IX rain

The rain is great for lovers, and it shows
By falling gently when vows are renewed,
And soaking most strategically through clothes,
Or sheeting down when flight calls for pursuit.
At night, it mirrors passions in the bed,
With gusts and sighs and rattling window frames,
Or if someone is feeling scorned instead,
Makes puddles ripple endlessly. Like pain.s
I love the rain itself, and am content,
Though it be fickle, yet it comes again,
And brings along each green delicious scent
Of spring, and thence no sorrow may refrain.
   Whether my heart be cracked or honeyed sweet,
    It's song will ever lull me into sleep.

VIII Mantones

In keeping with the day and my previous post I accidentally deleted January 18th's sonnet. Here it is. The real Seventh Sonnet, reposted, and out of order. It's really time for bed.



A red bloom like a rose pressed on one hip,
A purple star indented on your toe,
Your lips still hold the shape of my two lips,
And everywhere they lingered sweet and slow.
Two voyeuristic birds are on my breast,
The shape of them a gentle concave thing,
Their silken wings beat time, at their behest,
This bed now has some very damaged springs.
The sunset has been sweated through this place,
It gilds the room from ceiling to bare floor,
The shadow of our hands as we retrace,
Each leaf and vine imprinted evermore
   Into our skins as we lie here replete.
   This happens when you use mantons for sheets.

VII blocked

Sometimes there's just an echo hollowed out.
A shadow of a shadow of itself.
And all the words you've ever thought about,
Are already in books upon your shelf.
Your smile is as tired as its face,
The rest of you's the bluest sort of blue,
Just cold and tired and every out of place,
Quite out of time, and out of patience too.
You've waisted half the night with the TV
Watching too many couples getting wooed,
You've had a few too many cups of tea,
The chocolate cake's not sex, it's barely food.
    You're out of lines with which you can complain,
     So now revise, and listen to the rain.

VI shot

Cupid draws back his bow, you hear a twang,
A fluttering, like bright air full of doves,
You feel the most delightful sort of pang,
Oh, sweeping sweet relief, you are in love!
A thousand crimsons bloom from out the wound,
Like a ripe rose that overwhelms you quite,
You smell the heady blossoms morn to noon,
Dreaming through days and dancing through your nights.
Time marches on, you start to feel a twinge,
A pain that slowly spreads throughout your chest
As if something is lodged between your ribs,
It stings and aches by turns to great unrest.
    You wonder what on earth you have forgot,
    And that's how you remember you've been shot.

V

They say that love's a true mark ever fixed,
Unchanging though the earth and stars may swerve
Into new orbits, should all matter mix,
Alter love won't, possessed of iron nerve.
Through transmutations of the home and tastes,
Though land and borders be unrecognized,
We'll pass the times of large or shrinking waists,
So what if flesh is fickle, we've no lies.
True, fashions never hold from month to year,
(In any rainment dear you look sublime,)
I'm by your side and I'll remain right here,
We'll be united through the end of time.
      Some hearts don't alter, beating two by two,
      That's how I'll always love you Dr Who.

     

IV skin

There are so many synonyms for skin,
Like coating, crust, integument, and case.
Film, hide, pelt, rind, I shudder to be in,
And little better bark or carapace.
This epidermis bearing wind and rain,
And depredations of the make-up brush,
The kiss of sun, the salt of sweat and pain,
Deserves some words that sound a bit more lush.
It runs the rounds from hull to slim parchment,
Or cutis, dermis, peel, surface and rind,
It's thick as stone, or thin as filament,
It breathes in touch, vibration, sense refined.
Though now aglow beneath your fingertips,
It's just illuminated toes to lips.

III moving out

Please take down all your records from the shelf,
Your pictures too, your books strewn on the floor,
Those shirts as well, go fold them up yourself,
I don't want to look at them anymore.
I've cleaned out every room except this one,
The kitchen's clear of every shard of plate,
I've swept the floor, I've scrubbed the sink, it's done.
The rest of these things really cannot wait.
Now take those odd socks paired with my singles,
Now take your scent from out of clothes and sheets,
That tone of voice that gave me such tingles,
Your morning hair, the smirk, now it's complete.
Yes, even take the night we wrecked the bed.
I don't want them, these things, inside my head.