Category Archives: Sonnets

Sonnets, or anything I call by that name. Sometimes an invented sonnet-like form.

Sonnet: 101.8

Posted by David Emeron on

About me all reality doth spin,
The ground beneath my feet doth buck and twist,
My eyes alight on anything herein,
And will perceive its panic-worthy list.

And panic is the most confused of sound
Which swells and whirls around my pounding ears,
Confusing and directionless: its sound,
Exacerbating measureless: my fears.

Perceive I not the matter I may touch,
As whether hard or soft, or hot or cold.
Although such nature hardly matters much,
such things are all completely uncontrolled.

My digits, my appendages feel thick
I think I am most positively sick.

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Sonnet: Favourites

Posted by David Emeron on

I set myself this task and then I’m free
To fly abroad to anywhere I choose;
With confidence, assisting in my prime
Companions’ search with nothing I might lose.

They might or mightn’t choose to let me be;
Though never doth their circumstance confuse
My only wish as yearns to take this time,
That this, a burden is, to disabuse.

And clearly, doth my love, to this degree,
Encompass all their lives, and to suffuse
Complex, with all its mystery, this crime
With eager resolution. Know I whose

Bleak life shall see enrichment that ensues?
‘Tis mine, so lifted, by this double muse.

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Sonnet: In Her Prime

Posted by David Emeron on

Doth, sylphidine, my poet walk the night.
Her nature, sybaritic; every wish
As spritely, and as sensuous a whim,
That, sibilant, depriveth of her sight;

The magic of her grace, her subtle flight.
Of flowery gifts, she writeth, she hath won;
Of sunsets, singeth she, luxuriant, warm;
And downy-cool, her mountaintops of white.

We shall, as loveth she, so never love;
Nor built we paradise, as hath she done.
Doth sleep our kingdom not upon the clouds,
Nor fortress, on such billows, dream above.
So vanquished she, as many, though but one;
She triumphed clear; yet had we only shrouds.

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Sonnet: Stardate – 50419.1…

Posted by David Emeron on

My love has wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip,
My love would soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.

So dances she–round and round to be–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept,
My love should know–you, my love, bestow–
Your Own, as did He dance and graceful stepped.

For now as wed… They–Our Love has said–
Would bear us swiftly hence as spectral ships;
So lovely They–So lighted, Their display–
That would illuminate our Earthly trips.

And lovely see–you and I–as We…
Take flight, as when I tasted first your lips.

  • once more for Gene.

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Sonnet: His Nightingale Woman

Posted by David Emeron on

My Love hath wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip.
My Love doth soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.

So danceth She–round and round to thee–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept.
My Love doth know–thou, my love, bestow–
Thine Own, as did He dance and graceful stept.

For now as wed… They–Our Love hath said–
Would bear us hence anon as spectral ships;
So lovely They–so lighted, Their display–
T’would ere illuminate our Earthly trips.

And lovely, we–Love and I, and thee–
Take flight, as once I tasted first thy lips.

  • For Gene Roddenberry:
    And, to his memory;
    Who, in all probability,
    And, so very long ago,
    Penned the first two lines.

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Sonnet: The Third Law

Posted by David Emeron on

When breaks the dawn again affirming day,
This iridescent treasure, doth the sun,
Come supplely spreading visions, doth the one
Who made it known in every spreading ray;

When, just as day began, its noble way
Can never be impeded. Neither shun,
That life itself hath once again begun;
That never will its paradox delay.

The measure of a a man shall always be
His motion, or determinicity;
His ever ready willingness, to shine
As will he, ever happiness to find.
For such is life, as such is ever light,
That finds its final triumph in the night.

Sonnet: Kanaka

Posted by David Emeron on

How Black, the hottest fires of Hell must burn;
So Hot, this Blackened Hell, must be its fires.
The spit on which impurity doth turn,
Would sear the flesh impurity requires.
Beyond repentance, punishment doth earn;
Yet ever, to impurity aspires.

So Hot the Sweetest Love, do we deny;
How Sweet, this Burning Love of ours, its taste,
Impurity were beckoned in thereby
To desecrate this altar we disgraced;
And cast away its sanctity, defy
This gift, as Heaven, each to us, hath graced.

How Sweet the Sin, which Strongly us befell
How Strong the Death which Blackened us… to Hell.

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