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Loss

Two of my wife’s uncles have recently passed away. The first after suffering a series of debilitating strokes, the first of which occurred around five years ago. The second about a year after discovering stage four cancer in his throat and enduring debilitating surgeries. I plan eventually to write memorial poems for each of them.

As I reflected on what it must have been like for the families of these men, a metaphor formed in mind and I found myself writing this.

Loss

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 10th Petrarchan sonnet.

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The Rarest Gem

There is a women’s Christian group that meets at 7pm on Tuesdays at one of the coffeehouses I hang out at. They usually gather round a large meeting table near the table I tend to favor, so I’ll often find myself listening in on their discussions—Not because I’m interested or nosy so much as because I possess the unfortunate inability to tune anything out.

Six to ten women attend this meeting, bringing a thin blue book with a title something to do with living a wholesome life as a Christian woman. Each week they discuss what they’ve read and share stories about what’s going on in their lives, often giving one another advice on how to deal with this difficulty or that personal trauma. Considering all the personality types involved, it seems like they form a great emotional support group for one another.

About two weeks ago one of the women was visibly despondent throughout the discussion, so toward the end, after each of them had shared and discussed something from her week, they gently ganged up on her and got her to open up. She broke down into shuddering sobs as she attempted to explain what was going on with her. Turns out she was feeling overwhelmed and depressed by drama and chaos created by some of her close friends. Stuff that perhaps fewer men than women would understand or relate to.

This poem builds on some thoughts that formed in my head as they urged her to draw a line and demand that her friends respect certain boundaries.

The Rarest Gem

Peace of mind is a rare and precious gem,
  shot through with deep unblemished shades
   of autumn skies that never fade,
each facet polished to a cool aplomb.
It waits within the deepest, darkest clime
  to be unearthed from rock and clay
   and crafted in the light of day
by empathy and wisdom till it gleams.

   So we must choose our friends with utmost care,
for there are those with whom it can’t be trusted,
  who treat this jewel with disdain,
   who scuff it up with gall and shame
until it’s rendered void of all its luster
  and every thought is muddied with despair.

This is my 9th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Falter

When I play with a poetic form that I want get to know for its own sake and hopefully gain some insights from, I’ll often first explore the form in its strictest expression, following its “rules” exactly. Then after I’ve done this a few times, I’ll begin to deviate and explore variations on its structural theme. The ten Shakespearean, or English, sonnets I’ve written are all in strict iambic pentameters, but now that I’m moving through the ten Petrarchan, or Italian, sonnets that I want to write, I’m experimenting much more broadly. I have for a long time not considered rhyme essential to a form’s success, often opting instead to explore various alternatives. Instead of rhyme, this poem uses partial reverse rhyme, assonance, and alliteration in place of the end-line rhyme pattern used by the Petrarchan sonnet.

Falter

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 4th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Coming Together

I have known Kayla for nearly ten years, since she was maybe 13. Now in about a week she’s getting married already. We met at a site centered on interactions around the subject of poetry. I don’t quite remember how we started talking, but it of course involved the subject of poetry. I do remember that for years she would ask me to task her with writing projects, which she would diligently work at and complete. Today she actually credits me with having taught her a lot.

A few months back, she asked me if I would commemorate her wedding with a poem, saying it would mean a lot to her. I’ve tried to accommodate her request. Hopefully she’ll like.

Coming Together

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This poem is a synthetic ode, my 4th. Since the synthetic ode can contain other forms within it, so long as certain semantic and structural guidelines are met, and since I was playing with sonnets anyway, this poem also contains my 7th and 8th Shakespearean sonnets (parts I and II), and my 1st Petrarchan sonnet (part III).

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Afterglow

On January 25, Antonio, a close friend of my wife, posted a very touching status update in memory of his mother—It was her birthday. I asked my wife about his mother after reading it and later resolved to write something myself at some point. So, inspired by the love, respect, and appreciation he expressed for his mother that day, this sonnet is also written in her memory.

Afterglow

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 4th Shakespearean sonnet.

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Tryst

Sometimes, when love is lost, it never comes again. Or perhaps more accurately, it never fades enough for another to take its place. So, my third Shakespearean sonnet.

Tryst

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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Default

This began as a pregnant note, jotted down in one of my composition books as I sat in a fast food joint reflecting on the pangs of a friend’s recent betrayal of my loyalty and trust. This note eventually became the second couplet. My friend of many years turned on me quite unexpectedly and I was left stunned, numb, and pensive. I didn’t know at the time that the two lines I jotted down would later expand out into a ghazal that explored a broader spectrum of circumstances involving trust and betrayal.

Default

A field of dreams was sown by the hand of a spoken promise,
but they withered, for your words were merely a token promise.

The light outside is the veil of my great uncertainty;
inside, alone in the dark, I dream of your broken promise.

Your words were fuel for a blaze that warded off the darkness,
but soon the night fell back on embers of smoking promise.

Conviction was a spring that vanished as I neared it;
I was a fool, allured by hints of unspoken promise.

A single hope became the wellspring of all deception,
seeping a saccharine poison, its scent evoking promise.

For years the dreamer wandered through realms of loss and fortune;
adrift on phasing currents, he never woke in promise.

Delusion is a bright-eyed mistress assuring passion,
but time reveals her treacherous ways, revoking promise.

Potential rises like a fog, illumed by a half-moon,
and leaves the unsteady path before us cloaked in promise.

This is my 133rd ghazal.

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Offerings

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written several years ago, making this my 130th. The refrain and preceding rhyme are the same, though possibly more appropriately approached this time around.

Offerings

I’ll walk through tattered corridors of time for you;
I’ll pick through rooms dilapidate with grime for you.

I almost didn’t make it through yon craggy pass,
but I’ll go back and map that deadly climb for you.

Because the great flood covered riches deep in mud,
I dredge destruction from the fetid slime for you.

A legend tells of treasure sunk where memory dims;
I’ll find those depths and search that watery clime for you.

Since priceless pearls were buried with the fractured years,
I dig amongst these bones beneath the lime for you.

A thief once entered in the night and took all hope;
I’ve striven ever since to solve this crime for you.

We lean against a storm of sharp discordant words;
I’ll try to harmonize them into rhyme for you.

The soft wind carries voices from translucent skies
which whisper meaning on the garden chime for you.

The original, written in June of 2002, can be read under this title: “Offering” (not pluralized).

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The Empty Cubby

A perspective poem, written from the perspective of a child as she ponders the empty cubby by the wall in her classroom. I’ve only written a handful of perspective poems over the years, though I would like to write more.

   The Empty Cubby

   The cubby hole is empty
      where your lunchbox used to be,
and everyone seems quieter today.
   There is an eerie stillness,
      like the playground in between
our recess time when we go out to play.

   The Teacher tried to tell us,
      when we all came in for class,
that you were never coming back again.
   We asked a lot of questions,
      but it was hard to understand
the way she hid her face as if in pain.

   All morning long, your best friend
      Tommy turned to face the door
whenever anybody entered through.
   At recess in the play yard
      he sat out by the handball court
alone and staring up into the blue.

   We know that something’s happened.
      Somehow we know that something’s changed.
Nobody is the way they usually seem.
   We didn’t even play much
      when we had our classroom brakes.
The whole entire day is like a dream.

   Now class is almost over,
      but no-one seems to really care
the round clock on the wall is nearing three.
   I think they all are thinking
      of the cubby with your name.
The cubby where your lunchbox used to be.

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morning prayer

Every morning she prays her rosary. Although I am in no way religious, being present and in some way a part of the process can bring a certain peace to the moment and even a sense of hope to the day ahead.

morning prayer

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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sunday morning

I am trying to learn what I’ve half forgotten, how to bring moments of thought—imaginary or reflective—to life through imagery in words. But with all the insights I’ve gained since before forgetting, I find now that I want to try out strange oblique angles.

sunday morning

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

No, this isn’t about me, nor anyone I think I know. But it is about someone. It’s definitely about someone—somewhere.