Tag: Sonnets

the hours, a horizon…

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems2 Comments 
 the hours, a horizon
 that never seems to end,
 the weight, a type of puzzle
 she cannot comprehend

 the small things are the problem,
 but none are really small --
 the hours, a horizon
 with no real end

 at all

 Sometimes, with choices, both of them seem good:
 Two jobs on offer, each of them the type
 She wanted when she graduated. Now,
 She's slightly frozen, hesitant, unsure.

 Today's the day she needs to make a choice:
 A better job, or better people? She
 Turns each of these two over in her head,
 But gets no answers any way she looks.

 These great momentous things: they come, they go,
 But this one's hers, and plagues her, even so;
 Until she thinks, maybe she'll get some tea,
 And that may bring the magic "certainty" --

  The hours, a horizon, but she knows
  She can't go wrong, no matter how she goes

the soft part of the wave

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
 the sea, and all its sea-lings can devour 
 unwary souls who see them only kind; 
 we know the truth: each minute and each hour 
 is one more chance to seek what's lost, and find 

 but i am covered up, in salt and summer; 
 a habit only broken by the noon, 
 you sing to me from somewhere just off camera 
 a strange and yet familiar sort of tune 

 the undulations of the waves mean something: 
 that we are temporary, as is strife -- 
 we justify our actions by our nature, 
 but cancer, too's, a natural part of life -- 

   give me the strength to be the proper brave 
   and yield just like the soft part of the wave

A Gate That Leads to Nowhere

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

I walk the early morning, half-awake,
To look for what I lost back in the night;
I linger over little things, and take
A second over some absorbing site —

A gate that leads to nowhere in the mist
That has me won’dring: might this be the way?
In tracing back through my long laundry list,
That makes up all the fears of a new day —

I glance down at the band upon my arm,
That’s there for ‘fitness’ – as that’s understood –
And wish I knew I wasn’t doing harm,
Since I cannot be sure I’m doing good —

But there, among the things that I can’t know,
Is really how far I have yet to go

Suspicious of Motive

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

He said, “Hello. I’ve been wanting to meet you.
And maybe we could spend some time — us two?”
She said, “Uh-huh. I’ve heard all this before, man.
‘Cause you don’t really know me, now – do you?

So many guys go hunting on the weekends.
Another trophy – just another deer —
Well, dude: you take your rifle and keep walking:
You’ll find no easy stragglers ’round here.”

He said, “It’s not like that. It’s disconcerting
To be dismissed, and never get to try
To see if you and I could be, well, something.
But it’s your choice, of course. And so – goodbye.”

A choice: a couple minutes, one brief chat —
Our chances come and then they’re gone, like that.

A Sonnet on Learning

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems3 Comments

She said to me: “Come now, you owe me one,”
And bid me not to worry. She would show
Me how to do these things I’d never done;
Just how to pay the debt I’d come to owe —

And slowly, like a child that learns to crawl,
I inched along the traces of her ground:
She gave off teaching and surrendered all,
Her measured breathing changed to quick’ning sound

To give herself completely to my trust,
And only on her pleasure then to dwell;
To move in slightest ways so to adjust,
To find her shining as last moments fell —

The lesson learned to be used, then, in living:
Receiving finds its fullest mark, in giving

Barren Winter

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems2 Comments

The barren winter calls across the lake,
But what they hear are very diff’rent sounds;
Each sees the world on their own chosen grounds:
Results of choices that they daily make.

For she sees death in winter’s every move:
The cold becomes a penetrating freeze
That brings her down, somewhere past mere unease
To having nothing left to give, or prove.

But from the winter, he gains buoyancy.
Its very barrenness, a type of cleanse,
He finds his warmth in family, and friends,
And loving all life’s rhythmic tendency.

The barren winter light brings in relief
The shadows of their moods; each soul’s belief.

… a Florida Winter. — Owen

Departed Welcomes

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

O stranger’s heart, that you should live in me.
How is it that I’ve landed in this place?
I was a child of hope and melody,
Who soldiered only kindnesses and grace,

And welcomed every shadow as a friend.
The kissing joke, the habits of a heart
Who knows no means, but treats each as an end —
But there are few of those back at the start.

I was sincere, I think, but life is weird:
I thought that love would stay with me like light;
I’d never felt the darkness, never feared
I’d let go when I should have held on tight.

    Those greetings gone, that lips still pantomime:
    I wish that I could say them one last time

Playground

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems4 Comments

The day was full of everything; and time
Was spent on ‘this’ and lots of ‘what-comes-next?’ –
The crowded planet settled down to us,
As problems dwindled, or became less vexed.

The playground rang with sounds of full-breathed joy;
And hearts felt lighter, even as they sped
In chests of children of indifferent age.
There was no leader, no one to be led,

Just glowing skies and fire in our eyes.
There was the honor code of lasting friends:
To make the most of all, the least of none;
To neither guess the means nor seek the ends.

I was age four, eighteen, hell, forty-two –
I’m sure we can still go there — how ’bout you?

Different Things

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems6 Comments

He wasn’t sure, and so he told his dad:
He thought he’d leave his marriage and move on –
His father’s voice was low and rather sad,
When he said, “Son – some things, once lost, are gone.

Now, you don’t need to tell me anymore.
I’ve seen that girl who you have on the side;
And your life’s yours, but I would be a poor
Father, indeed, if I just let this ride –

You seem confused in terminology,
You’re stringing words on which you’ve gotten hung.
So I will set you straight, as best I can:
That girl’s not ‘beautiful’, son – she’s just ‘young’.

See, ‘young’ and ‘beautiful’ are different things;
For cheap new plastic, don’t trade
Golden rings