Amid This Lonesome Bliss | Lyrical Love

Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss,
Encoiled within my broken, fleshly shell.
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

Unfurled Orchidaceae Kafkaesque.
Sepals veined with secret, all to dispel.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss.

Screaming from within, fearing the abyss.
Spinning colours like fine-webbed carousel.
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

Sunlight glanced my path, to not go amiss,
Alighting dark holes in which others fell.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss.

I endure another swing of solstice,
Darkness bleeds to Light’s vigoroso swell…
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

I have been granted nothing, but for this:
Release of mind so the tide does not quell.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss…
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

via Amid This Lonesome Bliss | Lyrical Love.

Eyes of Fire; Feet of Brass:

My most dear Mrs. Emeron–so very sweet is she–oft-times refers to me as “a full gospel atheist,” and sometimes as “a full gospel agnostic.”   My very best friend, who is, in fact a full gospel, “full-on,” Mathematician for the Lord–as fully Christian as are so very many mathematicians–insists that I, Beloved of God, am possessed of the gifts of the Spirit–particularly that of Prophesy.  This is away and aside from my natural (Yote might say, God given) abilities regarding pattern recognition, which some might call my speciality.

How did I arrive at this strange place?  How did I come to be in this unusual condition?  I’m not sure I understand it myself.  Still, I might go so far as to say it is all in my background.

Today’s sonnet, or should I say, today’s return to arms, is religious in nature, and more specifically Christian, and more specifically still, Charismatic and onto being full gospel.  So I am fortunate then, in whatever unintended spiritual proclivities with which I may be endowed.

This offering is the result of a series of discussions.  It did require a bit of research, I am embarrassed to say; as, although the spirit is quite willing, the flesh–in particular, the memory–is weak.  And, not wishing to misquote the Almighty nor any of his Prophets or Apostles, I felt some specificity was warranted.

In structure it is a Reverse Petrarchan/Italian in the form: 1221, 2112, AABCBC; however it contains 5 embedded tercets which are of two tetrameters followed by one pentameter in the form AA1 BB1 CC1 DD1 EE1, which perfectly encompasses 13 lines.  Its Volta begins with the first syllable of the last line, which caps the 5 tercets off nicely.   So this one can be read in this way, if one desires, or one might read it in such a way to emphasize its sonnet structure.

And here is where I click the random links below without investigating their veracity or lack thereof.

There Comes A Time | My Own Worst Enemies

Today, I find myself feeling very sad.  Although I should say straight away that it has nothing to do with the sadness I see here.  Completely unrelated, is it.  But how you feel, or at least what you write about how you feel, is how I feel.  Just at this time.  Not always.  I have no good reason for it.  But I felt it earlier, and felt comforted to see you.

While you have been away, I have been rather ill (nothing serious, just a protracted stubborn cold which has “taken out” for weeks, much younger and stronger men than I)  It put me quite behind in my sonnet writing.  And now I have this strange feeling.  This.  Having descended over me.  I have no good reason for it.  But one or two difficult correspondences led me there, I think.

I do not presume anything regarding the way you, nor anyone else, might feel.  I do know that sometimes…   perhaps it is because I am not of the true “cyber” generation…  that I feel remote… distant…  helpless…  and perhaps also unable to comfort those who feel as I do.

I merely began writing a sonnet tonight, or rather, this morning, inspired by those correspondences.   Something regarding humility.  These were not of great consequence–these emails back and forth:  A precocious young man and a vexing but adamantly pursued area of interest; A young lady concerned with matters of faith–and my odd relationship with such matters;  A writers’ group whose kind invitation I nonetheless feel I must decline.  A few other such things…  So that now I feel myself quite melancholy.  Quite at “sixes and sevens,” as it were.

Yesterday, I found myself, finally well enough to get back to writing and so I spent a very enjoyable evening answering comments.  By no means have I gotten to the end of them, but I did make a considerable dent in them.  Still, as the night wore on, I felt I was perhaps delaying my actual work by engaging in this much more enjoyable and carefree activity.

And today, I found, quite by accident, a number of emails waiting for me–they were in the wrong place and so I might have missed them altogether, as they were sent to the address I have which is set up to collect automatic responses and such other annoyances that blogging generates–and stubbornly refuse to be turned off.  I believe I have gone a good deal further in see that people find and use the correct public email when they wish to send me some correspondence which, for what ever reason, they prefer not to appear on the blogoshpere; but I have found that no matter how technically adept one might be, it can sometimes be most difficult to ferret out such things.  Particularly on where one has no control over the code nor any database access.

In any case, In answering comments yesterday, I came upon a number of yours which of course were “404” if I tried to respond to them.  Still that led me to your gravatar link and I noticed there was a new image there… haunting and somehow befitting of your new site.  And then this morning, not long ago, I found your nickname among the handful of new “follows” that had come along in the last hours.

I felt happy to see someone familiar, although clearly I was well on my way to feeling most unhappy.  But following the link to your new site, I found your latest work to somehow fit my melancholy.

There are doubtless many grammatical errors and omissions in the above, however, in all sincerity, I truly do feel a bit too melancholy to go back through it all.  I will however quote this in my “reflections” sub-blog, and perhaps I will correct it later if and when the mood comes upon me.

There comes a time,

when all strength is lost.

When efforts collapse,

and people pay a cost…

Read the rest here:

Sonnet: Brief Candles

These two sweet lights so lovely, do I bear
To watch them fade? Each to each as fair,
Such rapt attention weighed. So adored,
But see the other dim, must each prepare?

Must I accept their fate without despair
As once I disobeyed? Lit so rare,
Have black and auburn greyed?  What reward,
If these and all Thy countless lights repair?

I’m not my mind nor body? Tell this lie
When you are old; and you will not believe.
Behold, within the mirror: Is it I?
Or this, within my portrait? Should I grieve
That I, decay within the mirror, see;
When bright, within my portrait light, is me?


Intro: Do not gently go

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.  Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.


Winter Shadows | Lyrical Love

Winter Shadows
By ~Lady Day December 30, 2012

The Day of long shadows has descended, as they scream with the light
Words spinning away the truth, as I fight.
You ask for my voice time and again
It feels broken and over-used, swimming in the shallows of dim.

So I’ve nestled down, into a deep sleep like deathly night.
Obscure evening shaded, tucked away from all sight.
Snuggled up with the sadness and smiles of hibernating doze,
I await Spring’s return, for the sun to melt what has froze.

Sheltered away from the Storm that takes all, that swirls the Day
A tempest of gray clouds, pulling at the trees, uprooting what I’d say.
This Day of long winter shadow, bladed with the scorching orange through the grim
The Day, has become darkened and dim.

The words are growing cold in the frosted mist I breathe
They fall, but are heavy, too heavy for me, to heave
Onto my back and drag into the sun with cold hearted fingers and lung
Ten thousand songs I have sung…

I do wonder, what were they all for?
For what purpose, I’m just another opposite to the cure,
Another pale figure wandering in this mist
What good are the words that bleed from this wrist?

Seven million souls upon a teetering ship headed t’ward a ledge
How many will stop, not pitch over the edge?
The words I often feel in my soul
They are heavy, yes. They have a toll.

What I have to say, to speak, trust me, you’d not hear a word
In person, my thoughts would never be heard.
So all the poetic writing and verse, rhyming and thought…
These Days, I think so often, a waste, is it not?

Then I hear voice upon voice ask for return
I think on it all, I listen, I learn…
I speak more to myself it seems these Days…
My world so often filled with a haze of bitter grays.

What good is a voice that feels lost in the labyrinth of seeking truth,
To old to be foolish, to young to be free as youth.
Not old enough to be wise, just a house poet
I once said, ‘I’m not good at much, and I know it.’

Tell me, what has changed? Nothing…still just a silly girl with a pen
And some Days, I care not if it never bled again.
Pointless and a waste of time…
Really, that’s what I feel so often, everytime my brain asks to rhyme.

These words are not to evoke pourings of encouragement or dipped in self pity
I dig into my life ’til my hands are busy, dirty and gritty
Coated in pursuits coated in love and family
This poetic world, what is it, some insane fantasy?

Imaginary worlds and I, tango and dance, weave and part,
It was always thus, truly from the start.
Some times I just think the imaginings, their world, the song voice of the poetess,
Well, no offense to all the beautiful poets, but at times, it’s useless.

Imagine, a poet who doesn’t really believe in the worlds that exist in the mind
That the one that exists, is seen too clear, is the worst kind
Where the best are poets, the worst run the joint,
I see the filth of humanity, and I get the point.

Some times the poet in me wishes to scream at all, as they seem blind
But truth and years, instead, teach me to be patient and kind.
So, I’ve closed my tongue much, as the Winter has fallen deep in this land
I grasp only one, by an invisible hand.

So broken the world, where we all live and die.
The words… they break, they scream, they sob, they cry.
So I lay hidden for now, this slumbery sleep curled beneath my tree,
Awaiting, and longing, for the Day, that again feels free.

Why you keep pulling me forth, out of my den, why?
There are many a poet here, many who are deep, talented, though perhaps do not Bely…
But the depth stirs at times deep, brooding and needs to silence in fear of harsh thought this time of year
This season of ‘joy and giving’ that actually breeds suicide, sadness and tear.

So…it makes sense to silence, rather than spoil those who still believe this myth and lie
Than explain, write, extend ‘holiday wishes’ and not need to explain why.
I fit really, no where at all, between worlds and alone in my mind of thought
So for compassion, to allow what others believe, I’ve wrote not.

So now you know…some of the reasons, quiet I have gone
I would stay thus, but you’ve plead for a glimmer of dawn
Time will tell, if I can break the walls that I’ve built bout my soul
The protection from the tear down, well, like everyone else, keeps me whole.

I await a world, much like the one we all dream of
One surrounded in mankind’s goodness, peace, joy and love…
To speak of such things though, seems always turned away
They’ve been much on this mind, this Hope, is sealed in this Day.

I could write on and on, until the breaking of time and space,
Bend back and forth thought, but, for now I make haste…
Go to seek knowledge of my God, to give the Almighty worship and praise,
Really, the only place of protection, in these, what feels to be, in all honesty, ‘the last days.’

Sonnet: A.D. 1984

Why are all the Orwell jokes forsworn?
I think forgetting these is quite a sin.
I thought I’d see Big Brother T-Shirts worn;
And parties serving casks of Vict’ry Gin.

So, why is there not one Big Brother sign;
Nor pundits blath’ring on in TV Spots;
Comparing economical design;
Nor tales told of recent commie plots?

Perhaps the joke is just too cheap a shot;
That no-one of importance really heads.
Or maybe it’s that everyone forgot;
Er maybe’ts them what hardly never reads.

Whatever’s causing all (or none) of this.
I’m thinking what a wild time we’ll miss.