O, howled the wolf up to the starless sky,
His pain as crisp as freshly fallen snow.
The sparkle left his burning amber eye,
for she had left him pining down below.
The wind caressed him coldly, planted cool
kisses of ice upon his frosty face,
but he was nothing but a lover's fool,
and waited once again for her embrace.
For jealous Winter stole her from his gaze,
and held her closely in his clutch of cloud.
Though chill had tried to quench his heart ablaze,
his song rang out among the mountains loud:
"My love is blind, and yet my love is true,
as here I save my last heart beat for you!"
There is this lamp that sits right on my desk,
layers of dust signaling lack of use,
I bought to make my space more picturesque
that's still void of light, though with one excuse.
I could replace the bulb sometime tonight
but I do not desire that false glow,
for things look better in the morning light;
what’s in the dark I do not want to know.
I don’t recall a time that lamp did work;
it gets me into bed before sundown.
It is no myth that monsters like to lurk,
they tend to use my thoughts as their playground.
It is simple why I won’t fix that lamp:
I’m tired from running monster day camp.
and you said: "I hope you like chocolate."
I've not had choclate, nor a taste, in pale
Excuse, for that in days, perhaps cuz hence
You called yourself that, and my hunger thence
Was only for whom stole aught else, t'avail
Me of: just you. And oh! how that detail
In lieu of packaged squares, eats me and sense
Out of both home and hearth, ne crumb to fence
The orgy is't? yet smudges in betrayl.
Oh, Adrian! There I must leave off. Were--
What? Savour ah, minutest crumbs, roll too
Across your tongue that darkest morsel your
Soul yields itself up to, and ah, foil to
Glint, crinkle, tease, nor but in silver tour
Hold lo, exquisite heights: what's I love you?
Whenever I begin to write a verse,
I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.
I promise that my grin is not of spite,
as my cheeks begin to crease from the weight
of my smile stapled wide. My eyesight
is tinted green just thinking of your date.
I promise that I don’t resent your side
or hands that get to linger on someone
I think I deserve, though I never tried
to be the one you needed to outrun.
I promise I’ve been in a similar
boat, but waves sound like an aquarium
against yours, so just take my signature.
Paint my mind with the way you love them,
because I promise what’s yours feels like mine
if you’re someone I can hate all the time.
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Try this! Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:
Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.
Here was my submission....does it make sense?
(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)
No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns. A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.
By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy
As we very reluctantly parted, he queried whether he was just another of my whims. Ignorantly, I replied I guessed so, provided we never saw each other again. Erm. Months later the fire is still burning brightly in the absence of any good reason. Interesting eh? Needing a topic as usual, and weary of nature tributes (hahaha, can you believe it?!) I tackled this beloved thread, writing it in the present tense as if from our first days then altering to the present in the second (linked) sonnet.
(sonnet #'s CCCCXLVIII, CCCCXLIX)
You play my heartstrings like a puppeteer
Methinks. Quite deftly pluck and gently twang
To immelod'ous strains whilst I half hang
'Twixt hope and fear, life's balance near
Precar'ous in that cur'ous dance. By mere
Sweet words or grim I'm tossed, a boomerang
That can't be lost to you though ev'ry pang
Estranges reason in this game too dear.
All yours because those unseen chords have caught
My heart that like a harp you seem to use,
As sans my will, in strumming half distraught
Or with such ecstasies, howe'er you choose
You ply, in your winds varied whims 'non fraught,
This hapless leaf. To what end? Just t'amuse?
To what end? Just t'amuse, we tried romance?
Who fell in love? I did. Did you? In vain?
Oh, why'd we play that game? What now remains?
Behold: a live coal, frosted black, whose stance
Seems quite the opposite; wherein the dance
Of Love's hot passion plays anon, aye reigns
Sans you, and any reason. Its refrain
Nigh hopeless, sings your name where none supplants.
Because you knew it would. You told me so.
And while I scoffed, that's how it goes, I see.
Who screwed that hopeful thread, oh sweetness Beau?
'Twas "love at first sight," a rare golden key.
That never quite died but e'er seems to glow.
At least that's how it 'pears in Love's debris.
We bow, and twine our hands to worship that
Which perches in the steeple high above
And pour our sins into a troubled vat
That turns all violent thoughts to vicious love
Unfurling wings that scarcely make a sound
Abyss bound savior filled with heaven’s grace
Our mortal visions cease, it hits the ground
And murmured voices fade without a trace
Our innocence betrayed we dare to claim
That humans still deserve the gods that shine
Charred remnants of our avarice the same
As shadows used by that we thought divine
We bow repentant at its feet and pray
The angel spills our holy blood today