Intro: Gene Roddenberry

Have now

I gone

To where

Before

No man

Hath gone

Rest thou

G R

In peace

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Sonnet: Kanaka

How Black, the hottest fires of Hell must burn;
So Hot, this Blackened Hell, must be its fires.
The spit on which impurity doth turn,
Would sear the flesh impurity requires.
Beyond repentance, punishment doth earn;
Yet ever, to impurity aspires.

So Hot the Sweetest Love, do we deny;
How Sweet, this Burning Love of ours, its taste,
Impurity were beckoned in thereby
To desecrate this altar we disgraced;
And cast away its sanctity, defy
This gift, as Heaven, each to us, hath graced.

How Sweet the Sin, which Strongly us befell
How Strong the Death which Blackened us… to Hell.

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Sonnet III: Builders

So we live in a world that is better
Thus… and we live as all men ought to be.
It was done without deigning to fetter
Us… They have done it by setting us free.

And while man, a creator of beauty
Will… be compensed that his beauty may bloom;
But, the man who makes ugliness duty
Still… gains employment (by pushing a broom.)

And a man who will strive to build greatness,
Too… Shall be striven his greatness to build.
While his ugliness, failure, and hate, thus,
Who… shall be swept into labour, unskilled.

Run in fear! All is lost! You deceivers!
Know… The Romance, of these Knights, does return!

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

Sonnet: A Key

I love thee so, my sweetest, do I close
Up my romantic soul, and lock away
Its delicate embrace of thee I chose.

And for your sake, my children, shall I hide
Away its key; that none should see its truth
While every day I brave this worldly sway.

And yet, for me, the romance of my youth
Is sore alive, in all that I provide;
As, for thy comfort, every tree I fell;

Until–my wish at last–shall come the day
When all are safe, and everything is well.
My calloused hands, mine axe, shall lay aside;

This key, my soul’s romantic door, display
To thee, and to our children, love and pride.

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Sonnet V: Bad Times

Love, have I hurt you, yet you love me still;
When I am bitter; still you understand;
You knew I was alone, and took my hand;
And knew I loved you as I always will.

Love me, as I love you, though you’ve hurt me;
So fine you are, how could I but forgive;
The girl whose magic taught a boy to live;
The woman who would teach a man to see.

We never let our circumstance prevail;
And ever after felt our bold belief;
What power, this, may triumph over grief;
And leaves but little meaningless travail.

Not fire for strength, to grist the mill, nor more
To climb–No hill–but bad times to ignore.

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

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