‘Dogfight Sonnet’ and Other Poetry by Julia Gordon-Bramer The Society January 25, 2013 Poetry Dogfight Sonnet Demon snarl curdles into a roar doubled with the counter-howl of defense. Darkened winter street was quiet before that tired walker’s leash-beast lost its sense. The guard dog growls, holds his ground upon sight; quivering mutt against great yellow Lab. The hoarse barking claws at a hard black night. Stop! Stay! Weak human tongues feebly grab air begging our terrible monsters, reminding us of animal within. Our trusted friends become devil dancers; a savage terror has become our kin. We want to believe, what is kind can’t kill, knowing this moment, if allowed, it will. The Plagiarist’s Guile Would you, if you could, Sweet Thief? You’ve tried already to be me. Taken my thoughts, letters, stories, sworn to the soonest moon that my life was yours. But in your prevaricate afterglow, it is enough for me that we both know. Class Reunion We all begin as the Tarot’s Fool; dance the journey into self, into yearning our imaginary lack, romance syncopated with ambition’s burning. Then, fear the pulse might be all we can trust. Isn’t it funny how we circle ‘round: Learn that what we leave might not have left us. These prodigal shoots from a shared root’s ground stay connected yet apart; single tears together form rivers smoothing rough-edged stones that roll playfully forever. Here is merely measurement, and distance wedged against bliss. We reside elsewhere, always changeless—dancing better every day. Julia Gordon-Bramer an award-winning poet, memoirist, fiction writer, and professor of Humanities and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Additionally, I am an accomplished scholar of Sylvia Plath. Recent publications include: Plath Profiles, All Rights Reserved, and the Arkansas Review Journal of Delta Studies. These poems are among the entries for the Society of Classical Poets’ 2012 Poetry Competition. Related Post ‘Letter to England: For Tommy Robinson’ by Josep... I. But yesterday, your noble fathers bled Upon the fields of France, where countless dead Had found among the vines their final rest, To gild with... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.