Christine’s Sonnets: 26 – 50

XXVI:  Passion & Sincerity

Sincerity and Passion fuel my Heart,

Sincerity and Passion drive my Soul,

Sincerity and Passion are a part,

Of everything that makes me feel most whole;

Yet Passion is a thing we’re taught to Fear,

For who feels Passion, feels the deepest Pain,

And God forbid a Man should be Sincere,

When Honest dealing rarely leads to gain;

Yet who am I to fear my Truest self,

And wrap my world with layers of armored lies,

To hide my Dreams high on a dusty shelf,

And live confined by limits I despise;

My Passion is a Pain I won’t deny,

And those who lie or chastise, I defy.

*     *     *     *     *

XXVII

To act a part alone upon a stage,

A stage of twigs and grass and bird-like eyes,

To beat the air and curse the stars in rage

While frantic wings a sudden flap the skies,

To sound a cry, alone, into the wind

And hear the words faint echoed by the ear,

To strike the ground and feel the senses rend

Upon the heath, which scorns the wasting year,

To weep a tear that trickles thru the dust

And falls unseen to feed the thirsty loam,

To heave a breath that wrenches with unjust

And pleads with Fear to find a better home;

To look about and see the empty skies:

A vacant stage bestrewn with sightless eyes.

*     *     *     *     *

XXVIII

There is a Watcher, here, within my breast,

I feel a gaze, from whence, I know not where,

And yet a tension builds within my chest,

An urge to Act, though whether here nor there…

I know not whence this urge doth firmly press,

And yet it guides me true along my way,

A question’d faith, whose staunchly mute progress

Takes me in hand, and beckons I should stay;

Under this press, my blind foot steps straight forth,

Lifting me far beyond familiar safe

To free-fall tests that temper my self-worth

And make my crafts’ inadequacies chafe;

O’ Gazer, see; I’m stretching for thy hand,

From where thou art, gaze hard, for here I stand.

*     *     *     *     *

XXIX

“Write a poem,” he says.

I don’t know what to do.

It’s not as if I write upon command,

As if my pen were tethered to the cue

Of focused thought and targeted demand;

I simply write when I am moved to speak

Of what I feel, or see, or wish to know;

My power to guide my Muse is rather weak

When placed beside those tides that pummel so;

Yet here I write, full-knowing that the well

Of tangled words within me can’t run dry;

It’s here to stay, and so too is the swell

And rhythmic beat of poetry’s bright cry;

I write and speak, letting the ink unfurl,

Yet what I write heeds not directed hurl.

*     *     *     *     *

XXX

Why was an Ocean born betwixt us two,

When All the World was grown to be our Stage?

Why must the Walls of Capital bestrew

The paths of Ink I walk towards your blank page?

Why must the Darkness, settling, Enshroud

This timeless Sea, afire with pricks of Light?

Why must I Dream, my Cries as thru a cloud

Bedewing shades that linger in my Sight?

O, Precious Heart, my words to touch you yearn,

Long will I Speak to whisper in your ear,

Yet tongues so starved, by appetite well learn

To relish Spring when it Graces the year;

In patient toil thus wait I to behold

An Ocean crossed, if you should be so Bold.

*     *     *     *     *

XXXI

Patience is a Virtue that I practice

With loving care and dutiful regard,

Providing that it ensures the progress

Of subtle schemes, which otherwise were hard;

A set of Strings, quite lovely to the view,

Surrounds the room in which I take my rest,

And I will wait, as long as they sing true

When o’er their coils I lay my hands to test;

But if their Virtue once is called to Shame,

A set of shears lies ever at my side,

And I won’t pause to contemplate the blame

If stringing new refurbishes their Pride;

I haven’t time to dally with excuse:

I’ll weight my Strings, so long as they have use.

*     *     *     *     *

XXXII

My Heart is bare for All the World to see,

And All the World may touch it in return,

Yet I must walk with Care and gentle plea,

Lest All the World this tender Heart should burn;

I have no Shield to shelter me from fire

Save clever wit to guide my waking choice;

I have no Sword to battle or inspire

Save woven words to weave in vibrant voice;

This coin of Thought has ever been my way,

Though I stood mute, unable to express

The full extent of what I could repay,

Nor find a task which would not count it less;

Yet that is done;  My Heart is here for free:

Take what you will, and weight it at your fee.

*     *     *     *     *

XXXIII:  Journey To Change

Journey with me upon a Sea of Change,

Before the Sea of Man is come to Call,

Before the tides have risen o’er the range,

Before the streams have ceased their endless fall;

Journey with me upon the Winds of Time,

Before our children curse our down-turned eyes,

Before our sisters choke upon our Crime,

Before our brothers fall from smog-filled skies;

Journey with me thru all the fires of Will,

To change the minds of those who know but Fear,

To strike the pow’r from those who Prey to kill,

From those who garner wealth from Life’s despair;

We have one Earth to cherish and to hold:

That Earth alone is worth its weight in Gold.

*     *     *     *     *

XXXIV

A quagmire path before our feet is bled,

As if the way to breathe were set in stone,

And when we dare to turn aside our tread

A thousand yokes around our necks are thrown;

The World, it seems, would tie us to its track,

Ensuring all our ways have been before,

The “Tried and True” dictating at our back,

Forcing our feet thru muddied trials of Yore;

Yet if we dare to backward glance our eyes,

A vacant Shade is all that we will see,

No gun or knife enforcing our demise,

But ghost Assumption holding out a key,

And if we take that key from fingers cold,

A way of warmth and freedom we’ll behold.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXXV

 *     *     *     *     *

XXXVI

Thou canst not keep thy Time for me alone,

Though I would hold thee here, within my sight;

I have no claim, save pity for this moan,

And that I’d rather drown with Jealous Spite;

But neither vice is suited for my yearn,

Though selfish Wish enfolds me like a shroud,

I’d sooner tear the wings from off a tern

Than try to snare thy True Heart with Guilt’s cloud;

Thou needs must  sail the Ocean at thy Will,

Choosing whichever port thou care’st to call,

Whilst I must shine a beacon from my Quill,

Casting my Light with steadfast wherewithal;

Yet, shouldst thou chance to welcome my Heart’s plea,

Thy tiller turn, and tack thy sail for me.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXXVII

There is a hole within my hollow chest

That never fills, no matter where I lay,

A vacant chord, resounding thru my breast,

Cascading tears with every heartbeat’s sway;

It shakes my soul and leads mine eye to weep

Whilst crying cross the World to hear its toll,

It knows no end, not even in the sleep

That haunts my nights with visions that cajole;

It isn’t real, this cave that spills no blood,

And yet it wounds me deeper than a knife,

The fatal longing for an Other’s flood

To mingle streams in kindred walks of life;

We’re never meant to walk thru life alone,

And yet its twigs and birds who heed my groan.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXXVIII

I am, within, the hermit of a shade

That looks without intelligence to rear,

A spectral voice, dictating to pervade

A sightless view, which beckons for revere;

I am, within, the reason of a doubt

That looks without a confluence to see,

A broken Tyre that stutters thru a rout,

Embracing all the failings of the flee;

I am, within, the shatter of a note

That looks without a glass to hear a call,

A tepid foil, long drown’d within a moat

That rusts and bends to heed an awkward fall;

I am within the mysteries of Breath,

And when that ends, this psalm shall transcend Death.

 *     *     *     *     *

XXXIX

When I was young, I listened with Intent

And turned bright eyes towards that which made me think;

I never shied to share what I learned meant,

Nor marred my gaze with wisdom stunting Blink;

Yet this Intent was met with awkward Pause

And startled Glance, which stuttered to a halt;

So my bright eye, which I presumed the cause,

I slid aside so’s not to be at fault;

Thus shackled by the fear of being feared,

I fell to list’ning with a muffled ear

And let mine eyes be dampened as they peered

Past wid’ning blinders at a shrinking sphere;

And when those blinders cracked and fell away,

Mine eyes slid past themselves; Afraid to stay.

 *     *     *     *     *

XL

There is a way to whisper thru the eyes

To touch a Heart that lends not to mine ear,

A way to speak with signal musing sighs

And shutter’d glance, which beckons to draw near;

There is a way to captivate a thought

Without a single word woven to speech,

A way to Call that lingers what it wrought

A thousand miles beyond a Voice’s reach;

There is a way to hold without an arm,

Lending a Soul a bodiless embrace,

Enfolding all the cherishing and charm

Within the warmth of jewel’d Spring’s encase;

There is a way to Love that can’t be told:

A silent tongue our Hearts have known of Olde.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLI:  Disempowerment

Eyes slide o’er me, as if I were not there;

Ears vent my voice, as if ‘twas empty air;

Smile and Nod at what you’ve just been told;

(No wit here, which reason might enfold;)

Hark, and Harken, to an Other’s voice;

Listen well, now given Other choice;

Hear a story, already been told;

Laude and Praise as if ‘twere new-found Gold;

Slide glassy eyes o’er where I yet still stand;

Enact Esteem with firm and steady hand;

Weigh equal meanings by their trappings sold;

Find different Value, despite equal mold;

Discount my thoughts; (inconsequential mickles):

My Words have Breasts; And you Hear Testicles.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLII:  Tummy Talk

My stomach’s making lots of gurgling sounds,

It’s really loud, and quite an awful din,

You’d think I’d swallowed half a dozen hounds

And not a glass of water, sloshing thin;

I haven’t heard such symphonies of splurk

For years, and then I’m sure that I was ill,

A gastro-plague, which in my guts did lurk,

Tormential churning seeching life to schquill;

Oh, I wished to die; But now, I feel fine,

Despite the radiator plirk within,

Matching the hiss of heated water line

And cooling pipes, whose burbling should win;

This Choir’s plurking, gurgle-birth is murky:

Before water, all I had was Turkey…

 *     *     *     *     *

XLIII

My mind is full of words that are not mine,

And yet they seem to flow straight from my Heart,

As if the germ of instigating line

Had found its birth within mine own mind’s part;

How can a thought, long written on a page,

Invade our Souls as if it were new wrought,

Inciting spark of wonderment or rage

Within our brains, turning our eyes with naught?

An ephemeral gift of what was Seen

Or felt within a breast so long ago,

Captured in Ink, though vanished in the tween

Of Life and Death, whose cycle would forego;

A World of words exists within me still,

New-given life, though born of Other’s Will.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLIV

When Justice is an Honor that we hold

Within our hands to serve the Common good,

To clear our minds and sift with Judgment cold

The murky sands of Lies and Truth and Should;

When Lethal is the Sword that we must bear

To Shield true hearts from those who would do harm,

To know a Friend from Foe and when to Yield

Within a blink, discounting Viper’s charm;

When Witness is a cross that we must bear

And feel an Other’s life within our grasp,

To Speak the Truth with unadornéd Care,

Unswayed by ‘Why’ or ‘Wish’ or Friendship’s clasp;

When what we Do decides an Other’s Fate

It best behooves to tread with Care and Weight.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLV

Alas!  I know not how to sell myself,

To sway accounts by reaching out thru space,

To tempt far hands to dare to pluck my pelf,

For well or ill;  A Soul exhausting chase;

A single Heart, I’ve learned that I can hold,

If I am near and lift my Voice to Speak,

But when far eyes and ears are tuned to Gold,

I’ve found my tongue, my message, seems most weak;

To turn a thousand Hearts back into Ones,

To reach a million as if reaching few,

To lift my voice and Speak to Mothers’ Sons

And Fathers’ Daughters:  That’s what I must do.

To Voice the Human in this World I see:

Yet who am I to claim the way things be?

 *     *     *     *     *

XLVI

As long as you shine brightly, I will watch,

As long as you sing softly, I’ll to Sea,

Until the Ends of Time have cut their notch

And called me home to where my Cousins be;

As long as you exist, I will be here,

Shining my Heart to guide a Listener home,

Singing my Soul to draw the distant near

And hold it close ‘til ‘gan it deign to roam;

I will be here throughout the darkest night,

The brightest day, the grey-tinged, sullen dawn,

Dancing with shades that glister in their might

Past Star-blind eyes that name a Nova wan;

I will be here, though doubters say ye nay:

My Quill is yours;  Should need arise, just say.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLVII

Within the confines of a fertile stage

I take my rest and linger on the page;

Within the text of terrifying sage

I loose my Voice and question thru the age;

Within the fields of fantasy and doubt

I find my Joy and rapture in the rout

Of vacant spleens and carapace of joy

Within the tomb of barren show and Toy;

Within the toil of Honing Craftsman’s Pride

I find respite and walk the swelling Tide

Along the shore of Passion’s frantic bide

I pace alone and watch the currents ride;

Within the confines of this fertile Sea

I loose my Heart and let my spirit free.

 *     *     *     *     *

XLVIII

Is it a curse to see beneath the text?

To watch two shows where other Men see one?

The first, the real, bestowed with life and breath,

The second, ghost, flick-shadowing begun.

Is it a curse to hear two voices speak

In mirrored lines, when other Men hear one?

The first presented with intention brief,

The second whole, with truthful Heart now sung.

Is it a curse to feel a song betrayed

Whilst noting still the good that stands before?

To see potential in a blasted heath,

Hear fragrant notes ill-nurtured, bland, and bored.

‘Tis not a curse, this beauty haunting me,

And yet it hurts, for others do not see…

 *     *     *     *     *

XLIX

An iron hand doth hold me in this place,

Whisp’ring to write, though what I know not where

Nor why, nor how, nor caring for disgrace,

I lift my pen and bend to Idler’s care;

With ne’er a thought the words scrawl past this page,

Masking these lines with sugar-sweetened lace,

Fanning across the wisdoms of an Age

With chary toil and sprinting bosom’s chase;

The birth of this my iron hand doth guess

Cannot be seen or felt with senses sure,

Yet care not, friend, to scorn or count it less,

For here within you’ll find this bosom’s cure;

To sit and toil without a thought to Why

Is where all berths of Inspiration lie.

 *     *     *     *     *

L

The trappings of a dream suffuse my bed

And linger fresh within my bosom’s ward,

Filling a sea with tears of spectrant dread

And hopeful grace, arousing weeping’s chord;

I cling to dreams to give my Spirit strength

For fast Despair is quick to seal his grasp,

To leave me weak, apanic with the length

Of path and toil I’ve chosen close to clasp;

For never have I deigned aspiring small,

Reaching for Stars beyond the End of Time,

And ever do I touch a glass-maze wall,

Barring my way, despite seduction’s chime;

And so I dream with glist’ring eyes of Stars,

Feeling my way past trials that merit Mars.

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