Archive: May 1995  |  View all recent posts
May 01, 1995

Sonnet to Sonagram

Poem — ©Jeff Franks

Come little moth, unwary of the flame
executing arrogant acrobatics at the edge of the abyss
be still and listen.

This is a gentle offering
sent before you, for you,
before your time, for your time.

Arriving on a flaming arrow,
discarding contrail of black ink from an old pen
gripped with white knuckled determination,
in a quivering hand,
touched to prayerful lips,
from which flowed a faith eternal.

Following synapse to a mind,
enriched, but imprisoned,
crowned with silver and gray and none.

With eyes steady and level, but dull,
turned east at the moment of release,
and with heavy lids, followed the flame
accelerating with the inertia of time
toward the obscurity of the terminator,
the horizon of tomorrow.

An arrow not from heaven
and not from hell,
but from between,
whose scribe is now that bright but fading spot,
a blemish on the retina of memory,
whose hand left cold clever-less clues,
producing, by a rudimentary pathology,
a mystery as to his humble origin,
an enigma of negligible import.

A creator, who was no less, or no more,
than an expectant alchemist
attempting to turn hope into currency,
not distinct from the penny deeply sleeping in the well,
deposited there in hope of return, not fearing rust,
a creator who failed miserably,
leaving only this fibrous heirloom slicing between your digits,
a rube contrasting Sir Eliot, whose best penmanship,
inspired by your discovery, could produce only this balance sheet,
an accounting vastly inferior to T.S.'s ledgers.

But, a will and a testament all the same,
when written, found your days uncounted,
your countenance minute, a gray shifting echo
with features indistinguishable, and a pulsing resolute throb,
writhing in a liquid pre-universe.

Your mind devoid of judgment,
or pre-judgment or hate,
a chrysalis enjoying a purity
soon to be proffered at the portal,
like a token in exchange for passage,
upon a voyage of curiosity and discovery, redundancy, apathy - and decay.

That you have discovered this gentle offering is reason enough for faith,
but, before you continue on your journey
across the metaphorical pyramid of progression and digression
stepping carefully into the numbered footsteps, painted to choreograph the algorithm of life
yet, failing to capture - or derive life's essence
pause, little moth.

Before you loose recognition
before you stand dead still at the mirror, your reflection blurring - a last time
before you gulp the air you once trivialized, breathless and confused - spinning without control
before your heart aches - inside and out, afraid and fatigued
before you're completely overwhelmed by regrets without depth - or resolution
before you sense your isolation
realizing for the first time - you are completely alone

Listen to the transcendent voices,
their messages not spoken - willed
pursed on blue lips from the dead sea,
children past, not present,
who gaze up from the insurmountable depth
and spit chill blue pearls,
disobedient, but pitiable oysters.

Dead gems, sterile and impotent,
byproducts of ritual and insatiable greed,
spending an eternity lusting for new wings,
another chance to radiantly shimmer, to dance in the sunlight.
Blog Archives
2016 ~
Jan
Feb 1
Mar 1
Apr 2
May 1
Jun
Jul
Aug
Sep
Oct
Nov
Dec
2015 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar 1
Apr 2
May
Jun 2
Jul
Aug 4
Sep 1
Oct 1
Nov 1
Dec 2
2014 ~
Jan
Feb 3
Mar 3
Apr
May 3
Jun 3
Jul 3
Aug 3
Sep 3
Oct 3
Nov 1
Dec
2013 ~
Jan 2
Feb
Mar
Apr 4
May 5
Jun 7
Jul 3
Aug
Sep 4
Oct 4
Nov 1
Dec 2
2012 ~
Jan 2
Feb 1
Mar 4
Apr 5
May 5
Jun 6
Jul 4
Aug 4
Sep 2
Oct 3
Nov 4
Dec 8
2011 ~
Jan 4
Feb 1
Mar 4
Apr 4
May 5
Jun 3
Jul 2
Aug 6
Sep 4
Oct 5
Nov 4
Dec 1
2010 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar
Apr
May 2
Jun 4
Jul 6
Aug 2
Sep 7
Oct 2
Nov 5
Dec 5
1999 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar
Apr
May
Jun
Jul
Aug
Sep 1
Oct
Nov
Dec
1998 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar
Apr
May 2
Jun
Jul
Aug
Sep
Oct
Nov
Dec
1995 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar
Apr
May 1
Jun
Jul
Aug
Sep
Oct
Nov
Dec
1994 ~
Jan
Feb
Mar
Apr
May
Jun
Jul
Aug
Sep
Oct 1
Nov
Dec