I have written my first sonnet. It limps, but it lives; it is! Of course (but not today) I will go back and tweak it, but right now, see me dancing around the room. Who is it that said a poem is never finished, just abandoned? ??????
Jan. 27, 2010
by Ray Weaver aka nothing petty aka tinman
I do not love the noonday sun; its eye
Is too unforgiving. Too unmindful,
Sol, of the fragile weave of which men are made.
He shrinks the soul to bare sin; no sigh
Of remorse, regret, no sorry heart, will annul
Sol’s judgment, no bank enough of tears will buy
Release from the heat of shame unquenchable;
It is Selene to whom my glad prayers fly;
Selene of the soft eye, who makes the shadow
In which lovers may hide and dreamers dream,
Hyperion’s fair daughter that I trow
Gathers the stars plotting a celestial scheme.
It is to her, her, the far-winged, I go
To heal from her brother’s relentless beam