Tag: Sonnets

To Breathe You In

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To breathe you in, and follow every curve
Of you; to take the time that is required
To know each space, and what then best can serve
For all you dreamed of, hoped for, or desired –

To focus on you, into you, in joining;
The rain, a steady noise upon our ears –
No more half-seeing, missing, disappointing —
Together finding asterisk frontiers –

For all that interrupt’s in off position;
No sound except the beating of the rain,
And those we make, those of our own volition –
This time, our own, and this space our domain.

    And then to wake, with sun’s first morning beam,
    To find you gone, and know ’twas just a dream.

7 Essences – 6

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At night, asleep, I see her in a garden:
Her dancer’s stately walk, and pensive mien,
And feeling as though I should beg her pardon,
For holding on to something she’d cut clean.

But she – she cannot see, nor can she hear me:
This is a dream, but still she’s out of reach,
And I, a fool, a mere thing of convenience,
Can’t move her anymore by act, or speech —

And even in my dreams, I find no comfort,
Just watching her in gardens of regret,
And knowing in the morning, I’ll still love her,
While she my name and face will soon forget.

    And I recall friends telling me, “let go.”
    But still, so many nights of this dumb show

The Words Loved

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Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

J.R.R. Tolkien — from “The Lord of the Rings”

The words loved me before I loved the words.
These architectures, perfect in their sound,
I dwelled within and walked upon, among –
Before their written images I’d found.

For love, all love, is music at its heart;
We hear before our eyes first feel the light,
Then feel the phrase that shivers, or that calms,
And find a world inside the thing said right.

My mother’s voice it was that read to me,
Or spoke but soft old words of poetry.
The words had sheltered her within her youth:
A beauty true, and so much more than truth.

Our suns must set, our lives at last be hid –
The words loved me, as she who spoke them did

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heav’n
Than when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood — “I Remember, I Remember”

Middle-Aged Man

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He woke to find his nose and throat were bleeding;
Another day from day in blur succeeding,
Of waistline grown, and hairline fast receding,
Amid the whirl of strange called “middle age”.

His vanity loomed larger in its weakness:
An ego not prepared to go in meekness —
A story old and stale in non-uniqueness,
A fate too common to be met with rage.

We all believe, though many voice their doubting,
That we’re immortal: sanctity soon outing
This deathly, earthly life that leaves us shouting –
That death is freedom, and all life, a cage —

His wordless plea, a wasted, vain convection:
An empty soul, trapped in his own reflection

 

(“Middle-Aged Man” – 3-15-2017)

Snapshot – Ballfield at Dusk

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I watched the sun go down behind the field
The team kept running drills into the dusk
The manager talk’d on, his face concealed
His voice going from mad to calm to brusque

My son, then a young teen, with weary gait
Goes running ’round the bases one more time
His face determined, though the time grows late
And looking for a glimmer of a sign

That this is was over; and, then soon it was.
His glove and ball and bat all in his hands
He trudged my way, beseeching me, because
He wants to know what are our evening plans

A moment still in time to memory linked
It flashes clear, then fades to indistinct

= = = = =

Photo Credit: © Neilld | Dreamstime.com – A Player Bats In A Twilight Baseball Game Photo

Laugh Play Joy Love

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems2 Comments

A fountain that I ran in as a child
Cool, wet upon my face – a Summer day
And breezes blowing in, perfumed and mild,
Bright sunshine where the shadows used to play.

And she, the water, breeze, perfume and sun –
Grace, freedom running, unrelenting joy;
Myself, the face, the child, the lucky one –
Great moment in the journey of a boy.

Laughed with her in the yellow summer light,
Ran with her as the stars began to rise –
And thought of her there, far into the night,
And dreamed of her sweet face and hazel eyes.

And woke not from that dream, and haven’t since:
A lovesick frog she turned into a prince.

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

the shades are drawing, sight is leaving me:
i’m told it’s just the way it has to be.
a day must run its course, from east to west,
and light is just a thing we lease, at best.

through eyes, a thousand touches we receive;
some pure and true, while others may deceive,
still more may make us think, perhaps, a spell,
while some sweet few will kiss our hearts as well.

acceptance sounds so wise, so right, so fine,
but seems a crime on this side of the line —
for natural things we deal with as we must.
it’s cruel man, not nature, who’s unjust.

  but even cold enclosed within the dark,
  i’ll think of you, and still discern a spark

24 Indulgences – XX

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Divorce: it is a word so full of pain,
He will not say it, nor will speak her name;
To lose so much – it cuts against his grain,
And all he knows to use is spite, and blame —

But, Lord — sometimes within the honest night,
He sees her as he knew her at the first,
And though the image fades with coming light,
It’s always there. A hunger, or a thirst

Reminding him of what he won’t admit:
That though he knows that she is gone for good,
He really doesn’t blame her — not a bit —
For doing what she had to do, and could.

  But when outside, he’ll wear his righteous pride:
  That thing he traded for, with his own bride

a sonnet on vicissitude

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dreamstime_xl_60397536

no summer cloud has ever seemed so soft;
no bright blue day has ever been so fine —
no other thing that’s flown or held aloft
has ever been so fleeting in design.

and passion flows from me to who-knows-where;
your whims might take you anywhere at all —
and leave my soft’ning thoughts out on the air
to realize my place, and then to fall.

for such is your capriciousness to me:
i study it, but know it less and less —
your liberty is its own probity,
and past my feeble ken, i must confess.

but all that flies away in rhapsody
those times you open up yourself to me.