Crowns-of-Sonnets

These days have been too full of wordless thoughts, Which draw their character from shade and hue Instead of outlined characters and plots Or even all the forms I thought I knew. I’ve not come close at all to processing If images are worth a thousand words. All I have done is let the losses ring In utter void, in silences unheard. I cannot write if all I have is sight.

Each day wears on, and still no end in sight, I stay awake, a step away from ending Up in bed and falling to the night. For such sweet sleep, for all its hidden mending, I yearn for it. A single thing forestalls Those plans, the work of words that softly calls My heart to pour out all the words still pending. And with this final line, my rest's impending.

Those former ages when the merest hearsay Of a distant princess could have set ablaze The heart of chivalry without delay: Why have those stories garnered such rich praise? It's history now; all we need are dates, Fragmented texts, and timeline scrolls that Combine conveniently to fit the fates We write ourselves, without a caveat. The courtly love of old days might be quaint, But modern love could never make a saint.

O God, I want to be revived! I long to see my life revived for often I have felt deprived of richness living in my soul, of springs of water in my soul, gushing, surging, pure and whole. These shallows cry out to the deep to send its breakers crashing deep from rising dawn to nightfall sleep Your torrid love can break down dams, I've seen that rushing love break dams and overcome the worst logjams our hearts could conjure up in brokenness with deafening love and all softspokenness.

That I am kin to all and everything, I taste of stardust ere the rain’s soft bite On hillsides where November mists alight, Forsaking flesh and bone and blooded sheen, To blend as nature deems. What flesh bequeaths, I will not prize – no gilt, no grandeur binds – I will depart this plane in measured time And seize my place amongst the fallen leaves, Or stars above, or tombstones here beside – A spot to mark my sojourn’s dear depart, A child of naught but happenstance, at heart, Who loved of life and knew of love, in kind – Contented, by and by – ‘til gathered home In fields of memory suffused in

I know not what I say until it's there Emblazoned and incarnate, soul as ink, As heady as a garden. How I think In pen, perhaps aloud, and words will bear Those thoughts of which I suffer unaware. They weigh upon a heart that's apt to sink Heavy with a truth yet indistinct; A challenge to myself of truth or dare. Now cast upon the paper they are free Where once they ran amok in charted space; Now ordered on the page, all I impart And I am whole at last in clarity. O words of hope which set my heart to race, You are incarnate now, in written art: My illustrated heart, For all there is of me is writ in you And nothing I say now will e'er undo T

It's out of you whence flows my joy and fear In equal measure. Life is made of this. I'm seized with fear and gripped with joy in turn To know that you are mine and very near. Your heartbeat next to mine is like a kiss; Your stirring sets my soul to steady burn. I feel the weight of days ahead with you-- They're filled with sunlight, midnights, cold and dark Where sorrow, yes, and grace will both abound. But wonder is prevailing, worlds made new In light of fear and joy. You are my spark Within and all around.

No matter what delusions you intend— What clever turns of phrase, what tongue-in-cheek, What forms you've rendered lithe and sleek— I'll always come to usher in the end. Now call upon your muse, on her attend, And try to reach and grasp her phantom hands. Despite your invocations and demands, I'll always come to usher in the end. But do not think in death you might transcend The order you conceived and brought to term. Just as the germ attacks the flesh infirm, I'll always come to usher in the end. No matter what delusions you intend, I'll always come to usher in the end.

How many are the hearts my hands did break, How many souls did I not truly guard? Each time complete control I sought to take It left a wake of utter disregard. Formerly one heart, yet still one faith We commonly profess. And this is grief: Our past mistakes consuming as a wraith Of unconfessed and profound disbelief (The consequence of loving as the world) Have widened gulfs we once had claimed were filled Oh, that His banner would now be unfurled, His loving Kingdom would now be fulfilled! That we, His children, bought with precious blood Could sing and play and talk as once we did, As children do, when love first grew its bud With petals f

I once took refuge in the tainted past Clung to fairy tales and happy ends. The foolishness of youth to think 'twould last; I am--I was--as carefree as the winds. But taint or not, their power over me Was no less in their words than in spells cast And in these days without them I am free. But free from what? They speak to condescend; One day I'll take up fairy tales again.

I asked you why I suffered such and such. It matters not the means; it's all the same To suffer little and to suffer much. For both bespeak a dying world's worst shame-- That goodness won't prevail in every sense. Why won't you rescue us, defend your name? For suffering can happen, be dispensed On good and bad alike--from young to aged. And will you not speak out in your defense? You answer that the war's already waged, And yours the suffering most of all mankind. The worst, the gates of death, have been assuaged. In light of what you suffered, I am free, And love has wrought the hope of joy in me.

Excuse me while I go find my blanket and wrap it tightly around me.

I wrote a sonnet, But I guess it was too long. So, I wrote haiku.

And out emerges a fair butterfly That, born of struggle, feebly flaps her wings. They, like her chrysalis, are shriveled dry, And pump lethargic blood through veins like strings: Concerted circulation to the tune Of flowers ripened in their brightest bloom Beneath the ultraviolet of the noon, An overload from former dark and gloom. Her first flight takes her to a little leaf Where remnants of the morning dew remain. She thirsts. The dewdrop is such sweet relief; To tear her world apart was quite the strain. Within the waterdrop a current stirs The glassy sphere once void, now felt by her.

I wonder now what gives your journey hope When you have cast aside your love from youth. Does it not leave you lost, alone? You grope For what you once held fast as solid truth. You stand instead on that which soothes the mass-- Humanity so loves what makes it pant In pleasure which is pain before it's passed; You gave it all for this? Here you recant And beg for mercy, lost, alone, afraid. Yet your repentance smacks of cold defense When you've no other recourse. Had you stayed The love you had, and have, with sweet suspense Would wait for you, hear every cry you uttered, And even now it loves the heart you shuttered.