Tag Archives: Poetry

Sonnet: Be the Change

Posted by David Emeron on

I read; and then I write; and am refined.
I comment, then I like, and then agree–
Devoutly follow everything I see
And proudly let it wander through my mind.

The order which such actions are combined,
Could offer up a great variety.
Yet still, this order is, to some degree,
The one my heart prefers, and is inclined

To offer up my strength that I enrich
Each author, and his talent; and decree,
Though safe within my digital redoubt,

I’ll be the very transformation which
Into the world, I’ll bring, and wish to see;
And by my very actions bring about.

Sonnet: Diary

Posted by David Emeron on

Can I know or see a life completely
Through a man’s written word? Not unduly;
Suppose, they have been blurred, and not truly
Intended for me. Nor, though discreetly,

Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight nor pathos, nor
A fresh new idea, even hated. More
Of which I name, created? Completely?

Even understand it partly? No I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller by reading
The Tropic he wrought, or Baudelaire from
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall man’s words know heeding;
We merely learn what we, must needs, become?

Sonnet: Strength and Fear

Posted by David Emeron on

What smile hast thou that moves me so to love?
What strength of heart, that moves thee so to smile?
Wherefrom thy strength–for I have none–yet, while
Thine own, hast brought me such abundance of?

My strength has gone away from me, my dove
Why then hast thou the art to so beguile
Those spirits, of those deaths, which, as my trial,
Belabour soul and heart? I strove, above,

To be the stronger spirit. Yet inspired
By strength–and by thy fear–it now becomes
My heart to strive for joy, or even higher–

Strive, though I have not the strength required
To strive–for such is when, thou must have come
Alive! And so we live again! But why?

Sonnet: Tropic

Posted by David Emeron on

If I Could know or see a life completely
Through a man’s word, written; not unduly;
If, they have been blurred, and are not truly
Yet for me, intended.  Nor discreetly,

Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight, pathos, nor
A fresh idea, nor hatred even.  More
Of which I name, created more Completely?

Even understand it partly?  I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller when I read
His Tropic wrought; or Baudelaire to plumb
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall words of men know heeding;
Merely learn what we, must needs, become?