I know how well these sonnets go over, >_> so I felt compelled to post more.
<u>Revised</u>
<b>Be Warned</b>
Edging the Hudson River, paths of stone
enjoy the shade of brush from old Manhattan,
and hint at nature. While the stratus shone
with mauve, and sheets of water curled like satin,
the parting clouds revealed a slit of red,
through which the bloodshot sun peeked dangerously.
Your narrowed eyes, not to be bested, said,
“Take notice that the dusky face you see
conceals a flame. Approach me, but be warned,
I tell no lies and harbor in my heart
mad fusion of companions loved and scorned.
The gravity would tear your mind apart.”
I watch, undaunted by this dusky sky
that hints at <i>your</i> Sol’s nature, till I die.
<b>A Moment’s Pity</b>
Declining to lisp pleasantries, swill beer,
and check a drooping blouse with watery gaze,
instead you sip at wine from distant year,
unsmiling, and you mouth a mordant phrase
to summarize the failings of the day.
The coy detachment in your curve of eye
slackens to thought, as violet clouds decay
to shapeless grey and permeate the sky.
“Despite the storied romance of the city,
love comes with effort, where the stars are gone,”
you murmur to your glass. A moment’s pity,
then nightfall sweeps your tightened face, you yawn
and flick a hair that straggled in your eye,
and watch friends revel, hastening to die.
<u>Originals</u>
<b>Nevertheless</b>
Along the Hudson River, paths of stone,
edged by the native brush of old Manhattan,
remind what nature is. The evening shone
with purple hues, the water curled like satin,
and in the clouds I saw a slit of red,
through which the bloodshot sun peeked dangerously.
Just so, your eyes went narrow, and they said,
“Beneath the clouded, dusky face you see,
a flame is lurking.” Or perhaps they warned,
“Delve no further. I harbor in my heart
a blissful fusion of things loved and scorned.
The gravity would tear your mind apart.”
Nevertheless, I watch this dusky sky
to learn <i>your</i> Sol’s true nature, till I die.
<b>A Moment’s Pity</b>
Never for you, the jostling and the beer,
the drooping neckline and the watery gaze.
Rather, a cup of wine from distant year,
a coy, unsmiling look, a mordant phrase
to summarize the failings of the day,
and when a tiny, bumbling dog clomps by,
a giggle. But as purple clouds decay
to shapeless grey and permeate the sky,
“For all this storied romance of the city,
I want to cry, because the stars are gone,”
you mumble in your glass. A moment’s pity,
then darkness sweeps your tightened face, you yawn
and brush a hair that wandered in your eye,
while others celebrate and slowly die.
