Chaos

 As the United States prepares for another four years of corruption, indecency, and utter chaos, I was reminded of my sonnet Χαος (below) which appears in my fifth collection, Pointing Home.

 

 

Never forget January 6, 2021

Chaos

 

Chaos speaks a language of its own—

a lexicon of howl, hue and cry;

a dialect that contradicts the lie

of rationality.  Its bone-on-bone

inflection duplicates the wordless moan,

and parses the wild syllable of why.

It deconstructs all goodness from good-bye

with syllabaries rigorous as stone.

 

The idiom of Chaos can translate  

with ease the accent of a South Atlantic                   

gale, the timbre of a red-tailed hawk 

before the kill. It will not mitigate—

sprung from the pen’s sweet ordered lines—the frantic,

bounding pulse. Declining double-talk

 

and claptrap, Chaos gives it to us straight.