Sonnet X: Labyrinth

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:


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.

Sonnet II: Challenge

How may a challenge take so many names:
The first, a journey struck with spirit bright;
The next, a stolid, firm, determined, fight;
And then, a simple, tired tread–a game

Although the dream were dead–and next, it came
Relentless, as it yet were sanctified;
Without surrender, lest be dignified
Thus; that the game were lost? The very blame

Was hidden in the cost of keeping on
Within a blackened dream. How challenging
This fourfold path must seem, when what is gone
Is purity, which such a dream may bring.

But fivefold is the path of righteous grief,
When challenge is pursued without belief.

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


Sonnet I: To S. T. C.

He sung of Sisters close and sweet; and taught
Of sea and wealth; he droned a mournful view
Of Death as fine as Death himself. He brought
A smile to my lips when all they knew

Was fear; and to a barren cheek he drew
The first and only tear. A place, he claimed,
Of no return, that no man ever knew;
A quickly fleeting image, And he named

It “Xanadu;” he dreamt a man beyond
A man within that Sunny Dome; An he
Should Drink of Paradise that dream had spawned
His home. I know he must have lived to see

Those Crystal Caves of Ice; For I, enticed
By Honey Dew, have drunk of Paradise.

Sonnet I: That which Sings

I sing to thee of winter’s rain, my sweet;
I sing of hours spent and hours kept;
Of all the dreams beneath this rain, we’ve slept;
For all the time I’ve held thy head, thy feet,

I sing to thee, although my heart is fleet.
If not for me then thou wouldst not have wept;
Thy tears doth fill my pen which make adept,
And make me to produce such indiscreet

Reflection. When I think of all those hours,
Innumerable, they, within our frame;
As sore beset with devils, as with flowers;
Of all the seemingly unending pain;
Those times that seemed controlled by other powers;
I remember, then, how soothing is the rain.

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