Sonnet 8,132

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I could explore the contents of my heart
Explaining how I feel and what I see
Describing how I felt right from the start
And telling him the things he does to me.
I might decide to speak my thoughts for real;
Be tempted to reveal my inner state;
For how else would he know the way I feel?
Unless, of course, he sees it on my face.
I wonder if he’ll notice through my words;
And whether he’ll be easily convinced
Perhaps when first I speak, I shall be heard
But truth be told: my heart holds everything.
For when he puts his hand there, he will feel;
He’ll know it beats for him because it’s real.

LMN

SONNET 1,432

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I write again with my iambic pen
As beats crash into me in five-by-two
My metered thoughts be thunk – and only then
Can I begin to write those words anew.
I feel it like a heartbeat ev’ry time
A pulse, a thud, resounding in my soul
And though t’was Bill’s, I also make it mine
But shan’t forget the debt I’ll always owe.
Twelve lines, you’ll find alternate rhyming ends
All puzzle-pieces making up the thing;
Near rhymes, exact, they all make aural sense;
Provided that your ears be listening.

To end, a simple task: by no means least;
A rhyming couplet finishes the piece.

LMN

 

JIG

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There’s only one place I’ll go, y’know?
I’ve bent my straight edges and straightened the sticky-out bits;
In order to fit.
But I never quite did.
I’m up for upcycling or resale,
Whatever the term is for my retail…
And I’m enabled by a label
That comes with me,
D’you see?
Just to be fair,
It promises that all my pieces are there.
And it’s signed off with a kiss;
But this: I’m not complete, don’t forget.

At least…
…Not yet.

LMN

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SONNET 7,998

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A poet’s soul is best when uncontained;
Whenever words are thought, they should come out;
For words and thoughts may die whene’er restrained;
A poet should not leave their soul in doubt.
A writer’s mind is best when it’s displayed;
However stories happen, have them told;
For stories always ought to be conveyed;
A writer’s mind should write them, loud and bold.
An artist’s heart is best when free
to paint;
Wherever muses strike, let art be done;
For beauty’s revelation’s never late;
An artist’s heart be fast once it’s begun.

And yet, t’is best to quieten for now;
Let words and art reveal their hearts somehow.

LMNĀ image.jpg

SONNET 6,932

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I see a vision, hear an unheard sound;
Feel something that I’ve never felt before;
His eyes, oh Lord – those eyes, so deep I drown;
Just thinking of him has me on the floor.
Yet up I get, to see his face again;
Not long before I melt into his smile;
Two seconds ere I stop and stare and then
I dream of shortening this lengthy
isle.
My heart a drum, my eyes a’glazed with hope;
My mind a whirring book of poetry;
As this be new to me, I’ll learn the ropes;
The virtue: patience, calls its name to me.

I pause my soul: my hopeful heart pulsates;
For sheer perfection’s always worth the wait.

LMN

 

AMERICA FIRST

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When I was little I was so hungry
that I loved all those American telly shows that sounded like food
Like CHIPS
And MASH
And shows made up of surnames;
Thanks to Cagney, Lacey, Starsky, and Hutch
Everything looked brighter and safer across the pond.
The enormous cars gleamed
If they were even cars at all
Being that they were the size of houses
And their houses were the size of palaces
Especially those Columbo-Baddie residences with grass for carpets.
They also had great serial killers
And The Hulk
So when I killed my entire family or painted myself green, I could always blame the telly.
Savalas made me love lollipops
And baldness
I couldn’t tell you whether he was any good – I only watched the thing because I wanted to lick his head.
And they had everything years before we did.
Like microwaves
And American teeth
And Americans.

LMN

SONNET 3,292

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image.jpgWhere iron and velvet meet they crush within;
And where they separate they crush without;
Imprisoned by perception, comforting
Where thoughts be nought, incarcerating doubt.
Where skepticism hides and faith be sought
And where the two sides battle oft and much;
In prison bars free thinking’s never taught;
Rare velvet gloves appease and give soft touch.
Where inner softness masquerades as hard
And where protective metal coats the cloud
A person’s mettle softens through the shards
Shared differences hid, yet love avowed.

But if a love surrenders – cold wet, dying;
Then nature’s glove gives life by velvet iron.

LMN