Sonnets

I write sonnets to hold myself together.

Tag: night

San Francisco, and probably where you live

Context — Sometimes in the evenings I climb out my window to stand on the roof and survey neighbors’ own faraway glow.

 

I climb through window, soles on roof, erect
and survey night’s illuminations there.
I count the homes that choose to resurrect
the day with backlit LCDs, aware
of hundred ways they might be learning in
their catatonic viewing of a show
or documentary. Still, scene’s akin
to Huxley’s hypnopaedic writ tarot.
They’ve moved here from their far-off place of birth
for jobs and friends of equal intellect,
here clustered ’cause they’ve heard it’s here they’re worth
more dollars. Yet, they’re dense in disconnect,
the automatic neighbor friendship’s farce
as vocal cord-hummed words are ever sparse.

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A dozen births in darkened rooms

Context – …

 

The still room’s black is nearly viscous, lamp
on drafting desk the only glow suffused.
Once sun escaped, identity decamped
from man, now boy, cartoons and hues enthused
his pens and quills and palettes. Sluice gates rose,
let flow the ink from air to mind to hand,
the paper’s figures, spirits juxtaposed
impossibilities in meadowlands.
He drew because he drew because he drew,
no verbs were left untested that could meet
the flow he’d know when solitude anew
of evenings let his muse-fed thoughts secrete.
Night freed him from days’ shackles of the flesh,
obsessiveness there mother of the fresh.

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.

The anticipation of a correspondence

Context — #51. Partly the compunction of missing a hello, partly the joy of sleep, partly the anticipation of renewed engagement.

 

a purity of company amidst,
i’m basking in the humor of the crowd,
unconscious till departures that I missed
the message that your prior had avowed:
a wednesday’s sleep, a midweek gift of peace
recharging juices brackish, stale, and sour
had promised to your cortisol decrease,
your mood improve and appetite empower.
tis bliss for me your hunger is to say,
in clearest ways that “say” translates to “write,”
emerging from our evening soiree,
exchange beyond the wedding’s simple rite.
so I, in moments quiet, dark, and late,
await your brain’s debut of words ornate.

Stressss

Context — …

 

The dead in deadline lines your mind, the grave
gargantuan and ghastly, grizzled ghoul
from filter fog advances, face concave
and cut with foolish failures, ridicule.
Approaching closer still, you see beyond
the caverns carved in look, and breath aborts–
you’re frozen, yearning, cannot correspond.
You see it’s you before you who reports.
“The grind,” your future past coughs out,
exhaustedly. Her crater cataracts
tell quietly of how she’s been devout
to work. Once prose, whose words her work redacts.
As minionlike to work you yourself veil,
life catalytic cortisol curtails.

Why, neighbors, are we not as a village?

Context — I canceled my Netflix subscription after cavorting with Karl the Fog one evening.

 

He walks with fog, which overtakes him to
then vaporize itself into the night.
They alternate their homonyms blue/blew
and drift past curtains lit with lazulite.
Outside, the street prefers its orange burn
to counteract the water in the mist,
as if lamp hues make pavement taciturn,
‘neath cathode rays layered into curtain schist.
The narrative the night had brought was old,
unaltered since an age Akkadian.
While windows each hold stories tubes unfold
in alpha glows that mock circadian.
Shut from black’s binding commonality,
each life diverged to screen’s reality.

Gilded homes of impracticality

Context — I’ve long had a ritual of sitting alone in the late evening and looking up at the sky or stars to unwind just before going to bed. While sitting on my roof this evening, surveying Haight Ashbury’s houses, I had a think.

 

With ground-lit darkness hiding all the proof
of stars, I pondered, why the gable roof?
It stood beside its replicas, as bouffe
would make of Painted Ladies, locals’ spoof.
It snows not where we are, so why align
the angles such that topmost floor’s confined?
Metropolis could use a more benign
and spacious warehouse structural design.
Yet all the places seen in neighborhood
use paneling, trim, girder, roof of wood
as if it through both fire and earthquake stood,
like local history’s misunderstood.
And yet, despite curmudgeon’s rationale,
the Haight’s quixotic pledge boosts my morale.

Come, learn wizardry, and manipulate The Matrix

Context — In Germany there exists nerd Hogwarts, the School of Machines, Making & Make-Believe. As soon as I heard it existed I had to write this. Inspiration came from this Vine. Today’s comes out early so it can be enjoyed in Europe.

 

At age of one, imagination’s all.
Reality is hologram is real,
the newness swaddles. Everything enthralls.
Repeat exposure and so dies the zeal.
By twenty-eight, imagination’s sane.
The reins of adult life have lassoed tight,
as rationales from rationals arraign
the fantasies that once turned sheet to wight.
Unless, of course, you’re trained to turn the tide
with processing projection rigs on bikes:
Berliner passers-by can’t brush aside
the magic wand that’s movement-into-light.
Recover what adultness from you thieved
at School relearn Machines & Make-Believe.

Nocturnal correspondence with a brain I admired passionately, #2

Context — I once kept an improbable correspondence alive with a brain I admired passionately. I pleasantly lose myself in her creativity. We lived far from one another. Wrote this on the evening March 13, 2011, and originally numbered my 49th sonnet.

 

fatigue and fervor, boxing gloves on fist
throw blows atop the parquet ‘tween my skull,
with neither happy just to coexist:
for navigating, one’s enough to scull.
the clock’s each tick a darker night invites,
a looser gaze and heightened heart displayed,
till point past prime when rising sun ignites
the wish that missive butterfly bliss stayed.
two feelings locked, as black holds white from yin,
melee in muck and muddy those in view.
one pines for slices of your mind wherein
their warmth allows me sleep to then eschew.
this daily bout has left you well enmeshed
in routines that now leave me well refreshed.

Nocturnal correspondence with a brain I admired passionately, #1

Context — I once kept an improbable correspondence alive with a brain I admired passionately. We lived far from one another. We considered me flying out to go camping together. As that never happened, banter kept us alive. Wrote this on the evening March 12, 2011, and originally numbered my 48th sonnet.

 

a clever physicist could find us out
by mapping ‘lectric traces coast to coast,
but layers of cryptography throughout
psychologists to hackers full engrossed
could never disentangle fore to aft:
above the rank and file naught and one
is code infused with riddle and with craft,
a language minds in concert have begun
to fill the empty physicality
to bellow cobwebbed cortex into glow,
until in presence, his locale agreed,
it’s shed for lengthy looks, its use outgrown.
before before live oaks we resurrect
allow us to ourselves in quips protect.

I pledge allegiance, to the flag…

Context — July 4 is bittersweet for me. It makes me hope that some spark of our collective consciousness plus evolving technology will create real opportunities for the disenfranchised and left behind.

 

America was sweltering. The highs
were low below a hurricane back east.
Cold masked the powder keg, a new Marseilles
fomenting slowly. Folks who owned the least
in wealth and training laggards in the pack,
their pipers’ pleas persuasively scapegoat
officials over systems pierced with cracks,
own IRAs propped up and underwrote
the structures they rebelled against. The rich
create–in their minds, rightly–scaffold for
the fortunate to win, and thus bewitch
those left to public institutions, poor.
My Fourth was tainted by this stark contrast
to celebrate betrayal of the mass.

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