Sonnettics

And now that he was dead, the chair was hers,
a place to sit above the shifting dirt,
a piece of brittle wood, an ancient curse
that moaned as if it too had suffered hurt.
A crack that matched a scar upon her face
felt sharper to her small and steady hand
than any knife he’d kept within this place
except the one she’d buried in the sand.
When night came on she didn’t move at all
for fear the chair might simply disappear,
and nothing would remain to break her fall,
and nothing would remain to keep her here.
Her mind was gone, of that she was aware,
but now that he was dead, she owned his chair.

Her breath becomes her voice, becomes her song;
the air becomes a beauty to perceive.
She shapes it right where others shape it wrong,
and silent doubts give way to just believe.
My god, she pulls the life from where it starts,
directs it in its rise of fertile grace,
and time becomes the now her voice imparts
to fill the barren void of empty space.
Her song creates the world. Her song is joy;
it resonates like something like a soul.
Her song transcends devices some employ
like simple mortal poets, less than whole.
Her breath becomes her voice, becomes her song,
shaped right, eternal beauty all along.

I don’t know what it means; I just don’t know.
Did I do something wrong, some kind of sin?
I’ll tell you what I can. I’ll take it slow,
although I’m just not sure where to begin.
You know, He came and spoke to me each night
in Perfect Glory, stood there with his Son
above the floor in robes of brilliant white,
for twenty years perhaps or twenty-one.
But not last night. His presence didn’t shine.
His voice was mute; His Son was absent too.
I’m left without the water or the wine.
Is false still false? Is true no longer true?
If silence was the voice I’d always heard
then god was nothing more than just a word.

A thousand miles away the sweetest sigh
Of love and longing leaves her lonely lips
A prelude or a postlude to a cry
Accompanied by trembling fingertips
A thousand miles away I hear her hair
Brush gently as it falls across her face
The softest sound of which I am aware
A subtle sound she amplifies with grace
Nearby the howl of autumn winds and rain
Is deafening in all its autumn rage
A furious sound of cacophonic pain
Which struts and frets upon a noisy stage
A player poor I’ve chosen not to hear
And press the telephone against my ear

My hope is to be found when I am lost
In place or time, in reverie or thought
By my own will or circumstances tossed
Into that realm where wanderers are caught
Between confusion’s gate and some broad field
I see myself alone and turned around
The stars by clouds are suddenly concealed
And I am staring blankly at the ground
I need an angel’s prayers to guide my feet
I need an angel’s wings to guard my heart
An angel’s song would never sound as sweet
As when it’s sung while we are far apart
What hand will find my hand and be my guide?
What angel comes to stand here by my side?