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: Be the Change

I read; and then I write; and am refined.
I comment, then I like, and then agree–
Devoutly follow everything I see
And proudly let it wander through my mind.

The order which such actions are combined,
Could offer up a great variety.
Yet still, this order is, to some degree,
The one my heart prefers, and is inclined

To offer up my strength that I enrich
Each author, and his talent; and decree,
Though safe within my digital redoubt,

I’ll be the very transformation which
Into the world, I’ll bring, and wish to see;
And by my very actions bring about.

Awards are a thing…

…which I eschew.  There are a number of reasons for this; however this post is not directly about these reasons.  What I find myself pondering at the moment is this:  Some awards have cash prizes associated with them.  The Nobel, I believe, has as much as a Million of some kind of dollars, pounds, roubles, yen, or pesos.  How much would have to be in the award, I wonder before my resolve would fail?  My sweetheart says, regarding me, that it would be a lot more than I think it would.

I find such things hard to visualise.  I think of the scenario wherein an armoured car falls over and $100 bills go flying all over the road.  Would I run around stuffing them in my shirt like many others would?   I always thought:  “Yes, I would.”  But at some point, I realised that I would not.  I would, however, watch the scene with morbid fascination.  I am not sure when I realised that she was right about this.  But came as a surprise when I did.

So, perhaps I should believe my wife in such matters.  Come to think of it now, we have both turned down inheritances because there were strings attached.  At the time, I thought nothing of it.  It seemed second nature to refuse such a thing.  (And trust me when I say, that both instances, we most certainly could have used the  money.  Needed it.)  We were not well off–especially not then.

I think I might falter around a million dollars.  But my wife doubts it.  Sometimes, regarding these awards, someone has no choice.  One cannot decline the nomination or the award, one can merely refuse to acknowledge the prise.   I am not at all sure what happens to the cash part of the award if one does not accept it; I am not curious enough to look it up.  In any case, a sonnet writer is not likely to earn such a prise.  And since I probably do not fit the narrative which is desired in the giving of such prises, I doubt very much if I would be a candidate for any such prise, regardless of what kind of art at whatever level of acclaim or notoriety I might earn.  Much like Mr. Borges, to which Christian Mahai refers in one of his posts.

Sonnet V: The Peace Prayer | David Emeron: Sonnets

I have recently titled this one “The Peace Prayer” which is a reference to Samuel Clemens’ (Mark Twain) “The War Prayer”

These two are none too opposite, in that they both reflect something quite true, and point out, among other things, unintended consequences; Mr Clemens work, the untended consequences of war and praying for victory in war; and mine, the same for peace. This dichotomy underscores for me the nature of peace and how peace and freedom are related. Freedom, even here in the US, creeps away by inches. I think it must not matter the form of governance attempting to watch over it, except to say that the US has been remarkably resistant to this, particularly when one realises that we are much more a target for such sedition than perhaps any other civilised nation.

I have come to realise that there is only one price with which such freedom can be purchased back once it has crept away to a greater or lesser degree. That price is paid in blood. I believe our founders knew this and took amazing steps, given their circumstances, to preserve this hard won freedom for as long as possible.

She sang her hymn before her eyes had seen
The glory of the coming of the Lord;
The blood, and death, of mortar, gun, and sword;
And brother killing brother, long had been.

Then callow, sang of peace, with freedom won,
To eager faces, white, and brown… and black;
Whose liberty had just been handed back
Still soaked with blood by mortar, sword, and gun.

Imagine men had heard that hymn, four score
And seven years of blood and death before;
Heard next her callow, pacifists decree;
Laid down their arms to study war no more.

With shackled peace, from sea to shining sea,
What hue would, now, such eager faces be?

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Sonnet XII: (lyrical couplets)

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:

Part XII: (lyrical couplets)

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
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