Sonnettics

(This is my first attempt at a new form called a Cadralor. Featured in Gleam, Issue 9):

———-

A hand skims the surface of an old record,
dust rising like breath. The needle catches, crackles,
then the voice of a singer, younger than memory.

In a café, a woman stirs her coffee clockwise,
watching the door without meaning to,
without admitting she is waiting.

The abandoned orchard still bears fruit.
beneath a tangle of overgrown branches,
a single apple, split open hums with bees. 

Two names carved into a rail by the river, 
edges softened by years of rain. Wind runs a hand
through the reeds, whispers its question. 

At the train station, she turns at the sound of her name,
spoken as it used to be. The weight of years
is nothing; the distance, already closing. 

The quiet roar of stillness in my dream
Invites the little songs to find a voice
Like fabric finds a bordered stitch, a seam
Or finds it never really had a choice
The way that stark precarity ascends 
To other worlds above the damaged plain
I like the definition it defends
The etymology of tender pain
When little songs awaken in my heart
Then find their little way to where I write
I wonder if they end up where they start
They may not be true gods, and yet they might
They might proclaim divinity with grace
And dwell forever in a holy place.

A kilt is how we show the world we're free
From all the world's conventions, which would bind
The Highland soul and strength we seek to be
Through freeing both the body and the mind

A kilt is freedom's comfort, worn with pride
The pride of independence, bought with strength
It shows the strength of freedom born inside
That liberates the soul, at any length

The man that wears the kilt is strong and proud
Of heritage that bears his clan, his name
He speaks his words in silence, and aloud!
He knows his life is more than just a game.

And yet he knows when games are meant to be
A kilt is how he shows the world he's free!

I walk on faith, a splinted, golden crutch,
Where once I flew in knowing’s native air;
The wound is old—no memory of the touch,
Just phantom wings and ache I cannot bear.
The veil was stitched before my birth, they say,
By archons blind, who rule the things that rot;
They named it “truth,” and taught my lips to pray—
A borrowed speech for what my soul forgot.
But still I limp toward light I do not see,
My balance held by hymns I cannot feel,
Each creed a cast around the mystery,
Each sacrament a brace that makes me kneel.
Yet in this bracing faith, some ghost remains—
The shape of knowing pulsing through the veins.

To find the truth of poetry within
One knows the word of god must be revealed
To hide the word is thus poetic sin
And wounded poets know they must be healed

And so we seek the words by which we feel
True knowledge is the poem we become
Beyond the tombs that others seek to seal
We rise and wait for Magdala to come

Thus gnosis sets us free beyond this world
In which we have been trapped to just perceive
Material perceptions, flags unfurled
And simply sit and wait and weep and grieve

Our knowledge of the trap won’t set us free
But we will know the place we need to be.