Sonnettics

Beneath the lake of god I slept for years
until my flesh was cold enough to feel
the heat within my veins, and heated tears
became a revelation to reveal.
Beneath the lake of god I heard the voice
of all the prophets’ dim and distant cries.
I dropped the book, a solitary choice,
and in my lightened state began to rise.
Then through the lake of god, its waters clear,
I rose and noticed suddenly how deep
the water was, and though I didn’t fear,
I wondered what had kept me fast asleep.
And as I broke the surface of the lake
I felt the air, the breath that I could take.

Alone seeps in through frosted window panes
when Christmas Day has melted into slush,
slid halfway down the drive then froze again,
the night not half as silent as the hush
of hearts that should be warmer than the coals
still buried in the ashes of the wood
that burned as brightly as our childish souls
when we unwrapped our presents.  When we stood
inside September’s kiss of final heat
and thought that it was spring, we both were fooled.
There comes a time when seasons don’t repeat.
Decembers are the passions which have cooled.
One wind that whispers now: “I should have known,”
seeps in through frosted window panes, alone.

It spins, it spins, the package from her hand,
chaotic arcs described by slender reeds
of pasta, dropping out beyond command
of reason; this is not what Candace needs.
One reach, one slip, too many to contain
an oblong, cardboard box that bears a small
inspection window, masked with cellophane.
She knows it’s gone; she knows she can’t recall
spaghetti as it skitters ‘cross the floor.
She slides to the linoleum and pulls
her knees into her chest, the cupboard door
is firm against her back, spaghetti lulls
her mind into a place of sobbing cries
while scattering before her wild eyes.

We left the doors between the rooms unlocked,
then drowned in our delicious reveries,
until the prompt attendant promptly knocked
and left us precious little time to seize.
We dripped with parts-per-billion on our skin,
the sediments from deep within the ground.
I opened both the doors; you let me in,
then melted as I wrapped myself around
your warmth. I felt the water on your face
as I leaned in to kiss and kiss you twice,
solidified within your moist embrace,
you tasted sweet, and sweetness will suffice.
Remind me why it took me twenty years
and Saratoga’s springs to drown my fears.

Forget prosperity and let them break
my teeth on gravel stones, remove my soul
from peace and peaceful places.  Let them take
my strength and hope and leave me with my gall.
I am a poet and if I do not
lament I can’t rejoice.  My god!  My god!
I’ll tell you of a secret, holy spot
where everything I write is sanctified.
Take 36th to Park and find the crack
that stretches from the sidewalk to the curb.
You’ll find a wooden bench that’s painted black
to hide the scars and stains which might disturb
the souls who wait impatiently, not us
who know that there will be another bus.

At 2 a.m. obscurity arrives
to frost my winter windows when I sigh.
It comes to mock the hope which still survives
in distant summers where the sparrows fly.
A brevity of rain at 2:01
descends to earth, like passion drawn to sin.
The night regrets the absence of the sun
when cold obscurity has settled in.
A songless voice compels my soul to sing.
No, that’s a lie.  Forget that; it’s a lie.
The voice is not compulsion; it’s a sting.
I choose my own response. I choose to cry.
And now I wonder what it was I heard.
Can beauty be so easily obscured?

The splinters of my joy are buried deep
within the swollen flesh around my heart,
whose pulse contains the strength I need to keep
the painful shards from cutting it apart.
My blood congeals; the pressure is intense.
To breathe, it seems, might cause me to explode
into a shock of splintered recompense,
in payment for a debt I never owed.
Success today!  I managed to extract
the smallest piece of all my wooden joy,
the closest to my heart to be exact,
the one I thought most likely to destroy
my soul, and now I hold it in my hand,
and now I know this isn’t what I’d planned.

We stand on fertile ground with seeds in hand.
The constant sun continues day to day.
The rain has promised moisture to the land,
and still we hold our seeds in some delay.
We’ve harvested these fertile fields before;
our oldest legends speak of our success.
From meagre means we’ve managed something more
than simple sustenance and fruitfulness.
Dominion of the earth compels our pride
to godly heights above this fruitful field.
We hesitate because we must decide
today how much this goodly earth can yield.
And if our choice is wrong, we fail and die.
Are seeds of wisdom in such short supply?

I spend my time erasing similes,
which fail to mark the depth of what I feel.
I feel as gray as graphite in its pleas
for words of color, words which might reveal
how far beyond the whiteness of the page
my blood might raise the hue of what I write.
Each simile erased conceals the rage
of passion unexpressed, my inner fight.
I fight myself, my feelings, word for word.
I justify the purpose of my song,
when all I want is simply to be heard
by anyone who cares to sing along.
At times I press so hard the pencil breaks
like every simile my mind forsakes.