Monthly Archives: July 2014

Sonnet: Mercy’s Prise

Posted by David Emeron on

D—– dear, you’re lucky to be dead!
To have escaped the parody you name,
Is Mercy’s gracious gift; and yet you came
Back, so ungrateful for her gift, instead

Of resting–came to save these two, misled,
And taught us much, as much you did disclaim,
Of worth and duty, honour, deed, and shame.
Thus in death, you lessons bled as said:

“You must surely love, if love you must:
And loving still, through irony or kind,
Uplifting thoughts, you would, inspired above
All evil, rise.” If ever I could find
The prise of justice now, I’d not so mind
That you are gone–that left us more, our Love.

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Intro: Anachronicon

Posted by David Emeron on

Once I wished you knew
Then I feared that never would you know
Never would you see

Once I knew that you knew
Then I realised that you had always known
Always did you see

This is why you smiled
And we always saw you smiling
Smiled when we saw you

Smiled when you saw us.
Always had your smile told us
That you knew.

Then you were gone
And instead of crying, we laughed.
Because you had known.

And then…

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Sonnet: Taken

Posted by David Emeron on

Anticipation shaketh down below
Wherefore I shan’t release thee shouldst thou call
Or even beg, as seem thou to prefer.
I feel thee, languid, try my binding crawl

With tense delight enveloping thee slow;
So push and crawl and twist thyself away.
That every moment my delight would stir;
And ripping, take my kill.  And thou:  my prey,

Imagine, over all our blood doth flow,
When deep within thy flesh my talons rake;
And to thy plaintive cry shall not defer
‘Til take my fill of all that I may take.

This predator… no… nary turn around:
Thou knew’st, though he prefer his prey face down!

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Sonnet VI: How do I Touch Thee

Posted by David Emeron on

To thou, but when I see thee standing there;
My feelings, would I wish thee, hear me shout;
But when the fortunes of my heart despair,
May I thee touch, when can I not reach out?

So many times with thee my tongue were still,
And lay so quietly within its doubt;
Yet words would circle ’round my soul until
Thee sonnets write, when can I not reach out.

Yet words may leave my soul and heart as well;
And leave my hands as mute, my pen without;
How, soul and thought and heart, may I thee tell?
I play for thee when can I not reach out.

For, all my days I worship thee throughout;
In many ways, do I to thee reach out.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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