Sonnet 46

4/11/11

To love is to impress upon the heart

A lasting image—spoken soul to soul,

And left to linger after you depart—

A perfect memory, writ and retold

In every fiber, every cell. It is

A signature, a fingerprint, a sketch,

Engraved upon the place where feeling lives,

Embedded there, as long as lungs can stretch

To take the air, and then to push it out.

Until you are so covered in the scars

That chronicle the loves you’re now without,

That even you forget the girl you are.

And I can’t find my heart, beneath the hands

Whose prints have buried who I really am.

Sonnet 45

4/10/11

Is hopelessness uncommon in the world?

Or only in the world that you create—

The sugar coated place for boys and girls,

Bedecked with naïve notions at the gate?

Well hopelessness is something I have felt,

And soon enough those kids will feel it too…

A house that’s made of gumdrops has to melt,

Or else there’ll be a witch who wants a stew.

And maybe you don’t like to hear that life

Is less than perfect, less than glitter glue—

But soon enough you’ll feel the pain and strife,

And soon enough you’ll know that it was true.

My house may not be pretty, but it’s real.

But mine will stand, and yours? A dead ideal.

Sonnet 44

4/9/11

My apathetic moods cut time in half.

At noon I paint my nails, and sit, and yawn—

And all at once it’s seven and I laugh,

And wonder where the afternoon has gone.

At eight, I’ve finished laughing, and intend

To be productive, as I know I ought.

Instead I look at photos of a friend,

And finally at nine, give work a shot.

My fingers on the keys, inert as fish

Upon a plate, or broccoli, or beans.

I stare, pathetic, at the page, and wish

The words would write themselves, onto the screen.

Eleven thirty, still, my passion lacks.

I mount the stairs to find a little snack.

Sonnet 43

4/8/11

The other day, I thought while tromping back

Upon my ever single, fixed state;

About my plight, left always to attract

And never be attracted—what a fate.

I counted on my fingers, then my toes,

The men who’ve loved me, men I never could

Reciprocate, could not requite, or grow

The feeling: love—although I felt I should.

And there before me, looming in my eyes,

I saw the future life I’d have to live.

Resigned myself to spinsters’ knitting sighs

And isolated rocking—to forgive

The men who failed me, the passion to remit.

I guess that means I’ll need to learn to knit.

Sonnet 42

4/7/11

It’s been a weary day, today, it has.

The hours—all worn out. The world—asleep.

It lingered just so long, then drifted past

The consciousness of daylight, frail and weak.

A day is life’s expanse, compacted tight

Into a four and twenty span—it’s born

As young and fresh as children, soft and bright.

It gains in vigor, rising with the morn

To fullest peak, at noontime, tall and strong.

And then, by afternoon, it starts to wane.

It yawns with such exertion, kept so long.

It hobbles into night, without complaint.

And lays itself to rest, in peace, to sleep.

It’s measure filled, the heaven’s rest to keep.

Sonnet 41

4/6/11

I live my life on an impassioned sea.

It is my nature, falling, up and down.

But when I reach the crest, my spirit’s free;

In deepest sorrow sink, with valleys found.

The waves, they carry quickly dark and light

And I cannot but ride them, self and soul,

It isn’t choice that guides me—it is right

That mine, a life whose purpose, only role,

Is ever to create, expressing all

Of our existence, whether good or bad,

Extreme in lofty grandeur, or in small

And simple moments—all is to be had.

And who are you, monsieur, to question thus?

An artist has to feel, and so, I must.

Sonnet 40

4/5/11

You light a candle, brightening the room.

Yet wavering, a flickered, fickle flame

It licks and laps the blackness—but it soon

Departs, as wick is burned, and dark remains.

And even forest fires find an end,

Though hours, days, their burning passion flies

Along the slopes and mountains, which they rend

With fury that consumes itself and dies.

But sun, you cannot darken, cannot hide.

Behind the clouds or earth, it’s burning still.

The rays of light upon the ether glide

And nothing can remove it, nothing will.

Despite the obstacles of time and space,

My love for you, it cannot be replaced.

Sonnet 39

4/4/11

I opted for the chair and not a couch

Despite the mangled springs—(the grizzled sight!)—

The orange tint, the way it made me slouch—

The whole effect, it suited me just right.

I sat alone between the lovers’ seats,

(A place that times before I’d occupied)

And there endured my life, put on repeat,

And shown to me as from another side.

I watched with vague disgust the cooing pairs

And pulled my knees toward my chin in thought.

Perhaps it was a lonely feeling, there.

The more I watched, the more fed up I got.

Why waste so much of life in void romance?

I’ll hermatize! (If ever I’ve the chance).

Sonnet 38

4/3/11

The feminist within me prickles quick

When any man begins again to drone

That old familiar phrase, which makes me sick:

“A woman’s proper place is in the home”.

Tradition binds us, grinds us, holds us there—

Explaining, as they clip our wings so young,

That mothers, wives, are needed! Love and care!

And patronizing, slit our woman’s tongue.

But how can you expect a bird to fly

If mother bird has not the wings to teach?

And how, to speak, to make a wise reply,

If mother’s voice is silenced, out of reach?

A mother and a wife I may well be,

But let me find myself! Then we will see.

Sonnet 37

4/2/11

The pavement glistens black and white below—

A glossy sheen that hops beneath the rain.

The headlights make the droplets pop and glow.

Distracted, drifting, listing lane to lane,

My eyes begin to strain and pull and weigh

And so they droop until they’re nearly closed.

The rain, my roof, percussing all the way.

And yet I make it home, and start to doze.

I dream of drummers drilling in the trees.

I drift among the rivers in the road.

The pitter patter sound of mice’s feet.

The lull of running water, rain, and snow.

Of course it’s no surprise that when I wake

I move with haste, much for my bladder’s sake.

Sonnet 36

4/1/11

My lungs fill up with stinging, sooty, smoke—

The kind that billows up in milky clouds.

It burns and leaves a film along my throat

And still I suck it in, and wheeze it out.

I stand so close the fire burns my thighs,

And yet my back is numb with chilly night.

Despite the warmth, the light that squints my eyes,

I’m always, ever, half a frozen plight.

It doesn’t matter how I turn or sway,

The darkness deepens, sucking at the heat,

That just before had soothed and smoothed away,

The cold that grips my head, and hands, and feet.

And this is how we live our lives I think:

Souls, half in sunshine, half in darkness slink.

Sonnet 35

3/31/11

I turned the key, and as expected found

An empty, lonesome space within the box.

I didn’t think to find, this time around,

The void filled up behind the metal lock…

But hope is something I can’t seem to quench—

That little light, that flutters like a bird

Anticipating flight… till I am wrenched

Again to earth, aware that I’m absurd

For bothering to check again each day.

Afraid to look, unable to withhold

Myself. Habitual, and in a way

Degrading; yet expected, I am told.

So I continue opening the door,

Expecting nothing, hoping for much more.

Sonnet 34

3/30/11

It’s most akin, I think, to coming home—

The sigh which lifts the bricks from off your breast,

When feet, at last, have ceased to list and roam…

Again upon the land they know the best:

The so familiar lines of mountain tops

Soft silhouetted ‘gainst the moon and stars

Which pour a silver glow upon the crops

Of quilted green and yellow; river scars

Across the landscape, ribbons whitish light;

The smell of crisping Autumn, faintly filled

With frost and smoke; the valley silent, bright,

With recognition, welcoming you still.

Yes, it feels like coming home, with you in sight.

My heart returns to me, the world is right.

Sonnet 33

3/29/11

I worried, sick with apprehension’s taste.

Intestines wound about the dreaded deed

Within my stomach, deep and bitter. Faced

With time elapsing, drawing nigh with speed

What I could naught but do, but do it I

Could not. And so I waited, wearied by

The waiting, wishing I would up and try!

If only to relieve the knot a while.

And then, of course, as courage plucked me up

Enough to say, “Enough!”, and have it out…

I found that you had languished in the rut

As well, but how was I to know? I doubt

A woman and a man will ever learn

It’s best to spill your guts—each one in turn.