Sonnettics

I want to gather grapes among the thorns—
A fool, I know; I know I am a fool.
And yet, as surely as a mother mourns
Her children’s deaths, though death is but a tool,
I want to gather figs in tangled vines.
I think I hear the workers start to sing;
I think I hear them singing sacred lines
From something that I wrote. I want to bring
The grapes, the figs, the children, and the song—
A foolish gift to leave before the tomb.
I want to claim my right to do what’s wrong,
But find my world’s contracted to this room,
This room where all I do is read and write;
I’ve locked myself inside, now comes the night.

I passed the turn and ventured further on
Because my legs denied the older pace.
The spring in which I ran I thought was gone,
Although that didn’t seem to be the case.
The spring had come again as springs will do;
But still the memory of snow was there.
It chased my run, but I was chasing too,
The memories of future springtime air:
The taste of mist that rises from the road;
The smell of newborn leaves within the wood;
The verve that fills my lungs as I explode,
And know that springs to come will be as good.
And faster than the thought I stretched my run
Into another mile toward the sun.

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

The house was cold; I didn’t have much time.
I always picked the chair within the draft.
It punctuated reverie like rhyme.
I cried and cried and cried until I laughed.
The snow had drifted heavy on the west,
And flickered in the wind beneath the lamp.
I felt that I had failed some crucial test.
Although my clothes un-froze, they still felt damp.
The distant voice of love cried distant words,
And touched my broken soul without effect.
It might have been that I was reassured,
Or simply marked the absence of neglect.
And still today the house is bitter cold;
No longer middle-aged, I’m now quite old.

At times the trail was beautiful and bright;
At times the trail was beautiful and dark.
I placed my feet wherever it was right,
And only felt the softness of their mark.
The spots of mud were not un-beautiful
Where, as I barreled down the wooded trail,
I kept my eyes on where my feet would fall
Precisely to ensure they wouldn’t fail.
My eyes, my feet, my heart, my lungs, my breath,
My calves, my thighs, my ankles, and my knees
All tuned to keep my body on the path
While just my spirit flew within the trees
And felt the pain of freedom as I ran,
As only freedom’s captive truly can.

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

My aspirations wear a pair of shoes
That live in symbiosis with my feet
They breathe and pulse; they absolutely move
When faced with miles and miles of empty streets.
My aspirations shake me from my bed
When dawn is still a dream or two away
Much more than dreams, they’re hunger to be fed
They’re deeds to do much more than words to say.
And when they’re faced with hills to climb, they climb
As if they’re lifting morning to the sun
With rising strength their task becomes sublime
As simple as an early morning run.
And as the morning sun erupts in fire
I feel the warmth of all that I aspire.

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

I ran too far down Pompey Hollow Road,
Too far beyond the turn I’d planned to take.
The fields I passed were summer-green, un-mowed;
Though soon, I knew, they’d feel the blade and rake.
I ran too far without a proper plan
Of double socks or anything to drink,
Aware a crow was watching as I ran,
And wondered what the midnight bird must think
To see a man lose water through his sweat,
And smell the desperation on his skin
As desperately he sucks his shirt to get
Whatever moisture he can gather in.
But in the end I smiled at all I’d done
In fifteen miles of just a ten mile run.

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

I know the air is thin and yet I run
up City Creek, a paltry, trickling thread
that’s carved a canyon through the dusty dun
of dirt and rock and grass that’s sun-baked dead.
Surprised my breath suffices for the climb,
for all the years I’ve lived so far below,
I let my breath proceed in its own time,
My feet and legs as fast as they will go.
And in the sterile air I find the life
that justifies itself in slender hope.
I find an easy path through barren strife,
and feel myself go smoothly up the slope.
And as I turn to mark my summit’s end,
I feel my spirit rise as I descend.

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

My will is set to run around the lakes
four times.  I start with half my normal stride
to test my strength, alleviate mistakes
of carelessness, impatience, or of pride.
This time I’ve brought my water, though it’s cool;
I know twelve miles will take their toll of thirst.
So rather than to be again a fool,
I’ve come in preparation for the worst.
And though I’ve chosen shoes that feel too big,
and though I’ve chosen socks that feel too thin,
and though I can’t avoid each stone or twig,
and though it’s not a race to lose or win,
I run to my redemption with a will
that makes it seem like time is standing still.

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

The road expresses hardness through my feet,
the bones of which it mocks for where they’ve run
along the softer trails, devoid of heat,
the road absorbing nothing but the sun.
I push the road; it pushes fiercely back
in jealousy, I think, for my neglect.
Or else its soul is also hardened, black
and doesn’t give a damn what I expect.
The goals I’ve set bounce off the sun-baked tar
and slowly shuffle lamely on the side.
My preparations only go so far
as someone stops to offer me a ride.
And with a heavy sigh and bones that ache,
I’ve given all, but still the road can take.

There stands the Man in portraiture sublime,
defined by someone more concerned with light,
like some poor poet more concerned with rhyme,
like Simon’s hand was more concerned with sleight.
It’s not the truth, which means it is a lie,
a lie that’s frozen fast, then mass produced.
A labor sure to catch the passing eye,
and yet it’s forced, a labor that’s induced.
There stands a man in reverie, in doubt,
who sees and yet he doesn’t see it all.
Subliminal, he feels the portrait’s drought,
reveals the blankness covering the wall.
And so he leaves; and so the wall remains
with nothing but the nothing it contains.