it’s funny
how faith
ebbs and flows in me
right now
it is at low tide
God does not exist
nor spirit
nor afterlife
nothing
the only thing
that seems to be
beyond myself
is my love for you,
and your love for me
and that lives
only in you
and in me
We will die
no one will ever know
how irreplaceable it was
it will just be gone.
I thought, one day, I wrote a thing of beauty.
Later on, when taking it in hand,
And sharing it with those, as was my duty;
Neither they, nor I, could understand.
The virtue of a verse is that its meaning,
Often may completely hidden be.
And God, it seems, prefers a lack of gleaning;
With His truth revealed more cryptically.
I thought I could, from Heaven, feel Him looking;
Sung my hymn about it, none could hear;
Though none would deign to join me in my brooking;
Never did a votary appear.
I read, again, my words much later; and
I finally began to understand.
If swore I, ne’er describe to thee my heart:
How desperately doth it yearn; and start
To quicken at the moment first I see–
And when I hear a voice and know ’tis thee.
Withheld I, how’t doth race when com’st thou near:
And skip when touch my cheek to quell my fear;
To pound its expectation of thy touch,
Doth fierce thou see my body shake as much;
Withheld how at its quiet pace I’d be
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony,
My wonder as their beat would nary stray;
Thence, locked my parchment, quill, and ink, away.
If swore I, ne’er describe my heart to thee,
Then would it’s beating stopped forever be?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
This, the most familiar form of rhyme
Is used in song and verse time after time
This the sixth edition came about
The gateway to familiarise throughout
Continue reading
If swore I, ne’er describe to thee my heart:
How desperately doth it yearn for thee;
To quicken at a very sight of thee,
And every instant when I hear thy voice;
Withheld I, how’t doth race when com’st thou near:
How might it skip when dost thou touch my cheek;
To pound its expectation of thy touch;
That mayst, thou see, so fierce, my body shake;
Kept secret I, its quiet morning pace:
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony,
My wonder as they nary would diverge;
Thence, locked my parchment, quill, and ink, away;
If swore I, ne’er describe to thee my heart;
Would thence unheard, its beat forev’r be still?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Divinely “stepping rhythm:” blankverse–thou,
Most courtly poetess, to me once wrote–
To promenade as flawlessly anon.
Continue reading
If swore I: never to describe my heart;
How desperately yearns it so for you;
How quickens it at every sight of you,
At every instant when I hear your voice;
Withheld I: how it races when you near;
How might it skip whene’er you’ve touched my cheek;
To pound its expectation of your touch;
And hard enough, you see my body shake;
Kept secret I: its quiet morning pace;
Amazed, as beat our hearts in synchrony;
My wonder as they long would not diverge;
Then, locked my paper, pen, and ink, away;
If swore I: never to describe my heart;
Unheard, would then its beat forever still?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 