Sonnettics

When all the tea is gone I wonder who
will bring me more? I’m not as old as you
might think, and yet my legs don’t work as well
as when I made this cup, this cup, this frail
remaining cup that’s half a pair. I made
this cup. You thought I meant the tea? I made
that too. But now it’s of the cup I speak–
and of the tea–although you see how weak
I am. As weak as this remaining tea
in this remaining cup. You see? You see
how weak the tea, the cup, I am? Its mate
fell to the floor and shattered there. It’s late.
I only wondered who might bring me more
to drink. My tea. My cup. Before, before . . .

It hurts to rise; the house is cold.  The day,
the week, the month have been as cruel as ice
that cracks the sill to let new drafts betray
my age. Arthritic wind feels like a knife.
And yet I rise.  The howl of misery
compels the aching shuffle of my feet
to throb across the room in agony.
What screeches like my joints out in the street?
I know before I hurt myself to rise,
and die in cold denial for my sake,
what scene the frosted window now denies;
I feel my ancient heart begin to break.
It hurts to drop in sorrow to the floor
as softly comes the knock upon my door.

You bear the only words I want to write
by brief encounters in eternity.
The moment I declare my final plight,
you clear my mind of all futility.
You touch the depth of passion in my soul
like light reflecting to the farthest reach
of some colossal cave of self-control
where caverns echo far with frozen speech.
Rise up, you say, without a word or sound.
Rise up and drink the water which we share
in pools of dreams and visions of the past.
The present drowns my senses everywhere
in warmth.  The future rushes at me fast.
Through caves of time these rivers find their flow
accelerated by the melting snow.

Confused at how the room is shaped to touch
the fervent heat of canvas splashed with hue,
I weep at distant emptiness; so much
is on display for oh-so-fucking-few.
Withdrawn into the warmth of silent stares
which fade into the silence of the walls,
I weep again; I’m just a fool who dares
believe he understands.  What fucking balls!
Duplicitous dichotomies assault
my senses in a wave of higher art.
My visions crack the floor, become the fault
that tears the room around me well apart.
Then as my body falls in ravaged heat,
I feel my spirit, suddenly complete.

My hopes have all retreated to the place
where they were hidden well before you came:
before I knew the beauty of your face,
before I felt the softness of your name.
The place is small; my hopes fit in it well
along with my desires and my dreams;
outside of it, a spacious living hell
has blossomed in the world, or so it seems.
At night I curl as tightly as I can
into a ball of weak, defeated flesh,
protectively enveloping the man
with whom you used to warmly inter-mesh.
The end of my defense is where I start
to fortify that little place, my heart.

Our paths converge on roads we often run
alone.  We run alone until we meet
a friend.  At times the strides of two are one,
and partnerships evolve on lonely streets.
There’s time to speak as miles are passed away
in friendship that is forged from step to step,
and times when we have nothing more to say;
yet silent cadence brings a sweeter depth
to friends, to partners, sharing life and pain.
Our paces mark the seasons, year to year.
We run through searing heat and soothing rain;
we run together long enough to hear
the rise and fall of breath, the beating heart
we miss when paths diverge and we must part.

The climb is still the climb; the mountain looms
above the plank of barren steppes.  The sky
is creased with orange sunset.  Subtle plumes
of clouds in crisp and bitter blue imply
that god is still dividing firmaments;
at least god’s portion lingers in the air.
God’s equity has never made much sense
to anyone who’s ever said a prayer
of hope, when there is nothing in their throat
but dry and empty words.  All words are vain.
Such prayers of hopeless vanity denote
a soul trapped in a mind that’s gone insane,
which hears, halfway to heaven, angels sing
beside a long depleted mountain spring.