Still, Life

A shot glass, half empty.
Emerald green liquid glints, in
A stopped gold watch.

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https://www.beyondblue.org.au/the-facts/suicide-prevention

Where the Night Wind Blows

Once I was mighty, in my home of old.
In cloak of night, I wrapped my mortal frame,
Strode forth intending deeds of daring bold,
And gladly took Ill Omen for my name.

On less than ash and air, I learned to feast,
And went to walk atop a mountain wall;
But in that lonely land, my strength decreased.
I loosely held my cloak, then let it fall.

Beneath, there stood a creature of no name,
That shivered in this high and airy place;
That found no comfort in its wisps of fame,
But longed for laughter and a kind embrace.

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First Rule of the Quest

There comes a time when bridges must be burned;
When Fate demands too much to let you share.
When youthful loves and friendships must be spurned
And fire flood the streets, to clear the air.

There comes a time when sanctuaries close.
When seals and solemn vows must lose their force,
Their might made moot by ever-greater foes.
And all you have is courage, and a cause.

There comes a time when doom can wait no more;
What's left of hope, you gamble in one blow —
Let dice a lifetime falling reach the floor.
Here fates conclude, then let the living go.

Till that uncertain day, when all quests end,
You shall not taste the world that you defend.

Valentine’s Day Sonnet 2014

or: “Those who can’t, teach”

Shall I compare thee to a sonneteer?
Thou hast no love profess'd in patterned verse;
But feelings just as sure, and just as dear,
Well in thy breast, as poets' best and worst.

Thy love's steeped not in winds and sunny days.
It has no taste for slow iambic feet.
A newer, bolder rhythm is your craze,
With fresh-cut verve and courage in its beat.

And that, I cannot sing. Beyond my wit,
Though all the Muses lent to me their aid,
Do loves and lyrics stay. Alone, I sit
Most boldly writing when I'm most afraid.

I have no truths for when love's foul or fair,
But this: some sonnets aren't "Shall I compare...".

On the Island

The smell of chemicals is in the air;
The antiseptic fumes assault the nose.
The gleaming benches, polished, are left bare.
The knives stay neatly placed in perfect rows.

I pace the room with stethoscope and lamp,
Or pause, and hear the faint, fluorescent hum,
And only move so that I do not cramp.
And still I wait; and still they do not come.

The things I'd do, were I allowed my tools!
I know the stitch to mend a broken heart,
The gentlest words to best admonish fools.
No mortal hurt should be beyond my art!

I weep for those whose lives I could not change.
I'd make them more than human, rich and strange.