Sonnettics

I ran too far down Pompey Hollow Road,
Too far beyond the turn I’d planned to take.
The fields I passed were summer-green, un-mowed;
Though soon, I knew, they’d feel the blade and rake.
I ran too far without a proper plan
Of double socks or anything to drink,
Aware a crow was watching as I ran,
And wondered what the midnight bird must think
To see a man lose water through his sweat,
And smell the desperation on his skin
As desperately he sucks his shirt to get
Whatever moisture he can gather in.
But in the end I smiled at all I’d done
In fifteen miles of just a ten mile run.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

I know the air is thin and yet I run
up City Creek, a paltry, trickling thread
that’s carved a canyon through the dusty dun
of dirt and rock and grass that’s sun-baked dead.
Surprised my breath suffices for the climb,
for all the years I’ve lived so far below,
I let my breath proceed in its own time,
My feet and legs as fast as they will go.
And in the sterile air I find the life
that justifies itself in slender hope.
I find an easy path through barren strife,
and feel myself go smoothly up the slope.
And as I turn to mark my summit’s end,
I feel my spirit rise as I descend.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

My will is set to run around the lakes
four times.  I start with half my normal stride
to test my strength, alleviate mistakes
of carelessness, impatience, or of pride.
This time I’ve brought my water, though it’s cool;
I know twelve miles will take their toll of thirst.
So rather than to be again a fool,
I’ve come in preparation for the worst.
And though I’ve chosen shoes that feel too big,
and though I’ve chosen socks that feel too thin,
and though I can’t avoid each stone or twig,
and though it’s not a race to lose or win,
I run to my redemption with a will
that makes it seem like time is standing still.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

The road expresses hardness through my feet,
the bones of which it mocks for where they’ve run
along the softer trails, devoid of heat,
the road absorbing nothing but the sun.
I push the road; it pushes fiercely back
in jealousy, I think, for my neglect.
Or else its soul is also hardened, black
and doesn’t give a damn what I expect.
The goals I’ve set bounce off the sun-baked tar
and slowly shuffle lamely on the side.
My preparations only go so far
as someone stops to offer me a ride.
And with a heavy sigh and bones that ache,
I’ve given all, but still the road can take.

She hides beneath my bed and cries too loud
for me too sleep.  I wonder if she’s there
because I dreamed I saw her in a crowd,
a sea of darker eyes and darker hair.
Her sobs waft up, an anti-lullaby
that permeates my heart, my soul, my ears.
And yet, I must be deaf because her cry
is nothing more than silent falling tears.
What’s wrong with me? I ask in whispered prayer.
What dulls the pain that grinds inside my head?
Hello?  Hello? My god are you still there?
Are you still hiding underneath my bed?
Pushed back with dusty papers that I keep
all filled with poems written in my sleep.

There stands the Man in portraiture sublime,
defined by someone more concerned with light,
like some poor poet more concerned with rhyme,
like Simon’s hand was more concerned with sleight.
It’s not the truth, which means it is a lie,
a lie that’s frozen fast, then mass produced.
A labor sure to catch the passing eye,
and yet it’s forced, a labor that’s induced.
There stands a man in reverie, in doubt,
who sees and yet he doesn’t see it all.
Subliminal, he feels the portrait’s drought,
reveals the blankness covering the wall.
And so he leaves; and so the wall remains
with nothing but the nothing it contains.

I hear the sound of actors on the set,
one ear pressed to my mattress while my arm
is bent protectively around my head;
my breath is even, deep, reflective, warm.
The noise of words distracts my reverie.
Deep inhalations fill me with regrets.
Deep expectations void my memories.
The play is done; the actor soon forgets.
I contemplate the sheets for lack of sleep
and dream of acts to play with words obscene.
Alone, I place my head upon the heap
of everything the metaphor might mean.
Then silently I pull the words apart
and let the curtain fall upon my heart.

Too long since I have held her outstretched hands,
her hands that hold my son throughout the day.
Her touch, through which her love for him expands,
exudes my own; I think of him.  I pray
his hands will always have her hands to guide
their courses as he learns and as he grows.
I held his hand and walked with him beside
before he walked alone; I hope he knows
I also held her hand, and will again.
We’ll take each hand in love and we will walk,
him on my left, her on my right and then
we’ll find a bench to rest upon, to talk
of love and how each touch of love demands
that love be felt and held in loving hands.

My words are all as pale as shock and grief
upon the dead man’s face before he dies
from loss of blood or loss of his belief
in godly grace or truth or even lies
She thinks I’m strong because my stoic face
is not as pale as all my words of gray
but color never could nor will replace
the warmth, the dawn, the memory of the day
When all I knew and all that could be known
was love as real and living as a child
who knows that he will never be alone
on whom the gift of godly grace has smiled
until he finds the strength of love is weak
and all his words have failed, too pale to speak

I’m sure my hands have never been this cold
Unless it was the time I died, I died
Inside my grave with nothing warm to hold
Not even all the tears I cried, I cried
My heart has never felt like this, like lead
Except for forty years before, before
When all I knew was that I wasn’t dead
And no one ever sang there’s more, much more
In time I’m sure the sun which set will rise
In time I’m sure the clouds will rain, will rain
In time I’m sure of nothing but the sighs
Of time each time I cry in vain, in vain
I’m sure my hands have never been this cold
Inside my grave with nothing warm to hold