I’d write about love
I could write all day and night
The words would pour out
But I think it would
because of my own true love
be all too easy
I think I could write
Thrice as I have written once
Time would almost stop
Tag Archives: Loss
Sonnet I: No More
No touch, no sleep, no rest, no love like mine
For thee, shall ere console me in my place
Of rest. No more shall any weight of thine
My breast console. No more, thy fairest face,
Within my whole creation be contained.
No more shall I awaken, feel my heart
And thine, and should not feel that there be twain.
Not rhythm, nor our beings, be made to part.
No more shall flesh be moved nor move mine own
By neither wish, nor thought, nor even touch,
To such a fervent height as we have known–
As only I and thou have felt this much.
Must I, in perpetuity, endure
No more, no more, no more, no more… no more….
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 3: So Lost
I so remember
How I knew I would miss you
Before we were lost.
Sonnet II: His Passion
I hear it in his song, as I perform;
With expectation, I anticipate
What challenge wrought that worthy hands conflate.
What fingers, nimble, delicate, and warm,
What mastery was he seeking to transform?
I hear him call, with each I recreate,
And call again with Phrygian passion. Great,
I hear him call, as doth a raging storm.
I hear it in the sadness and the joy,
As in capriciousness, or wayward games;
I hear it gravely serious, then coy;
In every moment, hear how it proclaims.
The instant when the Andaluz appears,
I hear it, sweet as sin, across the years.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 2: Fairytale Couple
It May Not Be So
But then, from whence does it come?
Where, if not from this?
Sonnet I: When He Fell
Might he have fallen when he saw her face,
If so enchanting was her smile–too young
Must she have been–and tyrian among
Oviedo’s great; or when she danced, so graceful
Were her palmas and her whirling lace,
She gave him tantalizing baile–flung
Careening adoration; when she sung,
As Andalusian cantos did embrace
Regarding not her reach; or did the sound,
Laughing delicate from out a learner’s
Able hand–nimble, did her fingers bound,
Tripping lightly over octaves–earn her
Triumph; with–crossing leagues of royal blue–
Iokean lips, though never history knew?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 1: Quite A Challenge
If I have my way,
you’ll all know why
I wrote this.
And then,
you’ll also know why
I said it was
quite an intriguing challenge,
if you look closely.
David Emeron: Sonnets 