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:

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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:

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