Sonnet

Memorial Day SonnetIf Liberty means anything to me,I will remember what my freedom cost,By those who gave their all to keep me free,Whose lives were sacrificed, but never lost.I will remind myself of what they did,And keep them dearly cherished in my heart;Their honor never from me shall be hidAnd I will know they always did their partTo save our nation and its people here,To pledge their lives in

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But [...]

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What do Keats, Shakespeare, Frost, Millay, Plath, Browning, Shelley, Wordsworth, Whitman, Poe, Emerson, and Milton (I could go on) have in common? They wrote sonnets. Why the sonnet? Originating in Italy in the 13th century, the subject of the fourteen-line poem was idealized love expressed in iambic pentameter. The Italian version rhymed in an abbaabba — cdcdcd scheme [...]

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more [...]

“Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad; Mad in pursuit, and in [...]

SONNET 106When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:For we, which now behold these present days,Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. This sonnet addressed ‘to his dear friend’ is number 106 in sonnet sequence consisting of 154 sonnets. A number of his sonnets are addressed to ‘W.H.’ and others to a mysterious person, often referred

Over a year ago, I wrote this sonnet. It was inspired by the sleep paralysis that happened nightly. I saw things that caused me terror, but on certain nights, I had some control over what I saw. Hence the sonnet. My first, if I remember correctly, about the pains of unreciprocated love. Written first in logishlifestyle.wordpress.com, here it is: In darkened skies -the moon, the stars- they glow, My heart, my soul, my bed belongs to you. Eyelids shut and thence, thy sensual dew. Beguiling scent; tight cords that bind my bones. Stifled by sweet lips, the groans and moans… An angel’s face, no doubt, the devil’s deal! Charming eyes of fiery passion brew, My wish, as such, for spinning Earth to slow. At daylight’s prod, I see you nowhere here, Beknown to me, enslaved by night-time’s bid. Dire desperate lust, my futile tears. To thrive, in other’s dreams, you need to feed. Henceforth, pray I, the bleedin’ sun to die Till then, my nightly visions, live to lie. - Logen Lanka Y

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Oh, Port Coquitlam the town of my birthtruly it pains me to bid you farewellfor you are the greatest suburb on Earthand you carry such a glorious smell I’ll miss all the Jams, and chilln at Breau’sRobert Hope break ins, and driving too drunkin Poco these days, too often it “snows”at least it still has the love for the funk Goodbye three-figure tabs at the FiddleGoodbye public drinking at Leigh SquareYou’ve run me all out of cash to piddleThings just aren’t the same, since Sol cut his hair North Van is my hood, and so far I’m downSo I’ll end on a quote, “So long… Stink town!”