I am nothing but myself without you.
You are the key to every lock I own.
To say you are my everything is true.
Without you I am never more alone.
You are my Spring, you are my Autumn-flush.
Without you I’m a Winter-plot unkempt.
You are my Summer – every flower’s blush.
Without you I’m a year that wasn’t dreamt.
You are my awakening; my morning would
be nothing but the softest dew at dawn.
You are my sketch, that pictures me as good.
Without you I’m an image never drawn.
. You are the life in every day I live
. You are the gift in every thing I give.
To the reader: Love is an ingredient that confirms completeness, enriches purpose and satisfies our intimate desires. We nurture partnerships through love’s tenderness; it’s love that cares about a broken heart, it’s love that freshens an exhausted soul, it’s love that brings joy to adult affairs. Love’s generous abundance is in endless reserve; love replenishes love; love’s gift is love.
To the poet: The first quatrain is tentative, the second a bit soppy; and the third, hopeful of a climax. The final couplet provides the post-literal summary. When ‘love’ becomes an object of attention it resists exposure; love is shy and reserved in nature. Love is rarely captured without damage. Like a butterfly… most beautiful in flight.
A cool morning breeze, whispers crisp and sharp.
Dappled shadows scattered in commotion.
Rustling leaves give voice to a scratching harp.
Splash of mauve begins the day’s devotion.
Mottled yellow, wattled gold, rusted bark.
The hint of blue horizon, just a glimpse.
Canopied layers flicker; light and dark.
A symphony of birds in soundscape scrimps.
A fresh gust agitates a squawk of wing.
Palm fronds, dry with age, hang-glide to landing.
Metronome branches in pendulum swing.
. Five starlings make an oddly mark in time.
. Give cause for notice of the sun in climb.
To the reader: A fresh scene triggers interest. And so with heightened sensitivity, the watchful mind becomes alert to novel observations. The play of light and colour, along with the sound of movement interact to become a new definition of time and place. Small characters emerge from the static scene; branches swing and swish; birds flit and flirt; a mauve cloud is tickled by a golden ray of morning light; the sun lifts the curtain on a new day.
To the poet: If you listen, visual landscapes are also aural soundscapes. Together, sight and sound form the focal points of this situational sonnet. Considered as one layer, the visual element has been receded to bring forward the sounds of nature waking to a new dawn. The first version of this sonnet was simply a list of of fourteen observations, which I later over-dubbed with rhythm and rhyme; to satisfying effect. I like this sonnet.
You are the keeper of a chrysalis.
The holder of a butterfly in wait.
Do you appreciate her emphasis;
sensitivities; condition of her state?
Are you in touch with her proclivities?
Are you conscious of her fluttering?
Do you attend to her necessities?
And, will you offer her your nurturing?
You are the hand-maiden, the Monarch’s nurse,
her companion; attentively involved:
as she ponders… as opener of her purse.
as she shudders… as closure is resolved.
. You are the hand-maiden, the Monarch’s nurse;
. holder of pleasures, and opener of purse.
To the reader: Butterflies are beautiful insects. Through stages they reach a climax of interest and intensity. The chrysalis represents a middle-stage of development when the caterpillar has pupated into a protective tissue awaiting release into its adult form. The natural wonder of an opening cocoon represents an exposed stage of life; sensitive and vulnerable. With patience and nature’s encouragement the butterfly emerges; and so completes its resolution.
To the poet: Metamorphosis. Between two stages, the chrysalis assumes a vulnerable condition; a position of suggestive anticipation. And that’s the art of poetry. Between two ideas there’s room for emergent play. Words, by association, influence interpretation; and so, meaning is subtlely adjusted. The level of cryptic subterfuge is a matter of choice; too subtle and the game is lost.