sonnet 76

you close your eyes and lose your sense of self;
your thought of who you are is what you see.
you fade into the background, slowly melt,
'til "you" could just as easily be "me."
your eyes spring open--did you grow afraid?
discomforted by what you could not sense?
could individuality not fade?
you must stay conscious of your existence?
it's such a shame that vision still needs sight,
that sense is needed for you to perceive.
you'll never learn to learn the way that's right
unless you cease to panic when sight leaves.
the secret is, the body cannot know
how far beyond the mind could truly go.

4/1/2010

sonnet 74

if everybody in the balcony
is texting, reading, doing sudoku,
what is this program meant to do for me?
it might have been intended more for you:
the folks on stage who speak in microphones
and want to think they make some difference.
each of us hundreds sitting here alone
might, if we paid attention, make some sense
of all the things you try to make us learn.
the front row only might have heads all raised,
in hopes that their attentiveness might earn,
from some adjacent dean, redundant praise.
oh, colleague turns to colleague, smugly grins--
the letters you have earned by ego's sins!

10/2/2009

sonnet 73

the only way i'll find my words might be
to force them to a meter and a rhyme.
i've tried this all before; i never see
results that please. perhaps it works this time.
you say that you know nothing. please advise:
exactly how am i to educate?
it seems there is no easy compromise:
i can't speak; you won't listen. Twist of Fate,
how cruel and unusual you are!
you kill my muses and steal all my words
and tempt away the Knight who keeps my heart,
for even he could not resist your lures.
i wish with all my heart he would return;
this quest means nothing if he will not learn.

4/22/09

Sonnet 72?

you were a jack, and i the Queen of spades,
the day they broke her majesties away.
they could not tell, the words came much too dear,
about what some poor innocent had here
endured, with but a fleeting breath,
and looked upon the very face of death.
she knew not where or how he would attend,
or whether she had minutes left to mend,
but only that this body he would rend.
the sand grew hot as glass and just as gloss
and nevermore the sower cast his lot
among the salt of sea and sea of swine.
a pillow's crest may touch your cheek,
but never will that cheek meet mine.

-----
"conceived 17 Jan 2009"
the rhyme scheme is weird, and the closing couplet is not in iambic pentameter, but i didn't write this one: it came through me. i don't feel it would be right to mess with those things.
the sonnet number is question-marked because i'm convinced that i lost one somewhere and it will turn up eventually.

sonnet 70

my muse is gone. i still lament her flight.
it seems like years since we had last conversed.
my pen is full, my paper blank and white;
my rhyme is fit to meter well-rehearsed.
this is a puzzle, more than poetry;
syllables to iambs must be matched.
the meaning doesn't matter, frequently;
to structure it's only loosely attached.
will this ever become writing again?
words in creative flow, not pieces split?
i miss what my words in the past have been,
when i had pictures whole, not puzzle bits.
is my muse gone forever? i hope no . . .
sadly, she's hidden somewhere i can't go.


10/14/2008
i think this pretty much speaks for itself.

sonnet 67

since speechlessness is never slowly caused,
we're always left wanting time to prepare;
if i knew what to say to such a loss,
i might not feel so trapped--it's more unfair,
when everything is taken from your hands,
to be left so unable to express
the cruelty of cold, indifferent Chance,
your anger with it--worse, i cannot stress
that i keep close emotions worth more time.
more than my hate for Chance's awful game,
i feel the love that makes this such a crime,
and hope, since you can't speak, you feel the same.
if i had words, i'd share my sadness not,
but happiness that we're given this lot.

3/19-24/2008

sonnet 68

mind over meter is the constant fight,
to check my thoughts so words can be restrained;
it needs a dose far too high of foresight,
and after three full years, i'm still not trained.
though i don't practice often as i should,
i'd hope what skill i had would not decrease;
but like a muscle not moved when you could,
an unused talent of mind atrophies.
and so, this afternoon, i'll exercise,
and fit words to this meter as i can;
a sonnet takes its shape before my eyes,
despite my early lack of any plan.
perhaps it's not as bad as all of that--
you can't forget in whole what was old-hat.
-4/2/2008

i fell behind on sonnets....there are a few i haven't posted yet.
it's never certain if i will.

Sonnet 63

my concentration’s thoroughly destroyed!
my mind keeps drifting out of my control.
these thoughts of what has been, i can’t avoid,
and my distraction soon will take its toll.
to leave my mind, my body too reacts;
these butterflies avenge their long absence.
their flight is constant; i cannot relax;
there’s nothing they will hear of my defense.
and yet, i find i wouldn’t change this fate,
despite my forced return to normalcy,
for if these thoughts and feelings won’t abate,
perhaps it makes that dream reality.
i might have thought what happened wasn’t so . . .
it’s true but distant: to it i must go.

2/11/08
decided to post it after all.

sonnet 64

my mother told me once she's sure i'll wed.
my problem's in the reasoning she gave.
"you've too much love and passion," so she said,
and i will take those words into my grave.
do love and passion always make a pair?
if i've a surplus, why should i constrain
that love to just one person? is it fair,
if i have much to give, those gifts should lay
within my heart and never be received?
a raging fire doesn't keep to hearth,
it spreads beyond control, and i'd be grieved
if my supposed passion fades to dark.
to build a fire for one person's sight
does a disservice to those who need light.
--2/11/08

there were two in that class yesterday, but i can't decide how i feel about the first one.

sonnet 62

permit me voyage: i will travel far.
allow me freedom: i will use it well.
grant me my choices: i alone can tell
what next will come out of the way things are.
show me a roadmap: seat me in the car.
give me direction: west or north compel.
hear my decision: you face a hard sell--
suggestions i will take, and take to heart,
but in the end, my travels are my own.
are you offended by my confidence?
is my empowerment some threat to you?
it's such a shame your mind must be so blown.
i won't rely on help or providence,
but build my life, ground-up, and live it true.
-2/4/08

heading to a conference in detroit for the weekend. see you kids sunday night.

Sonnet 61

the dreadful march of Time exhausts its mean,
participants who do not understand
their march will never cease--not even when
they pause and signal with a weary hand.
"we've gone too long!" they cry, to no avail,
for Time is deaf, although it is not blind;
its forcèd march forever will prevail,
but with its progress not grow more refined.
in Time we'll march, although we may be still,
and it won't listen to our frantic pleas.
it changes pace according to its will--
now fast, now slow, its marchers at unease.
more ruthless master never has been known;
it cares not for its others or its own.
--1/30/08

sonnet 60

tomorrow never knows, or so i'm told,
what will occur or how i should react;
so how to plan? if my predictions hold,
it's just by chance; my thoughts have no impact.
or might they? since we need a thought to start
a willful move towards action or a change,
today's thought of tomorrow is a part
that cannot be ignored. if it seems strange
that thought without an act could change the world,
consider Geller's spoons: in them we see
the physical effect of thought: their curl.
they show how powerful one thought can be.
but Geller's skill belongs to more than one--
tomorrow always knows what thought's begun.

--1/16/08
in my new sonnet-writing class.

sonnet 59

'twas once this meter reconciled my soul
with number demons--i could not survive
for days on end without filling its mold
with words i penned sitting in period five.
those days are gone, and now my pen lies still
for weeks or months without poetic pause.
i lack the time, the energy, the will,
but most of all, i lack a worthy cause.
i've friends, i've classes, livelihood, and dreams;
i've passion, and although sometimes i wish
it might result in other than it seems,
i'm calm: my pen remains unmoved. hear this:
despite your love, your hate, your spirit's flame,
plain Desperation is my muse's name.
--1/13/2008

Sonnet 58

if god had laid a plan for us to choose
those traits of others which we would prefer,
it stands to reason we'd have much to lose,
for that decision no one would defer,
and we would over-choose til all were gone.
if i'd remove that trait, and you'd take this,
but not elect another trait to don,
our prey would be worn down til breeze's kiss
could blow whatever's left of her away,
across the land where full folks would meet birth
before their worse selves were forbade to stay,
and soon no rounded person's left on Earth.
so this is why dissatisfaction's best:
if we could fix displeasure, who'd be left?
--11/3/2007

Sonnet 57

two new sonnets brought to us today by my morality & medicine class, a lack of sleep, and a possible overdose of allergy medicine (although i'm not quite sure). only one of them is getting posted right now because the other one is too personal and relevant at the moment. the reference is to Thanatopsis, for anyone who needs it.

---

Bryant spoke of lasting unity,
wherein the dead would reunite with Earth,
but one neglected detail ruins the
assumption: we are separate from birth.
his optimism i admired once,
and on a better day, i will again,
but now i feel he must have been a dunce!
i'll live and die as if there were no friends.
the Earth? a grave, a deep or shallow hole.
there is no comfort waiting in the dirt.
a fool would make his burial his goal,
but life is no less lonely, i'll assert.
his promise is no promise. it's been shown:
all living things on Earth will die alone.

sonnet 55

since honesty should never be constrained,
i’m left with no recourse, you, with no fault.
how dare i blame you, though you cause me pain?
this is the most permissible assault
upon my heart. your words are sharp as swords,
although your blows are dulled by honest care
(or so i hope). your dignity affords
me naught in self-defense. is this unfair?
a blade knows not if striking flesh or stone
until its victim does or does not yield;
and even then, it may not see its own
response: to wit, should such a hurt be healed?
no wrong’s been done, but give my hurt a name!
the guilt will lie with me for placing blame.
--9/11/2007

sonnet 54

the hearts of human brothers often call
to each his other, lest the other be
awake to hear the voice that would enthrall
and offer love to make both brothers free
to love and live uncompromisingly.
but if someone will open not his heart,
he’ll lose much more than one friend’s love, we see:
he will not of community take part.
close not your heart! if you should think it strange
that someone reaches out, but not to touch.
too many feel this way, and we must change,
or we will face the loss of far too much.
romantic love will not the world unite;
we need a base of brothers to love right.
7/11/2007

sonnet 50

yes i know it's out of order, but after posting the last one i realized this one had never gone up. the ones in between aren't worth publishing.

---

if once creative impulse chance to die,
what likelihood it has to rise anew?
despite one’s wishes that it be revived,
one’s left with little recourse. what to do?
if one could find a reason to create,
an inspiration by a noble cause,
one might be moved to write, to draw, to make
a piece of anything worth giving pause.
alas! i suffer still from lack of muse!
but wonder at this clue that one’s been found . . .
if but a day of meaning could so move
to bold attempt, i’d best keep you around!
when next to paper you will force my pen,
i’ll owe you much, and tell you such again.

sonnet 53

i debate posting this. i always do. but in the end, the desire to be known or understood always wins.

---

i’ve lost my sense of all things good to know
and sit, awash in affect too sincere;
i cannot blame what’s left of afterglow,
and wish i knew how to allay this fear,
for all i want’s to tell you were i stand
and ask if you’ll consent to join me there,
but it’s already tried and ruined land,
and you have been there with me, i’m aware.
alas, i feel i don’t deserve the chance
to show what once i lost i may have found;
i gave it up, but if your patience grants,
i’ll prove that, though i can’t say it aloud,
i fall slowly, but this is no less true:
i can’t find words for the way i love you.

sonnet 49

i feel a change, but also feel it not,
uncertain of what weight this night should hold;
i've played my cards, i've spun, i've cast my lot,
and hope my gambles haven't been too bold.
i live amidst both fear and love of change;
i risk it all, but hope all stays the same,
a hope that many may perceive as strange:
i'm meanwhile wishing nothing will remain.
and so i rest my fate in your skilled hands
as i have done before, and trust that all
will happen as was meant when sea and sands
were laid in place, and we were given call.
once each decision's made, hope's all we get,
and faith that we have made the better bet.