Sonnettics

Ironic that I find my thoughts deferred
from Shakespeare as the actors say their lines.
I listen to Ado, though Nothing’s heard
by my intents, except obscure designs.
Designs that come from somewhere I reside
when focused on my ankle’s metal screws.
And plates my scars obscure, okay they hide
designs of loss I hope I never lose.
Though Beatrice and Benedick may spar
with words that Shakespeare chose to mark his play
Their sound is near, although their wits are far
I miss the meanings of the things they say.
The irony of life is spoken clear
within the grand design I’ve come to hear.

What land of fruit and honey is complete
Without a place to make its treasured wine?
The Hive’s not just a place where wines are sweet
Their melomels and meads are both divine!

Divinity used water for the deed
Of making wine, a miracle, it’s true
And yet these vintners make their lucious mead
From honey and the fruit that grows here too!

When Deseret was founded, long ago
I wonder if the “saints” who planted trees
Suspected that the fruit that they would grow
Would mingle with the gold from honey bees

This land of fruit and honey is alive
With wine that’s made within this treasured Hive.

(SHE is Susanna Hope Ennis)

There’s no room for trapeze in utero
But liquid makes it easier to move
And so SHE jumps and twists, but doesn’t show
At least, not yet, SHE’s nothing yet to prove
A few more weeks of acrobatic feats
Until SHE joins the Ennis circus clan
A few more weeks in utero completes
Susanna Hope, according to our plan
But SHE still likes to push inside her mom
And turn to hide her face from ultrasound
At times SHE’s still, enraptured in the calm
Embrace of warmth inside where love is found
SHE’s welcome in our world and in our hearts
Where SHE will feel the thrill her life imparts!

I found a little place to sit and write
A coffee shop across from Weber State
Their coffee is the best I’ve had, in spite
Of living in Seattle. Yes, it’s great!

Their cupcakes compliment their caffeine brew
Of course no coffee ever was complete
Without a cake-ly crumb to savor too
Their cake-ly crumbs make coffee taste so sweet!

But wait, don’t get me started on their soup
What, cupcakes served with coffee’s not enough?
When hunger strikes, I come here to regroup
Their kitchen’s filled with tons of tasty stuff!

If homework ever makes me want to roam
Then Cafe Ville Bella brings me home.

This cheese is more than just a golden spike
And yet, they call it Promontory too
It’s made at Beehive Cheese; this cheese I like
A cheddar full of flavor pure and true

It’s won awards from sea to shining sea
It’s won awards around the world and back
This cheese is what a cheese was meant to be
This cheese deserves its own cross-country track!

I know they joined the tracks to bridge the land
I wonder if they knew this cheese would come
Or if this cheese was more than they had planned
It’s calling you and me; let’s go get some!

To both the brothers down at Beehive Cheese
Keep making Promontory Cheddar, please!

A cóрок (Russian 40)

I chose to write this story in this format of 40 lines to honor the Russian cóрок (sorok.)
In Russian folklore, some Russians believe that ghosts of the dead linger near the site of their death for forty days.
I also composed this poem with the lines and stanzas written in the Pushkin Sonnet, or Onegin Stanza of tetrameter.
The rhyme scheme is also different from traditional sonnets:
ababccddeffegg
Rather than just 3 quatrains followed by a couplet, I composed this poem with 3 sets of 3 quatrains followed by 2 sets of 2 couplets.

The story of the Golden Cherub

A golden cherub is saved by Natalya in St. Petersburg from being destroyed by the Germans during WWII.

She promises the golden cherub to the poet who can preserve it through his poetic medium.

3 poets attempt to preserve the golden cherub with their art.

Natalya gets ill and dies before she can bestow the gift.

Natalya’s ghost lingers in St. Petersburg for 40 days.

The poets argue over who won.

The golden cherub is returned to St. Petersburg* and displayed in the Hermitage.

Natalya’s ashes are scattered in the Neva.

——–
Prologue
——–

She sought to make its beauty last
A baby angel, made of gold
At times time seemed to go too fast
It warmed her heart in winter’s cold

Their bombs destroyed her city’s pride
She kept it safe, and tried to hide
The baby angel, made of gold
That warmed her heart in winter’s cold

To make its gold forever shine
She sought a poet who would write
With words that always would be bright
His prize would be its gold, divine
——–
Poet 1

When dangers come, will darkness last
Or disappear within your gold
Will winters we’ve endured, be past
And will your warmth replace our cold?
——–
Poet 2

Don’t disappear; don’t even hide
We feel your beauty, deep inside
Angelic hands and heart of gold
Reveal the story we’ve foretold
——–
Poet 3

Cherubic beauty, grace divine
Compel with gold, the words I write
Reflect my words with priceless light
Beyond my poem’s mere design
——–
The siege was where disease was sewn
The fruit of illness fell as death
Before the winner’s name was known
Natalya gave her final breath

The cóрок saw Natalya’s ghost
Beside her grave, the Baltic coast
She sang within the winds of time
Without poetic words or rhyme

And on the shore the poets sat
And argued who had won the prize
They knew their words could not disguise
The fate their words could not combat

The Angel’s gold would never fade
Within the Hermitage displayed

Natalya’s ashes, with her fame
Enhance the river Neva’s name.

*Leningrad

The eyes are not the windows of the soul
Ask anyone who’s ever been near death
Sight’s sense burns out when one has lost control
And only lives by autonomic breath
The ears remain awake in coma’s shade
Though ears do not admit the gold of light
No human form exists with windows made
To show the soul through simple sound or sight
So what shall we with metaphors extol?
What sense should be apprised above the rest?
Can words describe the sanctum of the soul?
What part fills some superlative like best?
The words I write are windows, read and see
They say the Word is God, and I agree.

I scanned the state for amber waves of grain
But all I saw was verdant fields of corn
The road was long, but I could not complain
It seemed like this was where deep green was born
The birth and growth of food to feed the world
Is like a shining sea, within my land
The leaves and stalks are living flags, unfurled
The fill the artist’s eyes and farmer’s hand
I know the purple mountains lie ahead
Beneath the spacious skies, where beauty reigns
For now I’ll stick with Iowa, instead
And write about her wide and fruited plains
I scanned the state and marveled at her charm
Much more than just a road, a field, or farm.

Sonnettic smoke was once poetic light
A flame that lit the way when life was dark
But now it only bows before the night
Its warmth has been reduced to just a spark

Its metaphors retract within the wick
Of words that cling iambically to life
Its similes are like the words I flick
From ashes in a candle, with my knife

I wish that I could find a simple match
To strike, and thus re-light my little song
I know there must be some way I could catch
The smoke that rises where my words belong

Sonnettic smoke was once a brilliant flame
But now it seems to want another name.

I wondered what Quixote would have thought
Of all the vibrant windmills that I saw
In Texas fields; too many to be fought
I wondered if he would have been in awe
The fields of beasts in Texas took my mind
To places like LaMancha, with their grace
I found a beauty few take time to find
As if Cervantes built this wonderous place
And yet, I saw dichotomy abound
Within the fields, another Texas beast
Black beasts that sucked black gold from underground
Beneath the windmills, from the west to east
I’m only Sancho Panza, but I know
The beauty that the Texas winds can blow.