Insomnia: Shakespearean Sonnet--Second Draft

A body worn by short exhausting days,
Its drowsy limbs relax and seek respite--
But active mind, my weary corpse betrays
And flutt’ring eyes resist the pull of night.
The tufted quilt, a heavy mound of dirt
And bed-frame marks the coffin’s murky wall
While frightful demons bent on forging doubt,
Whirl, in fiendish bouts around my skull.
This ghoulish dance is mere delusion,
And stifling crypt air, self imposed design;
My logic shouts—at arms against exclusion
from warm relief of gentle sleep divine--
But trapped beneath this ghostly mass of death
No living force can regulate my breath.

CITY LIFE—Terza Rima in Iambic Pentameter: Second Draft

The rent is late, the landlord’s yelling loud
and rapping rashly on the filthy panes
while children hide, and struggling, stifle sound.

Single beams diffuse the dusty frames
and neighboring bricks stretch up to meet the sky:
a view encased by upright golden plains.

The nearby ‘el’ train shrieks while sprinting by,
swaying the mass, like arid prairie grass
when brushed by winter’s harsh and livid sigh.

The angry buzzard stops his knocking sass
retreating to his rundown nest below
as tiny faces peek behind the glass.

The kids rush down the slick back steps on tip toe
behind the boarded house and alleyways
as swarming pigeons coo, and car horns blow.

Slouching teens shout rude remarks and gaze
like trifling prowlers stalking easy prey
on broke down benches cracked by sunny days.

The empty swings, like squawking sirens, sway
And hoop-less poles lurk in crumbled pavement
Deserted woodlands, left in disarray.

But two blocks down from this establishment
expensive coats and flashy pumps step proud
the symbol of the district’s upward movement;

While growing numbers sleep upon the ground.

Uncertainty: Terza Rima in Iambic Pentameter --Draft 2

Perhaps the trees obscure the morning light?
Or blackened wings of swarming birds oppress?
In either case, his world has gone from sight.

Dank mud enfolds his feet, a cold caress.
No trampled sticks betray the trodden course
And moss-less bark his calloused fingers press.

Invisible branches smack his face perforce
And stumb’ling back, he falls upon the mire.
Gathering strength, he strains to find recourse

And lifts his weakened arms in faint desire
To wipe the sweat from blind and probing eyes--
Alas! Dense wool had cloaked his face entire!

Angrily cursing this dragonnade surprise,
He ripped the cloth with Herculean might
And primed himself to see the fair sun rise--

But to his horror, all there was, was night.

My Godmother’s Chair—Exercize in Iambic Pentameter

Third Draft

The quiet drifts of fusty smoke diffuse--
And moldy books still linger in my nose.
Its regal back lay pressed against the wall;
Light velveteen of olive green worn dull
Behind the many heads, rear-ends, and limbs
Who sat in meditation. Stately trims
Grown sparse and coarse, revealing inner fluff
And battered wooden bone. Alas, my caliph.
While I sat and swung my chubby legs,
And travelled swift to bygone royal lands,
Her eyes were moist and red. Beneath her smile
Suspicious, zealous, deeply misconstrued:
A vibrant mess of love and misplaced scorn.
In retrospect I see her buried pain--

The only remnant of her grief fraught hours
The tattered hollow in an ancient seat.

The Storm : fourth draft

An orangey glow through closed pink lids,
Its warming fingers melt my core.
The temperate winds serenade my ears
As delicate wavelets sway the ship.

But Shadows veil the crimson hues
To pale yellow, then dark grey;
The cool wafts, now slicing gusts
That tear the muscles from my bone.

My hairs arise, but I cannot.
Wet timber’s groaning under foot;
I take one step, but fall to my knees,
My land-legs useless on angry seas.

Silver droplets multiply
Weaving icy whitened sheets;
They circumvent the sails’ tautness
Soaking their threads in salty brine.

Masts shriek in straining outbursts
And swirling gales torture ears.
The sky contracts: a Golden Flash--
And exhales sheer cacophony.

Sparks, bits, and wires fly
While torrents hasten forth to feast;
My face consumed by ceaseless water
While gasping lungs contest the surge

The world is gurgling blueness—
I cannot see…
Nor feel…
Nor think.

The cerulean depths are all that remain,
Their small undulations, my last refrain--
While piercing beams of golden light,
Transcend the deep to life above.