Archive for March 13, 2014

Apocalypse when? (Italian sonnet)

One of these days the world will come to end,
it is not certain what will happen then,
no matter if you practise church or zen,
we probably shall die, it may depend.

One of these days we’ll know where dead folk went,
a concept, new to every kind of man,
Apocalypse will come, no one knows when,
but soon they say, are you afraid my friend?

The world will always be, I do not care
what others say, as they just have no clue
and if that time has come, well we shall see.

One of these days ahead we must go there,
and walk the route the way all people do,
to find there’s more for us, and all be free.

New knee (Italian sonnet)

Now walking is an issue more than norm,
as rotting knees prevent my daily round,
no excercise can keep me well and sound,
my body lost its shape, is losing form.

I’m wrecked in ice and sea before a storm,
my hope is gone to get to safer ground,
and godforsaken I shall die, unfound;
how can I feel not bad but good and warm?

You say a new knee might just do the trick,
I must admit this sounds as if good sense,
the specialist will help, my hope returns.

Maybe one day I’ll lose that wretched stick.
Although I think his skills must be immense
to make me whole – I shall not have concerns.

πŸ™‚

Before we meet (Spenserian sonnet)

Just leaning on your shoulder I’ll be fine,
the dusty sunlight colouring our hair,
I am so hoping you will cross that line,
move further on and show me that you care.
It is your presence I’ll be so aware,
I can not see myself just leave you here,
though leaning on your shoulder I won’t dare,
I have no clue of what it is I fear
or how I should behave when you appear.
No words come to my rescue now I need
to keep my cool, I know that you are near,
and all I think of is to do the deed.
I’m dreading every second of our meet!

My attempt of a Spenserian sonnet

Be coming (Shadorma)

How to call?
You looked for a word
naming me,
just a word
describing your emotions
(but I’m no beauty)

Becoming:
you tasted this word,
syllables,
before use,
their sound sweet sparkles in Spring,
then became my love.

You giggled
watched the curtains dance,
lavender
heavy scent,
we stayed in the sunlit bed,
good days of silence.

I just read about shadorma, a poetry form and giving it a try πŸ™‚

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