Sonnets for Sunset

The fifth sunset’s poem.

 

‘Humans’

A nearby park offers a different take

Of the pale, pure sky o’er the city’s thrum,

For all the tree’s lovely black branches shake

As the whispers of the evening breeze come,

And the supreme goodness of all nature,

Delight to the eye, is the setting for

Corruption and humanity’s failure,

Evidenced tonight in a tiny war;

It seems sunset is local fighting time,

For the sun, all bleached and faded, moves on,

As deliquents plot all their petty crime

Stirred forth by blood, red and hot, all young brawn.

Life continues in the last waning light,

And shrill fear, like lace, edges a gang fight.*

 

*Note: There wasn’t actually a gang fight. In reality, there were a few middle schoolers who were being rambunctious as young boys often are. My imagination suggested a kind of sundown kind of cowboy duel and then fitted it to the modern context of LA. I’m safe! Don’t worry.

Sonnets for Sunset

The fourth installment….

 

‘Stolen’

Spontaneous crime has ne’er tasted sweet

As it did tonight when I stole a glimpse

Of a celestial masterpiece treat

Instead of digging up the bones of chimps;

Indeed, when I ought have been sorting through

Rocks and dirt, numbingly alike in form,

I maddly dashed and espied the fondue

Of a sunset, just over yonder dorm,

And breathlessly beheld it’s beautiful

Arrangement, by far the best design yet,

Each of its sides utterly luminal;

How I longed to stay and simply forget

To return to my class, but conscious bade

That I again take up my dusty spade. 

Sonnets for Sunset

The third installment in a week long series… 

 

‘The Swan Song’

Delicate wisps of soft grey are painted

Into the blue of the panorama,

They bend their heads like newly aquainted 

Swans and are odd like silent film drama

Drenched in nostalgia; Winsomly they move

Towards the yon setting Sun who swathes them

As pink sugar-spun tulle and beams with love

When they start the dance that forms the day’s hem,

Symphonically they swirl in full dome,

Forming the petals of the Holy Rose,

That exudes fierce light, terribly awesome, 

Whose radience none would dare to oppose,

The moon watches too, as the sun goes down,

Paling in the light of his golden crown. 

Sonnets for Sunset

The second installment in a week long series…

 

‘Scheduling A Sunset’

Today I will try and watch the sunset,

But my and nature’s timing might conflict,

Squeezing sky between calander events;

Planning it all out makes it seem too strict,

Like I’m milking every last drop of thrill,

Wringing out the elements of delight,

Objectifying and not feeling still,

In all the abundance of last sunlight;

I am yet resigned to feel what I might,

Despite the scirmish ‘twixt rythyms of life,

It seems silly that such a thing could blight,

And disturb with shackles, peacefulness rife,

Ah, for temporal liberty, I yearn,

And in eventide await rest’s return.

 

‘Facing Westward’

An obligation to the golden sky,

Frees me from the fallout of a bomb,

So hungrily I drink in the red dye,

That ropily smears the eyelids with calm,

But the empty sky doesn’t satisfy,

And I stagger,  I’m lost in a desert,

The only water, the salt-tears I cry;

I expected the sky to heal the hurt,

Mistakenly, for it is so wild,

Spanning savannahs and ruling o’er earth,

It demands that I become a child,

And offers all the pain of second birth,

What is it for? Why do I care so much?

All this I wonder as soul and sky touch. 

Sonnets for Sunset

I have a new project that I have been working on. Actually, as a response to Wordsworth’s poetry, I have been asked to watch seven consecutive sunsets and record my feelings and thoughts. I thought, why not write more poems! As Wordsworth was a poet, and I myself am an aspiring poet in need of practice, I have undertaken to write a minimum of one sonnet per sunset. Here are the first few… Enjoy. 

 

‘In Anticipation Of A Sunset’

 

In anticipation of a sunset,

I wander and fret the hours away,

In full actions for deadlines duly met,

And pacing each minute in life’s foyer,

For in that time all splendor will break forth,

As sunny beams stream glory above

And clouds are enflamed with hues like a torch

Letting me revel in glorious love;

Seeing this, I will not fear when night comes

Or when that inky darkness swiftly falls

Hereafter, I will hear hope’s tranquil hum

O’er the hauntind sound of life’s garish calls,

So I wait for the sunset, write a poem,

And wonder how long ‘til I return home.

 

‘The North Horton Fire Escape’

 

 It begins in pastels and waning light,

Splendid fingers extending, bright and pale,

And then, the sun drops and is veiled from sight

Behind the clouds, trimmed with bright lightning detail;

Great, silent, and slow to the ants below,

This celestial turning, too good to miss,

Sears the retina with a wild rainbow,

And blushes all pink, as after a kiss;

Suspended and heavy, an egg yolk sun

Is swollowed whole by clouds, ominous grey,

Unceremoniously it’s all done,

And a dusty blue twilight ends the day,

The watcher’s left waiting for something more,

Thirsting for rest on an infinite shore. 

Potential

Have you ever experienced that thought,

When in the early morning brain-mind fog,

You wonder why this new day has been wrought,

And whether to continue in the grog, 

Or just return to bed and start later, 

This moment’s pause, this choice of destiny, 

Potentially leads to something greater, 

But alas, for lacking all clarity,

Such thoughts are quelled with mundane activity,

And with habituated calm, we shy from

Contemplations of life’s immensity,  

And True peacefulness in life’s busy hum,

Why do I think that I must do something

When it’s good for my soul to have resting?

 

Storm-Dance

 

Palm trees look best when they’re silhouetted

Against a sky full of lumbering thunderheads,

Black form and Light fluff, highly contrasted,

While the wind through the landscape quickly spreads;

Palm trees look best when tossed by the weather,

When the raindrops smack you right in the face,

And wetness makes all the earth smell better;

For when palm trees bend with unearthly grace,

They under go transformation by storm, 

And exemplify a necessary trait, 

That is, to be flexible in life’s form,

To see artistry where squalls wont abate;

For such pitch and plunge is a kind of dance, 

That is clearly seen when given the chance. 

In Christ Alone

This I see, I in Christ and Christ in me,

There is the Power and there is the Strength,

For He is rich in love, truly, truly,

And fully willing to go to any length,

Yes, even unto Death and Death conquered,

For now I, once dead in trespass, have life,

I’m a slave to Christ and sin is mastered,

For me there is life assured after life,

How can I do other but glorify?

What actions I make were preformed before,

On the cross so able to horrify,

For Christ is in me, to my very core,

All terrible, wonderful sorrow-joy

Wraps me up, goes through me, and covers me.

Stone Press

A rocky crevice with light filtered through,

A stony cleft that splits my heart in two, 

I’m caught there; wedged and squeezed tightly, stuck true,

And the walls close no matter what I do;

The air in my lungs is forced out of them

By this rocky fault imprisoning me,

And cold dry air beckons from sweet coffins,

Such is the end of the fruit of the tree 

Whose bark, white and weathered, is smooth and pure

yet it is cursed and lifeless and barren.

For all of life’s tensions is there a cure? 

Are we doomed to ever be carrion?

Or is there yet one who can make me whole,

Reform and refashion all of my soul? 

The Footpath

The bleary traffic invaded my mind,

Swirling the smoky haze of indecision,

Driving grit in deep and leaving me blind,

Leaving me a course set for collision,

No rest, No joy, No hope, No precision; 

Until Realization, for then, I groan, 

Seeing as all the dust needs revision,

The pulse of Freeways I see as a stone; 

Simplicity beckons with old dirt roads, 

A slower rambling, a peace-full stroll, 

A white way of delight, not lacking goads, 

But full of purpose and rest for my soul;

Though far this wand’ring sojourner may roam, 

Guided by the Ghost, I will, at last, come home.

 

 

“Stand by the roads, and look,

And ask for the ancient paths,

Where the good way is; and walk in it,

And find rest for your souls.”

                                       – Jeremiah 6:16