Tag Archives: Sonnet

Sonnet for Longing

Silence telegraphs with empty leaves-
lines that flowed in likeness, ink and clue
what once was filled with calligraphic ease
and endeavored to connect, just as you drew.

Of arcs entwined and crossing interplait
a scratch adorned the page as I cannot.
Written from this shine and crimson faith,
this rose in thorns will finish my last thought.

Urged to move in pacing and in slant,
on fertile ground sent forth from secret souls
in purposed guise impressing and entranced-
and held in hands imploring rhythmic tolls.

Your cursive memory lingers and demands
confession, written -scored- in my own hand.

Thinking a bit about writing -actually physical writing- this morning. The art of penmanship is fading. I never excelled at it, mind you, but I appreciate the beauty and craft of well-done handwriting. And the personality of handwriting…it is so intimate.

Anyway, this poem started as a few random couplets, and then blossomed into a sonnet. Let me know what you think.

In nothing, but books

I hear the voices, when you crack the spine
from page to page, the clouds hold out the blue
of skies that start as clear to him as you.
In novels written out and underlined,

Author dreams come spilling forth to grow
stories from the soul to please her whim
from seeds her index finger plants for him
in different climes, contrary row-by-row.

A hero’s man, no less a vagabond
the mistress wholely anxious in her soothe
neither seeking love or much ado;
yet, the words conspire to spur them on.

and love peeks in, then crawls out from its shell
with tales of kings and queens and breaking spells.


Exact from me with whispers rapt and low,
the pace of conjugate contentious sway
into one another’s concert play.
The night reveals a space to deepen, slow
in the rush, the fierce becomes the calm.
Would that I could seal our lover’s sighs
grasping at the moon in starfilled skies,
interjecting sweet familiar psalms
and upon the hallowed, moistened ground,
love and passion fallow, for a time.
Yet the sounds of poesy and rhyme
call out to the blades gone pressing down
and the words that seem to fail in cue
wrap us in the dawn’s evolving dew.

NaPoWriMo 2013 Day 17
Slightly late, but hey, sonnets aren’t simple…

Sonnet II

Underneath the ivy grows,
waving in the summer scene
a rose bush, with its yellow groves
brightening a wall of green.

Branches mingle, mix and blend,
a lovely bouquet forms amid
the ivy vines and thorny stand,
a conchord, growing lovers bed.

One does not concede the other,
twirling round each one’s advance,
rooted, wrapped, and then recovered,
to climax in a maddening dance.

Twisting green, with bloom and thorns
a spooning aftermath adorns.

Sonnet for Beginnings

Through the layered woods stripped bare and grey
All seems quiet, dead from winter’s hold,
Twigs and leaves surrounding, uncajoled
From the season’s somnolescent stay.

Roots dug deep beneath the litter’s loam,
Just as dawn’s sweet kiss gives us the day
And new beginnings interrupt the sway,
Unseen proof of life amid the gloam.

Hearken to the living race we run.
Slow, the light, a penetrating gaze
Drops in parallel inside the maze
Yellow flowers rise, lean to the sun.

Harsh, as winter ends at knotted thread,
Gentle Spring returns, conceals the dead.

Sonnet I

Shirts are hanging on the dryer rack
facing this way, that way, all askew.
Pressed ones- never worn -pushed to the back,
thread-worn fabric-favorites- still in view.

All the trousers worn throughout the week,
a time when all the clothing is reborn,
cycled through the wash and wear to seek,
yet, when the day is come, some never worn.

Moved from wash and rinse to spin and dry,
the change in quarter marks an upward trend
past the crush of linen’s static cry,
to push the laundered load towards its end.

Then what remains, the slight adorning change
of coins and such, and shirts to rearrange.