Sonnettics

My nights are filled with metaphoric dreams
They flood my sleep with hopes in which I drown
They’re flooded by what once were little streams
And hopeful tides arise as I sink down

I tread such nights within my nightmare fits
I’d swim, but there’s no land within my sight
I wish my dreams were nothing more than bits
Of similaic rain on stormy nights

I toss and turn within poetic seas
My words are waves that mock my gentle bed
Poseidon never hears my simple pleas
He only seems to want me cold and dead

And so I write my dreams in lyric verse
Like little songs I’m waking to rehearse.

Iraq is more than just a fertile land,
Where writing’s birth on tablets may be seen
The Tigris and Euphrates make the the sand
Which wind and water move to keep all clean

Cuneiformic words remain today
To tell how long Iraq has given life
The words may change, but still their meanings stay
With truth and beauty, Sumer’s words are rife

The sand is also wet with sweat and blood
They mix as they evaporate with heat
They linger in the clouds until the flood
Of justice comes to make their gift complete

Within the skies of fertile lands remains
The gift of liberty in healing rains.

The spirits at Bull Run seem glad to see
Our pack of Fat-ass runners on their trails
We know the Blues and Grays of history
Who punctuate this land with solemn tales
Our Fat-ass run may start our day with pain
And yet, our pain is filled with vibrant joy
The spirits know they didn’t die in vain
Their memory is power we employ
They lived and fought and died that we might run
That all might run, regardless of their skin
And though our race is over, we’ve begun
To show the world that everyone can win!
The spirits of the Fat-ass runners stay
At Bull Run, with the spirits, Blue and Gray.

VHTRC Website

The leaves at Leesylvania mark the trails
Like decoupage that changes as we walk
Through forests where the art of life prevails
As leaves decay in unison, en bloc
Some leaves don’t ever want to leave their tree
They only see the winter, not the spring
I wish they knew what life their fall would be
And then, perhaps, they’d know their song, and sing
Potomac tides persist as forests grow
And though their leaves may wash into the sea
One day their water will return and flow
Through roots and trunks like now, eternally
While leaves at Leesylvania lay like art
They mark the paths eternity will start.

Descartes believed he was because he thought
I wonder if he thought because he was
My TBI occurred and I forgot
To blame my brain for thinking like it does
Like bringing thoughts of old René to mind
I think, therefore Descartes must think I am
But if I’m not, René will come to find
A flood of thoughts that burst his little dam!
I have a TBI, therefore I am
Philosophy’s a love that’s gone to waste
Epistemology is just a dram
Of medicine we take in thoughtful haste
But since I took my time with what I knew
“I feel, therefore I am,” is much more true.

Sanguinis Christi’s bottle shattered here
Where sinner’s feet scuff by in filthy haste
There’s nothing for the masses to revere
There’s only broken glass and bits of waste
And yet, the glass reflects the purest light
Though it may never hold his blood again
One sinner’s spirit sees a different sight
A master of mosaic, finding Zen
He takes each piece within his humble art
He washes each with water, makes them clean
The shards of each and every broken part
To build the beauty only he has seen
From this, Sanguinis Christi’s shattered form
Iconic art becomes the master’s norm.

Another day is spent too far apart
And yet our hearts can feel each other, near
More close than beauty ever comes to art
Or warmth and wetness comes to every tear
And yes, although my tears are warm and wet
When I can feel your heart so far away
I love to feel the love I can’t forget
I love to write the words I want to say
You bring me peace and beauty, strength and grace
Within my gentle dreams with joys of life
Like cheerfulness illuminates your face
I love to bring my dreams to you, my wife
Our hearts can be together, in our dreams
Eternity is closer than it seems

True, sand is small, but causes oysters pain
It finds its way into an oyster’s heart
Although it may be just a tiny grain
Intrusion means a precious pearl will start
To oysters, sand is small, and yet it’s rough
And so they coat the sand with something smooth
The layers of their coating is enough
To blanket little blemishes, and soothe
The oyster’s pain; it’s how a pearl is made
From something small that causes such great pain?
Will sand embark on such an escapade?
Or does the oyster seek the tiny grain?
If pain can cause a precious pearl to form
Perhaps my pain is just a sandy storm.

Still lovers, though we’ve never seen La Seine
Potomac lovers, where her waters run
Through little, forest streams that start with rain
That grow in warmth like trees beneath the sun
Our love together grows like every tree
Beside the runs that feed Potomac’s flow
Beside you here is where I want to be
Where love, like trees, will always want to grow
I know they say La Seine gives Paris love
I hope Parisians love their river’s grace
Potomac’s strength is what I’m dreaming of
I wouldn’t trade it for another place
The strength of lovers, by the river’s side
Can sense the pull of Love’s persistent tide.

This sonnet is an allusion to William Blake’s poem “Ah! Sunflower” which is one of the most beautiful, divine Poems in the English language.

First posted on March 28, 2011

The quietness of solitude’s divine
There’s beauty in the peace of holding still
Alone, I climb my mountains, where I pine
The noise of my desire proclaims my chill
Arising from my grave, I wish to go
Where Ah! Sunflower counts the steps she takes
She said, “I love you.” I replied, “I know.”
But now my heart despises my mistakes
Before I was reborn, before I died
The life I lived, I’ve learned, was fraught with pain
Inflicted by that chill that I deride
The damages have healed, but scars remain
That Golden Clime is where I want to be
It’s sweet and quiet, and it beckons me.

Recording of the short story, Ah! Sunflower

mp3 of the song Ah! Sunflower

William Blake : Ah! Sunflower

Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire;
Where my sunflower wishes to go.

William Blake (1757-1827) P. 1793