Sonnet XX: Of What Loss

Of what loss is there to a faded youth,
that childhood has left my mind long ago,
any woe or joy which may have been truth,
but wisps of wind to the age I now know;
of what loss felt to its onset as keen,
to have travelled far, yet forgotten trails,
or to lose vision of all I have seen,
yet, ignorance blessed, know not of my fails;
of what loss do I miss, what pained regret,
for that which had no means for present day,
nor that which cannot be found whole, as yet,
but perhaps, in some participle way;
of what loss is there to nothing at all,
how regret that which I cannot recall.

 

Spare Me

Spare me, I am afraid;
not of death or dying,
not of age or ending,
but of becoming less,
of losing my faculties,
of fading into the dim,
where I would but sleep,
not in quiet slumber,
but distant of mind,
‘ere thoughts unravel,
‘ere memory break,
not with loss of youth,
but with feign recall;
for not to remember
song of whippoorwill,
or phases of the moon,
or taste of ripe plums;
then, ’tis burdensome,
this age, once pleasured,
which has now become
the ending I feared;
spare me this madness,
that my mind is still,
that hands yet grasp,
that eyes connect me
to the world I still see,
tho’ cannot set to lyric;
is there nothing more,
that I may need recall,
tho’ without shadow,
yet stay upon this earth,
and pray, lose myself
among countless stars.

 

Sonnet XIX: Show Me Once More

Show me that once ardent reach of your hand,
the way you would beckon for my approach,
when your aching need was at my command,
and your lush submission, beyond reproach;
show me that smile, ’twas at once brave and shy,
the way your eyes would alight when I called,
when your smile was a gift of brighter sky,
and if e’er dimmed, then would sky be appalled;
show me that soft glow in your liquid eyes,
the reflection of your youthful aware,
when e’en your deepest gaze could break with sighs,
but only yours, as abandon would dare;
show me how you once cried in reverie,
that I may bear fond tears in memory.

 

Having Come To This

Hold me to my word, I pray you,
for the facts which I extol are true,
tho’ no version of my tale be told
with the exacting of its making,
as there was certain enchantment
which was then delayed by youth,
as only now, may be imparted well,
by virtue of more mature retelling;
I chanced to meet an inspiring man,
one of maturity and of vibrant fold,
he was, I recall, a tenured professor
of ancient texts and philosophies,
he introduced to me valued script,
the works of the historic masters
whose wisdoms surpass all known;
thus, enlightened beyond measure,
I began a trek of grand proportions,
one which led me then to my fate,
a constant student of the mind;
for that turn of enlightenment,
I altered my path toward the arts,
not his methods, but by example;
here I’ve been, engaging my mind,
and surmising the purpose of it all,
that, in my mind, I have the answers,
and now, better understand myself.

 

Sonnet XVIII: Beauty, Thou Art Made

When the gods made you, they cried bitter tears,
for they ne’er again achieved such beauty,
as with your eyes, and the wealth of your years,
and your lips, so attuned to their duty;
your glow, unfathomed e’en by the moon,
no light has e’er shown as bright as your gaze,
how soft your delight should ne’er come too soon,
as with your smile, rose lips of blissful ways;
and of countenance, your form is divine,
no grand master of e’en the finest art
could e’er match your curves, nor sculpt your design,
no earthly fire could match that of your heart;
’tis by the gods that you love only me,
I am e’er in love, as e’er love should be.

 

Sonnet XVII: Resurgence

How filled with joy, my soul begins again,
I breathe fresh air, walk proudly on my own,
tho’ still pondering life which could have been,
I shall gladly live a wandering roan;
leaving behind that sorrow yet to unfold,
I strive forth again to follow the sun,
and before I commit to sights untold,
I shall, in part, make mountains come undone;
with bold stride and spirit guide for my feet,
I shall reach the farthest edge of the sky,
‘ere I’ll call the wind, and beg that we meet,
so I may spread my wings again, and fly;
I grieve no more, and thus forsake anger,
rather, now I live, and breathe in languor.

 

Sonnet XVI: By Your Leave

No spread of years could encompass your age,
e’en with the grandest tide of ocean’s flow
could not with bartered time e’er turn your page,
not in such ocean swell would fate e’er show;
no one knew what you sacrificed that day,
in that chasm, lost, ‘ere too, I would fall,
but by your hand, the ocean had its fray,
and in your eyes, your final gaze, my call;
how shall earth relieve, if not by your will,
shall I dare separate myself from love,
for e’er pleasured task, ’twas our wanton thrill,
which ne’er have I now strength to rise above;
now stained on earth by memory alone,
I have but breath, stilled heart, and less, my home.

 

Dear Brother Moon

The night is cold, dear brother Moon;
let me slumber a while ‘neath your glow,
tho’ borrowed from the winter sun,
it may comfort the chill of falling snow.

I’ve grown so old, dear brother Moon;
let me rest my bones within your smile,
that I may find youthful countenance,
and be the man I was o’er many a mile.

My tale is told, dear brother Moon;
let me freshen my memory this night,
that I may regale a newly made story,
and once more, hold you sweetly alight.

 

Sonnet XV: Do Not Mark My Grave

Do not mark my grave with this polished stone,
dare not sing for me in mourned epitaph,
for I shall not be oblivion’s roan,
and shan’t in dark, cry, but in light, shall laugh;
Do not seal my fate with waned mortal worth,
for I shall speak to gods to gain favor,
and by their leave, stay on this pleasured earth,
for it has kept me well, as I savor;
dare not exhume this patch of earth for me,
’til I have truly breathed my final breath,
for when I have done all, and cease to be,
only then, shall I take the hand of Death;
let me stay in light, and remain undone,
for my life is kind, and close to the sun.

 

Sonnet XIV: The Intimacy Of Death

Death’s an intimacy not oft implored,
’tis rare to die in accurate conscious,
yet when one meets such an end, as reward,
it may be less somber, and more vicious;
Death has, in its caress, such vibrant woe,
only for the purpose of its making,
while in its design, Death is a willow,
merely shading the dying from waking;
Death calls to its lair those fortuned to live,
as well as those who had no life at all,
and when brother Time has no more to give,
Death accepts both furnished and unclad thrall;
’tis intimate to die with open mind,
a moment I’ll attend, fully defined.