Sonnet XIDear Death, thou art shunned, yet I welcome thee,Sonnet XI1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I fear not thy shade nor thy trailing shroud,
Whilst mankind greets thee with a teary plea
I shall embrace thee like a monsoon cloud.
Why men fear thy presence I cannot say,
Nor discern why in thy company, weep,
For life bears us all: love, woe, ceaseless sway,
But death, kind death, cares for every man's sleep.
My love for thee exceeds mortality,
And as seasons sweeten the sweetest wine,
Lend my fruitful years to vitality
And I shall remain eternally thine.
Ring my vows from my grave O timeless wife
We eloped at birth for the afterlife.
GoodbyesA shy hello begins the tale,Goodbyes11 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Two strangers in a play,
A quiet word, a moment's care
Brings back the mirth of May,
And then a smile, a borrowed laugh,
Perhaps a happy tear,
Life's woes are few, its gifts renew,
But they don't last, my dear.
Such weeping I have often seen;
So many fruitless tears,
And yet a question I have asked
Met silence through the years.
Alone the crave, alone the grave;
All pain is pleasure's loan,
We come with naught, and thus depart,
Tell me, what do we own?
We are wildflowers in the breeze
A breath of father time,
And in the hue, in wanton dew
Perhaps there is some rhyme,
And for a spell, we briefly brush
And love and live in vain,
But one by one we must wave on
To never meet again.
MasksWhen a smile is a frownMasks2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And a frown is a smile,
The eyes we must crown
For relinquishing wile,
When a laugh is a tear
And a tear holds no pain,
Will fear fear to fear
And fearfully abstain?
When the act is the truth
We've lied to believe,
And the fable in sooth
Is but a peerless weave,
When each mortal mistake
Is a tale and a song
And the scriptures are fake
Or perhaps they're wrong,
When the mind is the eye
That sees the outside
But shame, it's too shy
Of the tongue which has lied,
When the answers are easy
To the questions unknown,
Do you not feel queasy
Of how little we've grown?
When acceptance is feigning
For it keeps us alive
Like sunshine to greenlife
On deceit we thrive,
When certainty is in doubt
And fiction is a fact,
The truth may come out
But is it ever intact?
When can mere candor
Hold its frail fort,
When all this slander
Plays such a good sport,
When can we speak without a plan
And in our authenticity bask,
When the mask becomes the man?
Or when the man becom
Sonnet XVIWhen life smites me in its wavering courseSonnet XVI1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And colder than winters my winters be,
I look upon Woe with tearful remorse
And wish he would bewail to comfort me.
Yet, tears take a man, and a man alone
Such is the nature of inner downpour
And empty the foyer, vacant the throne
When stormy seas conquer the untrained shore.
Yet, while I speak to airy winds in verse
My rightful purpose I do once more find,
And in frightful pleasure I bless my curse
And to my life, whisper,"Thou art too kind".
To every loved patron my word I give:
Life's will be undone, for thee I shall live.
Sonnet VIOh precious love sworn to passionate painSonnet VI1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Care not for losing Love's seasonal grace,
For it is fitful Love's to love again
And Love shall later love another face,
And of faithful love, Love loves to speak,
A love which lasts till Love's closing day,
Yet, Love loves to imprint every spare cheek
With more love than what one Love can pay,
Unsettled, the scales of love do shake,
Though Love's love for compromise is known,
Still Love from tenure will in time break,
For only love, not Love, is a man's own.
And on every morrow, Love tells a tale
Of merry things upon love's vagrant trail.
Sonnet XIIIMistress Fortune, thou art every man's queen,Sonnet XIII1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Princes and paupers take thou for a bride
And upon thy smile mankind rests keen;
I pray to no God, yet bow 'neath thy pride.
Each reward of creation is thy gift;
Sweet fruits of laborious seeds unsowed,
And how fickle the man, who in thy rift
Laments lost harvests on fields unploughed.
Yet, thy nature reflects the untamed sky,
Sullen, silent, sunny; a fiend and friend,
And though weathered I, still this eye be dry,
On thou, my dearer tears, I shall not spend.
Miss Fortune! Fair Fortune! A fare thee well!
All thy winds of chance shall not toll my bell.
A Walk through Burleigh Wood on a Spring EveningTwo wanderers pursued a lonely trailA Walk through Burleigh Wood on a Spring Evening7 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Beneath a truss of banished tears;
Avast! A distant hazel pale
Endured the evening's mewling gale:
A welcome sight for Eden's exiled peers.
A sprightly saunter down the virgin pass
Brought forth a sea of lorn bluebells,
The heavens weaved through earthly grass
Where silent vespers did amass
To worship springtide's sudden winsome spells.
A timeless tinkling of bereft azure
Withdrew the curtain of decline,
And once two rovers stood demure,
Now children, elegant and pure
Walked side by side in that secluded shrine.
In that wild ever eclipsed winding wood
Was heard the bluebell's soothing knell:
It tolled for time one understood,
In that slight glade of each childhood
A star espoused the season's first bluebell.
Sonnet VDear latent poet of this lifeless ageSonnet V1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You are truth's last infallible device,
Though your work may remain an unseen page
Verity requires your watchful eyes.
Alas! Your life may never shelter peace,
Nay, peace seeks harborage in ignorance,
But your days so filled with candid release
Are truer than truth's own truthful penance.
Imagine no wreaths, for you shall receive none,
Save laurels of slander as truth's sole squire,
And in life, none shall know of things you have done,
Only to read your name 'neath the skyward spire.
Yet that enemy time, will be your friend
And past infinity truth will transcend.
Sonnet XEver charming though every Charm may beSonnet X1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Her endowment lies in the borrowed eye,
And whilst man's first sense remains to see
So lives sweet Charm, and she will not die.
Yet, as her aspect forms a chosen home
As each lonely moth seeks the candle's flame,
Alas! T'was pride which lit pompous Rome
And its blaze will char Charm's cherished name.
Beloved Charm long hast thou been warned
In painted lines or eternal verse,
For every poor soul that thou hast scorned
Thy blessings perish, born thy worst curse.
And live thou a life, much pious and outspoken
Much less gashed thy soul by the shards of the broken.
On Platonic LoveThat love is beautiful,On Platonic Love1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The apple on the tree,
Which endures every famine,
Yet lets the apple be.
That love is plentiful,
The sea that hugs the shore,
Which meets solely at the brink,
Yet returns ever more.
That love is contentful,
The twine of You and Me,
Which clasp our eternal strings,
Yet ne'er to become We.
Sonnet IVOh conceded Lover I write to thee,Sonnet IV1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Though to thou in words I shall be no more.
What I lost in love, thou hast lost in me,
For I lost thine act, and thou, my adore.
While thou hast gained another's love, anon,
And cast away thine hollow yesterdays,
Mine love, sworn to the yonder morrows-- gone!--
Still looks thither with False Hope's hopeful gaze.
Alas! Albeit these incomplete dreams
I thank thee for its wondrous prelude,
Now my quill covets for other themes
Which upon thy coming grew accrued.
Had our love endured, I'd remove thy guise,
And thou, in my sonnet, immortalize.
Sonnet IILike sunshine filtered through unseasoned leavesSonnet II1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Sweet life lent me a dream amidst its sway,
Though often betrothed dreamers and thieves
And so alike the eve and the dawn of day,
Yet the wistful heart did spin me a tale
On her countenence and her childish voice,
The fearless feather quill which served the frail
Wove charming fables to my mind's rejoice,
And wishful my soul to absurdly hope
For a future born of evanescence,
And how naive I was to briskly elope
Fair fiction's act of masterful pretense,
Alas everyday love! What be your end
Except these sonnets that poets have penned?
To Drink!Thou eternal drop of paradise!To Drink!11 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Thy wick of love in snowy eyes
Has lit the coals of restless time,
Again alit the poet's rhyme
Which grows amidst the winter tide
Lest all asleep with morning's bride,
And yet the quill shall never die
And passion's juice will never dry,
For man was made for mellow pleasure
To drink to Bacchus and his treasure.
Thou joyous trickle of delight!
Lurid friend of the sparkling night,
Thy gleam befriends foregoing scars
And echoes aglow the distant stars,
As longing lips assail the tears
Of Aegir's sweetened blend in years
And parched the throat undone by speech
Will breach the reason bound by reach,
And then the warm vaporous rays
And mankind through her Maker's gaze.
Thou fountain of unravished grace!
A flagon lent Beauty a face,
And art will dwell forever more
Where genteel meets the jagged shore,
Frolics adrift the fluent brew
Every violet Baudelaire grew,
And nestles along the golden bay
The voice of a lost Hemingway.
What joy, what bliss, what cheer, what
Sonnet IIIWhat a woeful waste of time she saidSonnet III1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
As she grimaced at my youthful verse,
Foolish is the work that forgets the purse
For every man ought to earn his bread,
And saying no more she quietly fled
Away from my pen's impalpable curse,
For when my mind in muses did immerse
Alas! I confess she was to me; dead.
While her beauty was still untouched by time,
The years would in time play their timeless part,
And how cruel be I to love her prime
And upon its ruin, listlessly restart,
Instead I dwell upon the ageless rhyme
For this airy heart belongs to the art.
Perfection is an IllusionPerfection is an illusionPerfection is an Illusion1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
As heaven is to Earth,
A painted cloudy paradise
Inspired by human dearth.
Flawless is the pole star
Leading man to fabled land,
Still distant the Polaris
From man's conceited hand.
Yet perfection's only flaw
That it will never know,
Perfection appears resplendent
Draped in fault's shadow.
Satisfaction is a ShadowSatisfaction is a shadowSatisfaction is a Shadow1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
So near and yet so far,
Which yearns for yet another moon
And feeds on every star.
The rich remain forever poor
And the poor; truly rich,
And heaven falls to sordid waste
Curing Man's endless itch.
More copious than the cosmos
Yet once a pinch of snuff,
Has humanity forgotten
Enough was once enough?
Sonnet XIILove not the lover but the hourSonnet XII1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Heed neither will last their promised stay!
But the hour, blithe, bloody or gray
Will in time sweeten, sweet or sour.
And so grows the Daylily flower
Fostered in a fortnight for a day
And in time, to time, it will fall prey
And nature's gifts, clocks will devour.
As each virgin bud will blossom and fall
Deceived by creation's icy treason,
Yet one brisk bloom before the vicious squall
Will plunder man of foresight and reason,
So love not a petal; not one, not all,
Love not the rose but the blooming season.
InnocenceAs these dry creases cleave your cloakInnocence9 months ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
And seasons past rebate your yolk,
To time, do not look forth and ask
For time; another velvet mask,
Instead applaud his youthful face
In every child; his peace returns
Astute that brimful, lively vase
Reserves its brew for marble urns.
Yet for a spell she hid your eyes
From mirrors, winters and disguise;
Such days were spent in ceaseless toil
To purge her blindfold and each coil
Which did protect you from tort sights,
Uneven senses, ample dearth,
But what her purpose truly cites
Gave everything its waning worth.
The ticking clock, a trifle thence:
A deafness we call innocence.
Something's MissingI will not miss you like a child misses a blanketSomething's Missing5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
or a year misses a season which has just passed
or as childhood is remembered from furrowed brows;
the parched lips that had once drunk from
the fountain of youth.
nor will I miss you like a widowed lark
that stays up all night believing in
melodic necromancy -
- I do not believe in such things,
as I do not believe in a god I forsook,
when I realized I did not miss him
as I missed the comfort of ignorance,
Nay, I cannot miss you like a poem misses its muse
which miss her till eternity dies
or a juvenile favour that leaves one
benevolent and misses benevolence for all of its days.
Instead I must miss you like an accepted part of every day -
- the ticking of clocks, the buzzing of gadflies,
the first few moments after awakening that misses a dream
or the Korean vase upon the chiffonier
which misses last week's dahlias
or the street dog misses its late keeper-of-crumbs
or an ink quill misses the words it bore
or a poet m
War Woundthere's a war wound in my chestWar Wound9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
that I cradle in my heart
and nurse it with parables
never grows up.
sometimes I feed it vanities,
a glass of Scotch or two
but in the morning's residue
it reflects no summer truths.
there's a war wound in my chest
which sought shelter in my soul
now it lies as an attic masterpiece
for the years to unfold
the colours have aged with me
rubric to rust to puce
and this work of art upon my heart
for the artist's eyes.
there's a war wound in my chest
which fell our company
but I who saw the shot and shell,
know it well indeed.
for he assigned us nameless,
no rank, no class or creed,
but then the lance of simple chance
wiped out our battery.
and I who fell for our comradery
did no favours for thee
I beheld the appetite of infancy
and lived for mortality.
In MemoriamThe guardian ghosts, ghosts of our great men goneIn Memoriam8 months ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
await above, await your advent's song,
The skylark's cry has vexed this vivid morn;
her notes denote in notes that know no wrong.
The ample ale of amber allium art
is milked by million minions of her shine,
Her radiance reigned, rained ray drops dart by dart
on fallowed fields, fields flood with floral wine.
Lie you now, now lie you near no night;
The calling candles clear collected scars,
The sun still sates the sweat of sheltered sight;
You belong, belong by better stars.
Behind Closed Doorsbehind closed doors,Behind Closed Doors9 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
past padlocks old,
confined latch bolts,
and deadlocks cold;
the hooks still hold
and stick the hole
and often house
your naked soul.
Take Me BackTake me back to the mountains againTake Me Back1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Where the world's an icy dream,
Far away from mankind's stains
Where life goes on through ageless veins
And nature reigns supreme.
Take me back to those snowcapped peaks
Among many a wav'ring cloud,
By the gushing crystal creeks
Whence heaven hath kissed Earthly cheeks
Far from the madding crowd.
Take me back to that tranquil place,
The mountains and me, a-twain,
Where admist unpolished grace
I shall deeply savor a snowy embrace
And live to climb again!
The Passion FruitTease the heart in little doses,The Passion Fruit1 year ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
A dash of red, not all the roses,
Fan the flame that's frail and dying,
Cull the bird that's fit and flying,
Win the sight of every pleasure,
Yet forfeit the sunken treasure,
Pull one step short of simple ration,
Hoard the enshrined conversation,
Speak in words that betray ire,
Prepare the untimely pyre,
Call out the rites in gleeful voices,
Portray a faux lack of choices,
Then leap before the burning fervor,
Await the sorrowful preserver,
Raise the stakes to hold your bearing,
Stretch the tender till it's tearing,
What is broken, makes one stronger,
What doesn't end is meant for longer,
What is pined for is not what is
And longed for neither hers nor his,
A dearth, a lack, a want we savour
And THAT lends the passion fruit its flavour.