to stoop
On rapid, bee-line Mourning Doves or tan bead
     necklaced
Swainson’s Thrushes to feed their fluffy young.


Once a falcon folded, even Coyote
Stopped making tracks and watched with us
As claw-led bird struck spread-wing bird like a                               blue lightning bolt,
Locked on, pulled up with prey, and circled the sky


Coming around like a spiral ammonite
To cruise into high and hungry cliff side nest site.



                                            —Peter Jensen



Our Marriage is

like a Stradivarius

                        23 July 2007


Our marriage is a well-played violin
Full of sounds and vocal as duet.
You are the soft wood spruce, top belly plate.
I am the hard wood maple, bottom back.


You vibrate in sympathy with all four strings.
I reflect back all those vibes from my hard shell.
Under the bridge’s right foot, the sound post pivots
Sound waves like the center of a pond.


Under the left foot, the bass-bar adds power
To the notes and strength to the spruce. Two sound                    holes curve
Like mirrored, cursive f ’s releasing notes.
Our varnish flashes melted, blood-red amber tones.


Our hourglass curves resound all frequencies,
So we can make a song of anything.



                                            —Peter Jensen



The Osprey is a Most 

Gregarious Bird


Not many wild birds see us and whistle first,
A shrill hello from up high up, “I see
You down there in your drift boat floating along.”
O sure, it may be Osprey just saying: “Mine!

My River!” and falling like a meteor
To snatch a twelve inch Cut-throat trout and lift
Foot long fish to treetop to cut, filet,
Eat, and chuckle, “You have to catch and release.”

The McKenzie in summer is cold but amiable,
A blue boat road, wide, sliding away
West, mostly lined with cottonwoods and firs,
Taking us from Hayden’s Bridge to Armitage.

Why can’t Osprey be our national bird
And not the biggest, bald old mooch on the river?


                                            —Peter Jensen





There is No Better Channel

through Time


Than this narrows between reeds, over sandy
Pumice of Hosmer Lake. Large Brook Trout shadows
With red and blue gill flashes smile below,
Float in this channel’s golden green tunnel.

Diving ducks dive here, not in bright breeding
Plumage but in new migratory colors,
Mostly safe brown, gray, tan, and black, but small
Buffleheads still sport white orca cheeks.

So time is a labyrinth with many passages.
This narrows leads our yellow kayaks on
Over golden light and water so clear
Not even thought of time could run so free.

This channel’s clear as wings of dragonflies.
We can see through, for we are time’s bright spies.



                                            —Peter Jensen


Wedding Song

For Daniel & Adriane
1 December 2007


Now playing! The lights come up on this set,
Timberline Lodge, where the romance is:
DANIEL & ADRIANE, and we’re all here
To be the green screen for their action scenes.

This is the real take; there're no stunt doubles
For marriage. We’ve all approved the script
These sweethearts have written for themselves
Starring Lighting Guy and Production Gal.

May all your digital magic and technical craft
Produce your love on big and little screens,
For you deserve to hear your favorite music
As your sound track of love the rest of your lives.

Daniel and Adriane, our hearts are full.
We sing our best songs for the two of you.


                                            —Peter Jensen

 

 




Pot-au-feu

Sandy, the chef, Calais warms up her pot
Of turkey stock and cuts up beets and carrots,
Celery and celeriac, and chops
Up herbs, inserts bay leaves to make beet borscht.

This is her hot pot on the fire—“so Fraanch”—
(We joke) to go with crackers and goat cheese
With cranberries and mustard greens dressed
With virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

In our painted goblets, we pour Burgundy
From California, a geographic mix
Of Old/New Worlds, terroir, blood purple
To taste and all go down with purple soup.

This is a meal for late autumn nights
When freezing dark’s lit up by warm house lights.


                                        —Peter Jensen

 

 

Willamette Sunset
 

Orange like a gas balloon, the setting sun
shone down the Willamette, a side of salmon slab.
The river burned molten lava orange
between two streams of silver mercury.

Greenway trees, mostly huge cottonwoods,
looked like backlit black smoke lining both banks.
Geese honked and flew to channel gravel islands

safely to out-sleep soon marauding dark.

Suddenly, the sun crashed behind trees
sending up a floating light that buoyed
clouds on waves of fire, and purple hulls
like violent shipwrecks turned violet.

Then evening, like a mellow tune wound down
blue-green spirals of the fading light.


                                            —Peter Jensen
                           
22 April 2005



RELATIVITY

If I could love you at the speed of light,
would our time together slow way down?
Would minutes slow to hours, hours slow to                                                                                 years?
Could I speed back and do my favorite parts

all over all again all many times?
How could I hold your hand and pull you                                                                                     through
a tunnel (if I found one) in folds of space
like playing under blankets in our bed?

What if I love you at the speed of light?
Could we approach the future with new eyes
streaming comet tails of inner sight
and leaving loss behind us when it’s wise?

All space and time Xplode! from our double                                                                                 seed
and Xpand forever at accelerating speed.
 

                                                        —Peter Jensen

Jade Green


In you I feel the smoothness of green jade
Rubbed by rolling in jade green seawater
In this cove along the Pacific Rim beside
Granite, quartz, and basalt pebbles that alter

Each other as they roll in and out like roe
In waves that tumble white, clear, relax,
And exit each high point like liquid shadow
Running back under to roll litoral rocks.

Your swim smoothed muscles feel warm as jade
Cast high up on this beach and soaked by sun.
I follow muscle lines until they fade
With fingers taught to soothe by smoother stone.

In you there is a ready vein of green
Pleasure that I follow like a line.

                            —Peter Jensen




Oriental Lily: Stargazer


Its perfume seeps out and finds the whole room.
Orange pollen dust drops on the white table clothe
from loose-headed bee brushes, enters the fabric.
Its six petals curve back like a split bell.

Three are larger than fingers, three are small.
Their flesh is lined white with pink or purple
dot zones splashed like a fictional murder scene
or simple juice spill.  This lily is evidence to prove

whatever it is people wish to prove about love.
It is deep, it can be weirdly beautiful, and                                                                                         nothing
satisfies like love, or so an Oriental Lily says.                      I use it to prove my attraction to you.  I cut
 

its stem and stick it in a pink pitcher.  I sniff.
I follow the thick scent down this flower's trail.

                                —Peter Jensen
 

Moon Roses


Sometimes, we have to leave the Earth.
Some times are bad times, war time, time
to learn how bad humans can be. That's
when we order roses from the Moon.

Moon roses show up, brighter than summer
roses, pale and day-glo and neon
as if they were grown in an off-planet
hot house. They appear too good for this world.

We ordered four hot pinks, two purples, and two
creamy oranges, and they last as if their petals
were silk spun by Moon moths
in our winter cool solarium.

As proof of where they came from, the Moon is full.
At night, I can see our Moon roses longing for home.
 

                                    —Peter Jensen


Don’t Tell the Children Lies


Don’t tell the children to listen to old men,
ministers or Presidents or CEOs.
Listen to your heart. Don’t tell the children
lies. Listen to winds or birds or waves

that whistle, chortle in trees, or collapse on shores.
Don’t tell the children lies that make them give
their lives to horned or unhorned gods. Soon enough,
Earth will sacrifice them. Tell the truth.

Listen to the children play with truth.
They know the lies they’re being told. Don’t tell
the children more lies, so they’ll follow you.
Let them hear the Earth themselves and be.

Each generation raises voices up
that ring across water like bells at sea.


                                —Peter Jensen