Category Archives: Sonnets

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

Sonnet I: Warriors

Posted by David Emeron on

Have the Gods of the Copybook Headings,
Tall… by you wretched deceivers controlled;
By the Knights of the Copybook spreading,
All… of the truths of your lies will be told.

They have burned all the books you have written;
When… all your books were rewritten with lies;
They’ve uncovered the books you have hidden,
Then… they have ripped from your face its disguise.

They have cast you to fall from the towers,
How… they, you ‘surpers, they’ve torn from their thrones.
Though you’ve cast your aspersions by hours,
Now… you’ll be lucky to pick though the bones.

Not a gauntlet was raised nor contrasting
Frown… for they did it by lifting us high.

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

Sonnet: Brief Candles

Posted by David Emeron on

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?

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Sonnet: A.D. 1984

Posted by David Emeron on

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.

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Sonnet: Elephant?

Posted by David Emeron on

AnElephantCant ever truly know,
How certainly her “hubby” thinks it grand,
That put a smile on my true loves face,
Such wonderful attention, as first hand.

But greatest joy as do your words bestow,
Dear pachyderm, don’t misconstrue me please,
In spreading mirth as do your words with grace
The more affects him, well it guarantees,

Beyond so great a joy, as overflow
Most all the expectations he conceives.
Then writes he sonnets all the more apace
Although the Holiday so interleaves;

And though his sonnets flow like water, won’t
Misplace such inspiration if they don’t!

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Sonnet: Jena

Posted by David Emeron on

Just wait ’til dost thou see her, as have I;
A luscious and so mischievous a thing;
Not hesitant her mind to speak, or tease;
Enjoying every twist that might it bring.

To know her is, as I, to know her wry
Tempestuousness, enervated so.
And take from thee delight, as doth she please;
But even then, so much doth she bestow.

Endow thee all the more, doth she thereby,
Regarding not thy happiness nor joy;
No good to give, that first did not appease;
In truth, wilt not thou notice, but enjoy.

Enigma wrapped in mystery is she,
Rewarding us this fortune, I, and thee.

  • One more for Jena

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Sonnet: To the Muse

Posted by David Emeron on

O Thou my Muse, reflecteth much Thy flame
That maketh words within me flow like fire,
Abating not, as torrents deadly spill;
Upending doth within me all transpire.

O Thou my Muse, as once I did disclaim–
And though I run a thousand miles away
And lock up all my pen and ink, and still
Without consent, so choose to disobey–

Yet never could I wrest myself, reclaim
My very life, for all was lost… in Thee.
And only once again Thy captive, will
I find such words as once had set me free.

Then with Thy fire tame me, O my Muse.
My quill and my desire are Thine to use.

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Sonnet XII: Patronage

Posted by David Emeron on

Hast thou the heart to touch, or even look
Upon such art as this and give its due
An thou profess as fanciful, outgrew,
Though for this canvas rapture overtook;

But are such things professed forever true:
That hath these sculpted works thy nature shook;
And shall thy past refinement be forsook,
Though long thou from thine innocence withdrew?

Rare, priceless, as may not be seen again,
Wilt claim thou of thy prime: the best doth wane;
And of this art, so fast a friend may come,
Though whether ancient made or new, as fast.
Shalt thou most proper frame such art at last,
Or once more to thy patronage succumb?

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

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