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.
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…