The sonnet project: Sonnet # 11

The Sleepwalking, Mad-talking, Hedgehogging mouse

Or

Why Doctors Aren’t Worth the Money

The hearth has burned for hours now, it seems

My head is aching too, I’m sured

Of all the things I whispered in my dreams

For walkers never sleep until they’re cured.

Last night I think I swatted at the flies

And shrieked with laughter at the harvest moon

But through it all I simply closed my eyes

And when I woke it was the afternoon!

The doctors have all tried and failed their case

And watched in vain as I’d romp round the house

They said my madness could not be erased

But it was all because I was a mouse!

What good does it do to heal a rodent?

The pills never work, no matter how potent!

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

my mother is as bent as olive trees

when on her back she sleeps before the moon

her eyes as muddy as her wobble knees

Send god it well, for leaves she us now soon.

The night is windowless as death’s embrace

Against an endless skyward eye that calls

The maidens, who, like sailors after chase,

this lover who destroys all saddened falls,

can heal the hole that wounds my aching heart

for mother’s lost, my life of freedom’s lost.

From her, oh joy, i cannot be apart

to once again find love, what is the cost?

oh lover, take thy herb and sugar cure

and feed to me of what I can endure.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #9

Sonnet #9

When I was six and ten some years ago

My brother lept into his muddy tomb

My mother died upon the rocks below

And father followed after to his mortal doom.

I was the orphan without personage

The daughter veiled from bows and frilly lace

The girl who climbed along the mountain’s ridge

And owned a small and sooty little face.

You see the watchman’s daughter, dark and cloaked

Concealed before she makes her last reprieve

To trade our lives and never be revoked

Would be a gift quite wondrous to receive:

The girl wakes up beside the mountains high

And I, beside her love, a’sleeping  lie.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

Sonnet #8 revision, and a silly limerick poem!

Today I was very perturbed when I realized that my sonnet was not a real sonnet because it did not  have a couplet at the end!!!!!!

Therefore I have decided to finish it properly, like any good Samaritan would:

Sonnet #8 REVISED

I run into a land that speaks of youth

that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band

and when at last at home I tell the truth

I feel a stranger but on my own land.

The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in

as I recount the days events alone

I find a loss of words as I begin

explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.

The lute is calling forth my destiny

The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep

The tambourine has lulabied my infancy

And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.

It seems as if I have grown up none so

from childish self that never lets me go.

 

 

and on that note, here is today’s poem: It is a silly poem made out of four limericks, and is not intended to make any sense!

Dead, Dying, Deceased and gone off- or how I spent My summer in Jamaca

now the quotient of dumb versus blind

Is the same as “no child left behind”

All my teachers are dead

Or they’re gone to be wed

at the fanciest church they could find

 

And the sum of bengal and a bog

Is as bad as a Londoner’s fog

the pedestrians died

from a bi fractured side

when the driver was being a hog

 

And so now we have multiple ends

of these  teacher-pedestrian’s friends

who have gone to the grave

and who haven’t been saved

or I think-I don’t mean to offend.

 

One last word just before I shall go

(for those people who don’t really know)

I am writing this thing

at the top of a swing

And I’m thinking of things I can throw!

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #8

Sonnet #8

I run into a land that speaks of youth

that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band

and when at last at home I tell the truth

I feel a stranger but on my own land.

The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in

as I recount the days events alone

I find a loss of words as I begin

explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.

The lute is calling forth my destiny

The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep

The tambourine has lulabied my infancy

And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #7

Another product of English class boredom! Took about ten minutes to write. P.S the word dreamed is pronounced dree-med.

Sonnet #7

In farms that line the dirty miners shed

That boasts of Dragons slayed outside it’s wall

Of tales so fanciful they’re mass did spread

I walk, bereft of shoes, through trees so tall

Collecting little stones to hit the beast

That in my childhood’s dreamed mind did know

I fell asleep and ate a banquet feast

Then journeyed on again to fight this foe.

His massive claws that tore apart the earth,

I see the scales that line his rigid back,

But suddenly I find the creature’s worth

That ‘gainst the green of grass his form did lack.

A veil of shimmer melts away his former wild,

And lo, my brother lost from former child.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Sonnet # 6

I don’t know why, but some of my poems have been getting quite gory and gruesome, and I hate it. I am also an official hypocrite now, because I absolutely HATE edgy, jumbled, gory prose.  In fact, I often find myself picking up a New Yorker Magazine  and mocking the tasteless poems they showcase. I think I just want to fit in…oh well. Darn stupid poet-pressure!

Another gory poem coming your way…

Sonnet #6 

The loneliness is stooped upon the grass

A touch of tatter’d longing where was none

And now  the world spins long and light and fast

A thousand moons have shown though be but one.

I whisper to an empty  face that dies

That leaves without goodbye to last alone

Your heart does melt like wax before my eyes

I grasp it’s void of closeness that has grown,

And slip away unnoticed through the cracks

With you to lead my way that spans quite far

I loose myself in blood and blues and blacks

We both are torn from life that leaves it’s scar:

I wake, the morning quiet, still,and warm

And breathe relieving breathes when you ne’er form.

 

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 5

Sonnet # 5

Around my house and through the valleys deep

The shards of snowy glass that pave the stone

While all that breathes is soundly in their sleep

I measure how the yellow stars have shone.

Whenst I have ‘woken in the break of day

When dawn’s new eye escapes in endless light

A cold beginning that has gone astray

Turn’d now much hotter than the sun is bright.

I see the plains burn up and so the grass

To run, to where? If only I was told

By houses, farms and cities now I pass

And to myself I very chiefly scold

From ice to fire went my world astray

The mountains shiver and burn up, they say.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 4 (Winter of 1680)

Sonnet #4  (Winter of 1680)

Around the camp of soldiers wide and thin

A voice that whispers through the forest floor

In angst one boy wakes up as it begins

And as he hears it’s sound, it is no more.

A pounding and a thrashing wakes them all

But slow receding as it did before

Again what comes when Fairy Nymphs enthrall

To lift a veil of ignorance and gore

They stand with open arms outstretched to him

The milky pale of skin against the night

The boy does want to kiss the maidens few

But quick as come, they fly away in fright

One boy is still, and shivers in the cold

And waits to see them till he turneth old.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 3

This one is based on Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell!

Sonnet # 3

What comes of matters when they are not here?

Your eyes averted to the sword-ed scene

That makes their vivid presence disapear

As if, in time, your thoughts mak’d what has been

I spy a country churchbell’s ringing sound

That echoed none if empty spells were cast

Below the deck of ship a storm’s rebound

Is settled in the early morning vast.

If not for wanted ways of wizardry

We say these things belong to God’s own strength

But if we speaketh of the witchery

T’would be quite hard to lecture short in length!

(I know these things are but a mystery,

A longing ballad without history).

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry