Sonnets

I write sonnets to hold myself together.

Tag: morning

A morning prayer

Today I wake and wish tranquility
has steeped into my soul from light of stars.
I hope as well that found humility,
sincerity and warmth will thwart all scars.
Today I wish that optimism brings
the energy and focus for to change
the darknesses to which our foibles cling
amidst respect that life is thus arranged.
Today I wake my gratitude the just
hold righteousness and peace in either hand,
my knowledge that with industry we must
seek ever-loving ways to understand.
Today I seek companions of compare
and welcome every help to live this prayer.

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Cellular infusions of brilliance

Context — When the sun breaks through days of gloom these images flash through my mind.

 

Perpetuality of spring, invade
the gloomy nooks my body’s caverns house,
mosaically leave viscera inlaid
to multiply the beams sun’s sheen endows.
Create in me a parquet floor of jewels
as intricate as Moorish alcazar,
mathematically refracting, drying pools
that are black thoughts’ ink-tinted reservoirs.
Construct me from resuscitated stones
whose flesh was forged from starry mass like yours,
shine holiness to unembalm my bones,
transmute biotic body’s walls to doors.
So bellow biochemicals to glow!
Grant confidence to conquer earthen woe.

Squelch my senses, darkening days

Context — Winter arriveth.

 

The thermonuclear creation eight
and one-half minutes sprint of light away
breathes warmth with which our acids replicate,
but drives off muse with brightness too passé.
Its rise is celebrated with birds’ song,
its set with colors ochre, mauve, and peach,
its entry and egress oft hourlong
to honor switch from darkness caused by breach.
We honor insufficiently the night
and lack of optic brilliances it brings,
which, mixed with actions drunken and contrite
leave scaffolds onto which emotion clings.
The blind can hear with keenness that’s unmatched,
just as heart amplifies when sun’s dispatched.

Awakening in a disheveled body

Context — Some mornings are tough.

 

No swallows sang, nor jays, nor larks, that morn.
The length of summer drew an early gray.
All signs of hastened sleep on face, thread corn
wedged twice in grin. New creases. Disarray.
The mirror and the demons pitied none.
Why drink? You always fucking drink, you worm!
More often now when audience is one.
You claim that sundown lets the goblins loose,
the siren story pities you repeat.
You turn to words in lamplight, and to juice,
excuse that stupor’s aesthete’s Muse’s teat.
{1}
He churns himself like sausage, blithely mix
his virtues with the vices left unfixed.
{2}
You brilliant sack of shit, you should… you should…
reverberates atop, and masks the good.
{3}
You’re flawed for feeling liquor lights the way
last full-formed thought before the day’s malaise.
{4}
How easy is your love for others deep
yet view of self as wolf, in clothing sheep.

Phoenix in my bathroom

Context — Bathing rejuvenates.

 

I’ll slip past frosted glass and into steam
with soil afoot, and underarms unclean,
my skull awaiting cleansing water stream,
a psychiatric flush of harsher mien.
Sensation spanning all five senses, sound
a static thrum to slow the psyche, taste
forgettable, the touch of heat abounds,
the aromatic greenhouse air erased
my nasopulmonary mucous blocks.
Propellant water droplets canvass wall,
designs improbable yet orthodox.
I’m eye of hurricane Pacific squall.
As long as there’s been water here on earth
immersion in it feels like rebirth.

I, the Great and Powerful Chihuahua, Am Lord of All Things!

Context — Pure emotion poured out of a chihuahua outside of Haight Street Market on a Saturday morning.

 

She gets the thing. The thing! The THING! Let’s go!
It’s been four naps since sunrise and I’m AMPED.
I wonder who left messages? I know
there must be one from squirrelly cat that’s camped
beneath the biggest tree past third left turn.
There must. The THING! It’s here, we’re out the door.
Now SPRINT. Let’s–BLAGH, it chokes! Her glare’s so stern.
She’s got the treats, but’s dumb like cats. It’s war
to mark, possessing all! It’s piss poo tag,
and she’ stopped ZERO times to pop a squat!
I feel my heinie’s quaking, tail wag
the bestmostpowerfulleststrong I got.
But wait! Store? No. Don’t leash me here alone!
The quaking’s now bone fear of being disowned.

Cretaceous caffeine

Context — an inspiringly heavy cup of coffee started some thinking about the point of origin for our organic and inorganic society.

 

I like my coffee’s closest counterpart
to be La Brea’s sand pits, dinosaurs
reduced as age’s pressures pound apart
the bodies’ bones to effervescent ore
that’s viscous as six dozen million years’
compression of organic creamy gook.
Yes, take the tar’s obsidian veneer,
the jet black gold tectonics overcooked
and skim the top for hydrocarbon vim,
the disembodied energetic eau,
distill to gasoline, then fuel our whim
with fire powering our robots’ glow.
Tyrannosaurus spirits feed machines
mechanical and live amphetamine.

Answer the day’s call

Context — my mother always used to be my backup alarm clock, bless her. Shouldering that for myself is hard enough, I don’t know how parents do it for two or four or twelve.

 

The monotone alarm beep ancient as
the recollections of Decembers in
which quilt at desert dawn was Alcatraz,
entrapping me sans boat or oar or fin.
In youth back then, I’d backup parachute–
the knowledge that, if will were failing, mom
would open door and like chimera boot
me out of bed toward kitchen with aplomb.
Alas, those days of secondary care
have faded, leaving me and discipline
alone with blanch-gray fog that oft ensnares
resolve, to favor jersey’s bliss on skin.
You sadden, Age! Responsibility
migrated waking’s mantle onto me.

shackled to the untethered spelunker

Context — how I perceive the turmoil that starts and ends in the very first flash of morning consciousness.

 

A thought unwelcomed, grounding, stirs me from
cerebral puddle brimming with bizzare,
where straightened course adhering to a rhum
has altered angles, mangled meaning, marred
to point beyond confusion. Because when
consumed by vignette oddities, segues
are lost, no overlaps in circles Venn.
Your reinless self at sprint, you beg the sleigh
decelerate and resolutely halt
to let your reason interfere and fix
the patchwork nonsense figures call your fault.
Control is useless here. Blot what’s affixed
to inner consciousness–what boils your sleep–
as these are qualms that into daytime seep.

112

Context — I wrote this over breakfast on June 22, after counting the days since I broke up with a beautiful human who I hope will forever remain as a sister.

 

One hundred and a dozen nights since word,
the only thing that bound us, had detached
our cobbled rafts from single course to blurred
trajectories in unknown seas, unlatched.
By fortnight four I still remained convinced,
as thunderstorms and swells each fed my fear,
I was not worthy captain, as evinced
by capsized, deathly angles vessel veered.
I know not when the hurricane subsides,
or when I first awoke to shorebirds’ sight,
I haven’t parsed which parts were real, were lies
projected by my mindless mind in flight.
Four months afloat, recovery is fair:
at peace without a rudder’s steer to “there.”

Camp Grounded: Sunday

Context — The previous day at Camp I’d spent mostly on benches, at playshops where I learned things like how to crochet. We spent some time in reflection, enjoyed a purposeful campfire, and thought about how to make something bigger in our own lives out of the peace we’d each tasted. On Sunday morning I again wrote this over coffee and yoga-watching.

 

Our asses sore by day of wooden planks,
our bellies puffed with jointly blesséd-meals,
our minds burned fear, reorient to thanks,
our pause is pregnant with new chosen “real”s.
Our amphitheater open to the stars
because we’ve chosen to remove its doors
and welcome souls from heres and nears and fars
in faith all beings share our common cores:
of love, joy, gentleness, awe, pride, delight,
of envy, social status, hierarchy,
of individuation, wrong, and right
of choice to cage or let desire’s lark free.
And in that commonality we bathe–
someday our splashes swell to tidal wave.

Camp Grounded: Saturday

Context – Camp Grounded was one of the finest weekends I’ve ever had. On Friday night I got to listen to live 1920s jazz with a stand-up piano in a yurt decorated as a tea house beneath towering redwoods. On Saturday morning upon waking in my tent to the sounds of birds, my pause button bracelet got caught in a zipper. I wrote this over coffee while watching others do sunrise yoga.

A thrice-triumphant bugle heralds start,
the dawn of first full day we’d share a-ground
accompanied by bird call singsong art
melodically cascading joy around.
The moments flashed upon my inward eye
of tea and rugs and warmth and expert jazz
of marshmallow perfection carbonized,
of deeper meaning flaming cello has.
And in this moment, caught in sleeping bag
was small accessory I wore on wrist,
suggesting I embrace time’s present lag
and pause, as here I needn’t true self miss.
I rise, to be a dry, receiving sponge
of smile and words as we to kinship plunge.

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