Category Archives: Sonnets

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

Sonnet II: By My Love’s Sweet Words

Posted by David Emeron on

By any song, in night, that dost thou sing,
If with thy lips shalt sing, my dearest one;
Or make to sing my soul, thy touch doth bring;
Or strong thine arms surroundeth, sing my heart.

And when doth sing thy smile, to heal, to rest;
And sing to fret the tyme away, undone
By song; yet still the finer am I blest
By music, by thy words, and by thine art.

But only thus, thy song shouldst bid me sleep–
Thy song, my shelter, sweep away the sun,
I beg of thee thy promised song, and weep
That shouldst thou hold mee fast, and ne’r us part

Until thy quiet fight–when hast thou won–
Requite the day, that thou expressed:  Depart!

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

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Sonnet I: Throughout All Time

Posted by David Emeron on

Throughout, within, the night’s surrounding warm,
Distraught of daylight’s merciless advance:
One hand to touch, though trembling, my arm;
One smile’s joy, one smile’s graceful dance;

One kiss sustains, one kiss throughout the night;
One touch through daylight’s cruel and bitter sting;
One tear, upon one cheek, what solace might
It bring, that touch and smile and kiss would sing?

What voice? What dulcet tone, such golden song
Should sing? What arm to lay me down to sleep?
What sweet surround my head to hold? So long
A Night I need–and warm–a bed to keep

Me safe, perhaps, if substance I may bring;
And heal–perhaps, or not–if love I sing.

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

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Sonnet II: At Rest

Posted by David Emeron on

At last, the dawn, in perfect form, I see
So formed, a positive reality.
Its purple state, its perfect choir, unveil
To shine, inspiringly, its song on me.

With form, and measure never void, it brings
A subtle mastery of the world it sings.
Without abash, I hear it tell a tale
Of majesty, and many more such things

Which burn with glory’s power, as they shine
Upon this shadow dappled world of mine.
My dreams are splendour, as they dance–prevail
With measure, and with form, and perfect line!

And dance I shall, as light–as mirrors bright
Reflect–avails, ’til dark, ’til death, ’til night!

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

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Sonnet IV: Watchers

Posted by David Emeron on

Then in beauty and truth, the believers,
Lo!… Shall behold as you conjurers burn.

Though our innocence used as a weakness,
Still… in the end it has helped us prevail;
Although twisted to apathy’s bleakness,
‘Til… we invited your jealous betrayal.

But the Knights of the Copybook Headings
Show… that our apathy caused you to win;
We will never forget that beheadings,
Though… were the wages of this kind of sin.

That you dogs had your day, none may qualm.  It’s
Sure… but they’ve chased you back into the mire;
So, return to your pestilent vomit,
Or… we will cast you back into the fire.

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

Sonnet III: Builders

Posted by David Emeron on

So we live in a world that is better
Thus… and we live as all men ought to be.
It was done without deigning to fetter
Us… They have done it by setting us free.

And while man, a creator of beauty
Will… be compensed that his beauty may bloom;
But, the man who makes ugliness duty
Still… gains employment (by pushing a broom.)

And a man who will strive to build greatness,
Too… Shall be striven his greatness to build.
While his ugliness, failure, and hate, thus,
Who… shall be swept into labour, unskilled.

Run in fear! All is lost! You deceivers!
Know… The Romance, of these Knights, does return!

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

Sonnet II: Custodians

Posted by David Emeron on

But they managed their deeds without casting
Down… as you wretched will usually try.

They have made exaltation their duty;
Men… they shall cleanse of your odious taint.
They have filled our museums with beauty,
Then… they discarded your splatters of paint.

They have tossed out your volumes of garble,
Not… fit for lining the cage of a skunk.
They’ve exalted our beauty in marble
Wrought… when they crushed all your piles of junk.

And your music and verse is forgotten
Guff… with its horrible discordant clash.
They’ve divested the Earth of that rotten
Stuff… when they threw out the rest of the trash.

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

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