Move over, Jon Donne!

Not really. Not even close. But I was looking through some old sketchbooks and found these sonnets I wrote a long time ago.

I know. Sonnets. Iambic pentameter and all. I suppose this reveals something about what I do with my free time.

Anyway, here they are. They are not good poetry, but the insights surprised me a little bit.  (And a warning, they have a lot of O's and thy's and whatnot. I forgot what century I belonged too.)

Shadow Man, Shadow Woman

O shadow man where lies your weary soul?

Thy lady veiled awaits a fallen mask,

So Truth may speak and honest question ask

Sans repercussive fears in heart to toll.

O shadow woman, awkward as a foal, 

Release thy timid steps to canter free.

'Neath shroud, thy form your suitor cannot see,

Or tread the path which light does not extol

O son and daughter, Eden's offspring cursed,

A barricade of shame doth separate,

And sinful wounds with arrows prick pure love,

Each slung by minds askew with lies well nursed.

O Rescuer, redeem our wretched fate! 

Unite and Cleanse, O Father, Son and Dove!

(Didn't I warn you about the language? But it does have some truth in it. )

Isolation

Why, Jack, do mumbles fall across your lips

And dribble down your bristled, unshorn  beard?

Among your tombs, a mind encased, afeared;

You dwell alone, with phobos your thoughts drip.

What brought you to this sorry, unwashed state,

Where reason left a vacant room inside?

In living death your broken soul resides.

Innert to love, true joys no longer wait.

What can I do? Though you my neighbor be,

Sufficient word or deed remains unknown.

Your shroud no human work can sure remove, 

No earthly salve can make your blind eye see.

But in the darkness, you walk not alone.

I pray your freedom by His perfect love.

(I think I was hoping to bring back the word "shroud" into everyday language. Every good sonnet needs a shroud.)

This one was literally for an old, senile neighbor of mine. I think he might have been a Vietnam Vet. No electricity, no running water, a house overgrown with weeds and dead wood.  His property abutted a beautiful estate where I worked. The contrast was remarkable. He was a difficult man. Obviously I was at a loss at how to love him well.

So there you go. God alone can reconcile the sexes, and prayerfully hope for your neighbor's redemption, no matter how far gone he is.

...And remember to include 'shroud' in a few of your sonnets.