Upon the turning of this world's great sphere,
When verdant summer fades to golden brown,
The hurried sun more briefly lingers here,
And pulls the long day's weary curtain down.
The restless wind begins a plaintive call,
That shakes the leaves and whispers through the eaves,
As if to mourn the passing of the fall,
And sigh to see the dying of the leaves.
Yet in this change, a quiet grace I find,
A deeper beauty in the fading light,
For in the winter, we can train the mind
To see the stars that populate the night.
So let the darkness bring its cold embrace,
To show the distant wonder of our space.
Sonnet
The digital ghost that haunts the modern age,
Is but a whisper of a fading sound,
We turn the screen instead of turning page,
And seek a truth on hollow, shallow ground.
The rapid flicker of a fleeting sight,
Obscures the steady flame of human thought,
We trade the long discussion for the light,
Of easy answers that our searches brought.
Yet still, a hunger burns within the soul,
To build and learn, to labor with the hand,
To make a part of something that is whole,
And see the fruit of planting on the land.
So let us lift our gaze beyond the screen,
To find a greater, more substantial scene.
Sonnet III
The city sleeps, but still its neon burns,
A steady hum that never leaves the air,
The restless concrete every moment turns,
Beneath the weight of progress and of care.
The lonely siren cuts a wailing streak,
And marks the silent suffering of night,
While hurried feet across the pavement sneak,
Escaping from the day's oppressive light.
But in this shadow, stories come to life,
Of dreams and longing, and of chance's roll,
Of hidden art that cuts away the strife,
To give the weary, hopeful, searching soul.
For in the darkness, hope can take its flight,
And make a small and independent light
Sonnet
The painter's hand, with brush and colored stain,
Doth chase the fleeting shadow of the day,
To capture light, and make the moment reign,
Before the changing clouds have blown away.
So too the poet strives with crafted verse,
To hold a feeling in a perfect line,
And bid the passing moment not disburse,
But rather, in a structured space, to shine.
For art is but a mirror to the soul,
Reflecting back what time would bid us lose,
A fragile effort to complete the whole,
From scattered fragments of what we must choose.
And in this striving, we can find a trace,
Of some small, perfect, and enduring grace.
Sonnet
The lonely vessel on the ocean wide,
Looks to the stars for comfort and for guide,
And trusts the compass, though its heart may hide,
A certain fear, where surging passions ride.
The ancient mariner, with weathered face,
Has seen the sea in fury and in peace,
And learned to navigate that endless space,
Where restless waters find their dark release.
So does the soul, on life’s great, troubled sea,
Look for a truth that rises from the deep,
A constant star, for all the world to see,
To find the promises that it must keep.
For though the storms of doubt may rage and tear,
A steady faith can dissipate the fear.
Sonnet
The silent forest holds a patient thought,
Where ancient trees have watched the seasons turn,
And heard the lessons that the wind has taught,
A whispered wisdom that they long to learn.
The dappled sunlight sifts through leafy lace,
And paints a pattern on the forest floor,
A thousand years of slow and steady pace,
Has seen the ebb and flow, and asked for more.
The tiny seed, that waits beneath the ground,
Holds all the promise of the coming spring,
The quiet cycle, where the life is found,
A hopeful song that nature loves to sing.
So let us listen to the ancient wood,
And know that what will come,will be for good
Sonnet
The ancient clock upon the mantel stands,
And ticks away the moments one by one,
A steady witness with unmoving hands,
To all that starts beneath the rising sun.
It marks the promise of a newborn day,
And charts the progress of a weary year,
It watches as our dearest dreams decay,
And stands unmoved by every falling tear.
For time is not a river we can cross,
Nor but a measure of our mortal breath,
It is the price of every gain and loss,
The silent, steady march towards our death.
So let us hold each present moment fast,
Before the future melts into the past.
Sonnet
The tired scholar, bent above his tome,
With dusty pages turned by gentle hand,
Finds worlds and stories far away from home,
And seeks to learn what few can understand.
He traces letters, centuries since wrote,
And hears the echoes of a distant mind,
A phrase that ancient, learned fingers quote,
To leave a little piece of them behind.
For in the words, a hidden truth resides,
That bridges chasms built by passing years,
And deep within the printed passion hides,
A voice that speaks to all our human fears.
So read the book, and find the timeless art,
That starts the beating of a lonely heart.
Sonnet
The quiet morning, with its gentle mist,
Arises from the slumber of the night,
And carries on the promise of a tryst,
Between the coming darkness and the light.
The fragile dewdrop clings to blade of grass,
And holds a universe within its sphere,
A perfect moment that will soon all pass,
As warmer sunbeams cause it to appear.
So may our fragile moments, briefly held,
Reflect the larger world in which we live,
And may the stories that our lives have spelled,
Be more than what a hurried world can give.
For in the small and fragile, we may see,
A glimpse of all that’s meant for you and me
Sonnet
The anachronistic burden of the mind,
Doth weigh upon the weary spirit’s grace,
As erudition, thoughtfully defined,
Confronts the transient phantoms of this place.
The philosophic dialectics cease,
To grant the soul a genuine accord,
When mortal frailties usurp the peace,
And every fabricated truth’s ignored.
For all the intellectual artifice,
Is but a fragile and transparent shield,
Against the primal, unfeigned emphasis,
That raw, unmitigated grief can wield.
The polysyllabic heart, though eloquent,
Is still by simple, crushing sorrow rent.
Sonnet
The obfuscations of the corporeal,
Distort the lucid soul’s perception clear,
To render every moment ephemeral,
And fill the present with a future fear.
The incandescent passion, long since spent,
Is but a phosphorescent, fading spark,
A vestige of a time of true intent,
That leaves the spirit wandering in the dark.
The supererogation of the heart,
To give beyond its most essential need,
Is now considered but a foolish art,
Or some sentimental, unproductive deed.
Yet in this excess, one might yet retrieve,
A purer love in which one can believe
Sonnet
The indefatigable progress of the age,
Doth manifest its omnipresent hand,
Upon the soul's insensate, barren stage,
To subjugate the contemplative mind's demand.
The technological crescendo of our time,
Extends its reach beyond the corporal,
And substitutes the analogic rhyme,
For synthesized and algorithmic call.
The fabricated, simulacral glee,
Is but a hollow echo of the whole,
A digital, imperfect mimicry,
That cannot satisfy the human soul.
For in the silence, where the echoes cease,
The self-illumination finds its peace.
Sonnet
The obfuscations of the corporeal,
Distort the lucid soul’s perception clear,
To render every moment ephemeral,
And fill the present with a future fear.
The incandescent passion, long since spent,
Is but a phosphorescent, fading spark,
A vestige of a time of true intent,
That leaves the spirit wandering in the dark.
The supererogation of the heart,
To give beyond its most essential need,
Is now considered but a foolish art,
Or some sentimental, unproductive deed.
Yet in this excess, one might yet retrieve,
A purer love in which one can believe.
Sonnet
The labyrinthine convolutions of the brain,
Construct a narrative to understand,
The existential, variegated pain,
That plagues the heart and governs all the land.
The preternatural impulse to believe,
In some fantastic, ultimate design,
Permits the human spirit to perceive,
A cosmic purpose, utterly divine.
The introspective and recursive quest,
For certitude within a boundless sea,
Is but an introspective, weary test,
Of mortal limitations, you and me.
For in the knowing, we may find release,
From doubt's insidious, relentless lease
Sonnet
The incandescent panorama of the stars,
Reflects an unimaginable expanse,
Ignoring every minuscule of wars,
Or humankind's infinitesimal advance.
The cosmic indifference, so profound,
Doth render every human enterprise,
A futile, transient, and forgotten sound,
Beneath the gaze of universal eyes.
Our grand ambitions, our profoundest art,
The delicate construction of our schemes,
Are but a momentary, flickering part,
Of constellations and celestial dreams.
And yet, in our ephemeral design,
A fleeting, fragile, consciousness can shine.
Sonnet
The intellectual's perpetual disdain,
For unexamined, popular belief,
Doth constitute a monumental, certain pain,
And offer little permanent relief.
For in the microscopic, fine-grained view,
The analyst constructs a reasoned maze,
But lacks the comprehensive, larger clue,
That simple faith provides in simple days.
The intricate mechanics of the mind,
Can deconstruct all beauty into parts,
And leave the sentimental soul behind,
With all its unsubstantiated arts.
The rationalist, in his sagacious quest,
May lose the beating in his burdened chest.
Sonnet
The subterranean currents of the soul,
Doth seek expression through the fractured light,
To make the disparate pieces seem a whole,
And conquer the amorphous, inner night.
The psychological, complex design,
Of human motive, tangled and obscure,
Defies the logical and clear confine,
Of every simple, self-professed allure.
The conscious mind, a delicate facade,
Conceals the primal, subterranean stream,
Of fears and memories, and things unmade,
That constitute the existential dream.
The analyst, with his profoundest art,
Cannot completely plumb the human heart.
Sonnet
The superlunary, transcendental plane,
Escapes the gross terrestrial mind’s design,
For mortal logic strives, and strives in vain,
To grasp the absolute and the divine.
Our presuppositions, so profound,
Are but a momentary, fleeting guide,
To navigate the consecrated ground,
Where universal mysteries reside.
The numinous, a presence felt, not known,
Eludes the verbal and the syllabical,
And leaves the rationalist to stand alone,
Before the truth, that’s anti-logical.
For in the silence, one may find a way,
To glimpse the light that mocks the passing day.
Sonnet
The indefatigable, urban-sprawl extends,
Its cold dominion, concrete and profane,
Where every curated path descends,
Into a subterranean, restless strain.
The subterranean, electric hum,
Doth mock the bucolic, pastoral sound,
And render every sylvan moment numb,
On desecrated, consecrated ground.
The synthetic, fluorescent gleam at night,
Obscures the constellations from our sight,
And turns the darkness into blinding light,
That burns away the contemplative right.
But in the manufactured, plastic scene,
A human, unextinguished soul is keen.
Sonnet
The idiosyncratic contours of the soul,
Defy the metric and the strict restraint,
And render every structured artifice,
A momentary, fragile, painted feint.
The introspective and recursive quest,
To understand the subterranean mind,
Is but a futile, existential test,
Of all the truth that we are left behind.
For all the psychological conceit,
Is but a fragile and transparent guise,
To hide the truth that’s bitter and is sweet,
Reflected in another’s searching eyes.
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine soul, and ask fore more.
Sonnet
Upon the turning of this world's great sphere,
When verdant summer fades to golden brown,
The hurried sun more briefly lingers here,
And pulls the long day's weary curtain down.
The restless wind begins a plaintive call,
That shakes the leaves and whispers through the eaves,
As if to mourn the passing of the fall,
And sigh to see the dying of the leaves.
Yet in this change, a quiet grace I find,
A deeper beauty in the fading light,
For in the winter, we can train the mind
To see the stars that populate the night.
So let the darkness bring its cold embrace,
To show the distant wonder of our space.
Sonnet
The digital ghost that haunts the modern age,
Is but a whisper of a fading sound,
We turn the screen instead of turning page,
And seek a truth on hollow, shallow ground.
The rapid flicker of a fleeting sight,
Obscures the steady flame of human thought,
We trade the long discussion for the light,
Of easy answers that our searches brought.
Yet still, a hunger burns within the soul,
To build and learn, to labor with the hand,
To make a part of something that is whole,
And see the fruit of planting on the land.
So let us lift our gaze beyond the screen,
To find a greater, more substantial scene.
Sonnet
The city sleeps, but still its neon burns,
A steady hum that never leaves the air,
The restless concrete every moment turns,
Beneath the weight of progress and of care.
The lonely siren cuts a wailing streak,
And marks the silent suffering of night,
While hurried feet across the pavement sneak,
Escaping from the day's oppressive light.
But in this shadow, stories come to life,
Of dreams and longing, and of chance's roll,
Of hidden art that cuts away the strife,
To give the weary, hopeful, searching soul.
For in the darkness, hope can take its flight,
And make a small and independent light.
·
·
eated in the Shakespearean style (ABAB CDCD EFEF GG).
Sonnet I
Upon the turning of this world's great sphere,
When verdant summer fades to golden brown,
The hurried sun more briefly lingers here,
And pulls the long day's weary curtain down.
The restless wind begins a plaintive call,
That shakes the leaves and whispers through the eaves,
As if to mourn the passing of the fall,
And sigh to see the dying of the leaves.
Yet in this change, a quiet grace I find,
A deeper beauty in the fading light,
For in the winter, we can train the mind
To see the stars that populate the night.
So let the darkness bring its cold embrace,
To show the distant wonder of our space.
Sonnet II
The digital ghost that haunts the modern age,
Is but a whisper of a fading sound,
We turn the screen instead of turning page,
And seek a truth on hollow, shallow ground.
The rapid flicker of a fleeting sight,
Obscures the steady flame of human thought,
We trade the long discussion for the light,
Of easy answers that our searches brought.
Yet still, a hunger burns within the soul,
To build and learn, to labor with the hand,
To make a part of something that is whole,
And see the fruit of planting on the land.
So let us lift our gaze beyond the screen,
To find a greater, more substantial scene.
Sonnet III
The city sleeps, but still its neon burns,
A steady hum that never leaves the air,
The restless concrete every moment turns,
Beneath the weight of progress and of care.
The lonely siren cuts a wailing streak,
And marks the silent suffering of night,
While hurried feet across the pavement sneak,
Escaping from the day's oppressive light.
But in this shadow, stories come to life,
Of dreams and longing, and of chance's roll,
Of hidden art that cuts away the strife,
To give the weary, hopeful, searching soul.
For in the darkness, hope can take its flight,
And make a small and independent light.
Sonnet IV
The painter's hand, with brush and colored stain,
Doth chase the fleeting shadow of the day,
To capture light, and make the moment reign,
Before the changing clouds have blown away.
So too the poet strives with crafted verse,
To hold a feeling in a perfect line,
And bid the passing moment not disburse,
But rather, in a structured space, to shine.
For art is but a mirror to the soul,
Reflecting back what time would bid us lose,
A fragile effort to complete the whole,
From scattered fragments of what we must choose.
And in this striving, we can find a trace,
Of some small, perfect, and enduring grace.
No comments:
Post a Comment