The Jesus of drama and the sonnet,
Stood upon the Avon, like an Avon salesman,
And sold something he pedaled
From the inside of his third eye,
How the globe went, from a theatre to an area,
Spanned in the middle of the two poles,
The Arctic and the Antarctic,
As the bard who could, never wipe ink off his palms,
Letting smears of his imagination
Pollute a different sense of beauty,
So unlike Cleopatra’s unblemished face.
How from inside one man’s heart,
Words looped out in sequence,
Gifting the reader with uncountable Avon products,
Each holding a mission statement,
To beautify face value.
That busy little town in England,
Opened the theatre doors,
And letting in the patrons,
How Othello stood defiant,
How Romeo climbed the balcony,
How Juliet sang a love song,
While one man stood in the backdrop,
Torn in the middle. In heart, a dramatist,
In meadows of the third eye,
A bard, and together,
He was the sky to the Stratford eve.
How one man drew kaleidoscopic rainbows,
On clouds of parchment,
How color stormed through,
Raindrop prisms, to get lost down throats,
Of pitch black irises, those insatiable apertures,
Those anatomical black holes.
How this man wrote two epic poems,
And still will be remembered
For the miracles he pulled
Off as 14 line sonnets. They say 14, is when
Hitler lost his father, and 14
Is the atomic number of silicon and 14 too, makes
A fortnight. Yet 14 to me,
Is a man’s collection, numbering 154,
Of carefully scribbled sonnets,
That leaps out from white parchment,
Into a meadow of cones and rods.
The bony frames of a size 12 font,
Fossilizing altruistic beauty.