Monthly Archives: March 2018

Sonnet #238

In which the demon speaks is that which lives
For nothing dead can carry demonology,
Those determinate souls who will certainly
Go down way down will unperturbed slide
Into their days while those too good for words
Will never speak the language of the gloom
In which the demon speaks is that which fumes
The furious nights, the chattering like a bird
Upset at birds, trying to lift up the birds, perhaps
Those things that only fly and never recall the reason
The long memories flow in which the demon laughs
is where the soul carrying tries to laugh at demons
The ones who try to build in an image, burn off chaff
Clean the skies of clouds, cast magic at the seasons

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Sonnet #237

We love in the kingdom of broken toys
Yet often forget that we are of them
But — let’s be truthful — nothing works right when
It’s just removed from box, girls and boys
Must bend the limits of designers into shapes
And as the wearing happens parts will scratch
Some will shatter or disappear, unscrew, unlatch
Until we settle in to our familiar limping gaits
And melt and stumble and be made new
Unfinished until broken, all designs a start
Where the hands of builders stop, the true
Shapes emerge from happy abusers, faulty parts
We live in the kingdom of broken toys
Play until ruined on costumes and joys

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Sonnet #236

Believe in darkness, for in shadows truths reveal

The shape of shadows, the way the room traverses

Where the foot breaks on wood and remembered curses

How the forest of the night is holy in how it feels:

Terrifying. An all-consuming shadow, all jagged places

Rapacious. Believe in darkness, for darkness walks

Behind you. You cannot see the steps, but talk

Into the darkness, whisper, beg for mercy, race

if you dare, but the faster run the faster trip

The harder fall: Believe in darkness where the holy

Stalks behind you, in the rising hairs, the slip

Where hidden boundaries and subtle, slowly

grasping, paths of vegetation and lost steps

Each footfall made in hope, each prayer made truly

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Sonnet #235

We bloom at night when nothing but moths

are pouring from the shadows, our perfume

calls all their tongues to dip into our womb

Where we hold ground and make, our worth

Is measured in the memories of souls

Where bent by us, the moon’s refraction,

With the gesture of our palms,concatenations

of our scents, intoxicate all strolls

with echoes in the air, our silent songs,

This scent of flowers shining from the bark

Where petals hidden pale and focused strong

to call the moths of midnight, they embark

in dreamlight off their hard cocoons, but not for long

We feed these shadow countries, cool and stark

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