Sonnets

I write sonnets to hold myself together.

Tag: recovery

Tailored shirts covering fools’ hearts

Context — The difficulty of saying is that one cannot un-say.

 

The finest shirt, French cuffed and cotton, pressed,
portrays sophistication none denounce.
Yet when the shirt of thread is dispossessed,
its sole unraveling takes ounce by ounce
aesthetics first, then function, cancer that
a scissor snip can slow, but never stop.
I worry that in world aristocrat
rogue thread is unintended malaprop:
to fly ideas fancifully as if
they came in passing, unconsidered, may
if seen as overstepping, cause a rift
in fabric, as in trust that’s cast away.
The yarn you pull to weave could wreck what’s on
the cloth: beware the heart-fueled lexicon.

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Gifts of Thirty: Epilogue

Context — Someone wonderful turned 30 last year. I described my gift in 5 sonnets, released over the course of this week. #5 of 5

 

By now you see I’ve drawn from infinite
array of possibilities for week
in which we’re both equipped to smile when it
becomes reality: I don’t misspeak
to promise you two tickets to the place
your heart desires to go, with me in tow.
I only ask your child within embrace
the opportunity to dare and grow.
To pilot, kite surf, chow, scoot, lounge, or glide,
to meditate or read, withdraw from web,
or rather to immerse ourselves inside
a tested second life’s first flows and ebbs.
Let’s make you free for seven days, to start
the year you steer your life to pasts depart.

Gifts of Thirty: Option 3

Context — Someone wonderful turned 30 last year. I described my gift in 5 sonnets, released over the course of this week. #4 of 5

 

The third is an escape by all accounts,
vacation to an altitude or sea,
to forest cabin topping giant mount
or jungle, lake, savannah, tundra, scree.
We’d swim or scuba, expertly traverse,
backpack or hire a motor scooter as
required to your adventure sense reverse
and start your thirties with offshore pizzazz.
The continents seek your attention, so
your challenge is to pick where our first trip
will be, to be looked back on as tableau
of nature’s splendor ’round our partnership.
Agnostic to the flora, fauna that
surround us, know you’ll be my habitat.

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.

Standing upright under a newfound doubled gravity

Context — we grow into each other, like topiaries into their molding.

 

He knew himself as simply part of her.
She knew herself as simply part of him.
Extenuating circumstance recurred
until their intertwining lights went dim.
She turned to ritual to fill the gap.
He turned to cigarettes and whisky glass.
Identity to both was still entrapped,
assimilated parts of joint morass.
The watch dial’s turn brought purgatory pain
laced hourly with monsoon rush of doubt,
uncertainty as selves they’d overlain
the things interred they’d once seen other sprout.
In time’s avoidance dance they tipped and tapped,
and fell. And fell again, limb with crutch snapped.

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.”

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