Something from time long passed
While other matters are being sorted out.
Here are some old thoughts.
Tag Archives: Love
Sonnet IV: Sandcastles
Is there a way that might I ache yet more?
For, missing thee is more than can I stand;
Yet also, do I ache by my own hand
For fearing action, boyish on that score,
That would us bring together all the more.
How pure would be our life were I a man?
If rather built, a castle than of sand,
I could, a dream produce in granite, or
At least, could give some substance to our life,
Which long we spun with threads of gossamer.
Remote, has been our touch–not man, nor wife,
Could we, ourselves, have truly called, for fear
Of facing a reality too sad,
Dispersing but what little web we had.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Into 4: Sandstorm
If I let it go
Would the wind blow it away?
If I let it go….
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:
Intro 2: Character
The will to continue on
long after ones original enthusiasm has waned
is the essence of character.
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:
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:
David Emeron: Sonnets 