5 Sonnets- William Joel

Sonnet on waking

To see the image in the mirror takes
more courage than I have this rising. Bed
and dreams still hold me in their grip, and make
me glance back where I laid, to where my head
once was. But there’s a day to meet, straight-on,
and things to do, the same as yesterday,
the one before, and many more. I calm
myself, turn on the tap, and feel the spray
revive me, just a little, sense the night
dissolve into a mist, that thins and shows
me how the day might be. The rising light
reminds how we spend our lives; it knows
the ways we come and go, of how we’re torn
from pages left behind in dreams each morn.

Sonnet for a gloomy day

What else could one brand a day like this
than gloomy? Ever-present clouds hang low
and gray, and filter all the warmth as if
the sun did not exist. And even though
the winds have not the force of weeks gone by,
we still pull tightly on our coats to keep
the damp at bay, yet not away, for try
as we might try the chill still seems to seep
into our bones, and then into our souls.
All hope we thought we’d stored inside has fled
to somewhere, fallen into massive holes
much deeper than the ones we use for dead,
who in their state of permanent repose
avoid the worst that weather can dispose.

Sonnet for a morning glory
It’s not the sky, the blue you see when clouds
have walked away, a blue of water, clean
and clear. It’s not the blue of eyes, so proud,
that stare into your soul, to see the mean-
ing hidden there, for there’s no hiding from
true love. And not the color of the sea,
a darker blue, well mixed with green and foam
and bits of sand. Nor could it ever be
the blue of pain, a purple blue, that blush-
es deep from wounds inflicted by our hands.
This blue is something other, more a hush
that whispers greetings from an earthen stand.
Then just before the sun has set, it shifts
magenta, curling tight, as daylight lifts.

Sonnet for a poem

The first line’s not as easy as you think;
you need to set the tone, intrigue the read-
ers, make ‘em want to read some more, not wink
at them, or worse confuse their little heads;
but once you’ve snagged them things start rolling, sort
of like a car you push to get the en-
gine started, hoping that it won’t abort;
you hold your breath, engage the gears, and when
they catch, relax, enjoy the ride and crank
the music up; the trees become a blur
as you go faster, faster, till you bank
the thing in preparation for the curve,
the turn that comes at last; it takes a strong
and steady ear to recognize the song.

Sonnet for that certain spark

I sat and opened up my laptop, stared
across at white on white, unable to
come up with something clever, writing spared
from clichés duller minds might bear in lieu
of heavy lifting needed to reveal
those bright and shiny objects authors seek
to let their readers know they have appeal;
to satisfy their agents, never meek
or timid hurling criticisms at a piece
that lacks a certain quelque chose, a spark
they know but can’t describe, yet when they see
it, fireworks explode to light the dark,
and little children’s faces smile again
while angels’ voices soar across the glen.

Find William Joel in Blognostics.

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