108

Posted on April 12, 2010 by urbansonnets

"The windows are two, and they represent

two views: your take on the world, and the world
on you, your craft, your past and your present;
the door's your future – the hinges were hurled:
The door was thrown out; the world is calling
you to serve it with gusto, whenever
you're ready; we've thatched this hut with falling
leaves – they fall so silent, twirl together:
So twist and trine your words, up under palm
leaves, stitched together like fresh rhymes in time,
the greatest preserver of worldly calm,
the deepest forestaller of worldly doom":
Time – and I have it – and I start to write
about the deepest dreams, the darkest light.
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107

Posted on April 11, 2010 by urbansonnets

"As you said, yours is a perilous path,

but only if you fear the force of fate;
one way or another, it leads to death,
but you have years left, I think, to be great:
That's what you want, and we'll help you get it –
the Russian Blue is the sign of your pride;
you must treat it well: feed, love – don't pet it –
and it'll keep your head up, heart inside: 
The home in which we stand is a safe place
in which to retreat to tether your dreams,
which lie reckless, unshorn like the grass face
which, quiet, lines off this plot like dead screams:
Your desk is your craft – depend upon it;
it's why you can always write a sonnet."
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106

Posted on April 11, 2010 by urbansonnets
"To the right rests the mountain of knowledge

acquired from books and research on man;
this is a noble rock with no sharp edge,
and it supports without giving a damn:
(You know what I mean.) On the left lies Mount
Expression, towards which you incline at heart;
it is steeper and harsher as you mount,
but once atop you will never depart:
I mean, you won't leave the visions of art,
and you'll interact with the world in kind:
this peak pushing toward the deepest heart,
that summit teaching you all you can find:
Which one to choose? Let your pen be your guide –
There is always a space for love inside."
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105

Posted on April 11, 2010 by urbansonnets

“Before you begin, though, let me explain

that meaning of things here is double;
as life is never simplistic nor plain,
its signs are altered in this next level:
The valley in which you woke is much more
than a simple plain in-between the rock; 
you were at a low, you were on the floor
in your life when I fetched you from the muck:
On either side, the mountains are your end-
which way you climb is a matter of choice,
but understand that your fate will unbend
definitively down the slope you choose:
The goal is to go up to come back down
to this earth enlightened, content and grown.”

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104

Posted on April 8, 2010 by urbansonnets

And she pointed off towards a cottage

in the distance with terracotta bricks
that shined with ruddy élan on the stage
set by the unkempt garden's weeds and sticks:
The roof was curiously made of thatch,
and two small windows flanked the doorless gape,
that revealed a desk and a post to scratch
for the Russian Blue with the scruffy nape:
The cat-eyes beckoned, yellow in the night,
and I walked toward my new abode, (my guide
on my left hand – spade awkward  in my right)
and when I reached the door, I stopped. She sighed:
"Do not wait. The desk calls you. Go on. Write.
You have much to say. Let me get the light."
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103

Posted on April 8, 2010 by urbansonnets

"I represent your work's trajectory,

a point you won't arrive at without me,
so I demand you put your trust in me,
build with me steady, and never doubt me:
You have been pegged for fantastic outcomes,
but your mind is a bit too unsteady;
I'll make a palace from the catacombs
where your fugitive thoughts have fled to die: 
I am a vision of your own dreamtime,
wherein all structures stand well organized
but placed and colored into your realtime
to show the tact and grace on your sore side:
So work with order, vision and insight;
I'll chastise you around with main and might."
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102

Posted on April 7, 2010 by urbansonnets

I had never worked like I toiled that day;

I forgot about my neck and the pain,
and I loved the salt taste of sweat and green tea
and the damp dream dew of la terra, plain:
Working steadfast, with love, I built a house
out of leaves and rocks and wood and fire,
and just when I felt that I could let loose,
my house toppled down, like misplaced ire:
"Silly, silly man – Don't build a new house;
Fix up the old one that was left for you;
For time is a race, and you stand to lose,
if you don't build on it, as victors do:
One's foundations must never be one's own;
We weave with the past – our skein un-alone."
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101

Posted on April 7, 2010 by urbansonnets

I woke up with a tingle in my neck,

which as I looked around became a pain;
I saw mountains, hills, a perilous trek,
and a woman speak – I hear her again:
"Welcome to the world where worries are lanced
by the swift, sharp rod of justice and love;
we are all those colors – sometimes you glanced
at our forms in your dreams, sent from above:
I am an heiress of this fair estate,
and you stand to inherit a bright plot,
not from me, but through your deeds with my aid,
which can teach you to bleed while wounds still clot:
A spade's a spade, and this spade's in your hand; 
your part is the whole, now work on our land."
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100

Posted on April 5, 2010 by urbansonnets

Oh epic engagement! Oh ebullient

result! The splendor of dark ruby gems
that could shine forever, or one moment
flash like lightning in a bottle, solemn:
This reminds me of "Ignition (Remix),"
in its brilliance, its bubbly outpouring
of exuberance – uber sans prefix –
in a mix of language, time ex-ploring:
So I implore you all to bounce with me,
pop your champagne, or cider, or pistols,
and toast to the love that flashes swiftly,
but leaves stigmata like hands on thistles:
Let's preserve these effervescent crystals –
berry-red pulp in amber epistles.
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99

Posted on April 5, 2010 by urbansonnets

At the brink of the tongue, of expression,

the primaveral light slides through the blinds,
casting a grid of shade – and reflection –
onto the book as a portrait unwinds:
And so, letters and words come to light or
linger in shadow, bringing them to life
or placing them in a tomb where brighter
thoughts must go to be reborn from belief:
You believe in these words, you plant them fresh
in the garden that never existed
except in the shadows, with leaves so lush,
where ponytailed fronds the dark resisted:
The palms of your hand have brought them to light
in your stockpot of colors, dark and bright.
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