Christine’s Sonnets: 1 – 25

I

What can I write that others hath not writ?

Why say I this, that others may not hear?

Why draw I thus, in falsely glowing script,

That shifts in shape and beckons eyes to wear?

Why write I thus, and why thus do you tread

Upon this path of spectral ‘whys’ and ‘hads’,

Questioning, ne’er clear viewing, yet well fed

Of thought on pensive, half-glimpsed myriads?

I write out thus, to call on thee to Read;

Come, share my heart, learn true thy mystery.

The only truth to fear is Truth to Heed,

And heeding thus, I cannot help but free

My mind from fear of Mind’s ferocity;

Nor resist bright-lured Curiosity.

*     *     *     *     *

II

I See;  My tongue dead lies for lack of words,

While frozen, watching Life’s shadows, I See;

Why speak I not?  Mine eyes are sharp blade swords,

Piercing confusion’s fog to slice Truth free.

Razor glances strip my world, Sight whisp’ring,

Order from chaos;  Spectral wires slip taut

To guide, (Unseen), thought and word and State and King:

Beyond surfaces I See;  Yet I speak not.

This voice, (My Voice), that chokes upon itself,

Would it be heard by thee, or any Soul?

Would it be heard were it to shout its wealth

In golden tongues of articulate role?

I See such Truth; Yet nothing dare I speak;

The words I fail to catch are far too weak.

*     *     *     *     *

III

O, were I not with mortal flesh confined

My whole spirit thy golden worth would sing;

Amber joy I’d spin, Love for thee entwined,

And wrap thee ‘bout with balmy touch of Spring;

Glowing light I’d shower forth, Affection

Pure and free, and silver sparks I’d fountain

O’er the world thy Soul to see; Perfection

Of Heart’s speech I thee whisper thru my Ken.

Soul to Soul and thought to thought, loving Truth

And Trust, dear friend; I speak to thee with all

Mine Heart, and hope you hear me soft; For proof

Of Love is not a common rain to fall.

Fear not this glowing Love thy Soul to net;

That thou art thee, for me is adequate.

*     *     *     *     *

IV

(Shakespeare’s 18th; Inverted)

Shall I compare thee to a Winter’s snow?

Thou art more tepid and less slippery;

Ice winds do frostbite ros’y cheeks and nose

And Winter’s grip hath far too dear a fee.

Sometime too wet the crystal snowflakes fall,

And often is the path slicked o’er with sleet;

And each postbox from post will go AWOL,

By plow, or Neighbor’s flailing shovel beat.

But thy eternal glacier shall not crack,

Nor win momentum of the flash Spring-melts;

Nor shall Life brag thou clingest to his back,

When down the sheerest mogul slopes thou pelts.

So long as Men do skate, or downhill ski,

So long lives snow, and snow sucks warmth from thee.

*     *     *     *     *

V

(Shakespeare’s 1st; Inverted)

From fairest goblets we desire to drink,

That thereby we might taste our mead with style,

And, to the tune of crystal Swarovski’s chink,

Our Waterford raise up in toast with smile:

But thou, contracted to thine own rude beer,

Chug’st thy hop’s brew from dented tankard’s lip,

Dribbling foam slobber, which lands everywhere!

Thy beer too low; Discerning palate jipp’d.

Thou who sits now with this grand table set,

Invited for this fairest meal to share,

Within thy base mug drown’st all respect,

And, uncouth churl, ignor’st thy silverware!

Pick up thy fork, or else this Viking be,

To eat with fingers, while sitting near me.

*     *     *     *     *

VI

(The Quickening: i)

The blinders of my Heart were crack’d with pitch,

But I knew not, for darkness thru them bled;

I starved on means, deceiving myself rich,

Whilst rueful steps on paths of ‘Should Do’ tread.

Then, soft, a stream of gold thru crack did gleam,

Pooling ‘neath my Heart, tempting muted Sight.

Quick-glanced, I turned, (short-breath’d), and dared to Dream,

And swung my tunnel’d Heart toward source of Light.

And Lo, the Dancing Singer scorched mine eye,

And ecstasy of purpose drown’d my Soul;

Crack’d pitch did melt, o’erwhelm’d by beck’ning cry,

Like moth to flame, I twirled in Shattered role;

The blinders on my Heart are torn away;

My Soul sings True, so on this path I’ll stay.

*     *     *     *     *

VII

(The Quickening: ii)

On new remembered wings I cast about,

And fluttered, frantic, lost for how to fly;

A world away, bright Dancer didst cavort,

Too far for Touch, yet how I longed to try;

My pinions spread, yet weak my feathers grew,

Too long forgot to safely bear my weight;

Eternity of darkness twixt us Two,

Infinite Void of striving Heart and Fate;

I banked and dove, True bent my Soul to toil,

And stretched my wings with Joy the Stars to greet;

A thousand times I crashed unto rich soil,

Yet welcome Earth;  Well muddied hands and feet;

And slow, the warmth of Wind within me grows,

And worlds away much closer my Heart Knows.

*     *     *     *     *

VIII

(The Quickening: iii)

O, soon with Quicken’d wings I plunged and dove,

Ambitious with renewed Agility;

Yet wary to o’er stretch, I fell and strove;

With loving pains, each pinion Gilded be:

I dipped my brush in Craft to lend them strength,

Then linked them to my Heart to guide them True;

I set them firm with Dreams preened o’er their length,

Lest doubt or Fear attempt to eat them through.

And Lo, the firmament above me loomed,

And Bright my plumage spread ‘neath Stars sparkling;

Gaze fixed on Song, whose Light my Fate had Doomed,

I leapt, full breath’d, and loosed my Soul to Wing;

O, sweet within my feathers sighs the Wind,

Naught better, save to Journey with a Friend.

*     *     *     *     *

IX

My Lover does not know that I am his,

Neither is he aware his Heart is mine;

We’ve never met, nor shared a real kiss,

The ivy of our lives is yet to twine.

Yet, Him I called to wait within the Grove,

And laid him down on Nature’s fertile bed,

Whilst laughing bright, I shower’d Him o’er with Love,

And worshiped Him with welcome Soul-Gilded.

He asked with eager Voice of what I was,

As if revering a Divine creature,

Yet this was not, my Heart Knew, my right cause;

Smiling I, I asked if it did matter.

How strange are dreams, to bring two Souls to Touch?

We ne’er may meet, and yet we Love so much.

*     *     *     *     *

X

With feline Grace thou slips amongst my life,

Padding here and there, spreading thy soft light,

Ne’er alone am I, I with thee am rife,

Everywhere I turn, thou art in my Sight.

Thy gentle touch is all I need to cheer

When I am down;  Thy quiet Love, pure white,

And true, with thee I mine surround;  I hear

Thy Heart within me thrum, or day or night

Thou sings;  Thy gracious song, contented Soul,

Such Peace thy presence brings;  Thou lov’st me dear,

I see within thine eyes, Devoted Droll,

As with slow, stalking steps thou drawest near:

But soft, gracious Cat, know kindly thy place,

Remove thy prickly paws from off my face.

*     *     *     *     *

XI

Ask not the Why of this, which here I write,

No answer lies herein for eyes to find.

The quest to Know lies in the Journey’s sight,

And needy Why’s more like the eye to blind;

‘Tis not a crime to quest to know your Heart,

Though grasping times say, “That I cannot hold.

Why seek you air, when substance divvies Part?”

To say, “‘Tis right,” we dare to break the mold;

I won’t deny that walking blind is hard,

When all we’re taught says, “Know exactly where,”

But asking, “Why,” from safe within our yard,

Of things without, is like to stifle Care.

The need to know divorced from Knowing True

Does a disservice, both to truth and you.

*     *     *     *     *

XII

(Shakespeare’s 66th;  Inverted)

Once saw we True, when first we ope’d our eyes,

Our Hearts looked bright within, our Souls to peer,

Yet Times do teach that our True sense belies,

And Science calls our intuition Mere:

And Commerce klaxons, “This,” to blind our Sight,

And Proper blazes, “Right,” to mute our Heart,

And Teaching nags us, “Measure thy Soul’s light,”

Whilst Worth heeds, ‘Sipid, “Value this one Part,”

And Art is judged by, “Mass produce to Sell,”

And Conform, tyrant-like, suppresses Style,

And Complex, “Why,” denounced by Shouted, “Tell,”

And Virtue’s Love passed o’er for Vulgar Bile;

Once saw we True, yet then we’re taught to Lie:

Thus walk we blind, while muted Hearts doth cry.

*     *     *     *     *

XIII:  Coriolanus

The things we love, we want to Idolize

And place upon a pedestal of Brass,

Yet our dear Hearts, tricked by revering eyes,

Are blinded by the mirrors of our pasts;

We see naught like, save what we wish to see,

And with deaf ears deflect the pleas of Truth,

And when the sight of what we’d thought to be

Is shattered Right, we drown in miser’s Ruth,

Whilst all around us ruin hath been made,

And up above us Ash begins to fall,

Yet still we grieve for Tears that We pervade,

And not the Doom that we have brought to Call;

Thus so we cry for what was lost from Me,

And fail to see the Truer Tragedy.

*     *     *     *     *

XIV:  O, Unexpected Task

Forty toilets, have I been tasked to find,

Porcelain Goddesses to grace a stage;

And forty sinks to compliment their kind

Have I been charged with all due speed to cage.

Yet how to catch so very large a herd

Of Water Closet fixtures in one week?

To ask for Johns by dozens is absurd,

And how to transport?  O, my car shall reek.

Yet faith in me of greatest depth is shown

By tasking thus this burthen to acquire,

And I will strive my cleverness to hone

And find these loos ere seven days expire:

O Flickinger, to aid you I will strive,

That I within my chosen Art may thrive.

*     *     *     *     *

XV

Our silent Hearts know what we best should be,

Yet heeding them is not what we are taught;

Loud yells of, “Fact!” paint everything we see,

While quiet Listening fails to merit thought.

Yet heed we could if we but wished to Hear,

Our Hearts’ advice wants only to be asked,

If we but take a moment here and there

To Listen soft, we’ll Know our favored tasks;

For there’s a reason why this thing I love,

And that, out there, conversely I dislike,

My Heart Knows why, and holding that above

Societal ‘Must’ informs my cradled pike:

So write I War upon the status quo,

Placing my Heart within this metered bow.

*     *     *     *     *

XVI

Can there be better eyes with which to see

Than those thru which a Heart in Love doth view?

To see the best in every quality,

Despite of faults we’d otherwise eschew?

Can there be better ears with which to hear

Than those that Harken to a Lover’s Voice?

Noting their perfect’st harmony with cheer,

Despite of chords we’d never pick by Choice?

Can there be better words that we can Speak

Than words of Love to warm a crying Heart,

And lift our Spirits when we’re feeling weak,

O’erwhelmed by Life, quite fearing our small part?

O, Just to Hear and Speak our world as thus;

Seeing with Love, all minutes spent in Trust.

*     *     *     *     *

XVII

Shakespeare wrote sonnets, each one fourteen lines,

Within which he mortared fast his clever

Wit amidst a garden of flow’ring vines,

Which yet bear fruit, framing his name ever;

O’er the years Poets stretched to touch his fame,

Tracing leaves, and lifting stems to tally,

Yet vines grow thorns to prick confuséd shame:

Thus fall our fingers short eternally.

For Human Hearts are quite complex a thing;

Shakespeare knew this, and saw with True insight;

This Sight he placed within his Tale-telling,

Teaching his pen with Tears and Joy to write;

So if you chance to read or see a show,

Think of Shakespeare, and why his Vines still grow.

*     *     *     *     *

XVIII

Ne’er thought I now to find my Heart so cold,

Lacking in Hope and Vibrancy for Life,

A world of Grey around me to enfold,

Dulling the tune of my True Muse’s fife;

I’d thought myself above the conquered grief

Of tepid thought and well-intentioned care,

The shallow jest and quaintly-worded brief,

Which all Men use to sweeten empty air;

Yet quick the blade of accident did cut

And still my Heart, when I had felt most safe,

And back I fell within that drowning rut

Of silent Fool and mutely fading waif.

A colored world, I know, surrounds me still,

Yet so to See, I must muster my Will.

*     *     *     *     *

XIX

Excerpt: ‘A Dragon is Coming!’

Creature of Few Words, Act I, scene vii

When Darkness Comes we Look to Light

And Steel our Hearts against the Cloud,

Which Quick descends to Blind our Sight

And Deafen Ears with Cawing Loud;

When Dark Descends we Turn to Cheer

And Grip the Things we Cherish Most

Against the Pull of Dark Revere,

Which Festers Pride and Lingers Ghost;

When Darkness Comes, Look we to Light

Shielding our Hearts against the Noise,

Which Blocks our Sense while Teaching Sight

To Scorn the Things it Most Employs;

Look we to Light when Darkness Looms,

Ever the Light will Stave our Dooms!

*     *     *     *     *

XX

Excerpt:  ‘A Dragon is Coming!’

Lead Crow, Act II, scene i

When Darkness Comes we Lift our Wings

And Welcome Shadows in our Hearts,

Which Beat for Death and Caw for Things

To Peck and Claw and Tear Apart;

When Dark Descends, we Rip our Hearts

Asunder from our Bloody Breasts

And Kill all Thought of Hope and Love

And Welcome Greed within our Chests;

When Darkness Calls, Look we to Light

To Feast upon its Shattered Dreams,

And Drown all Sense of Caring Sight

Within the Scorn that From Us Streams;

We Are the Dark and When we Call,

Ever the Light will Fear our Fall!

*     *     *     *     *

XXI

(Shakespeare Inverted;  46)

My Mind and Heart are at a mortal war

How to divide the toiling of my Life;

My Mind my Heart the Joys of Art would bar,

My Heart detests the yoke of Hourly strife;

My Heart doth plead that worth in Art doth lie,

A Calling never summed by miser’s Gold;

But the logical doth that plea deny

And claims a wage I must constantly hold;

To solve this problem is indenturéd

A flight of Quills, all ‘prenticed to the Heart,

And by their scribing ’tis endeavoréd

To bring Mind safety and give dear Heart Art,

By thus:  My Mind’s toil is Career to chart,

And my Heart’s charge, our pursuit thus of Art.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXII

Not for Love’s desperation do I cling

To that Bright Star, which is the Heart of you,

But for that Song, which so Brightly you Sing,

That touches Muse and bids my Soul be True;

Your every word Speaks libraries to me,

The slightest move adds Volumes to my shelf,

With but a glance, a Torrent loosens free

Within my Heart, Illuminating self;

I cannot help but Still to Feel your Song,

Reserving breath for clarity to Hear,

Mine Eye stays fixed, enraptured by the strong

Delicious sound that Dreams my Soul to Tear;

Stretch out your hand and Turn your Eyes to Mine,

Speak thus, my Love;  Let our Muses entwine.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXIII:  Disparity

That Poverty should link its arm with Wealth

And bow beside, subsisting at the beck,

Defies right thought and brings to question health

Of right and deed, displaying culture’s wreck;

That ill squalor should turn cheek with false smile

Simply because strong affluence draws near,

That Human nature subjugates its bile

To seek out scraps, when plenty should be here;

The Great Divide, which we allow to grow,

Twixt those who have and idolize the ‘Me’

And those who lack, who carry on the show

Of worshiped brass:  It is a Travesty.

Exploiting Men to sate a gorging Greed,

Or Enabling;  Neither is worthy deed.

*     *     *     *     *

XXIV

If my dear Heart were free to choose its way,

Without the trappings of a mortal life,

Next to thy Soul, at thy side, would it stay,

Turning aside the slashings of Time’s knife;

Before thy breast it would erect a shield,

Deflecting all the hardships Life designs,

And at thy back it would a prism yield,

Reflecting all the green-eyed monster’s tines;

To aid thy breath, it would enlist the wind

And bolster fast the slightest fault in Voice,

To aid thy blood, it would each sickness mend,

Staving ’til last Death’s grasping claws of choice;

If it were so, that my Heart could be free

Of mine own breast, t’would always shelter thee.

*     *     *     *     *

XXV:  High Rise

Within our minds we make our inward walls

As if without, our bodies we would jail

With constructs fair, enticing us to thralls

That inward twist and sanity impale;

Turning our eyes from what we once saw fair

To foul-faced Black, while painting it with white,

That we might think we see a Lily there,

And not the rot that festers in our sight;

For such a canker simply cannot be

In such a world of outward gilded gold,

Therefore the fault from outwards turns to Me:

Thus change our thoughts to fit what we behold;

For all the world can rot and fall to dust

When sweet Denial’s where we place our trust.

2 Responses to Christine’s Sonnets: 1 – 25

  1. bonna says:

    wow, you blow me away. very nice, i like the depth and thoughtfulness.
    carry on!

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