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- NEWER SONNETS -

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Comes the Dawn

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    The power of a rainstorm rules the night
    And thunder echoes through the raging wind
    As lightning paints the sky with eerie light
    A stormy night is coming to an end

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    The starlight on black velvet of the sky
    Is challenged by the monster from the east
    The early morning stars will vainly try
    Alone to face the fury of the beast

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    As daylight through my window makes its way
    Awakening again my deepest fear
    I keep my eyes closed tightly and I pray
    Although I know for certain youÁre not here

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    Reluctant eyes confirm again, youÁre gone
    Yet agony remains, thus comes the dawn

    Alison's Sonnet

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    The day is sad with tears that fall of rain.
    My heart is full for her, my love, my bride.
    Roses in bloom blushing so bright, look plain.
    My bride outblooms them all. I must confide.

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    The sun does hide behind the clouds and pout.
    For none compete this day with her will win.
    Love's warmth no rain will chill this day throughout.
    All gold it dulls, falls short, appears as tin.

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    In eyes I see my love is queen this day.
    No flower would dare to show itself as fair.
    Although I must admit I'm biased I'd say.
    And any who say I'm wrong are warned, take care.

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    If doubts some have I say they are just fools.
    All hail my queen, my love. My heart she rules.

    Wonderland

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    Through shaken green gardens your voice speaks to
    me, wavering melodies sing among
    the stars, grasp the moonlit softened peaks to
    swing among the rich welcome to belong.
    Flower petals flutter in patterns of
    swirling laughter as I dance within those
    eyes. I feel safe in your waters, whose love
    is buttered sunshine that caresses rose-
    strewn canopies of willow leaves as winds
    gently cascade beyond the cattail grasses.
    Its the narrow twisting creek that attends
    to gnarled roots clinging to thick patches
    of earth. No clouds exist in this world where
    only our whispers can move the winter.

    "Here I sit lonely hearted and alone"

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    Here I sit lonely hearted and alone
    As I watch you stroll pass my open arms
    Remembering last night, wished you had phoned
    I yearn to show you affection and charm.
    Maybe you will notice me this time please
    I hope you will not keep walking away
    Should you speak to me, shaken are my knees
    Walk to me, talk to me, for sure I pray.
    Conversing with you my eyes are shut tight
    Wondering if I should say the first word
    Asking you how you do, takes all my might
    Sweetly chirping, joyous as a song bird.
    Now I speak to you without any fright
    We go out now almost every night!

    Sonnet

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    The rugged mountains standing firm and strong;
    A cherished book with binding cracked and worn,
    Withered autumn leaves float to the earth long, (fall)
    While birds with their song hail a bright new dawn.
    And once we walked along that gentle path,
    Sampling wild berries which were growing there
    Sharing our dreams and walking, hand in hand
    While golden sun warmed crisp October air.
    Sweetest berries still grow beside that trail,
    Keeping those mem'ries safe from time's rages,
    A faded wildflow'r with petals long frail
    Is in that book preserved, 'twixt yellowed page
    Ever blooming since the day 'twas given,
    In the mountain woods so close to heaven.

    Sonnet I (from The Autumn Crown)

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    So many things remind me, friend, of you:
    A poem of ancient origin, a tone
    In someone else's voice so like your own
    I turn to look - and yet it isnÁt you.

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    I'm tortured by the Fates. At every turn
    There's something else that makes me think of thee.
    A bit of stone, a book, a turning tree -
    I doubt and second-guess and slowly burn.

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    I'm tortured by the fates. I cannot act
    Except to mutely wonder - do I dare
    (and do I dare) to speak the truth to you?
    I write this to your name. It is a fact
    That I no longer can conceal - and there -
    That I, indeed, am smitten, through and through.

    Salt

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    The sun that dries the grain at harvest time
    Has drained their vital salt through sweat and tears,
    And healthy men and women in their prime
    Now labor weakly while the master jeers.
    He left his home and left his mate to trade
    Salt bricks to wealthy men in distant lands.
    With polished words the bargain's quickly made,
    And soon a prize is brought by grateful hands.
    His vagabond head rests upon soft breasts
    And bleeds the sanguine scenes of bygone days:
    Her coruscating thoughts and brilliant jests,
    A fertile valley where his mind could graze.
    These breasts are like salt for his wounded mind,
    But poor reward for what was left behind.

    "I hate writing sonnets"

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    I hate writing sonnets, the rhyme schemes stink.
    My poems are strange they break all the rules,
    My sonnet to the real world bears no link.
    I write my poems without any tools.

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    My thoughts have fled me I have writer's block
    My writing hand is beginning to cramp.
    I lean back in my chair then I take stock.
    This stupid sonnet stinks worse than a tramp.

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    This assignment is almost over, done.
    I read all the time and do my work well.
    My writing style is very very crude.
    Believe me when I tell you this is hell.

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    I do not like to write this stupid stuff.
    Listen now I say enough is enough.

    "I try to see through the dark hazy air"

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    I try to see through the dark hazy air;
    My hands reach out feeling for the unknown.
    I wander endlessly going nowhere;
    All my life I've felt completely alone.
    I try to stay above the waters deep;
    Waves rush over me adding more sadness.
    The thought of my existence makes me weep;
    All my life I've felt completely helpless.
    I try to make it through each new day;
    Pretending that I am not full of hate.
    My actions show my feelings of dismay;
    All my life I've felt completely irate.
    I sit and think about my dismal life;
    Praying I will benefit from this strife.

    "And so, impregnated upon our birth"

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    And so, impregnated upon our birth
    With life's great progeny, the bastard death,
    We go our way that leads from earth to earth
    (Our sultry womb), returning underneath.

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    That is our sacred mission. So the cloth
    That so adorns these fragile forms, the dearth
    Of hope that fecundates our features, both
    Pursue an equal end of little worth.

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    The mutual seduction death and life
    Engage in takes the olive branch of taste
    To dash beneath the wheels of grating strife.

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    Our act engenders in these aguish loins
    The rosy flare that love receives, purloins,
    With indignation at our rapist's haste.

    "Only in my dreams do I see her love"

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    Only in my dreams do I see her love.
    Into the deep night I do lay awake,
    Think of all we had, looking up above.
    My feelings and love for her, no mistake.

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    What am I without her there by my side,
    I am simply me, yet not. I'm sinking.
    Warm tears flow with hurt, pain, and strife; I cried.
    Just thinking of she, that's all, just thinking:

    .

    Do I love someone that has none for me;
    Do I still care for her? My thoughts a mess.
    To these questions, the answers now I see
    With all my heart and soul, many times, oh yes.

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    But my love for her, not enough, it seems.
    Her love, I guess, just only in my dreams.

    Evening Mood

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    Diana's vigil, a meniscus moon
    she pins on smoky skies to hold the night
    together. Wind unwraps a gauze cocoon.
    Cerise-tipped breasts, ivory in demi-light,
    delight his eyes. The silhouettes of day,
    begun à deux with fruit in crescent bowl,
    slide into evening. He is held in sway
    by lucious Anjou curve of hips. Clouds roll
    as HecateÁs crown displays a cat's eye star
    to mesmerize. He traces the faint line
    cupping her womb, a silver sickle scar
    of birth and moon, before they intertwine.
    She captivates him with each facet shown
    of Luna's phases: maiden, mother, crone.

    Evening Mood

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    My biscuit box is nothing like the sun,
    Its biscuits not so sweet as chocolate,
    Its cookies not so tasty as a bun,
    And with its cold hard lid so full of hate,
    I must contest 'ere eating's yet begun;
    A contest fraught with finger stubbing woe,
    That I must fight before my task is done,
    And I may take the sticky biscuit dough,
    To dip within my boiling coffee mug.
    A mug by far less perilous to me,
    Than that evil tin, that malicious thug,
    That will not open for my milky tea.
    My biscuit box is nothing like the sun,
    But I'd have no other, for it's such fun!

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