Every twist and turn
Makes me hold you more tightly.
You can’t get away.
You know you are safe.
No matter where you may go.
I have to hold on.
Twist and slide, knowing
That I can always find you.
You can not get lost.
We are made this way.
Like hand and glove we are made.
That’s how well we fit.
So hot within, and burning of its own;
Can this exist? Such mystery! So much
Doth this incalesence my hand alight.
Do this I feel? Or this I thrill to touch?
Such taste! Once cool, luxuriantly grown!
Now serous, thawed, deliciously beset;
And dripping wild implore, and sweet delight,
This form doth crave me, sybaritic, wet:
As poised, and shook, reverberating! Prone
Beneath my fingers: arch, and push, and curve;
And sparkling like crystal with excite,
So shot with lightning’s fire, every nerve…
Then cool… this down of twilight, quiet shone;
Where she is mine this night, and mine alone.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
But sleek, one shape as wondrously soft,
More perfect in its drape than might one think;
And such, should be perfection held aloft,
That by this, would its height so make one sink.
For perfectly it thwarts ones every thought;
So pliant-smooth it courts by its design,
That brought so every instinct as it ought;
Requires nary thought to intertwine.
More alien than truly might one guess;
As fell another species though from sky;
Alighted grace, such beauty as would bless
The altar of my sleep, this place whereby,
As master and as slave, I feel anew;
Each moment strave my every wish come true!
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
From thy rib, He made–
More natural and dare-say far more pleasing–
Perhaps too, life’s proper side.
Through turns and twists, an endless beat, we ran;
I’d spurn the mists, descend to meet with thee.
We’d turn a bend upon a stone, and we
Would earn an end, and on our own, began.
But for a while–and never knowing when–
Once more to smile, then time to go, it was.
Through turns, we twist, an endless beat, and us
Returned, we list, pretend, and meet again.
You’d wrest some rest from lies and flight, and stole
From me some paradise, not quite forlorn.
I took, from you, a measure of that sworn
A garden, too. You stole no treasure, whole;
But gave us shrift, though magical and brief.
Forgiveness gifts me gratitude, my thief!
of four or even five
the Rhymes trip, unbidden, along they go
I gave them no assistance
David Emeron: Sonnets 