Today’s sonnet is, in fact a tribute to Turkish coffee, and was one of the drafts I had floating about the top of my post list, spoiling my view. My sweet wife laughed aloud when, after first telling her what the project was to be, I subsequently read her the result. I did warn her that it was quite severe considering the subject matter at hand. Her first coherent words were: “Celebrate the moments of your lives!” followed by another round of laughter. Continue reading
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.
Let us rant, you young,
for soon enough we will die,
too old to matter.
Gaze upon me, O Lovely, and beware,
Or as thy frosts unfairly come, rejoice.
Fair-play with fortune will confound Despair
That, hideous with pride, hath shown its voice.
For never-resting, God’s anointed here
Excel: to verse thy numbered days, to bear
This hell, and lend thee summer; pray to year
Thy days, and keep thee and thy children fair.
In they, our seasons, prisoners are we–
As checked, and sapped, and pent: as tyrants fear
All eyes the beauty we distil may see–
Who gift these days to winter they who sneer:
Though thieving Time all substance yet destroys,
We left thee more than wretched He enjoys.
- Rededicated to the men and women
of Sierra Sciences in whose work
I am in a unique position
to feel great appreciation
- David Emeron
to my younger self
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:
I will not see, I cannot know, nor feel;
I may not hear, nor taste, and no aroma
Will I sense, nor trace of joy, of home
Or mirth of soul or peace, nor can I kneel
In silent prayer, ending this ordeal.
It presses with the weight of stars, this dome
Of light, this hellish sphere of music, gloaming
Not, nor offering reprieve to heal.
And canst thou truly think thou art a blessing,
Evil orb, so frighteningly loud?
Thy cruel intention hard upon me pressing;
Burning death, in state, without a shroud;
Canst not thou see the lie thou dost profess;
With neither dusk, nor mitigating cloud?
Pray now, defilers; pray there is no Hell;
For as you dredge all Greatness through the mire,
Yet fear your acts deserving of Its Fire,
Pray now, to quell this dread you cannot quell.
Pray now; then jeer and mock the Great to sell
Your squalid lie; equate your filth; conspire;
And crave Them all to die. With shrill desire,
Pray now; deny this Pit that may untell
Your lie–exact Its Payment for your crime.
And I… will pray Its Fires to be true,
That you, the unredeemable, will rue
Its searing brand–unyielding–as you plead,
Demand discarded Grace to intercede,
And beg… and shriek… and burn… for all of time.