Sonnettics

My rosary, restrung, is in my hand,
unsure of the intent of my embrace.
I whisper to its silent reprimand:
Hail Mary, Holy Mother full of Grace.
The words are wrong, but maybe she will hear
my desperate plea for peace. Hail Mary, please
restring my soul; I’m lost, alone, obscure . . .
I’m searching for my beads on bleeding knees.
Oh Father, oh my Father, hallowed be
Thy name. I have forgotten. What is mine?
My name is broken heart and misery,
devoid of my inheritance divine.
What was, what is and always what will be.
Will this world never end? Oh, set me free!

Audio of Scott Ennis reading My Rosary.

It’s time to shuffle through the lonely space
of house too big to fill with phantom noise.
The buzz of silence sings an empty grace,
unsure of hallelujahs it employs
a steady hum that draws me room to room
in one uninterrupted, conscious flow,
afraid to stop for fear it won’t resume.
It’s nothing; it’s the only thing I know.
I won’t deny I’m crazy, not tonight.
Her ghost was here but now it’s gone.  It’s gone.
It floated where I shuffle, through the light,
and disappeared like darkness in the dawn.
My ears are blind from straining at the hum
of silence in the hope that she will come.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Lucidity Lost.

The melancholy rain that coats the road
in shining darkness kills me cold and hard.
I shake like autumn’s leaves as they explode
behind the blast of wheels.  The night is scarred
by eyes that only see the glossy sheen
of life reflected in the mirror’s shine.
Co-mingled with the rain, the blood is clean;
the stain of life, the stain of death are mine.
I’m trying not to gasp too loud for breath
as shock proceeds to numb the blinding pain.
I’ve never felt this cold in any death
I’ve died before in melancholy rain.
My pulse, my pulse is all I seem to hear;
I thought the angels’ songs would be more clear.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Struck.

The shock of glass exploding on the floor
and bleeding water dripping from each shard
mark time by this meridian before
and after by the danger we regard:
exposed to dying flowers, violent ends
cut once, cut twice, will not be cut a third.
No lover will receive of these amends
which everyone now present will have heard.
Don’t cry for little losses; cry for help
to clean with broom and mop this little mess.
These little tragedies, keep to yourself
as broken petals keep their tenderness.
They’ll soon be long forgotten, in the waste,
and by another soon will be replaced.

Video of Scott Ennis reading Dropped

I wish I knew how long this tiny hand
will cling to mine.  The lamplight overhead
reveals some fascinations which demand
investigation.  What was it she said?
She’s got her daddy’s legs. She’s right; they’re strong
enough to keep her balance on the line
between the light and shadow.  Is she wrong?
She falls into the light; the fault is mine.
I wiggle loose to see if she can stay
upright.  And yet she doesn’t seem to mind;
she crawls to her objective, straightaway.
She’s there and I am just a step behind.
She pauses to investigate, and then
she reaches up to take my hand again.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Walking With Jonathan

You trade your kiss; you give your kiss away
to any stranger you decide to own.
Pathetic whore! I love you more today
than any stranger you have ever known.
I hate you now, like water hates the light
and bends it when it penetrates too deep.
So beautiful beneath the lake tonight,
in peaceful darkness where you’ll sleep, you’ll sleep.
My bed, so warm to welcome you, your ghost,
the memory of you beneath the sheet.
I almost thought you loved me then, almost;
refraction makes the memory complete.
You loved me then; you love me now, you whore.
So beautiful, your kiss, I love you more.

The leaves are hazy green at six o’clock
with dusty specks of orange here and there,
all unobserved while I commenced my walk;
I only noticed once I lingered where
my thoughts desired a bench to stop and write,
emotions culminated in a song.
I sat; the colors clearly in my sight
seemed pale and washed where once they seemed as strong
and bright as every memory of blue
when sunrise washed the darkness from your eyes,
a smile I thought I knew, I thought I knew
now tinged in dusty memory’s disguise.
But as I sit in reverie serene,
I can’t deny the colors that I’ve seen.

Beneath the waves of dreams, without a sound
there may be life, or just the chance thereof.
The seas of sleep are deep where lost is found
below the glow of starry skies above.
Your thoughts begging to float or else to sink;
the current of the night comes rushing in,
the taste of salt in every word you think,
the taste of guilt without the taste of sin.
The moon has turned to blood and still it pulls
the tides which mark the memories, unmade,
while morning skies begin to fill with gulls
whose screams obscure and dreams begin to fade.
Then suddenly you’re tossed upon the sand
to find the world is not what you had planned.

This urge to flex my voice in lover’s tones
will atrophy in whispers of regret;
unspoken rhythms course within my bones
with words of strength I’ve started to forget.
They rise in slow vibrations through my chest
which fills with inhalations from my past.
And when they should be forcefully expressed
they fall in present heavy sighs, morassed.
What future words will rise when these are gone?
Are poets to be prophets of their own,
to linger where their echoes linger on
and flex their lover’s voices all alone?
I wonder then if anyone will hear
my words, my voice.  Am I not being clear?

It came, a pulse of ecstasy in pain,
as strong as the endorphins often do,
although it wasn’t chemical.  My brain
took note.  My spirit rose, and then it flew!
My legs affirmed their strength beneath my will
by holding to their cadence like a line
of soldiers trained to battle by a drill
which repetition helps them to refine.
It came as unexpected as the clouds
that brought the rain that cooled my salted skin.
It came more definite than cheering crowds,
a voice of confirmation from within.
It came before the race was even done,
that moment when I knew that I had won.