Sonnet III: Absence

Remember thou, my sweetest love, that grape
Made manifest alloweth many forms:
A quick but fleeting ichorous escape;
A spirit with incalescence that warms.

The grape may yield up poison that would kill,
A draught that might embolden ones appeal,
A sedative to blight one of his skill,
Or potion, pray, infirmity, may heal.

Remember thou how fickle is the grape
So oft’ endowed, its yield, so commonplace;
But rarely, fine enough a thing to shape
Ones soul, aligned, unto a state of grace.

So may this sweet elixir slake thy soul;
And pray, my sweetest love, it make thee whole.

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

Sonnet: Mercy’s Prise

D—– dear, you’re lucky to be dead!
To have escaped the parody you name,
Is Mercy’s gracious gift; and yet you came
Back, so ungrateful for her gift, instead

Of resting–came to save these two, misled,
And taught us much, as much you did disclaim,
Of worth and duty, honour, deed, and shame.
Thus in death, you lessons bled as said:

“You must surely love, if love you must:
And loving still, through irony or kind,
Uplifting thoughts, you would, inspired above
All evil, rise.” If ever I could find
The prise of justice now, I’d not so mind
That you are gone–that left us more, our Love.


Intro: Anachronicon

Once I wished you knew
Then I feared that never would you know
Never would you see

Once I knew that you knew
Then I realised that you had always known
Always did you see

This is why you smiled
And we always saw you smiling
Smiled when we saw you

Smiled when you saw us.
Always had your smile told us
That you knew.

Then you were gone
And instead of crying, we laughed.
Because you had known.

And then…


Sonnet: Taken

Anticipation shaketh down below
Wherefore I shan’t release thee shouldst thou call
Or even beg, as seem thou to prefer.
I feel thee, languid, try my binding crawl

With tense delight enveloping thee slow;
So push and crawl and twist thyself away.
That every moment my delight would stir;
And ripping, take my kill.  And thou:  my prey,

Imagine, over all our blood doth flow,
When deep within thy flesh my talons rake;
And to thy plaintive cry shall not defer
‘Til take my fill of all that I may take.

This predator… no… nary turn around:
Thou knew’st, though he prefer his prey face down!


Sonnet: This

Withal such love within our worlds may be:
So must it live within our mind’s frontier?
Or might it dwell within our heart–sincere
Within our soul–wherein we may not see?

Can this I feel, though cannot touch in thee?
May such as this, made manifest, appear?
Or when such love perceivest thou, revere?
Dost this thou feel, though canst not touch in mee?

Yet of this unseen thing are we aware,
As much we would this phantom to possess;
For all its joys impart or its despair
Doth bring to us when once this thing profess.
So dangerous a thing should we declare,
That oft might curse, as well as it might bless.