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Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/12/25

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Sonnet 45

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/12/12
Sonnet 45
I'll always kiss the moment when we crossed 
the dreams we keep, the thoughts we find around, 
the fantasies we want, the pasts we lost, 
the songs we sing, the ways our giggles sound, 

the changes we believe, the moves we dance, 
the smiles we wake up to, the fears we hide, 
the time we waste together, tears we chance, 
and all the words we share, the love inside. 

And may we always cross! May every touch 
that reaches out from you be met by mine 
as though expecting you'd expect as much. 

Then let us meet each crossing with a kiss. 
Coincidence like ours must be design 
intending to create such love as this.

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An Hour Unwound

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/04/03
Casual Convo

Casual Convo
   "Et cetera."   "Et cetera?  The end
   is rarely that expected."   "Which is why
   one says so after."   "'Too late,' you imply?"
   "'Assume' is what, but since I'm still your friend
   in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?"   "Depend
   on it."   "I used to. I might even try
   to once again."   "Oh?"   "Yeah, or not."   "No lie,
   that's what makes it so easy to pretend."
   "'Whatever,' right?"   "'Whatever.' Choose your word.
   I'm not responsible."   "By that you mean
   you'll hold against me what you think gets heard
   or doesn't get that close."   "Don't make a scene."
   "A scene? A life was more what I'd preferred,
   as if one word made sense beyond this screen."

Just Visiting
Just Visiting
   As if one word made sense.   Beyond this screen
   perhaps.   Across that threshold yes.   As though
   one promise could have been accepted.   Oh
   inside those walls for sure.   No guards between
   the two of us of course there then.   Routine
   as a good morning kiss as if you know
   I pose no threat.   As though I choose to go
   or stay with no missteps to intervene.
   Like this were home.   Like you knew I'd been meant
   to be a part.   No stranger.   Family.
   Except I'm not.   You'll not know where I went
   tomorrow morning.   I won't ever see
   you waking.   This will mark the best extent
   my time with you might offer guarantee.

No Excuses
No Excuses
   My time with you might offer guarantee
   of nothing more than somewhat shared pretense
   by which I'm not thought worthy your defence
   so shrug it off or claim the fault's with me,
   whereas with my best acting I can't be
   near good enough to earn love's recompense.
   We're sorry we're not sorry.   In a sense,
   we're both and neither due apology.
   Would anything be different?   We can blame
   me all we want, and I could even do
   what you make like I should've.   All the same
   I'd owe you, right?   No chance of something new.
   Forgiveness has no meaning, no real aim
   when what I'm really bad at's loving you.

100% = X / X
100% = X / X
   When what I'm really bad at's loving you,
   the best I do just makes me all the worse
   the upside down and inside out reverse
   what you expect of me.   Sad déjà vu
   how we're divided by ourselves, into
   each other one on one, our mirror's curse
   as absolute as math.   I can't coerce
   more truth of it than what you think most true.
   And so we've nothing left.   Completely done.
   Undone's more like it.   No more to have shared,
   since giving all's the same as having none
   and we've already taken all we'd dared.
   Consider me love's void.   I'm not the one
   against whom all your loves should be compared.

Throwback Ancient History
Throwback Ancient History
   Against whom?   All your loves should be compared
   against which holy saint?   Upon whose best
   must all our worst improve?   Each passion's quest
   must measure up to whose high standard?   Spared
   no mercy by whose precedent?   Declared
   unworthy on whose sayso?   Second-guessed
   by whose presumptions?   By whose litmus test
   selected?   For whom confidences bared?
   It's over!   done with!   settled!   obsolete!
   irrelevant!   before our time!   old news!
   as dead as you'd desired!   deadweight!   deadbeat!
   deadwood!   dead end!   It's dead!   It's ended.   Choose
   to live our love in our own day, complete
   in our own moment, free of yester's views.

A girL's Monolith
A Girl's Monolith
   In our own moment free of yester's views
   secret braids of color bind a tight
   threesome together bathed in blinding light
   in our own dances hand in hand with who's
   lonesome enough embraced enough to lose
   love in life and life in love to write
   abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight
   dreams we'd scarred thick dark as one'd abuse
   open face into fierce firestorm to share
   reality intended opportune
   except will I go? can't he? where?
   you're seeing hearing cutting coming soon?
   over the bed made home to our affair -
   us three yet there beneath a rising moon.

   Us three:  Yet there beneath a rising moon
              inside another's shadow made to fit
              through hungry thighs, through open heaven split,
              yet have we not the voice of ancient rune
              within us?
                          Their own one:   What you impugn
              creates your only truth.   What you permit
              destroys your freedom.   What you've made of it
              will lose by midnight all you'd gained past noon.
   We never heard a word of it.   They hadn't let
   their silent moments break into our peace
   so they we three quite easily forget
   as we them can ignore.   So does love cease
   in voided lives born empty, breathless, yet
   their one must keep what we three can't release.

Rejection Accepted
Rejection Accepted
   Their one must keep.   What we three can't release
   their one must hold.   What we three won't adjourn
   their one must take.   What we would not unlearn
   they must pay homage to.   Too strict police
   to run their's street.   Not shamelessly caprice
   enough.   Not thought that much of.   Taciturn
   in tune.   What's too unwanted.   No concern
   for either our decline or their's increase.
   Discarded objects' shadows do impose,
   don't they, on territories newly claimed
   so need must be put down.   Rejected.   Those
   get left no chance of honor being named
   except to gauge what comes against what goes
   in terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed.

Love's Occultation
Love's Occultation
   In terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed
   our bed lies at the eye of the eclipse,
   with moonlight at her darkest in your hips
   on me left blinded by his circles flamed.
   For whom's intents whose purpose dies defamed,
   our dance composes swirls on glides in flips
   through open space.   Raw unveiled passion slips
   along deep crevices on satin framed.
   Oh wait.   No, my mistake.   That's just a cloud
   and one I should've known's not come as mine,
   yet looking up to you's as disallowed
   as much as if our orbits stood in line,
   so I'll fall to the shadows of the crowd
   without the silhouette of your design.

A Sapling's Sonnet
A Sapling's Sonnet
   Without the silhouette of your design
   extending through the dark across the lake
   to take his shore as yours, he'd never make
   your branches to his stormy skies incline.
   Without the potion of your root and vine
   imbuing wind and soil, he'd never wake
   beneath your canopy, but rather take
   his place beneath your quiet forest shrine.
   I see my way.   Both in and through.   And out.
   What's unknown grows to what we will believe
   as sure as oaks from smallest acorns sprout,
   tomorrow with today's past lives to weave.
   To weave.   Yes, that I'll also see about
   to give breath to all earth and sky conceive.

Spring's Offspring
Spring's Offspring
   To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,
   to bring light to all corners on the day,
   to spread peace to each word bold visions say,
   to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve,
   to comfort ghosts of all who cannot grieve,
   to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,
   to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,
   to make true love the promise all achieve,
   may she who turns her circle round to spring
   and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure
   fill we who dance and they of whom we sing
   with life reborn in innocence right pure
   to melt through bitter winter's icy sting,
   for death itself to offer certain cure.

Something Apotropaic
Something Apotropaic
   For death itself to offer certain cure
   against contagious love's dissembled smile
   so as with something sure to reconcile,
   one's resurrection can't be premature
   else one's again exposed to the allure
   and tempting eye and captivating wile
   at risk of falling victim to love's guile
   against which no believer can endure.
   Say, tell me where to find that silver charm
   you always wore around your neck?   Your heart
   is naked, open to harsh hurt and harm.
   You sacrificed it?   God, that wasn't smart.
   Let's look see if we've something to disarm
   the threat to life of love's capricious dart.

Friday, the 13th
Friday, the 13th
   The threat to life (of love's capricious dart,
   its poison proving meant's not good enough
   unless both think so) is (not up to snuff
   no matter how much sacrificed) to start
   (there was a job, there was a place) to chart
   a course (and all the other legal stuff
   required of him to immigrate) to tough
   it out together, then fall far apart.
   It kills a man.   Then kills him back to back
   again until the man's past all unknown
   and yet again until the man's lost track
   and even yet again damned to his own
   dark hell.   All voided out.   All lost.   All black.
   Unwanted.   Turned away from.   That alone.

A Trivial Indiscretion

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/02/01

Your bedroom door's half open.  I'm supposed
to feel as welcome as if I belonged
as much at home with you as any dream
you've dreamed up on your own. How've I so wronged
myself this easily?  Let's keep it closed.

The door, yes that, but also what's been said
between us. Words show barely what they seem,
not when they're such rash promises in bed
unsuited to a street's concrete regime.

Disclosed or closed, exposures we express
were meant to be kept private, a disguise
to justify assumptions so misread
as to engage our bodies to the lies
our sheets lie, crumpled stale untidy mess.

As Easily Regret

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/01/31

Our sheets lie crumpled, stale untidy mess
I've not cleaned up yet, no.  Your cigarette
half finished, half remembered at its worst
extinguishes what's left of longing, yet
its ash makes your scent hang on all the less.

I wanted you with me here longer, yes.
Was vagueness in my eye that wound a net?
I want you still. That must be love, I guess,
or something I'll as easily regret.

But heed your friends' advice - Were you to let
me keep you here, it'd be to wild excess
you'd best abandon.  Home and family first!
And that way, as your allies no doubt stress,
you're trained to handle every foreign threat.

Another Life

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/01/26

You're trained to handle every foreign threat?
Don't think I don't appreciate your locks
and keys and walls and guns. Your duty rocks
the world, and you don't even break a sweat.
It's just, I'd rather rock a bassinet.
The threat I fear most's knitting up these socks
with no wee feet to wear them. Freedom mocks
me showing my surrender, "Not as yet."

Like any sonnet, things don't get designed
to fall out perfect, me with you here. So
yeah, word be told, you are my life. I'd mind
your leaving, but if you should have to go,
the best of you will've been left behind —
I have another life you wouldn't know.

Just a Thought

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/01/25

I have another life.  You wouldn't know
its purposes. I'm boring you again.
OK, I said I've got another life
outside the one you favor now and then.
Should we do this some time more apropos?

No, never mind, no problem.  I'll just go
find somewhere else to be. Just tell me when
you're finished up your game of man and wife
and I'll pick up where I left off.  I've been
unnoticed. I'm not new to this. Although . . .

. . . just a thought, if I might be so bold —
One's other life, I'm thinking, shouldn't shut
the other's other life out in the cold.
A friend stands by a friend no matter what.

Play As Though

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/01/25

A friend stands by a friend no matter what —
that's how I know a friend is what I ain't
since standing here I get kicked in the butt
while any casual customer's a saint.

I never had what they're prepared to pay
and can't put up with what they came to take.
It isn't you, that's all I guess I'll say;
it's just we never had much love to make.

Don't worry, you'll forget me once it's done.
What I'll remember? Never mind, I know -
"No strings to tie us down, all in good fun,"
so memories I keep'll play as though.

OK, let's split one final glass of wine.
I've seen the end, it's come time to resign.

Early Dismissal

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/01/25

I've seen the end, it's come time to resign
what trivial mission may once have been mine.
The street from here on out's one angels walk
whereas I'm only words to you, just talk.
I hold nothing against you, that don't doubt,
but nothing more between us would work out.
One final kiss then. I've a train to catch,
with way too many loose threads to detach
and conflicts in my schedule to resolve.
You know - things in which we ought not involve
each other further. Say goodbye, best friend.
Who said so first won't matter to our end.

(I've never handled closings very well.
What the hell is wrong with me!  Do tell!)

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