I have tried
to describe to myself
how the experience is:
whether it is like
one of those nights
when I cannot sleep
and sit on my back steps
while silent snow falls,
or a walk
through spicy autumn woods,
or a summer night
when I sit
and listen to the cicadas
and watch the occasional meteor
streak across the sky….
Say not thou knew the nature of a man,
Whilst knowing not the nature of thy thought.
Dost not thou know such thought is of a plan
Which not thine own, should one day be untaught?
Though thou art vaccinated well against
The recognition of such ill intent,
Thine own cognition likewise is dispensed
Away from that such thoughts misrepresent.
But who then are thy lords, that shan’t thou see
Such twisting evil as through thee hath spun?
What are such words, as should so guarantee
That never shall such evil be undone:
Such lies, as evil men have told to thee;
Such damage, as their serpent’s words decree.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Wilt spend thou Nature’s battle unaware
And lend thy loveliness when thou agree
To legacy–or Heaven as thou dare?
This battle, free to lose; for the degree
That this abuse could bounteous appear;
To use this matchless contest; wouldst thou care
To give thy future someone to revere?
To live, what legacy wouldst thou prepare?
Thyself, as though alone reflected are;
No epigone–when fall thyself so near–
To traffic nature’s call? Deceive and scar
This battlement to leave to thy frontier!
In this way, bring thee over from afar,
And what might be thine image, to a star.
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:
I hear the rain; she calleth as she did
So many years ago. But now I can
Not heed this pain. She claimed me as her man;
No longer is it so. Thus am I hid
From she, whom hath she been, my dearest love.
Thou canst but ask: But why dost thou forsake
This holy path of love which thou bespake
To be the flask who’s nectars rank above
All fruit; wherethrough, all Gods and men, subsist.
But to be true, I sometimes answer her;
Though not so loudly she should know exists
The man she proudly loved, because he were
The shell of what he was, so shan’t she know
The depths, so shut, a failing love may go…
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 