Sonnet

You, young woman of the alluring eyes,
your sure beauty has quite enraptured me.
Being your love’s object would be a prize
to most surely prod all others’ envy.
Here am I, love’s fool, leaping from wish to fact
when in truth I barely know your name.
But in your sweet presence I lose all tact –
your splendors’ boldness from my art evokes the same.
So let this sonnet stand as beacon bright
to let all know how your wild beauty’s bloom,
dear to my flesh and heart, both day and night,
can fill the world with joy, with sweet perfume.
No answer now do these poor verses seek
save blush or furtive tear on your fair cheek.

*    *   *

© Gregory V Driscoll  2015

a sonnet of sorts

if your body were the earth   oh
what desires to be rooted would I have!
or if you were a snare,
what a wild beast I would be!
but you are but yourself
a world of silences
and I?  I am an ear
the strings of a guitar
waiting for you to touch me
so
silence and sound together
to be music
but now  who keeps silent?
and now  who quivers?

*    *    *

© Gregory V Driscoll  2013

In the garden

Darling dancers, the deep red roses sway
atop green leaves and stems with sharp brown thorn.
The wind, the rain, the sun, the moon each day
take turns teasing the petals still unshorn.
Bees visit the vivacious blooms and seek
nurture inside every quivering crown.
The random ant visits each rosy peak
while the close air turns chilly at sundown.
To see these hearty blossoms spurs wonder
for their beauty, for their steadfast calm
in the face of certain doom and plunder,
without misgivings or some treacly balm.
So, like such flowers let’s resolve to live,
And thus, to all, beauty and nurture give!

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

In the shadows – a sonnet

No familiar shape can I here discern
nor bodies touch nor voices hear exclaim.
No dreams conjure rapture nor wishes burn
to bring life closer to some lauded fame.
It seems the very sky has closed up tight
and holds its stars cloaked, and secrets dear.
All is dank mist and murk that scatters light,
that chills skin and heart, and engenders fear.
Where have I wandered?  How to find again
the path that leads to peace and love and care?
Taste for things and the vapid praise of men
tripped up my feet, my mind quite unaware.
May these stark thoughts lead me from the void,
once more to peace, love, and care unalloyed!

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Sonnet (being first in a sequence of poems for Rodney S.)

The woman’s a tart, he knows. Nothing more.
No true feeling has ever graced her brow,
or placed her heart in thrall.  A very sow
of artful beauty that makes King each bore.
Her worth resides within her purse, the whore.
Many a rider’s spurred her flanks ere now.
A true night’s mare.  No virgin field to plow.
A very bog of lust.  A barren shore.
Yet, for her, mad fancy so fills his heart
that, though absent, she dwells within his eyes.
Speak not about her falsity, her art.
Only the charm, the beauty he descries.
Wretch that he is, he was doomed from the start.
Forget her?  He cannot, though God knows he tries!

*        *       *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011

Sonnet

When all seems lost, my Love, I turn to you,
the magic essence of my every day.
Naught then is lost, for found with you is play
that makes the mind, the heart, the senses true
arrows to their mark. Yet, what shall I do
should Death, or some other dark stranger, say
Be mine! and you do yield, to be borne away
to farther shores of ecstasy, or rue?

Then I will turn in silence, love, be sure.
As mist and valley in the morning air
embrace each the other without dominion
until the sun burn up such dreamy rapture,
so shall we always each the other bear
a steady measure of truth and passion.

*        *       *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

Sonnet

In your dear presence I do take delight,
at this fair temple, make my offering;
upon your altar, celebrate the rite
of our joyous, our unhurried giving.
Sleek and sweated, our bodies bare do fill
with pleasure’s sweet yet heady wine.
Limb on limb, our coupled lovers’ skill
makes flesh both mortal and divine.
Goddess and devotee each other hold
to swoon and die small honeyed deaths of lust.
You, my mistress wild; I, your lover bold –
You, ever yielding; I, near-constant gust.
This sweet nirvana storm we with our cries.
Without our reaching we can touch the skies!

*            *           *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011