Sonnet for A Child

The amount of times I’ve looked for a place

Between Wilfred Owen and Oscar Wilde

On some dusty bursting bookcase
To sow the seed of a makeshift child

Born to a plethora of playwrights

That can only do wrong
When between Lennon/McCartney copyrights

No note is left for his song

But if all that can has been scribbled, sang and said
And on the scrapheap of words to which pencils are wed
There remain only lies tied to the true
Then why do my mornings invite the new?

And if the dreamers of our realm have long since fell,
Then what of this child’s heart where secrets dwell?

The Thin King

This portrait dulled by the sweep of time
Speaks to sand in delicate rhyme
Its grains of gold cold as a ghost
propose divorce to those loved most

Memory is the game he plays
As tomorrow mourns yesterday
The fears are all afraid of the fright
That clothes the dawn in the night

We pause for a moment in respite
To soothe the shadow of a sleepless light.

The thin king in the past tense
Thought about his innocence
Prolonging pretty dalliance
Whilst witches bore beauty

Free of pain and pleasantry
He spoke his thoughts to mimicry,
Kissed the hand of jealousy -
Then whispered in her ear

Spend a thousand pennies
Borrow just as many
But never waste any
Of the portrait's precious time