Tag Archives: Poem

Sonnet II: Evil Orb

Posted by David Emeron on

I will not see, I cannot know, nor feel;
I may not hear, nor taste, and no aroma
Will I sense, nor trace of joy, of home
Or mirth of soul or peace, nor can I kneel

In silent prayer, ending this ordeal.
It presses with the weight of stars, this dome
Of light, this hellish sphere of music, gloaming
Not, nor offering reprieve to heal.

And canst thou truly think thou art a blessing,
Evil orb, so frighteningly loud?
Thy cruel intention hard upon me pressing;
Burning death, in state, without a shroud;
Canst not thou see the lie thou dost profess;
With neither dusk, nor mitigating cloud?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Sonnet: Stand

Posted by David Emeron on

If I, one man alone, would fail to stand–
While others fear, with empty hope, one braver
Than themselves unto the breach, their craven
Act, beneath his mantle of command

Might hide; or fail to bravely raise my hand,
His side–when better led, with honour, gave
My pledge to such as he–to take, and save
As much as can be saved, no coward’s brand

Could sear my trust; or fail, in solitary
Rank, to muster, weak, my force of one,
While others act as beasts who fear to die,
In soul denying hope that I might care
To save their craven flesh when all is done,
And which my soul demands–then what am I?

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Intro: Who Would Stand

Posted by David Emeron on

Would you stand up? Would I? If one lived while others fell, wouldn’t it be better to have done what one could? Would it not have been better to have died if one had n0t?

This was from a dream last night.

A dream in summer,
But only one long sentence.
Diagram, someone?

I am not sure why, but I cannot resist doing that. Be warned: I hide these within paragraphs, unindented. Can you find them all?

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Sonnet: The Hand of my Beloved

Posted by David Emeron on

Thy hand hath stopped my fall and lifted me
To quell my tears, and cool my fervid cheeks;
Withal thy power hast thou known its plea:
To grant my heart this respite that it seeks.

Tomorrow, shall I write for thee, although
The Gods are neither fooled nor do they sleep,
But smile upon thee; surely do They know
I sing with joy their deeds an ne’er I weep.

But sweetly given me hast thou my voice,
And moved my spirit; for my hand is thine
To take thy gifted rest; though fear my choice:
That rest will fall to apathy’s decline.

Yet might for me despair make worse my plight;
Tomorrow, with thy gifts, for thee I write.

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Sonnet V: 1914

Posted by David Emeron on

See there, what are those pestilent that smother
In the muck? And there, I see, ignored
Within the mire, more are stuck; and Lord!
Behold, one bunches up to bid another

Well! Though unobtrusively, its brother
It disdains with such a tell.  With bored
Enthusiasm, one will slither toward
A wretched thing as if to give the other

An award. But lo! What it intends!
Now can it actually be, to grant
The other honours and a meaningless
Degree? How sweet, if my corrupted friends
Would slyly acquiesce, to grant me scanty
Honours with an automatic yes.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 5: Strange Days

Posted by David Emeron on

I fell upon, particularly strange
These shores wherein I found myself marooned
Instead of somewhere infinitely light.

My voyage, it began capriciously.
And, though within it lives embedded form,
Possesses also an embedded soul.

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