Sonnettics

I sense the sheen which glistens on the street,
the path that pulls my spirit through the dark.
Reflections of the bottoms of my feet
form momentary ripples where they mark
the light of timeless memories of grace,
deserving of impressions deeper still
than anything my memories replace
with lightness which my feet and legs fulfill.
I sense the time it takes to press and glide
against reflections, silent as the moon,
which lay upon the mirror where I stride,
revealed to morning reverie too soon.
I sense the sheen again before I run
beyond the dawn into the morning sun.

The strength to walk away is like a gift
of snakes or stones bestowed on any child
who asks for fish or bread.  The pillars shift;
Delilah’s shears were never so defiled
as when you walked away with every word
of faith, with every psalm I ever wrote.
I built on sandy ground, my sight obscured
by every solid beam and dusty mote.
You kissed me for a bag of silver coins
before you knew which prophets I believed.
You tied a girdle firmly ’round your loins;
immaculate, you left, and then conceived.
You’re wise to build your house on solid ground,
and I’m the sheep that’s lost and never found.

It pulls me from within, toward center mass
where heaviness resides in purest form.
For some the weight will come then simply pass;
for me it seems to be a steady norm.
I think my lightness used to be a kite
my dad would help me fly when he came home
from sea. I used to wake up in the night
from dreams, when he was gone.  I was alone
with gravity that pulled me from the swings
or monkey bars, toward center mass, the source
of heaviness and darker, unknown things
which, as a child, frightened me of course.
But now that I’m a man, I’m filled with joy
to look below and see the fallen boy.

Her firm determination, built from years
and miles of running fast, and faster still,
reflects the sum of all her sweat, her tears,
of every lap, up every grueling hill.
Her legs are lean and stronger than each race
she wins.  Her legs are stronger with each stride
she takes in her determination’s pace;
her will to run is born from deep inside.
Inside, and nestled deep within her soul,
her legs are young and light; her memory
of running fast down hills, without control
is where her will to run is wild and free.
And though her focus helps her win each prize,
the running girl still shines within her eyes.

This rain absolves my sweat and seals my skin
with cool and pleasant temporary grace.
As I continue reaching deep within,
reprieve becomes the moisture on my face.
My legs are washed, anointed, as I run
by rivulets of clear and healing rain.
Each raindrop is a spirit; every one
absorbs the smallest facet of my pain.
This storm proceeds, a catalyst of speed
in drenching curtains, pushing me to fly
beyond cathartic cadences; I need
the rain to mask the tears that I will cry.
This rain commingles with my sweat, my tears
and lets me run beyond my deepest fears.

The blood behind my eyes begins to turn
perception from solidity to trance
by pressing on receptors of concern
to where I find my present circumstance.
Escape becomes a passageway of nerves
upon which my subconscious thoughts depart
from fissures in the cavernous reserves
of psyche far below my memory’s heart.
To juxtapose my memory with now
creates an incongruity at best;
at worst, it drags a knife across my brow
before it pushes slowly through my chest.
The pressure is released by stabbing deep,
and anti-climax drains me into sleep.

There is no question that the wind is strong
and heavy as it pushes back my best
attempts at moving forward.  What is wrong
with stopping now, forever?  Life at rest
is not the life I choose.  So fuck the wind,
and fuck the heavy strength of moving air.
I also move, but by my will ascend;
the wind’s oblivious to risk, to dare.
It mocks in one direction, so I turn
and place it’s mockery against my back.
I have the choice to simply coast or burn
this tailwind down a hill of blurring black.
My rising strength is in my will, my mind,
and there is strength within me, undefined.

I know the shadowed path; I feel the ground
like knowing there’s a sun below the line
of morning.  With the darkness comes the sound
of hesitated motion.  I divine
the path by intuition, mixed with luck.
My faith is firm in nothing but my heart
and memories of roots my feet have struck.
I face the faceless darkness as I start,
aware the only metaphor for dark
is pain; I hold the metaphor at bay.
I run the measured miles of the park,
until the gods of twilight wake the day.
Then free to move within the blessed light,
I catch my breath and run with all my might.

18 miles on the Erie Canal Park Trail
3/22/2009 5:30 a.m. to 7:41 a.m.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

Appalled by night, the grinding of the stars
against the darkness, I withdraw behind
the safety of translucent prison bars
that demarcate the boundaries of my mind.
I close my eyes, capitulate to dreams
which pierce me like the distant, starry rays
of godless worlds within the cracks and seams
of endless nights, incarcerated days.
It’s clear the window mocks my clarity
with curtains of perception, dingy white.
The universe is filthy, vast, and we
are nothing more than motes of dust at night.
Our freedom is illusory, at best,
at worst, the failure of some cosmic test.