Tag Archives: Blank Verse Sonnet

Out of Joint [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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My days are out of joint and shuffled up,
 and memories are pictures cast upon
  the floor, and rummaged through 'til chaos reigns, 
 and I pick random recollections out
  of all the events ever to transpire.

They seem no more my life than another's:
 a glance, a glimpse, a blank firing of mind,
 a wicked hope that truth will come to me.

But all I see are monochrome mindscapes
 that could've been wrenched out of another mind,
  or made from AI's collage artistry
 to serve some distant master's deep wish to
  learn what hot-injected time does to a soul,
  and if shuffled scene stacks can make one whole?

Bone Cold [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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From a stove-heated room, the snow brightens
one's mind with hope that all will be made clean,
but cleanliness is next to nothingness
and nothingness is next to loneliness.
From inside, snow is silencing and light.
It's fine and shifts like sand in desert dunes.
It's silent like the depths of a cabin
at midnight on the prairie before time.

From outside, snow saps all of one's resolve,
and makes one wish to flee the purity
it pretends to generate all around.
The cold, it bites like a full-body vice.

The feet go numb, but brains... they fire wildly --
they shake one awake, but dare one to sleep.

POEM: Claustrophobic Shores [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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The rain bands slant across the narrow track
between the leaden clouds and churning seas.
The vastness, standing before ocean’s edge,
is boxed by rain, low clouds, and rising waves.

My view of infinite space shrivels up.
The water curtain hides what lies behind —
the lost horizon lies, disguised by lines
of squall that crawl with all the time allowed.

What brought me to this shore is now mislaid:
some sense that I could never be contained.
I’m sure that storm intends to push me home —
back to the box where it thinks I belong.

But then it passes by; blue skies beyond,
and I can see out past the trawler’s shapes.

POEM: Ghost of Cosmos Future

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I’ve seen these fleeting glimpses of the world.
They dissolve — memories of dream soon lost,
and leave me longing to see raw, rich truths —
the craving lies — a deep itch in the mind.

The ghost of cosmos future threatens me.
It shows me worlds with all the wrongs righted,
and asks if I’d push a button of change,
and feel my suffering grow in exchange.

And would I walk a road paved in torment,
if the tormented souls were thus made free?
I know not whether I’ve such heroic bones
to take that change and pay the entry fee.

Is virtue stuff from which heavens are made,
or is it yet another kind of dream.