sonnet 1
to burst your buds in splendid passioned blooms,
to kiss, to coax, too much the fragrant zone,
while witnessing the pleasant throated groans,
surrendering in long locked hallowed rooms.
we'll swoop and soar o'er fleshy paradise,
exploring boldly every peak and crag,
my celtic digs and your semitic drag;
and steal through Samuel's pleasure dome of ice.
Stay your reason, see, all the deals are done
the dregs are elegantly tucked away,
the bourgeosie are too allowed to play,
nod, not shake, then i know your heart is won.
please, let passion play its part in winning
so this art might chant of fair beginnings
sonnet 2
my long-lost, carribean lover comes
over me in waves; and such a passion
is, with resolve, challenging to fathom,
but with great pleasure i your depths will plumb;
if gills i need, then they i will evolve.
'till that time, at beaches i will wallow,
for your ocean is at beaches shallow,
and there the problem of your tides i'll solve.
'cause i on tributaries have been tossed,
running aground on the sand bars of love,
sailing in circles no load star above,
on dangerous currents my sole near lost.
but like the moon reflects upon the sea
though far, she's in my minds eye tending me.
sonnet 3
come, L.P., cast not those polished pebbles
down; the sun and stars--celestial decor,
that on spring skies spangle--are ever yours.
spanish cherub, come, forget those troubles,
for april days and latin elegance
are, like lovers, full of warm embraces;
let's explore the dewy hidden places,
and swoon like chanting mystics in a trance.
come, spanic princess, full of mysteries,
let's into gordian knots entangle
tight; so that alexander we would wrangle.
for i like honeydew your lips will please,
and hips?, them i'd turn to liquid pleasure,
sheer, undulating joy, that you'd treasure.
sonnet 4
whoa!, her hair in red cascades does tumble
down; breaking there across her shoulders and her
back; and we, who listen to its soft roar,
are before this beauty bound and humbled.
and when that hair is gathered in adornment
my muse goes mute and like an id'iot stands,
to see her milk-white flesh beneath red strands:
i rush alone to pens my awe to vent.
with potent mind she's well endowed, no doubt;
but from her words i'm led by lips astray
those coral crescents put thoughts on display,
like open flesh wounds, or alien fruit.
yes, she hails from islands Hybernian
but, oh, to see her, with me, come again.
sonnet 5
L.P. is of my car's front seat the queen,
and there she lords it over me, her duke.
she issues soft and challenging rebukes
if i in tender siege wax to obscene.
it is a christian kingdom, i'll admit,
she serves her lord most loyally, 'tis true
and for her perseverance he imbues
her with a regal charm and royal wit.
but, still, my passion's chomping at the bit,
and so spotted is my cause of pleasure
with trojan horses open gates i'll lure.
so help me god!, i swear she'll fall, 'tis writ!
for though she man the walls with god the son,
i've struck the faustian deal and will come on.
sonnet 6
i witnessed twinkles in your eyes that night,
your little kisses made me long for more,
lascivious lips that moved me to the core.
i marked your neck with playful, stirring bites,
then mauled each breast with saliva and love;
soft nipples resurrected in my mouth,
desire told me, "go still farther south,"
invoking carnal dieties above:
to bite you gently on the inner thigh,
to push 'round your clitoris with my tongue,
and climb ecstatic ladders rung by rung.
i want to see and hear you shake and sigh,
so, love, with mysteries nurture glistening eyes.
sonnet 7
my men, sweet vassals all, in ruins lie,
since they on listing fields were fairly met,
'n'crushed beneath the charge of your jenne't;
beware the casted glance so foolishly.
in their demise i must admit to fault
their liege, i had for beauty set the mark,
your figure left their groping muses stark,
their tongues you tied, they fell by your assault.
but i of spanish armor am endowed,
and, more than most, with implements equipped,
i prick my steed and flay him with the whip,
to pound the field and win you as i trowed:
my horse and mettle gone, i hate to lose,
but their in victory you stand, a rose.
sonnet 8
where beauty sets her reknowned standard and
the attendant eye lays wreaths upon,
there droves go wanting for its concentration,
and lines are writ by most ingenuous hands.
the bards of canvas colors ready,
while sculptors ply their plastic medium;
so, with imitation claim possesion.
until with your blinding vision, L.P.,
they are struck as if they looked on venus:
they weep, they grope, they curse their muses,
and upon themselves they heap abuses,
save one, love, who like a toddler rises,
and on legs untried finds first steps shakey,
but with this step becomes your poet lacky.
sonnet 9
how children with affections they do toy,
darting here and there like birds on the wing,
sweet wheeling flocks, their simple songs they sing:
a fluttering of innocence and joy.
now through the fields of play they swell and surge
now sweeping ev'ry obstacle aside
now a crest, now a break... waves of a tide.
all knees and elbows pumping, on the verge
of something out-of-reach. the physical
manifestation of all the body--
of muscle, sinew, heart, and lungs--can be,
perfection of the sense, fleshed miracle:
in physical decay is born the mind,
and in its death the soul of humankind.
sonnet 10
when the blood-red sun is full and sinking,
my memory and imagination meet,
and, to dusk, with songs they are conspiring
to leave with her a sonnet incarnate.
for greatly am i in her darkened debt:
for heaven's head, so grand, so colorful,
for humble inspirations i have met,
for idling moments when the muse did rule.
there, when the waining light and the gathering eve
were by dusk romantic rent, then my life
some meaning it was lent; and so i'd grieve
the passing, for this knowledge is a knife,
janus faced revealing, that pleasure's pain
and living death, but seeker i'll remain.
sonnet 11
L.P., you've been transformed; what was once young
is now a depth of beauty quite profound
with one good lover in your future bound.
this is that future's dedication song:
of healthy infants, heavy is this tune,
that you will grace the grateful planet with,
so teach them spanish melodies and myths,
a brood for love you'll never importune.
in love, a lofty banner will you plant,
and from that fecund field reap rich rewards
for you've with wicked mystic charms, like bards,
been drenched, and blessed with courage adamant.
mark my words, L.P., you'll help others live,
when they their past trespasses can't forgive.
sonnet 12
what L.P. touches has to true gold turned,
and all that's golden been by her caressed,
the island with her presence has been blessed:
for youthful smiles, i've never so much yearned.
my winters, have been razed and she the hearth,
my wing's been imped, my rising spirits soar,
my appetite is whet fore spanish lore,
her alchemy has metal changed to mirth.
i hope your blenches fill these summer days,
and summer days from humid thrones ne'r fall,
our nights by moon-cast beams will be enthralled,
and scattered dreams by twos shall be arrayed.
let's joy our lips, our hips: let pleasures rip,
then under star-crossed skies away we'll slip.
sonnet 13
the gnostics say that christ had kissed the whore
upon the lips so oft' the 'postles were
distraught; vexing more platonic members,
to see the savior waste his grace on her.
well, if christ is love, let's resurrect him,
and since we've donned this flesh let's not ignore
the sacred spaces; warbling gospel hymns
of joy ecstatic, heavenwards we'll soar!
yeah, verily, i say, you and i should
make a cross--a rosy crucifixion:
of hips and sighs, instead of nails and wood,
and be forgiven for faultless friction.
if you were christ, i know which wounds i'd kiss,
becoming whole through your stigmatic bliss.
sonnet 14
come the eve of thor, to the soft hunt sworn,
rendez-vous in hope of assignation
we twist-truth, and ply with quick libations,
to dare the very wound from whence we're born
"in the grip of the orafice!' we shout
and make, with rushing, fools seem slow: and through
flaming hoops somersaults without a clue,
we miss our marks and crack our pates and pout,
but bacchus to the rescue flies, three cheers
for the late olympian; bolstering our
spirits, rearms us for the wenching hour.
cursed with this skirmish 'till our flesh we tear,
and make our private pains a public hell:
but, still i covet time with rafael.
sonnet 15
the dauntless duo are again risen,
among a heap of broken promises,
we sniff about like dogs for happiness,
and beg the treats of shrewd barroom women
we wag, we bark, then conduct our business,
and in doing spend money like water,
hoping to conquer some well soused daughter,
so, with her play pluck the buttons, i guess.
but, as usual, when our suit is played
and the pot seems won, we've been smoked again,
it almost seems as if this ruse they planned,
i curse, i moan, i wring my hands amazed,
then to a higher court our case you take,
with old flames, daunted into dauntless make.
sonnet 16
how strange it was of you to kiss and run,
the heavens stood still gazing with envy,
such was that flight in its authority,
why, had it been day you'd have dared the sun.
a mythic place in my memory the nymph she holds,
for, like the phoenix rising, making peak,
falls and burns with flying, and never speak
in self-defense, yet rise again so bold.
your vehicle a stellar chariot
whose haunting roar into sad past launched you,
the curve collapsed becoming muse's que,
garlanding your mem'ry with a sonnet:
serving to polish that profane event
and propel me to the sacred present
sonnet 17
with kissing, i would leave no arid space,
on that which has by beauty caused me awe,
and if a dry zone needs a another draw,
it won't go wanting for its hundredth taste.
in love's embrace, to stardust would we squeeze
each other, then we'd come together twice
again, and stare into our twink'ling eyes.
we'd red our cheeks, do ev'rything to please
us, my true love. for i have seen the light
in her that shines; a subtler charm is there,
a wicked spell she's cast that i must bear,
as she is to another man trothplight.
but i would with the devil play at dice,
so i might have a chance to her entice.
sonnet 18
the bard has left us sonnets sweet, it's sure
but none for you directly, as do i
with your lithe face in mind my pen shall fly:
through the virgin sky we'll plow with pleasure,
when red rockets burst they'll green with envy,
and triple sparklind works to us shall seem
quite dull, when our explosions do careen
across a night that was quite bored, you'll see
for seasoned am i in love work, it's true,
but i'd trade all for one i met too late,
at less than market value, wipe the slate,
and hope with well-cooked books to pleasure you.
i wouldn't waste your time by being coy,
but innundate your waist with awful joys.
sonnet 19
if the bard were here, and, well, older'n the damn
hills, he'd warm his quill, and on that luscious
lip, not on, but subject matter precious,
mind you, blast pursing rhetoric and rhyme.
for that sweet lip is calling to be kissed,
you know which one, it smacks of hamlet's home
playground of the dane, ere the angles roamed
jutting out in expectation. blessed
be the hand that plucks this jewel of chance
though beam would break, and vessel heave and shake,
but tender sailors chances have to take,
and when all is done on his deck he'd prance.
if all's not lost in such a kiss as this,
along this cruise a kiss can end in bliss.
sonnet 20
well, bard or none, i'll stand in lines to catch
a glimpse of beauty that has captured me;
i'll gladly dare the boar so i can see,
because in you adonis met his match.
you, that with your dazzling left the darkness
cleft, and in doing liberated stars,
are with the winged one laying waste to mars;
not with harsh weapons, no, with tenderness.
bound or not, i with lines will celebrate
that sweet faced wench who's been, so far, so near
and little does she know, to me, so dear.
though she does 'long another, it's my fate
that my lips you'll find so sweetly pleasing
pressed, we'll from becoming factor being.
sonnet 21
women in their thirties babies, unborn,
bully; their heads rear up between your thoughts,
with pleasant, pouting faces make you yearn
to have one at your breast on which you'd dote.
time's a tyrant too, what? always sweeping into past
the present:tick-tock, tick-tock,
always forward-marching, constant-creeping:
this is the roaring of your bio-clock!
and, then, ambition too can be a bitch:
babies, and singing, and writing, and church,
hoping that somehow your life they'll enrich,
sending you into your soul to research.
will present rules produce past regretting?
practice is perfect, pleasures are getting.
sonnet 22
the broken home abuse you bore had hurt,
the tarp was torn, the rain came in you said,
the thorny crown you placed upon your head,
contemporary crucifix for kurt.
in a whirlwind, by a storm he took
the flagging american music scene
and flapped that banner new with primal screams
with such profundity the pole it shook.
but, christ, from torments depths we heard you sing,
the anguished way you railed, and ripped the chords,
sent shivers down my spine and dared my words.
to build for you this sonnet honoring
the naked authenticity we found,
for sweet and bitter fruits you left in sound.
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