Sonnettics

In time the day subsides without relief;
it merely moves from light to gray to dark.
These grimy windows of my disbelief
pull shades of doubt to hide my human spark.
The sleep of death, the death of sleep, the dream
that waits regardless of ontology
plays out in what it is, not what it seems.
My question: not to be or not to be?
These eyes have been deprived of what they seek,
directed by my mind, my heart, my soul:
deprived by deprivations so unique
that nothingness would be a lofty goal.
In short, the day has passed devoid of grace;
once more I’ve missed the beauty of your face.

Oh doll, I whisper, holding up your dress;
it whispers nothing back in faded blue.
My hands are full of woven emptiness;
my memories are empty, filled with you.
Oh doll, I sigh; I’m thin and getting cold.
I warm the faded blue with sobbing breath.
Are you still young?  Am I still growing old?
My questions wear the fabric of your death.
The air is filled with orange shafts of light;
I’ve woken up ten thousand frozen motes.
The frigid day becomes a bitter night
which fails the symbolism it denotes.
Oh doll, I cry, and stain your dress with tears.
What more of faded blue? How many years?

I have no hope; I only have a dull
and pulsing pain that thinks it is my heart.
Between each tear that falls, a sullen lull
expands before a reverie can start.
The spine of my emotions has been cut;
I’m paralyzed: no joy, no love, no hate.
I sense the coming atrophy of what
was once my life: too soon, too much, too late.
I don’t believe in angels anymore.
The songs I hear are shrill and out of tune.
Perhaps they’re demons raging at my door;
my soul is theirs: too late, too much, too soon.
What flame will they employ when they have crossed
the threshold of my life where I am lost?

This sonnet is a follow-on to one written previously entitled Lost–Call To An Angel

Your kiss is more than simply lips to lips;
it’s more than pleasure passed with heated breath.
Your kiss is more than just a tongue which slips
through lipstick red as life and deep as death.
Your mouth becomes a passage to your soul;
the act becomes a breach of space and time.
It’s chaos gaining ground on self control,
and poetry surrendering to rhyme.
Then, as you slide your hand behind my neck,
while fever flushes red across my face,
my will is weakened first, then held in check;
your kiss becomes my solitary grace.
My world contracts and nothing else exists
except the perfect passion of your kiss.

Entangled roots smell dark, like secrets, when
I pull them from October’s musky ground.
The promises of April’s seeds and rain
bore fruit that drank the sun while they were drowned
in earth.  And now they only seek decay,
like secrets never told that have been torn,
acknowledged, smelled, then simply tossed away
with other roots and secrets yet unborn.
The ground will soon be frozen where they grew
and locked within December’s tomb of frost
remains the secret everybody knew;
the value of such knowledge will be lost.
One root becomes the earth while nourishing
another secret root that blooms in spring.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading The Cycle of Secrets

I want to place my lips upon your scar
and let them linger there until they know
the shape, the depth of everything you are,
to bear a mark that shows and doesn’t show.
I want to feel the pulse that’s deeper still,
that feeds the living mark upon your skin.
And with my lips reveal the living will
that wants to be let out, to be let in.
I want my kiss to be a healing touch
whenever it is pressed upon the place
of opening and closing, very much.
In this would be my everything, my grace.
And when the moment comes, when it is clear
I’ll bathe your scar with just one single tear.

I felt the joy of morning as I held
you, smiling, while your mother watched and glowed
from just across the kitchen.  We compelled
her eyes to find her camera.  Morning slowed
the way all scenes of love and beauty do.
And you, my child, were more than love and more
than beauty.  In her picture we were two
of God’s most happy children.  I adored
the way you pouted just to share my juice;
you pulled my hands and arms ’til I gave up.
I laughed until my laughter was the truce
that sealed your triumph, capturing the cup!
You kissed me then; your baby kiss was sweet.
No broken fast was ever more complete.