Tag Archives: Writing

Sonnet: Gone

Posted by David Emeron on

Through countless centuries you’ve gone with me.
You’ve followed me from world to world it seems;
To other galaxies and into dreams
Of lands that never were or will not be.

Whenever from I call, you’ve heard my voice,
So ready to be taken to the place,
From which I, longing, called to you. Your face,
Alight with angels’ fire, so too, with joys

Of more, and greater, joy which was to come;
Of promised beauty that you knew you’d see;
Of past events whose fabric only we
Would touch; of futures, countless, and wherefrom
My dreams, if held alone, could not come true—
So meaningless, if not because of you.

Intro: Everything I Do

Posted by David Emeron on

The second time she
asked me to write a sonnet,
this is what I wrote.

Everything I write
is for my wife. Has always
been. Shall ever be.

Everything I do,
my very life. As much hers
As it is for me.

Hers is every word
as I write, or as I read–
graphite, ink, or throat.

I think I may have gotten carried away there. So I might as well present in proper format all of the above.

Written in July of 2012. Does it count, or not?

Sonnet: Truth Unquantifiable

Posted by David Emeron on

When life has given all Her many gifts;
Whenever can the measure of these things;
Those gifts alike to paupers and to kings;
The very blessings, all, that spirit lifts;

Be counted up among the many rifts
And twists, and turns; and bold accounting springs
Forth only optimistic numbers? Brings
The news in harmonies and umbers. Shifts

The essence of attention to the day
For which this great accounting brings its news;
And which a man, forgetting not to pray,
Will promise Her he never shall abuse,
In truth unquantifiable, the way
He finds himself inspired by Her muse.

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Sonnet I: To the Approaching Dawn

Posted by David Emeron on

I fear not that my words will never grace….
And yet I dread this fast approaching dawn;
I see the minutes and the hours pass;
For dawn is yet the only constant thing
That rips me so unkindly from my pace.

Though never is my reason thus forgone;
This Lighted Spectre haunts me–this Impasse–
This Waking Nightmare from beneath will spring.
Beneath the Earth this Pale Rider waits,
His Fiery Horses chafing; will have drawn

His Chariot’s Searing Livery–unsurpassed
In glory, any but Hyperion:
Shall stream His Burning Light; and gaining fast,
Will into Hypnos’ Waiting Arms, me cast.

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

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Sonnet: The Hand of my Beloved

Posted by David Emeron on

Thy hand hath stopped my fall and lifted me
To quell my tears, and cool my fervid cheeks;
Withal thy power hast thou known its plea:
To grant my heart this respite that it seeks.

Tomorrow, shall I write for thee, although
The Gods are neither fooled nor do they sleep,
But smile upon thee; surely do They know
I sing with joy their deeds an ne’er I weep.

But sweetly given me hast thou my voice,
And moved my spirit; for my hand is thine
To take thy gifted rest; though fear my choice:
That rest will fall to apathy’s decline.

Yet might for me despair make worse my plight;
Tomorrow, with thy gifts, for thee I write.

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Intro: Here

Posted by David Emeron on

i

All your spirits are low
and the tears are hot
on your checks

then I would do anything
in my power
to give you peace.

ij

If I could write today
if I could fool the Gods
as they sleep

into thinking that your voice
speaks through my hand
for one brief moment

to give you rest
to buy you time
then I would write today.

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