Sonnettics

I can’t replace the love you’ve given, free
I can’t replace the softness of your breast
Your love and softness mean the world to me
They need a poem, need to be expressed
I love your love, your softness, and your kiss
And though I’ve gotten angry, I must say
The things I love are things I’ve come to miss
I hate it when those things are far away
They’re you, and yes, my love is always yours
I want to give you everything I’ve got
I won’t replace the love my want obscures
With anything my want’s occlusion brought
I won’t replace your love; I’d be a fool
Like trying to replace a priceless jewel.

I didn’t know her heart was mine to break
She didn’t need another broken heart
Considering the pain that was at stake
I can’t believe she took the chance to start
Her love with me; I felt her deep within
The simple words I chose to mark her soul
She let me feel the warmth beneath her skin
But warmth can burn when touched without control
We held each other when we drifted near
We let each other go, to drift away
I should have sealed our bond but now I fear
It doesn’t matter what I want to say
Her broken heart is deaf; my words are trite
She’ll never love again, but then, she might.

The art of anger rises in my soul
But when it has no subject, I am lost
I fight to gain emotional control
And wonder what’s been gained at such a cost
There must be beauty in the art of pain
Such masochistic thoughts begin to form
Sometimes as I investigate my brain
I feel them deviating from the norm
Creative impulse used to feel divine
But now it sinks to words denoting hate
It tosses them in each and every line
And even in my couplets, won’t abate
Like knives I use to cut within the Louvre
The art of anger helps my soul to move.

Shakespeare likes my last one, so I am going to try and please The Bard once more!

Act 2 Scene 2: What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? (Spoken by Romeo)

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou her maid art far more fair than she: 
Be not her maid, since she is envious; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green 
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. 
It is my lady, O, it is my love! 
O, that she knew she were! 
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that? 
Her eye discourses; I will answer it. 
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks: 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek!

The Bard was merciless with this one!
So much is already written in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter)!
Here’s my attempt. (Go easy on me, Bill!)

For Juliet

If you were dark, my heart would feel the same
The sun and moon are nothing like your skin
Your vestal livery precludes the flame
But soft, what light of love is held within?
There’s warmth within the light of sun and stars
Your eyes are thus: the windows of your soul
That birds would sing in over-simple bars
And twilight would concede to their control
And touching you, unchecked, would burn my hand
Although I only want to touch your cheek
The song of birds obeys your light’s command
Through yonder window, metaphors will speak
Extended far beyond the pain we feel
Their songs become my words, and yes, they’re real!

She says she wants to feel me “come inside”
I tell her, with sincerity, “I will”
Desire’s not a thing we have to hide
Not even when we’re absolutely still
We tried it once; she says we’ll try again
Our motion isn’t easy to prevent
I guess we kind of like it, now and then
And now our passion’s love has this intent:
She says, “Let’s start on baby.” I agree
She says, “I need you.” Now she’s talking love
Her “Handsome Prince” I always want to be
And always be the one she’s thinking of!
She tells me that I make her “heart complete”
The words she chooses, make her more than Sweet!

We walk beside the water, hand in hand
Symbolically, the water’s always pure
She guides me to a place where we can stand
And watch the beauty; all I see is her
I often turn and pull her toward my soul
Her motion is reflected in the sea
And turning thus, she gives me full control
I kiss her, and I feel her kissing me
The waves are like the rhythms of our hearts
Like spirits brought to life with vibrant love
We navigate our ocean without charts
It’s more than just the life we’re dreaming of
The water’s pure and warm; it’s vast and deep
And though the dream is ours, we’re not asleep.

We walk beside the water, hand in hand
Symbolically, the water’s always pure
She guides me to a place where we can stand
And watch the beauty; all I see is her
I often turn and pull her toward my soul
Her motion is reflected in the sea
And turning thus, she gives me full control
I kiss her, and I feel her kissing me
The waves are like the rhythms of our hearts
Like spirits brought to life with vibrant love
We navigate our ocean without charts
It’s more than just the life we’re dreaming of
The water’s pure and warm; it’s vast and deep
And though the dream is ours, we’re not asleep.

Today I met a precious little girl
She made me smile; I felt her in my heart
More precious than a pretty little pearl
I knew that she was pretty, sweet, and smart
De donde eres? were my words to her
De Mexico, her tiny voice was sweet
I know that she’s an Angel.  Yes, I’m sure!
She had an Angel’s name, an Angel’s treat!
Her treat was made of chocolate; that’s the best!
Her name is Valentina: healthy, strong
If Angels are a blessing, I’ve been blessed!
I want to write this Angel girl a song!
If Valentina’s happy, so am I
But still I’m sad we had to say goodbye.

I tried to write a sonnet, but I failed
Ironically, the words were red as blood
The page was like a victim I’d assailed
All covered with my words, like solemn crud
I used to think that purity was white
That poetry, like life, was pure as well
But then I tried to live and tried to write
And there I found contaminants, and Hell
The words I choose contaminate the page
They pulse, they flow, they turn, and then they stain
I try to make them justify my rage
My words are red as blood and filled with pain
I hate my life; I hate this little song
They’re technically correct, but god! They’re wrong!