Archive for 2011

Sonnets’ End

Monday, September 12th, ©2011 Marcus Brooks

Now, for the moment that we all have been waiting for, my last sonnet post! There are missing numbers: those were too bad to share. (Or too good.) You’re welcome.

#4, September, 1990. Kelly Sue:

A happy day of youth is drawn to mind:
An alpine village, briefly visited,
Where narrow footpaths up the mountains wind
That weary legs, and still their nights in bed.

The buildings, strong and nimble, hold the slopes
With timbers wrought by living human hands.
The unfamiliar tongue makes native hopes
Less sordid than the prospects of our lands.

And all about the air is cool and clear!
The smell of pine and granite fills my nose.
An angry river roars its brash career
And captures shining sunlight as it flows.

These memories are drawn by pleasant ties,
Evoked by memories of twinkling eyes.

#8, October 31, 1990. Kristi (a dissonnet—she was hard to read):

Your eyes astonish, then arrest my mind;
Attentive, yet disposed to look beyond
This lowly specimen, your thoughts entwined
In matters more important than my fond
But awkward starts at idle speech and dim
Philosophy. Your life, opaque, defers
Recounting of uncommon times and grim
Occurrences; that stale garnish peppers
All the bland accounts of mine and other
Self-told tales that mar the silence of your
Self-sufficiency. You never bother
Others with your mind’s frenetic tour
Throughout our labyrinth. My fascination
Spurned, I must content with admiration.

#6, October 20, 1990. Kate:

A hush of air disturbs the countryside.
Its heat stirs grasses, heavy heads of seed
That wave in languor, choosing yet to bide
This fruitful time in comfort, past all speed.

On ground beneath, the varied paws still rustle.
Owners hunting, hunted yet themselves.
Capers of the spring lost in the bustle:
Padding skin, or burdening larder shelves.

Thus youth is harvested against the future,
A meager hoard, alert survival’s gain.
Idyllic hopes of autumn ease indenture,
Barter promised joys for present pain.

Yet winter comes, to find its chilling winds
Best braced against by arms of loving friends.

Well, I think that’s plenty. Don’t you?