Remembering Thost

To write these sonnets so they can exist

sonnets for the sake of writing sonnet

how many ways can you speak so honest

to read your epic in the morning mist.

A precision required for each word

a puzzle spread upon your open space

where fourteen lines are always in their place

in order lies the subtle to explore.

A break from telling the same old stories

of heroes, battles, monster to slay

to center on the heart of the matter.

Rise above our timely allegories

to find a piece of us where we can stay

to love ourselves though life's noisy chatter.

When researching the man behind the thost

a solitary man who writes sonnets

to look inside and find valued profits

in walking shorelines off the Irish coast.

To stare upon the vast shoreline of Cork,

to sit upon the green of Limerick

the wind carries an Irish rhetoric

such inspiration puts his pen to work.

To sit in chairs in pubs where old Yeats sat

then walk out to the cliff to watch the waves

who crash upon eroded Blarney Stone.

To describe view as if an acrobat

your bounteous love will transport these graves

of stone where time has found you all alone.

Within this strophic organization

within external and internal rhyme

on drums who beat within iambic time

where quatrains build a secure foundation.

To rely on the turn of the sestet

to solve the problem located in lines

to treat each line as delicate sweet wines

to try and judge a readers appestat.

When sudden changes of imagery

whose cliffs bring views of vastness to our eyes

to when we stand alone in city crowds

the difference between country and city

and share the secret of a good surprise

or when we find delight within the clouds.

The bravery it takes to share our lives

through sonnets lying stacked upon mantle

these words are more then just senseless ramble

though nobody stands before your archives.

To write these sonnets so they can exist

sonnets for the sake of writing sonnets

how many ways can you speak so honest

to read your epic in the morning mist.

To sit on chairs in pubs where old Yeats sat

then walk out to the cliffs to watch the waves

who crash upon eroded Blarney Stone.

To describe view as if an acrobat

your bounteous love leaps onto these graves

of stone where time has found you all alone.