Whatever would the strictest consequence?
Whenever whimsy doth mee, for to take;
Where never doth reality abide.
Tag Archives: Art
Long answer to RLK….
My! All that from a short note (for me) on haiku!
Oddly striking in all of this: most of my poetry is freeverse, just not what I choose to publish. Early on though, my sonnet writing began. And, because I was emulating/idolizing great writers I most admired, and because my dearest loves it so, I began using (however imperfectly) Elizabethan and Early Modern English. Even then, I found my way to more modern English. You will see it here and there represented. Older forms of English can be more difficult because of the syllabic changes in verb conjugations. As such, modern English is rather more flexible which, of course, is why I use the more difficult form. Besides the obvious, it’s the greater challenge.
Continue reading
Sonnet: Utopia
O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.
If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.
So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.
If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.
Intro: Let us rant
Let us rant, you young,
for soon enough we will die,
too old to matter.
Continue reading
Sonnet: Lost
Here! the poet’s immortal spirit take.
Though long I have betrayed its inner voice,
And wrote, instead, of love, indeed of choice.
I preached the lie of joy. And though I wake
At night to dreams so horrible they make
Me scream for mercy to a God whose Joys
I shall not ever know; could I rejoice
In some God’s misery for His own sake?
I criticized that fool; yet I am he.
The very fool who lives with naught but grief.
My shallow, poet’s soul shall always be
A measure of society’s belief.
I’ve fought this ugly truth to my last breath;
With nothing to look forward to, save death.
Intro: Journey
This is where I’ve been
But not where I find I am.
Lost, but now I’m found.
Sonnet: Faith
My Lord, what is this folly, curse or prize
That Thou hast given to this child of Thine;
Perhaps, an answer to a prayer of mine;
Perhaps, an irony which satisfies
My very heart? Yet should I emphasize
The very art–particularly fine–
With which I am denied that sweetest wine:
That wish come true? If Thou wert truly wise,
Or simply knew what works of Thine were done,
I cannot but believe that gift would be
A sweetly kind and patronizing one;
Demanding nothing very real from me.
Considering the works I’ve done for Thee,
Couldst not Thou simply deign to set me free?
David Emeron: Sonnets 