Sonnet X: Labyrinth

His shape as pleaseth me, this fiery art
Doth longsome dream to me whilst gripped in sleep.
Shot through with lightning’s fire, doth dream impart
Such thrill: convivial to wake, to weep,

To think it trivial that thence I’ve gone,
That this Oneiran path: forever lost;
Not Morpheus, nor Hypnos’ other Spawn
Reveals’ this darkened place to whence I crost;

For these three Sons shall ‘ever show
A mortal man each labyrinth but once.
So at my waking hour, must I go
Away within imaginings, unless some bunce

Befall me; kindly providence might choose
To call me with such luck as I may use.

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

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Sonnet I: It Comes

If ever I could spare a minute’s time,
I might enjoy a moment of the day.
A place where I might be forgotten, pray,
That I might run from here, or even climb

A mountain far away. Not Reason, Rhyme
Nor Deities could sway, nor could one pay
The world’s unyielding, universal clay,
That time should not be stolen. Such a crime

Continues on, beholden to no man,
With cruel impunity–continues on
Its prurience, as only Satan can–
And gives the poet grist to mill upon:
To sow, and reap, and dream of sweet release,
And then to sleep, and dream of death, and peace.

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

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Sonnet II: Steps

First one foot, then the next, and then the next;
They step on recklessly five at a time;
Hindered fecklessly by internal rhyme;
And by Olympus mercilessly vexed.

First one, then two, then three, this playful text;
Until the beast is bested; until I’m
So mercilessly tested; and sublime
Pursuits I may attend. Much more complex,

They joyously transcend this five foot beast;
And I am taken in: to my own world;
When to this world, my life may be released.
To better times and places I am hurled

Away. ‘Til four, or five, or six, can this,
My day allow, and dream, and write, in bliss.

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

Sonnet I: Not Alone

I sleep and then I dream and then I wake,
And live and work and play from sleep to sleep.
And sleep again and dream, and wake, and keep
My hand, to pen, and psalm, and song; and slake

This lust I feel when, weak or strong, I make
Them manifest; I sow, and press, and reap;
And joyously, my vintage test; I weep
And laugh as, for one day, I quell this ache;

And thrill to share each cup with those I love,
And even those I may; though not in hope
That I might ever sway, or help them cope;
But merely seek them out; and deem, above
All else, they might not doubt that there was one
Who felt as they, when sleep and dream was done.

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

Sonnet XI: Her Peace

So dreameth now my love again in sleep
And smileth angelic, she; though dream
Not angels, as His children may create;
As we alone were from His image made.

And deep, she doth within, such wonder keep;
Such visions, perfect in her care, doth seem.
My love so doth me gift, in perfect state,
This firmament some deity forbade;

Wherefrom I am forbidden still to leap
And soar and glide, so bright above, supreme,
So realised, hath she made, though inchoate,
Where she, these gardens of delight, hath played.

But still I weep, that safety, my esteem
May not create, when demons there invade.

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

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