Sonnet III: Alone

How can I feel my life without the touch
Of love’s own sweet, pristine, embracing calm.
How then can I exist without as much
As any common man in any realm

Would have, without much more, perhaps, than bare
Awareness–not so much as realizing
Fairness that exists within the care
Of natures quickened earth–whose mesmerizing

Beauty touches all mankind for better
Or for worse. For deprivation is
His Lordship’s curse. His worth alone, is met
By sky, and sky, in turn, by earth. And His

Domain is cold, and far removed from She
Who hungers so relentlessly for mee.

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

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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:

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Sonnet I: Grades of Paper

Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;

That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee

Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.

Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.

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

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Intro 1: Time Over Time

Wrote, of that I wrote
Within a thought once within,
Without is without.

Always it began,
As reliable as though
It ran like clockwork,

My love, did I sit,
Outside, under an awning,
Watched and listened as it rained.

And sometimes, I cried;
All my tears, all my ink, mixed;
And wrote I such things:

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