Sonnet On A Summer’s Eve

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So steady the night on this soft summer’s eve,

As star seeds descend like manna from heaven,

The stillness of the scots pine fertilizes my ease,

And unmasks the demon by which my anxiety is driven,

Beneath all the chaos and dust of the world,

Is a light feather bed by tranquillity plumed,

The chaos is like two lovers wrestling on sheets,

The serenity is the mattress where their bliss is consumed,

And imbued with non-reference – the terminator of fear,

A tender consummation that nurses all wounds,

Cordelia is returned to the resanitized King Lear,

And on loving what’s lost, we no longer presume,

But cherish each beauty, the peace won by a friend,

Vowing to love them forever – faith without end

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Sonnet: To Plant a Kiss

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To plant a kiss on that face untouched,

As yet uncarved by time’s cruel hands,

Would not satisfy me overmuch,

But ravish me with unspent hunger pangs,

For, to plant one kiss, is to beg another,

To moan and pine for a second trial,

To flush with love – yet lack a lover,

Pinioned on the crests of your vulpine smile,

But, should I plant a kiss – what seed is sown,

What fruit will these faint lips beget,

What stars unseen – what fields unmown –

What music unimagined – what dream unmet –

What taste untried – what milk unchurned –

Will these lips find in lips unreturned?

 

 

Poem: Two Love Sonnets

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I.

If I hand you a chalice,

Will you drink of the wine pressed fresh from my heart?

A vintage free from taint or malice,

Though victim of Sadness’s envenomed dart,

Drink it up, my love, until exquisite inebriation,

Drives all coldness from your limbs,

And ignites the fires of your imagination,

Ensuring the prosperity of your most passionate whims!

Let me dapple your neck with crimson kisses,

So that your snowy skin may sip of the wine,

That inflames my days with unfulfilled blisses,

That I pray – I implore – will make you mine!

And as the liquor of my love pulses quick through your veins,

I know that, from my thoughts, you can ne’er be estranged.

 

II.

My days are enriched with the paint of your palette,

That enrobes me with colours too vivid to bear,

Let me tend to your wishes like a well-trained valet,

Whose only salary is the want of touching your hair,

Unwitting, you keep me slave to your spell,

That addicts me to the promise of your absent perfume,

Drawn secret from Aphrodite’s love-philtre well,

Infused with the mead and the milk of the moon,

My nights are spent on a hot-bed of yearning,

Yoking my dreams to an envisioned paradise,

Found in a topography, ancient men of learning,

Claim can only be sought in the expanse of your eyes,

So, I look into those orbs, and stare and I stare,

At the rapture unbounded I see awaiting me there.