Sonnettics

I want to place my lips upon your scar
and let them linger there until they know
the shape, the depth of everything you are,
to bear a mark that shows and doesn’t show.
I want to feel the pulse that’s deeper still,
that feeds the living mark upon your skin.
And with my lips reveal the living will
that wants to be let out, to be let in.
I want my kiss to be a healing touch
whenever it is pressed upon the place
of opening and closing, very much.
In this would be my everything, my grace.
And when the moment comes, when it is clear
I’ll bathe your scar with just one single tear.

I felt the joy of morning as I held
you, smiling, while your mother watched and glowed
from just across the kitchen.  We compelled
her eyes to find her camera.  Morning slowed
the way all scenes of love and beauty do.
And you, my child, were more than love and more
than beauty.  In her picture we were two
of God’s most happy children.  I adored
the way you pouted just to share my juice;
you pulled my hands and arms ’til I gave up.
I laughed until my laughter was the truce
that sealed your triumph, capturing the cup!
You kissed me then; your baby kiss was sweet.
No broken fast was ever more complete.

You’ve come to watch me bleed? Well, grab a seat.
Get comfortable; enjoy yourself.  Why not.
I’ve already conceded my defeat;
you might as well see what your ticket bought.
You might enjoy a beverage.  Some of mine?
It’s vinegar and blood, a nasty cup.
I’ll see if I can find your favorite wine.
I’m just a little dizzy; don’t get up.
I know it’s such a mess, this bloody trail.
You didn’t need to follow; I’ll be fine.
Wait here, I’ll fetch a mop and fill a pail.
If you should slip the fault would all be mine.
So watch me bleed, a lonely thing to do.
I know!  Why not invite a friend or two.

The lamp is on, but Candace is asleep:
too many clothes to wash, too many sighs.
The light does not decide which shadows keep
her face in weary blankets of disguise.
It draws forgotten energy in waves,
in years that fold themselves on buried years.
The lamplight reads itself the book of days
while Candace dreams of unremitting tears.
At three-oh-one she rolls above the ash
of burned-out sleep and switches off the light.
She lays awake ’til five-fifteen; the crash
of weariness is merciless. The night
completes itself by sighing at the sun;
the darkness of the day has just begun.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Candace Wastes Energy

Determination rubs his weary face
and tucks himself into a spartan bed.
He marks another day devoid of grace,
whose victory is just that he’s not dead.
He sinks into his mired dreams of Joy
while dragging all her memories behind,
a convocation summoned to employ
their gravity upon his weary mind.
While Joy, that bitch sublime, is still awake
and dancing like a fool before some stage;
she grinds and screams, a tease, a whore, a fake,
while acting like she’s only half her age.
Tonight some stupid boy will hike her skirt,
determined to control the faithless flirt.

The ecstasies of leche softly dawn
into the awe of memories of you,
while warmth and subtle sweetness linger on,
complete with the emotions they imbue.
One kiss released the passion of your breast
and nourished mouth and tongue and starving soul.
And now, a goddess by your gift expressed,
by ecstasies of tenderness made whole.
The child I gave you, gave you milk to bear
to nourish her, your living memory
of love we found a loving way to share,
expressed in warm and tender ecstasy.
And you, and I, and she are now complete
by more than just these memories, soft and sweet.

My rosary, restrung, is in my hand,
unsure of the intent of my embrace.
I whisper to its silent reprimand:
Hail Mary, Holy Mother full of Grace.
The words are wrong, but maybe she will hear
my desperate plea for peace. Hail Mary, please
restring my soul; I’m lost, alone, obscure . . .
I’m searching for my beads on bleeding knees.
Oh Father, oh my Father, hallowed be
Thy name. I have forgotten. What is mine?
My name is broken heart and misery,
devoid of my inheritance divine.
What was, what is and always what will be.
Will this world never end? Oh, set me free!

Audio of Scott Ennis reading My Rosary.

It’s time to shuffle through the lonely space
of house too big to fill with phantom noise.
The buzz of silence sings an empty grace,
unsure of hallelujahs it employs
a steady hum that draws me room to room
in one uninterrupted, conscious flow,
afraid to stop for fear it won’t resume.
It’s nothing; it’s the only thing I know.
I won’t deny I’m crazy, not tonight.
Her ghost was here but now it’s gone.  It’s gone.
It floated where I shuffle, through the light,
and disappeared like darkness in the dawn.
My ears are blind from straining at the hum
of silence in the hope that she will come.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Lucidity Lost.

The melancholy rain that coats the road
in shining darkness kills me cold and hard.
I shake like autumn’s leaves as they explode
behind the blast of wheels.  The night is scarred
by eyes that only see the glossy sheen
of life reflected in the mirror’s shine.
Co-mingled with the rain, the blood is clean;
the stain of life, the stain of death are mine.
I’m trying not to gasp too loud for breath
as shock proceeds to numb the blinding pain.
I’ve never felt this cold in any death
I’ve died before in melancholy rain.
My pulse, my pulse is all I seem to hear;
I thought the angels’ songs would be more clear.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Struck.

The shock of glass exploding on the floor
and bleeding water dripping from each shard
mark time by this meridian before
and after by the danger we regard:
exposed to dying flowers, violent ends
cut once, cut twice, will not be cut a third.
No lover will receive of these amends
which everyone now present will have heard.
Don’t cry for little losses; cry for help
to clean with broom and mop this little mess.
These little tragedies, keep to yourself
as broken petals keep their tenderness.
They’ll soon be long forgotten, in the waste,
and by another soon will be replaced.

Video of Scott Ennis reading Dropped