Sonnettics

This angel is my life or I’d be dead
The river Styx may not be crossed in pairs
she holds my hand and fears my bloody head
has cuts beyond the surgeon’s good repairs
but hers is not the surgery to do
her task is simply holding back the man
from crossing into death as some men who
get struck by cars against their every plan
she doesn’t know my name, nor do I know
the angel has a name, but I will learn
when blood, and tears, and dangers cease to flow
my heart will seek the angel; she will turn
into a girl of beauty, I will cry
to touch her hand again, we both know why.

For Kristine

I wouldn’t need to heal if I was whole
I’d still be whole if I had skipped that day
That day that I lost most of my control
Events occurred which swept it all away
Nobody needs to hear about my loss
I wish that I could lose this fucking pain
The money that they gave me, I would toss
If everything I lost, I could regain
And now I’ve learned, I used to be a shit
I want to be a better man than that
If irony is painful, this is it
I never knew that fate played tit-for-tat
Because I was a shit, I have to heal
Cuz pain can be ironic when it’s real.

I’ll bring you to the place we disappeared
again before the dawn begins to bleed
the memories of memories we feared
would take us to a time where we concede
concessions like the streaks of heated clouds
at twilight in the early summer’s heat
which over-shadows rushing cars and crowds
and underlies the grass beneath our feet.
The world is solid, built with concrete lies
between the roads that lead to other roads.
Suburbia contains the stifled cries
of dawn as morning silently explodes.
And this is where our memories are kept
within the walls where silently we’ve wept.

“This is the last sonnet I composed before my accident on 4/29/2010. You may notice a difference in my poetry after this date, due to the Traumatic Brain Injury I suffered.”

It hurts to bear the comfort of the fade
of memories invoked across the night,
against the warmth of summer, coolness played,
the pain of passion, burning fast and bright,
the hands upon the sweat upon the skin,
surrounding life and pulsing like a beam
of morning’s promise, lingering within
the comfort as it faded like a dream.
My voice is distant, further than the moon
which rises just as brightly, so I’ve heard,
on nothing; I misspoke my heart too soon
and faded in the comfort of a word,
while every fading night becomes a day
when you arise too many miles away.