In peace, I do go
That blessed nectar to seek
May it give you ease
My love, take these tears
To quench the thirst of your soul
I shed them in joy
But soft, and drink now
Breathe the vapours and know me
Read my heart’s message
In peace I sleep now
With joy I will awaken
I dance now at home
Surrounding all the visible of life
Are reds and violets of all creation.
Hidden there beyond all earthly sight,
These outer hues defy our expectation.
Wish I, friend, to show how this empowers;
And to give you all that can be seen.
But still I know, for you, there are those flowers
You would fear to touch and may demean.
I’d wish for you to see the beauty there
As well as all the beauty that you know
And know I do your love is true, your care
Is real although the places you will go
Are only fully present in the known
N’er knowing all the hues to which I’ve grown.
To a friend long passed:
We were not so different;
I wish you had known.
When life has given all Her many gifts;
Whenever can the measure of these things;
Those gifts alike to paupers and to kings;
The very blessings, all, that spirit lifts;
Be counted up among the many rifts
And twists, and turns; and bold accounting springs
Forth only optimistic numbers? Brings
The news in harmonies and umbers. Shifts
The essence of attention to the day
For which this great accounting brings its news;
And which a man, forgetting not to pray,
Will promise Her he never shall abuse,
In truth unquantifiable, the way
He finds himself inspired by Her muse.
I’ll never forget,
Because I live and breathe that
From whence these gifts come.
Magnificent, the world in which my life
Resplendent lives–the place I yet reside–
I have no thoughts of leaving. Thus I hide,
Perfection so deceiving; and the strife
I see is that which I desire; so rife
With excellence, as may inspire and guide,
As flowers of evil, peacefully subside;
Maleficence benevolently siphoned
Out, bequeathing uncorrupted beauty.
Stout perfection cracks and shatters when
I travel not abroad, as is my duty
To this perfect place, and stills my pen.
Lest, wretched with sublime I must conflate,
How stale then, the world I must create.
I watch the crazy
lady yelling at the desk
clerk; The couple fighting two
booths away; The paranoid
schizophrenic handling both
sides of the conversation; The
beggar demanding change;
and
the best of everything, that
I crave, that I prefer, that I gather
up and
take with me.
David Emeron: Sonnets 