Monthly Archives: February 2015

Sonnet XI: The Art of War

Posted by David Emeron on

How strangely opposite our sameness then,
My friend; although I know thy form–as hard
As mine–not pliant, nor as soft, we men;
Nor sweet, as  fond our distaff we regard.

With toil, these untendered limbs are scarred,
That reach for thee, though laughingly, with force
To equal thine, as though we will have sparred–
Yet battle merely reticent remorse.

And, having long since made our peace, the source
Of this reserve has fuelled our desire;
And brought us far along our wicked course!
That we, forbidden wickedness, conspire.

And–battle, artistry, or sin–we choose
This contest both would win, or wish to lose.

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

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Sonnet II | Lyrical Love

Posted by David Emeron on

I never know when she will come or go, but when she appears, there is always such beauty:

Come with me, into the chilled winter mist…
Our hearts breathe, under silent, navy sky,
Frosting moonlight with every passioned sigh.
Let us wander in an evergreen whist,
Where the seduction of heat will insist…
That we create a burn hot as July.
As closer we draw, the stars can’t deny,
Brighter we burn if we torridly kissed.

You reached my soul with your caress of word.
You left me shaken and trembling and weak,
You wrapped me in a haze of devotion
I breathed your love in, not able to speak.

The silence more piercing than what is heard,
I awoke…entwined in silk emotion.

Sonnet X: Labyrinth

Posted by David Emeron on

His shape as pleaseth me, this fiery art
Doth longsome dream to me whilst gripped in sleep.
Shot through with lightning’s fire, doth dream impart
Such thrill: convivial to wake, to weep,

To think it trivial that thence I’ve gone,
That this Oneiran path: forever lost;
Not Morpheus, nor Hypnos’ other Spawn
Reveals’ this darkened place to whence I crost;

For these three Sons shall ‘ever show
A mortal man each labyrinth but once.
So at my waking hour, must I go
Away within imaginings, unless some bunce

Befall me; kindly providence might choose
To call me with such luck as I may use.

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

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Intro 10: I Do Believe

Posted by David Emeron on

i  think i enjoy writing this series more than most
more than the subject’s piquancy
i can’t get enough
of viewing
humans
as
art
without
romantic
considerations
beyond friendship and aesthetics
these two things mixed in a curiously potent way

Nexus « Roxi St. Clair

Posted by David Emeron on

I am flying
in a holding pattern
that’s contrived outside
the space of time.

It’s from before
the ignition of the
first human fire,
before zero and
the powers of ten.

Above, below, ecumenical
it reflects its purpose
and mine.

The boundless cosmos
seems insignificant
for I am enraptured;
by empirical sapience
here, all is silent.

Slowly,
I breathe.

Steady is the sublimity
of my wings.

The thread of illumination
parallel to sempiternity –
navigates me.

Sonnet IX: Eros Philia Agape

Posted by David Emeron on

As perfect thee, thine image as thine art:
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideations see;
Though mere in thought do such ideals exist,
My hands believe perfection thus to be.

Do not I trust this truth my hands impart
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire:
This certitude of which mine eyes insist
When they confirm withal my hands acquire;

Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart
That for the other, petuous, will burn;
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, this undespoilt, yearn.

For one: with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other: doth enlist with us His love.

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

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