I was adding labels to all of my posts from 3 years ago and I had several epiphanies as I sorted through the work. I realized, to my surprise, that I did not post any poetry. Not mine. Not anyone's. I love poetry. I do. Some find it esoteric or a bygone beauty but I love it and can think of no better way to vent my emotions. Granted it is easy to write bad poetry full of good emotion. And I do, write a lot of abysmal poetry with great emotion. But amidst all that some worthwhile raw material has surfaced. For example, there is a poem that I wrote 10 years ago about the love of my life. I still return to it and tinker because I love the subject, the genre and the challenge of writing within the rules. So, without further ado I present for the first time ever, in public, a sonnet by me:
Before I met my love, a boy wore pain
In fields to pluck the pipes of life from soil.
His freckled face alight with sweat and strain
He learned the trade from hands once soaked in oil
The work had turned them black as time’s result
A permanent reminder showing true
The calloused grin despite his life’s tumult
His beard the crimson sign of strength he grew.
I never knew the hands or beard in life
I see only the hue your cheeks retain
From sun and hay within the land of strife
I thirst for words inside and wish through pain
To meet to man who taught the boy to give
His hands, his bearded smile, his will to live.
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