Shall such perfection poised skyward
Be tossed amongst the Gods themselves; displayed,
and cast, spinning, into Heaven….
Tag Archives: Sequence
Sonnet V: Colours
Here, these colours in secret dost thou touch;
Here, in reddest violet I thou pursue;
Yet only black as night, and yet as blue
That thou, my bright, my shadow, painted much.
And here, the spectroscopic span is such;
And here, chromatics some might misconstrue;
Unknown, such hues have painted far too few;
As whitest white is not so grey a crutch
To magnify protection’s light of worth.
And worthy light, prismatic as the sun,
Shall stream as bright toward golden compass points;
And venerable shades shall then unearth,
When newer hues are finally outdone,
Our touch as art–as colours–us, anoints.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 5: A Delicious Wet Scrape
thick…
all cooked down…
like white cane sugar…
I curl my tongue around…
and swallow slowly…
I feel it slide…
thick…
like honey…
like something sweet…
caressing me inside…
all the way…
down….
Sonnet VII: Helpless
So dark within this place, what is this grey
Like velvet fire that would my hand subdue?
Can this–such sweetest pliancy as may
Command my strength to helplessness–be true?
What should I from this helplessness construe
That further took my senses night from day?
Though ne’er would I this mastery through
Any means demand, excepting I obey.
I take what is demanded and delay,
As valiantly I must, what is my due;
And all this tempest, bid me on its way,
Is great in all it promiseth anew.
Much more thou knew’st than wouldst thou ever say;
Thy sweetness grew that burned my will away.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 7: Imprisoned
Thou Hastefully Commanded my Command
And ever hast Controlled all My Control,
Forsaking Everything and Giving All.
Sonnet VI: Landscape
When I have seen this place–this loveliness
That sweeps with valley as with rolling hill.
With meadowland and velvet can it bless
My hand, unfettered form, or lips but still.
Yet each would know that restless, is this place,
As Earth; as sweet, as wanton, and as cruel;
For what it gives it also takes, its face
With joyfulness, intense with warm or cooling
Passion is this vexing earth, not restful
Knowing never what it feels nor wants
And seldom what would serve its beauty best.
Not once can it be stilled; see how it daunts:
Yet even if I willed myself as much
To seek another clime, I would thee touch.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 6: Phenomenon
How interesting
That this place is not a place;
But a state of mind.
David Emeron: Sonnets 