Sonnettics

If I could cup my hand behind your neck
and lay you down to rest, curled in my lap.
I’d have no expectation but the feel
of soft hair in my steady hand. You’d sleep;
I’d sing until your eyes were closed, your breath
was deep.  My only expectation then
would be to stare my love into your dreams.
You’d go to peaceful places void of all
the expectations in the mundane world.
And once your soul and body found the rest
they need, I’d watch you wake; I’d stroke your hair.
My final expectation then would be
to see the blue I know within your eyes
and touch my lips upon your waking lips.

Are you the one who’s come to take me back
to all the places where I may have been
when I was young, before I felt the lack
of love I longed for time and time again?
And in those places of my former youth
will you be there to soothe me when I cry
while overcome by nothing but the truth,
and hold my hand as days and nights go by?
The truth that life is full of emptiness
will light the night like half a waning moon,
and I will need your simple tenderness
to keep my heart from darkening too soon.
And when I have to face the deep abyss,
I know I won’t return without your kiss.

Assure me once, then reassure my heart;
it’s not that we’ve forgotten how you love.
And oh, my dear, you know when we’re apart
assurances aren’t all I’m thinking of.
Your hair, my dear, is foremost on my mind.
Okay, okay, it isn’t just your hair;
it’s kissing it while we are intertwined.
I know, I know, to say so isn’t fair.
I’m sure your hair will linger like a scent,
and then your lips will take their rightful place,
both first and last in action and intent
as in my mind you turn to face my face.
And then I’ll feel that I’ve been reassured,
although you won’t have said a single word.

The strength of my serenity is weak;
the weakness of my love, a lonely gift.
The voice within my silence needs to speak
the words my heavy heart can’t seem to lift:
intensity is not my lover’s crime;
insanity is not my final cry;
futility is just a waste of time;
serenity must find the strength to try.
And if it fails, the moon has failed as well;
it wanes and disappears from earthly sight,
and yet unseen it casts a steady spell,
and oceans ebb and flow beneath its might.
And though at times I too may be unseen,
I’ll pull you back to me with love serene.

The night released the light of half a moon
as half her stars went rushing from the black
illuminated curtain, drawn too soon,
too late to pull the passion slowly back.
The clouds were burning slowly, but with flair.
An upward glance revealed unguarded bliss.
The canopy above a wooden stair,
descended for a final goodnight kiss.
Her perfume filled the darkness, deep and cool;
her hair was in the wind and in my mind.
I walked along a slope, beside a pool,
but only thought of beauty left behind.
While half a moon and half the stars revealed
a brighter love that could not be concealed.

I held my love and watched her fall asleep,
a wave of comfort washed across her soul.
Serenity became a shell to keep,
a treasure swept from heaven’s distant shoal.
I watched her dream of beaches, white and blue;
the rise and fall of footsteps marked her breath,
contented sighs, her stride was graceful too,
like one who walks through life not fearing death.
I watched her stop and choose a grain of sand;
she held it out and smiled an angel’s smile.
Here’s love, she said, and placed it in my hand,
then hand in hand we walked another mile.
And when she woke, she wiped away a tear.
I felt you there, she said. I felt you near.

She wants to drink me deeply in her thirst,
like walking through a desert to a spring,
at last to quench a passion which at first
had been denied of almost everything:
a mind that only wanted thoughts sublime,
a heart that only wanted love to share,
a soul that only wanted peaceful time,
a perfect body wanting one to dare.
And now she drinks me deeply, cool and sweet.
I love how she revives; I love her laugh.
To think that I have made my love complete,
in awe that I have found my other half.
And now I drink her deeply, sweet and cool;
we two are one, a fountain and a pool.

To mark the life I think I live, I write
Reflections of reflections in a lake
To mock my life the words I choose seem trite
Reflected only for reflection’s sake
The surface is disturbed by rippled waves
The soul below is buried in the mud
The most illusive poems are the graves
I dig to warm the cooling of my blood
Oh yes, I try to dig within the lake
You laugh to watch the water flood my work
I cry to see the ripples that I make
Obscure the place I think my soul may lurk
But laugh or cry in pity or in spite
I think, to mark the life I live, I write

I tried my best, like autumn’s auburn leaves
To cling to spring or summer if I could
But found that winter offered no reprieve
And learned that clinging doesn’t do much good

The roots, the trunk, the branch gave up at last
And doing so they left me little choice
Their need for me was somewhere in the past
And mine for them, a dry unheeded voice

The west wind blew and shook me from my place
The south wind felt just like my final sighs
The east wind was a slap across my face
The north wind froze the teardrops in my eyes

Old winter came without a joyful sound
And I was dead before I hit the ground

These roots will make me sway, but not collapse;
they melt the wisps of visions barely seen,
distill their plastic nature and perhaps
such distillations sharpen what they mean.
Encapsulated beauty, fattened kine,
a place to fish where fish should not be caught,
all symbolize intentions that are mine,
although they all escape my waking thoughts.
These roots do not inflict me with desire,
like alcohol’s ambition, nor its pain.
They have no need of water nor of fire,
Although they bring the sun and cleansing rain.
And though we dream within the sleep of death,
in these I count the coup of waking breath.