Sonnettics

Don’t fear my soul; I only need your trust
It doesn’t matter what your heart believes
My death was like a covering of rust
That coats metallic feelings love conceives
I saw the legions dig for gold in hell
I knew that death was only for the poor
I paid my tithe to Satan when I fell
I shook his hand, then walked through heaven’s door
Cold chardonnay compels my soul to sleep
Valerian implores my soul to dream
I want to give you something real to keep
Like coffee, warm and black, devoid of cream
My soul is yours, come take it with my heart
If life is real, I’ll give you any part.

1 Taste (gustaoception)

When I was young, I learned to like a lot
The first thing I remember is the taste
Of cookies that my grandma often brought
Such memories will never be replaced

Like language that conveys the sense of sweet
Expressions, grandma’s cookies take the cake
Although the other things I’d sometimes eat
Attacked my tongue like some profound mistake

As I grew up, I learned at least to try
The things I never knew I might enjoy
And often I’d discover, by and by
My tongue was just a tool I could employ

To taste the treasures hidden in each meal
Or else, disgusting flavors to reveal.

2 Touch (tactioception)
3 Sight (opthalmoception)
4 Smell (olfacoception)
5 Hearing (audioceptiom)
6 Motion or kinesthesia (proprioception)

A Proprioceptive Metaphor

February 11, 2011

I will my legs to move; I want to run
But damn, they move too slow to call it that
They’re healing still; I know they’re almost done
My nerves are still unsure of where they’re at
Whenever I decide to move them fast
I guess for now I’ll have to move them slow
At first they wouldn’t move at all; at last
They move the way I want my legs to go
And yet, proprioceptors of my heart
Are deaf to how I feel; I want to love
Like learning how to run, I’ll have to start
With baby-steps; it’s you I’m thinking of
I’ll take it slow, but baby, I will mend
My heart and how it loves; I need my friend.

7 Balance (equilibrioception)

Feeling Like Me Again

December 24, 2010

Unbalanced, I can feel my mind get light
I sculpt myself surreal each time I wake
I hear the sound of chips, both wrong and right
And hope the hammered chisel will not break
If I should strike a diamond, it would be
Analogous to nothing but my heart
On either side my lungs could set me free
The diamond will not break, it holds my art
I only need to let my lungs reveal
the knowledge of the beauty they have felt
By breathing and by centering I’ll feel
myself the way I was before life dealt
a shitty hand by injuring my brain
I’ll feel my peace and calm; I won’t feel pain.

8 Acceleration (kinesthesioception)
9 Time (chronoception)

My Chronoception

October 6, 2011

My chronoception seems a little off
Eternity has come to be a time
At which I can no longer blithely scoff
Sweet steps to count in that sweet golden clime
It takes forever now to write a line
A simple line of poetry, like this
I wonder if there is some Grand Design
Or if I’ll ever feel Sunflower’s kiss
I know it’s just a fragment of my mind
The part that suffered injury last year
It’s not the way my life will be defined
It’s just a little inconvenient fear
Time keeps sixty minutes every hour
Let’s keep Time locked up within his tower.

10 Temperature (thermoception)
11 Pain (nociception)
12 Beauty (aesthetoception)

June 19, 2011

The greatest things I strive for must be real
Superlatives are only what I seek
All things I touch, or see, or hear, or feel
Must go beyond the simple words I speak
Let’s call the sum of heart and mind, my soul
It helps to set a universal stage
It doesn’t mean we have complete control
But lets us start upon a common page
I want the best, the greatest life to live
And thus, I think I know the path to choose
I need to find the gift that I would give
The gift that I would never want to lose
The gift called Beauty is the greatest great
It’s only Beauty that the gods create.

Ironic that I find my thoughts deferred
from Shakespeare as the actors say their lines.
I listen to Ado, though Nothing’s heard
by my intents, except obscure designs.
Designs that come from somewhere I reside
when focused on my ankle’s metal screws.
And plates my scars obscure, okay they hide
designs of loss I hope I never lose.
Though Beatrice and Benedick may spar
with words that Shakespeare chose to mark his play
Their sound is near, although their wits are far
I miss the meanings of the things they say.
The irony of life is spoken clear
within the grand design I’ve come to hear.

What land of fruit and honey is complete
Without a place to make its treasured wine?
The Hive’s not just a place where wines are sweet
Their melomels and meads are both divine!

Divinity used water for the deed
Of making wine, a miracle, it’s true
And yet these vintners make their lucious mead
From honey and the fruit that grows here too!

When Deseret was founded, long ago
I wonder if the “saints” who planted trees
Suspected that the fruit that they would grow
Would mingle with the gold from honey bees

This land of fruit and honey is alive
With wine that’s made within this treasured Hive.

(SHE is Susanna Hope Ennis)

There’s no room for trapeze in utero
But liquid makes it easier to move
And so SHE jumps and twists, but doesn’t show
At least, not yet, SHE’s nothing yet to prove
A few more weeks of acrobatic feats
Until SHE joins the Ennis circus clan
A few more weeks in utero completes
Susanna Hope, according to our plan
But SHE still likes to push inside her mom
And turn to hide her face from ultrasound
At times SHE’s still, enraptured in the calm
Embrace of warmth inside where love is found
SHE’s welcome in our world and in our hearts
Where SHE will feel the thrill her life imparts!

I found a little place to sit and write
A coffee shop across from Weber State
Their coffee is the best I’ve had, in spite
Of living in Seattle. Yes, it’s great!

Their cupcakes compliment their caffeine brew
Of course no coffee ever was complete
Without a cake-ly crumb to savor too
Their cake-ly crumbs make coffee taste so sweet!

But wait, don’t get me started on their soup
What, cupcakes served with coffee’s not enough?
When hunger strikes, I come here to regroup
Their kitchen’s filled with tons of tasty stuff!

If homework ever makes me want to roam
Then Cafe Ville Bella brings me home.

This cheese is more than just a golden spike
And yet, they call it Promontory too
It’s made at Beehive Cheese; this cheese I like
A cheddar full of flavor pure and true

It’s won awards from sea to shining sea
It’s won awards around the world and back
This cheese is what a cheese was meant to be
This cheese deserves its own cross-country track!

I know they joined the tracks to bridge the land
I wonder if they knew this cheese would come
Or if this cheese was more than they had planned
It’s calling you and me; let’s go get some!

To both the brothers down at Beehive Cheese
Keep making Promontory Cheddar, please!

A cóрок (Russian 40)

I chose to write this story in this format of 40 lines to honor the Russian cóрок (sorok.)
In Russian folklore, some Russians believe that ghosts of the dead linger near the site of their death for forty days.
I also composed this poem with the lines and stanzas written in the Pushkin Sonnet, or Onegin Stanza of tetrameter.
The rhyme scheme is also different from traditional sonnets:
ababccddeffegg
Rather than just 3 quatrains followed by a couplet, I composed this poem with 3 sets of 3 quatrains followed by 2 sets of 2 couplets.

The story of the Golden Cherub

A golden cherub is saved by Natalya in St. Petersburg from being destroyed by the Germans during WWII.

She promises the golden cherub to the poet who can preserve it through his poetic medium.

3 poets attempt to preserve the golden cherub with their art.

Natalya gets ill and dies before she can bestow the gift.

Natalya’s ghost lingers in St. Petersburg for 40 days.

The poets argue over who won.

The golden cherub is returned to St. Petersburg* and displayed in the Hermitage.

Natalya’s ashes are scattered in the Neva.

——–
Prologue
——–

She sought to make its beauty last
A baby angel, made of gold
At times time seemed to go too fast
It warmed her heart in winter’s cold

Their bombs destroyed her city’s pride
She kept it safe, and tried to hide
The baby angel, made of gold
That warmed her heart in winter’s cold

To make its gold forever shine
She sought a poet who would write
With words that always would be bright
His prize would be its gold, divine
——–
Poet 1

When dangers come, will darkness last
Or disappear within your gold
Will winters we’ve endured, be past
And will your warmth replace our cold?
——–
Poet 2

Don’t disappear; don’t even hide
We feel your beauty, deep inside
Angelic hands and heart of gold
Reveal the story we’ve foretold
——–
Poet 3

Cherubic beauty, grace divine
Compel with gold, the words I write
Reflect my words with priceless light
Beyond my poem’s mere design
——–
The siege was where disease was sewn
The fruit of illness fell as death
Before the winner’s name was known
Natalya gave her final breath

The cóрок saw Natalya’s ghost
Beside her grave, the Baltic coast
She sang within the winds of time
Without poetic words or rhyme

And on the shore the poets sat
And argued who had won the prize
They knew their words could not disguise
The fate their words could not combat

The Angel’s gold would never fade
Within the Hermitage displayed

Natalya’s ashes, with her fame
Enhance the river Neva’s name.

*Leningrad

The eyes are not the windows of the soul
Ask anyone who’s ever been near death
Sight’s sense burns out when one has lost control
And only lives by autonomic breath
The ears remain awake in coma’s shade
Though ears do not admit the gold of light
No human form exists with windows made
To show the soul through simple sound or sight
So what shall we with metaphors extol?
What sense should be apprised above the rest?
Can words describe the sanctum of the soul?
What part fills some superlative like best?
The words I write are windows, read and see
They say the Word is God, and I agree.

I scanned the state for amber waves of grain
But all I saw was verdant fields of corn
The road was long, but I could not complain
It seemed like this was where deep green was born
The birth and growth of food to feed the world
Is like a shining sea, within my land
The leaves and stalks are living flags, unfurled
The fill the artist’s eyes and farmer’s hand
I know the purple mountains lie ahead
Beneath the spacious skies, where beauty reigns
For now I’ll stick with Iowa, instead
And write about her wide and fruited plains
I scanned the state and marveled at her charm
Much more than just a road, a field, or farm.