To Sonnet Writer~Mr. Emeron | Lyrical Love

My heart, sliced and lays upon a slab of ice so cold
Some days I struggle inside to be a poetess, I am not so bold…
I spill heart and soul, before a world, that exists but in my head,
Sometimes silence is my choice instead.
I fear others will never understand the internal world
That tortures the mind, for in this world I’ve been hurled
Not the one of which I dream
I fall in love, I explore, my heart does scream
But not all on the planet are understanding of this call
It hurts to expose internal to all
Feeling as if filleting heart through to spine
I hide myself not so well when I spill forth in rhyme…
Feeling some days I’ve become too raw as forth I spill
I have sought seclusion, a bitter pill
You ask me to stay, I show, I read your write
They are so very kind, inside my soul they light
Such kindness, I could not refuse to show my face,
I am still here, inside this haunting space.
Thank you for your words kind, Mr. Emeron
So for you, I sing this morning song.

via To Sonnet Writer~Mr. Emeron | Lyrical Love.

Winter Shadows | Lyrical Love

Winter Shadows
By ~Lady Day December 30, 2012

The Day of long shadows has descended, as they scream with the light
Words spinning away the truth, as I fight.
You ask for my voice time and again
It feels broken and over-used, swimming in the shallows of dim.

So I’ve nestled down, into a deep sleep like deathly night.
Obscure evening shaded, tucked away from all sight.
Snuggled up with the sadness and smiles of hibernating doze,
I await Spring’s return, for the sun to melt what has froze.

Sheltered away from the Storm that takes all, that swirls the Day
A tempest of gray clouds, pulling at the trees, uprooting what I’d say.
This Day of long winter shadow, bladed with the scorching orange through the grim
The Day, has become darkened and dim.

The words are growing cold in the frosted mist I breathe
They fall, but are heavy, too heavy for me, to heave
Onto my back and drag into the sun with cold hearted fingers and lung
Ten thousand songs I have sung…

I do wonder, what were they all for?
For what purpose, I’m just another opposite to the cure,
Another pale figure wandering in this mist
What good are the words that bleed from this wrist?

Seven million souls upon a teetering ship headed t’ward a ledge
How many will stop, not pitch over the edge?
The words I often feel in my soul
They are heavy, yes. They have a toll.

What I have to say, to speak, trust me, you’d not hear a word
In person, my thoughts would never be heard.
So all the poetic writing and verse, rhyming and thought…
These Days, I think so often, a waste, is it not?

Then I hear voice upon voice ask for return
I think on it all, I listen, I learn…
I speak more to myself it seems these Days…
My world so often filled with a haze of bitter grays.

What good is a voice that feels lost in the labyrinth of seeking truth,
To old to be foolish, to young to be free as youth.
Not old enough to be wise, just a house poet
I once said, ‘I’m not good at much, and I know it.’

Tell me, what has changed? Nothing…still just a silly girl with a pen
And some Days, I care not if it never bled again.
Pointless and a waste of time…
Really, that’s what I feel so often, everytime my brain asks to rhyme.

These words are not to evoke pourings of encouragement or dipped in self pity
I dig into my life ’til my hands are busy, dirty and gritty
Coated in pursuits coated in love and family
This poetic world, what is it, some insane fantasy?

Imaginary worlds and I, tango and dance, weave and part,
It was always thus, truly from the start.
Some times I just think the imaginings, their world, the song voice of the poetess,
Well, no offense to all the beautiful poets, but at times, it’s useless.

Imagine, a poet who doesn’t really believe in the worlds that exist in the mind
That the one that exists, is seen too clear, is the worst kind
Where the best are poets, the worst run the joint,
I see the filth of humanity, and I get the point.

Some times the poet in me wishes to scream at all, as they seem blind
But truth and years, instead, teach me to be patient and kind.
So, I’ve closed my tongue much, as the Winter has fallen deep in this land
I grasp only one, by an invisible hand.

So broken the world, where we all live and die.
The words… they break, they scream, they sob, they cry.
So I lay hidden for now, this slumbery sleep curled beneath my tree,
Awaiting, and longing, for the Day, that again feels free.

Why you keep pulling me forth, out of my den, why?
There are many a poet here, many who are deep, talented, though perhaps do not Bely…
But the depth stirs at times deep, brooding and needs to silence in fear of harsh thought this time of year
This season of ‘joy and giving’ that actually breeds suicide, sadness and tear.

So…it makes sense to silence, rather than spoil those who still believe this myth and lie
Than explain, write, extend ‘holiday wishes’ and not need to explain why.
I fit really, no where at all, between worlds and alone in my mind of thought
So for compassion, to allow what others believe, I’ve wrote not.

So now you know…some of the reasons, quiet I have gone
I would stay thus, but you’ve plead for a glimmer of dawn
Time will tell, if I can break the walls that I’ve built bout my soul
The protection from the tear down, well, like everyone else, keeps me whole.

I await a world, much like the one we all dream of
One surrounded in mankind’s goodness, peace, joy and love…
To speak of such things though, seems always turned away
They’ve been much on this mind, this Hope, is sealed in this Day.

I could write on and on, until the breaking of time and space,
Bend back and forth thought, but, for now I make haste…
Go to seek knowledge of my God, to give the Almighty worship and praise,
Really, the only place of protection, in these, what feels to be, in all honesty, ‘the last days.’

Sonnet: Elephant?

AnElephantCant ever truly know,
How certainly her “hubby” thinks it grand,
That put a smile on my true loves face,
Such wonderful attention, as first hand.

But greatest joy as do your words bestow,
Dear pachyderm, don’t misconstrue me please,
In spreading mirth as do your words with grace
The more affects him, well it guarantees,

Beyond so great a joy, as overflow
Most all the expectations he conceives.
Then writes he sonnets all the more apace
Although the Holiday so interleaves;

And though his sonnets flow like water, won’t
Misplace such inspiration if they don’t!


Sonnet: No Faith

Can now, I truly see the Holy Ghost?
Believing yet in nothing, not the Son,
And not the Father, nor the fallen one;
With only a desire to play as host

To a belief which, at its very most,
Do I admire to adopt–and shun
All else; for now, I see the truth, and run
To-ward a stark, inevitable, coast;

A coast whose beaches speak a Holy Truth;
Though that alone is not why I so care.
It is a great utility of youth;
Yet pains me that it cannot be a tool
Whose faith will serve me, if indeed ’tis there,
Unless a man accept it, as a rule.

Intro: Faith

it’s funny
how faith
ebbs and flows in me

right now
it is at low tide

God does not exist
nor spirit
nor afterlife


the only thing
that seems to be
beyond myself
is my love for you,
and your love for me

and that lives
only in you
and in me

We will die
no one will ever know
how irreplaceable it was

it will just be gone.

Sonnet III: Why Weepest Thou

But true, wilt thou persist or see the way
Thou dost simplistic observations keep?
Or know, such faults as these, will oft portray
Intractable assaults when bound with sleep?

And once, when thou thy fortunes gather new
Canst thou imagine now this shining day?
Such limits spilt and providence withdrew;
Wilt thou thine old devotion disobey?

But seest thou such transcendent ways; as one
With tears of joy doth much that day push through
To innocence far greater, when begun
Thy long observed creation to undo?

Yet weep thou, and thy soul is Earthly spun
Into the deep, and ne’er to be undone.

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