02-04-2014, 07:30 AM
So this is how we enter: clockworks tick,
they tock; they tell your story in the hall.
The childhood strength that guides you, brick by brick,
a human finger, moves us after all
we cannot earn. The luck or curse of birth ...
All Our Yesterdays
i.
So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
into a lifetime of fragility.
Come quick, small child! Your heart is but a chick's
small squeaks; your wings are barely feathered. See,
the steel-clawed beast in smock and apron gear
won't harm your molded head. This violent day
will fade. Don't turn to crawl back in from fear
of numbered clocks that beep your heart away—
into cold night, in bed with mother moon,
brief as icicle drips at sunrise—strife
will lift as scrapbook pages turn. So soon
you will grow old! The brevity of life
will strike you grey; yet pictures line the wall,
they talk. They tell your story in the hall.
ii.
They talk; they tell your story in the hall.
A wall of photo shoots from nought 'til now
of scratched-knee-summers, or a freezing fall.
Vignettes of crawls and steps; I don't know how
you raised your chubby frame from off the floor
and slowly skewed, at first a step: Then two.
To stop the wobbling arse you grabbed the door
then jiggled like a jelly, what a view.
So many times you fell, you will again
but hopefully you'll rise enough to see,
the value of a stumble or the strain
that bends a body, often lays the key.
Inside a man's foundation one can pick
the childhood strength that guides you brick by brick.
iii.
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick
into a cloistered world of selfish greed
so quickly does the ego learn his trick
of choosing want with small regard for need
then anger fuels your unresponsive mood
and tantrums win when met with weak resolve
so ev’rything you ask for, clothes or food
are sentences for crimes you can’t absolve
the lies they tell you just to grow you up
imprinted with their out-of-fashion pains
like too-sweet soda from a paper cup
that doesn't slake your thirst, but leaves faint stains
with all the futile lines writ on a wall;
a human finger moves us after all
iv.
A human finger moves us. After all
the weeks you grew inside your mother's womb,
arriving early with an anxious bawl,
I count the possibilities of doom
and triumph on your toes, my abacus,
as monitors and regulators beep
and flash your vital signs. You turn and fuss,
then slip back into artificial sleep,
your dreams a mystery of graphing flares.
I trace your palms and tell your future, grand
achievements, escapades and love affairs,
your secret strengths held in your tiny hand.
Although we strive to justify our worth,
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth.
I've marked a small edit I made to billy's couplet for grammatical sense in the final sonnet. If any of the rest you fellow collaborators (or any viewing crits) have any suggestion to improve the individual and/or final sonnet(s) please fell free to jump in and discuss them.
In the meantime, we can keep adding sonnets.
The next sonnet opens with this line:
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth
This is a rather complex endeavor, and all of this (poem) is open to critique, suggestion, and discussion. We can edit the thing together as we go. Hopefully, when we finish, and then maybe do some a bit of revising, we will end up with something we can all love and enjoy.
Only ten more sonnets to go!
Thanks again to all of those that have already contributed. If 48 hours (from now) pass without an addition from a fifth member I am going to allow double dipping.
Personally, enjoy the sonnets we've received thus far, and find the project very interesting, I can't wait to see where it takes us.
they tock; they tell your story in the hall.
The childhood strength that guides you, brick by brick,
a human finger, moves us after all
we cannot earn. The luck or curse of birth ...
All Our Yesterdays
i.
So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
into a lifetime of fragility.
Come quick, small child! Your heart is but a chick's
small squeaks; your wings are barely feathered. See,
the steel-clawed beast in smock and apron gear
won't harm your molded head. This violent day
will fade. Don't turn to crawl back in from fear
of numbered clocks that beep your heart away—
into cold night, in bed with mother moon,
brief as icicle drips at sunrise—strife
will lift as scrapbook pages turn. So soon
you will grow old! The brevity of life
will strike you grey; yet pictures line the wall,
they talk. They tell your story in the hall.
ii.
They talk; they tell your story in the hall.
A wall of photo shoots from nought 'til now
of scratched-knee-summers, or a freezing fall.
Vignettes of crawls and steps; I don't know how
you raised your chubby frame from off the floor
and slowly skewed, at first a step: Then two.
To stop the wobbling arse you grabbed the door
then jiggled like a jelly, what a view.
So many times you fell, you will again
but hopefully you'll rise enough to see,
the value of a stumble or the strain
that bends a body, often lays the key.
Inside a man's foundation one can pick
the childhood strength that guides you brick by brick.
iii.
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick
into a cloistered world of selfish greed
so quickly does the ego learn his trick
of choosing want with small regard for need
then anger fuels your unresponsive mood
and tantrums win when met with weak resolve
so ev’rything you ask for, clothes or food
are sentences for crimes you can’t absolve
the lies they tell you just to grow you up
imprinted with their out-of-fashion pains
like too-sweet soda from a paper cup
that doesn't slake your thirst, but leaves faint stains
with all the futile lines writ on a wall;
a human finger moves us after all
iv.
A human finger moves us. After all
the weeks you grew inside your mother's womb,
arriving early with an anxious bawl,
I count the possibilities of doom
and triumph on your toes, my abacus,
as monitors and regulators beep
and flash your vital signs. You turn and fuss,
then slip back into artificial sleep,
your dreams a mystery of graphing flares.
I trace your palms and tell your future, grand
achievements, escapades and love affairs,
your secret strengths held in your tiny hand.
Although we strive to justify our worth,
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth.
I've marked a small edit I made to billy's couplet for grammatical sense in the final sonnet. If any of the rest you fellow collaborators (or any viewing crits) have any suggestion to improve the individual and/or final sonnet(s) please fell free to jump in and discuss them.
In the meantime, we can keep adding sonnets.
The next sonnet opens with this line:
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth
This is a rather complex endeavor, and all of this (poem) is open to critique, suggestion, and discussion. We can edit the thing together as we go. Hopefully, when we finish, and then maybe do some a bit of revising, we will end up with something we can all love and enjoy.
Only ten more sonnets to go!
Thanks again to all of those that have already contributed. If 48 hours (from now) pass without an addition from a fifth member I am going to allow double dipping.
Personally, enjoy the sonnets we've received thus far, and find the project very interesting, I can't wait to see where it takes us.