metaphorliteral | Entries tagged with sonnet

To run and hide, and curl into yourself,
And cover your bright eyes with shaking paws,
And crouch in a small corner 'neath a shelf,
And dodge the feline's teeth and needled claws--
But also to sleep in a furry pile
Surrounded by your siblings and your friends,
To steal the cheese and bread with skill and guile,
And nibble through what humans later mend--
To have the whiskers, tail, and tiny paws,
To have the ears to warn you of a cat,
The skill to climb and crawl and sneak and gnaw--
How marvelous, the actions of a rat!

This sleek and clever rodent, I confess,
Held in my hands-- I truly love it best.

At last, I've been deconstructed,
every part scrutinized with a jeweler's loupe,
then put back together by careful hands
painstakingly, fixing the worn-down places,
replacing the broken-toothed cogs
and the cloudy piece of quartz that kept me running.
I've been upgraded-- now my heart's a diamond
refracting rainbows in the spotlight of love.
Take me in your hands and hold me up to the sun
to see the sparkle of affection light me up.
I've been reset-- keeping perfect time
to the measured beat of your racing heart.
Wear me in your pocket, take me out at intervals
and check my unerring tally of the minutes I've been yours.

I'm talented at seeing things from others' point of view,
but I don't know how the world looks through your eyes.
You're a foreign language, mellifluous and incomprehensible.
You're a different species, the last surviving gentleman.

You're a recipe with one unreadable ingredient-- I can't get you right.
So I ask and ask and try to interpret the look on your face,
checking eyebrows and lips against my mental lexicon,
deciphering your expression and frequently getting it wrong.

Forgive me when I say "you look tired" or "are you okay?"
Forgive me when I study your features like a map.
Forgive me when I get lost in translation--
I may be an expert at reading people but I'm a novice at you.

Talking to you is like walking on the moon--
exhilarating and terrifying, cut loose from gravity.

He’s not as innocent as he looks at first.
The boyish charm and freckle-spattered skin
conceal a mind that’s often bent on sin
and devious plans he has rehearsed.

This crafty young man has got a thirst
for finer things his thievery can win
and SCIENCE!!! Knowledge that he holds within
and studies in which he can be immersed.

An accident honed his senses to the sharpest point
and now he’s twitchy, which works to his advantage
when his wits will be what saves his life.
You don’t want to find this redhead in your joint
because your belongings he’ll deftly mismanage,
and if you’re the Pope, he’ll bring you only strife.

(because why the fuck shouldn't I write Petrarchan sonnets about my roleplaying characters? I love Alastair. He's made of awesome and regularly saves the day. He's my Spirit of the Century character and right now he's in Russia in 1927 trying to kill Rasputin. :D )

She gets inspiration right from the wellspring,
sipping ink out of her chipped teacup;
teeth stained by similes the pigmentation brings,
metaphors lingering on her tongue when she drinks them up.

She mixes blue and black like fragrant oolong,
and steeps it for hours at a rolling boil.
It’s a heady brew and she likes it strong,
the better to support long hours of toil.

The hot liquid flows between parted lips
and burns her up from stomach to skin,
then channels through to her fingertips
and the words pour out from deep within.

Ink-drinking allows her to bypass the muses
and be productive whenever she chooses.

You lead me down the roads I shouldn’t go.
You’re merciless, damming the river of my heart at its bow.
You’ve no consideration for the normal ebb and flow
of my emotions, and I can never say no.

My heart feeds on itself in my chest.
With anemones and rue my soul is dressed--
which I picked for myself, it must be confessed--
for you don’t send me flowers. Still, the best

I could hope for is you to surprise me.
There’s no reciprocation I can see,
although my love’s grown taller than a tree.
Please hear my voice and listen to my plea:

Just go away. Stay away. Leave me alone.
Don’t write. Don’t text. Don’t call me on the phone.

There’s a reason this door is locked.
If you were wise, you’d leave it alone.
The room is strong and made of stone
and inside is something not to be mocked.

But you think you’re clever with your lockpicks.
You trip the tumblers one by one
and turn the doorknob when you’re done,
forcing the door open when it sticks.

Tell me, what did you think you’d find?
Did you expect a reward for being bold?
A weapon, maybe? A tapestry to unfurl?
Did a wizard or a dragon come to mind?
Gold? Treasure? Riches untold?
All you’ve released is a brokenhearted girl.

The brightest stars aren't stars at all.
They're nothing you can set a compass by.
That's why when I follow you, I fall,
although you are the brightest point in my sky.
Still, there's delight in being led astray--
you're never going to lead me to my doom;
my faith in you takes me in a roundabout way,
but somehow I always make it back to my room.
I know I should forswear your radiance
and set my sights on the Northern Star--
but that would require common sense,
and you're more interesting by far.
So shine on, my brilliant, inconsistent guide.
Perhaps one day, I'll finally reach your side.

I've started writing poetry in my sleep.
I only wish I could remember them when I wake.
Rhyme and meter are far easier to keep
when my subconscious works with me. I can take
all night to craft a perfect villanelle
or a sestina in a single dream,
but as soon as I wake up, I can't tell
what it is I wrote. So it would seem
my talents keep honing themselves all night
but not to my advantage in the morn.
Perhaps it's improving my insight!
Maybe forgetting shouldn't make me forlorn.
I know that poetry's my craft of choice
because even sleeping can't stifle my voice.

Insanity is the indispensible catalyst of genius.
In that case, it's no wonder I'm inspired.
I try to keep my crazy under wraps and make no fuss,
but I'm the reason psychiatrists have retired.

I've claimed to be a lunatic since I was young,
sleeping with the full moon's light on my face.
It wasn't till my teenage years the trap was sprung.
Bipolar disorder's like running an uphill race:
it's exhausting and disheartening.
 
                                                       There's no way to succeed
and sometimes it takes all I've got to stay in one place.
So if you feel you're going nuts, you'd better take heed:
losing your mind is like being lost in outer space.
Perhaps to someone miles away you twinkle like a star
but you're stuck out here, and any help comes from too far.

I have become a civilized creature again.
The beast within my breast has curled up to sleep.
I never thought I'd regain my senses when
being near you was all that could keep
me happy-- or not happy, but as close as I got.
Congratulations. Now we're both free
from these shackles my stupid heart wrought.
My smiles are not your responsibility--
not that you ever claimed they were,
not that this beast laid its claws into you,
not that you heard its roar. I prefer
to be the only one it almost slew.
I love you still, but with a love that is sedate.
The beast has given up. For you, I'll wait.

When you have as many siblings as I've got,
sharing's second nature. At least, it is to me.
When you share what you have, it seems like there's a lot,
and everything is better when it's practically free.
I learned it as a child and I use it now I've grown,
this older-sister instinct that applies to all my friends.
I'd rather share something than use it on my own,
and not just as a means to manipulate to ends.
You see, the way I do it, sharing is an act of care.
It's one way I express my love to those that I hold dear.
A book, a blanket, dinner, or just a walk somewhere:
sharing something with my friends is how I hold them near.
"To have and to share" isn't just the motto of my school.
I apply it to my life as the highest-priority rule.

She's got a set routine to go to bed:
brush hair and teeth, don pajamas, take a pill,
then on the pillow rest her weary head
and lie there for hours, waiting, feeling ill
as time ticks by and sleep eludes her still,
wishing for unconsciousness to claim her.
If only sleeping were a matter of will!
She tosses and turns, can't help but to stir.
The hours between twelve and three are a blur
of restlessness and unfulfilled hope of sleep.
Every night these events recur.
She shuts her eyes, resorts to counting sheep.
Eventually sleep will come on soft tiptoes
and quiet down her thoughts of these and those.

I started with melatonin. What a nightmare--
literally the worst nightmares I've ever had.
Then I tried trazodone-- it wasn't fair,
it gave me nightmares too, though not as bad.
They put me on Ambien after that one failed,
and Ambien was good-- such vivid dreams,
but not nightmares. I didn't wake up paled
and shaking anymore. It almost seemed
I'd found the sleeping pill for me-- and then it stopped
working. To get Lunesta I needed special approval
but that worked a treat. Each night I popped
all my meds, then before bed a round blue pill.
Now I switch off every month or two.
Without the pills my hours of sleep are few.

Spider silk is the strongest fiber known to man,
but spiders are quite small and they're awfully hard to herd.
So splice their genes with some other creatures, if you can,
and keep it secret, quiet, don't even breathe a word.
A few blocks away from the place I used to dwell,
there was kept a top-secret herd of spider-goats.
I know, they sound like something you could find in hell,
but they looked ordinary, bleated, and fed on oats.
The value of this flock of goats was found in their milk,
which is why the flock was entirely female.
The output was inedible-- it was filled with spider silk,
the strength of which made steel and even Kevlar seem to pale.
The threat of spider-goats made the whole town paranoid,
and after a couple of years the entire herd was destroyed.

(True story.)

Kill you? Don't be so obvious, my dear.
You'll die someday, and maybe at my hand,
but it won't be today, next week, or year.
I'm having too much fun, just as I planned.
Torture? Yes, that guess is far more apt.
You see, my goal here is to hear you scream.
Don't try to be brave-- you're securely trapped.
Don't try to wake up, girl, this is no dream.
That pretty face and all your girlish wiles
are what have led you here to meet your fate.
The sight of you right now could evoke smiles;
hours with my knives your beauty will negate.
Feel free to cry. You'll hurt yourself with tears.
I'm not a witch, sweet thing. I am your fears.

This little tabby cat with squished-in face,
this little purrbox which only breathes in wheezes,
this feline with her species' typical grace,
this cat that gets up in your face and sneezes,
this compact kitty chasing one who's fatter,
this lonely cat who just wants to make friends,
this feline who thinks toys are no great matter,
who sleeps behind my legs in my knees' bends,
oh Mocha, though you are my sister's cat,
I turn my pen to write this little ode.
Sneeze at me again-- I'll turn you into a hat,
and wear your tabby fur when it gets cold.
I'm joking, of course, you're much too cute to kill,
though I hope when I see you again you won't be ill.

It's peace that lets you know you've been disturbed;
it's calm that lets you know the storm is coming.
Without comfort, you can't know you're perturbed,
without ease you can't feel the pain that's numbing.
Don't trust the stillness: it will never last,
although you cling to it with trembling fingers.
All too soon, what's good will be what's past,
for chaos and regret are all that lingers.
Enjoy the peace, but please don't be mistaken,
don't think that it will last beyond the day.
Don't rely on calm: you'll be forsaken.
Can't you see the storm is here to stay?
You can trust in pain and cloudy skies,
for sweetness, light, and sunshine are all lies.

The crossword game is what I choose to play,
to lay my words in lines across the board.
High-scoring letters in my hand won't stay
when I craft a triple-scoring word.
Oh triple word score! In corners you lurk,
and in the center of the board's outer edges.
When played across, you provide the best perk,
and push us up to fulfill winning pledges.
When used correctly, how points multiply,
assuming it's not some two-point word waste.
My friend's played across two at once-- what a guy,
who crafts his words with care and not with haste.
Oh triple word score, Scrabble player's friend,
play the word "zax" and the game may as well end.

The first indelible mark I received was the symbol
for a secret society dedicated to knowledge and fire.
I felt this was a good way to begin defining myself.
The second was a memorial to tiny lives I've known,
the whiskers and squeaking that left an imprint on my heart.
Third came a coded message to myself, a reminder
that the world is what I make of it, attitude is everything,
and a message to the rest of the world: love is love.
Fourth and fifth punctuate my endless stream of consciousness,
a semicolon to link one thought to the next
with the parentheticals trailing off into nothingness.
In the future, there will be more written on my skin:
a fervent prayer for the goodness of the universe
and a spray of iris: a message sent; good news.

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Page generated Jul. 16th, 2025 06:52 pm

a literal metaphor

or some ham-handed lines

Entries tagged with sonnet

the rat, written in 2004

timepiece

xenophile

Alastair Hazard

the finest India black

inconsiderate

the disappointed thief

evening star

somnolescent sonnet

lunacy

the beast

to have and to share

time to sleep

a consideration of various sleeping pills

genetically modified

every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain

Mocha

the calm and the storm

ode to the triple word score

The Self in Five Acts: A Guide to Iconography