Tag: Sonnets

The Wind Across the Woods

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The wind across the woods is in her ears;
The morning’s full of spirits out of place
And time, a sort of fence built out of years
That makes this darkened world a spectral place.

She pulls her jacket tight against the cold,
And leans against the wind to help her start.
This temporary dwelling’s gotten old;
Another harbor’s waiting for her heart.

The air is pushing, whistling through the trees.
They move in silhouette, together yoked —
Her skin is stinging with the early freeze;
This place attacks her, sure and unprovoked —

    And yet, it serves to prod her, help her learn
    We all must carry this weight, in our turn

displaced river

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beneath the river filled with silt, contempt
flows over grounds of guilt, and arrogance
is there rebuilt, while silence rules and reigns;
the quilt of blessing torn by regicide.

along the river of remorse, ’twas seen
the major, out of course and innocence;
the hidden force that draws things forth, and makes
the source of everything that is and was.

the banks were misty in the morn of hope,
although a bit new shorn of grass and weed;
the soul reborn, the life malfeasant, was
as worn as any tread or shoe or shirt.

as absence fills the heart with more than space,
the mist was here, and there, and everyplace

4 Poems On 1 Photo

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In moments that matter,
Other people’s feelings become
Matters of moment

I see stories everywhere,
So I don’t go out that much;
Half-unfinished tales crowd in,
Daughter’s tears and mother’s touch,

Signifying — Daddy’s gone?
Signifying — Hunger? Thirst?
Speculation, all the time:
Writers: we’re the very worst

In autumn, tears, like dew upon the ground
Unbidden come to cover mulchy leaves;
The air grows hard, and little space is found,
Though paths be wide, for one who sees, who grieves —

But love, a blanket, warms us when it can:
A moment’s pause, a word, two hands to touch
That close the distance, whate’er be the span,
That’s caused by what’s too wrong, too hard, too much,

But still lets tears maintain their gentle flow.
This is connection’s secret, to respect:
Each other’s cares to care to truly know
And neither to obscure, nor to deflect.

  There is a time for each of us to fall,
  When only loving kindness helps at all.

When you can love someone
More for the love they give others
Than they give you,
You will understand

A Sonnet on Desire

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The way the river must move to the sea,
The way the planet must move t’ward the sun,
The way I am to you, or you to me,
As worlds will circle, rivers endless run –

The call of something born before our birth,
Celestial, yet deep within the earth;
As deep within you, I would, I must be —
The loss of anything like liberty –

The waking into madness in a sweat,
The touch that must be consummated soon,
The truth that turns the wise to a buffoon,
The every-paying, never sated debt —

    The distance that will ever be too far;
    That souls and bodies, souls and bodies are

 

(“A Sonnet on Desire” – 3-29-2017)

{ fridays off }

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in silence sat we, pleasured in her book,
a summer on the edge of autumn chill —
a scholar’s life so measured, then we took
a balancing of glass, a motor skill —
when she was why, because of being who,
we lived our words, and did what we could do.

for my Orlando was she Rosalind,
in days pentametered by word and touch,
and time most perfect to my mind stays pinned
when underfed, and thinking overmuch,
the scene within my cinema plays false —
a drama in three acts within four walls,

as scalable as masks we stretch, then doff,
like foolish dreams, and love, and fridays off

Rich Girls

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Any truth contained in this poem is strictly unintentional. – Owen

And like so many rich girls that he’d known,
She thought that she could ‘fix’ him with her love;
But he knew, soon, that her mind would be blown –
He thought he’d felt what she’d been dreaming of —

He didn’t used to be this sort of guy,
But recklessness had come with pure intent;
These rich girls never knew the reasons why,
Wrapped up in their cocoons, so innocent

He knew the path, he didn’t step amiss,
And what she swore she’d never, ever do
Was left behind the seventh kind of kiss,
With every pore awake, and breathing through

Manipulators are the very worst —
But frequently, they tend to be the first

The Fallen Prince

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If he was everything they thought he’d be,
He’d be a better man than he turned out:
A waste of such potentiality,
So many demons never put to rout

So lade with talent, yet so much unused,
He’s satisfied himself with merely some;
A garden that’s neglected, or abused,
A summer promised that will never come

And if upon this earth you stumble on
Him, as he goes, be-slouched along his way;
You’ll catch the whiff of something almost gone,
Of distant hopes that long since had their day

So virtue is its own reward, they tell:
And vice is its own punishment, as well

When That Day Comes

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When that day comes, I will have tried my best
To ready you for it, and any test
That comes your way in years I will not see;
The days of you beyond these days with me.

My child, the only words I have are these:
You’ve made me proud with all you’ve done and said.
But leaves must one day drop off from their trees,
For by return-to-dirt are many fed.

I know I once was strong and have grown weak,
And addled much these days have I become:
Accepting now of fingers turning numb,
And eyes that cease to see what hearts still seek.

So please, remember what I’m speaking of:
With love, acceptance; with acceptance — love

Who Owns Ideas?

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Who Owns Ideas

We sat and ate Korean in this place
that sits amid the poorer part of town,
with Al Jazeera on the tv screen,
and folks of every age and place of birth

And after eating, as we sought the car,
a homeless man, who once fought in the war,
approached us for a word. He said that he
lived outdoors now – the V.A. was no help –

We gave him all the cash we had, but he
said that he did not want it; but, instead,
that he would say a blessing for us there,
for although poor in money, rich in grace

was he. Who owns ideas – and who owns men?
He asked – I do not know –
    not now
        or then

 
(Originally posted 3-13-2016 – Owen)