Hear, oh Shepherd of Thy People
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMVI)
Oh LORD, avenge the blood of all t'avail,
Thy servants slain in Appalachia, hence
Forgotten by the world, and aught else thence,
As lo, the Scriptures say; their cries prevail
And haunt the mountains e'en now as the trail
Lies so obscured from whom would help, defense
But Thee alone, oh LORD: remember! Whence?
For how their blood cries out to Thee as't fail.
Likeas John Milton lo, I beg Thee fer
Deliv'rance as our en'mies gnash anew
Their teeth against us day and night. We're poor
As Thou saidst we would be and cry to You
Whileas our blood is spilt like water: stir
Thyself as erst, oh LORD: what shall we do?
07Oct24a
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44747/sonnet-18-avenge-o-lord-thy-slaughterd-saints-whose-bones
...?
I Canna Lift Up My Face
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMVII)
How crimson like fresh drops of blood, winks hence
From out the massy trees at me, the trail
Of slaughtered hinting's close at hand sans bail
Where Appalachia cries to heavn for whence,
The earth which opened her mouth ere fr'intents
Drunk with their blood which cries out in betrayl
To Thee, oh LORD: avenge our blood! We fail,
How long, LORD? Thou alone art our defense.
Our blood is spilt like water. Aught in tour
Which try to help are turned aside. We do
Not know how long. Our en'mies triumph. Were
There hope, tis not upon this earth. We knew
No god save Thee, oh LORD. Forgive us. Stir
Thyself, stand up for us: we wait on You.
07Oct24b
Whatcha think, eh?
Methinks Fall's Fete Knows
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMX)
I do not know what month tis, or in frail
Excuse I do, yet can't shift Jan'ry's sense
From out my noggin. Leaves are falling, hence
In yellow piles while naked trees sans bail
Reach empty arms to heavn as colour'd fail;
Red likeas drops of fresh spilt blood was thence
But mine to see on Monday morning, whence
Go figure, cuz the party shan't avail.
Folk say the stench of Death pervades in tour
Where Appalachia's slain cry out unto
Thee, LORD: avenge their blood! Our efforts poor
Or worse, withheld, whatever shall we do?
So my mind thinks tis Jan'ry as what'd stir?!
No red leaves, but their blood: we wait on You.
09Oct24a
[I'm guessing it's too warm an Autumn; we need a good cold snap for brilliant colours.]
October Wears a Yellow Face
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXI)
On Monday morning where red leaves winked thence
Like drops of blood spilt on the green, in frail
'Scuse, how they played O'Connor's waltz t'avail,
Next "Simple Gifts" til I was weeping, sense
Killed: "Appalachia Waltz" no less as hence
The other sweetly trilled, as if for bail
Where Milton's Piedmont sonnet rose to hail
The grievous deaths...in Appalachia. Whence?
Yer right! I see my task...okay, in poor
Excuse, I'll try to write one now as due
For their cruel murders that the "News" in tour
Does NOT address...like Milton did. I do
Not have what, eh? Inspired, let what's astir
Be known. Stand for Thy people, LORD, won't You?
09Oct24b
-
Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 11th, 2024 16:44
- Comment from author about the poem: Here, finally, are both my pieces, as well as John Milton's Piedmont sonnet which was the model. Enjoy?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
Comments2
Remarkable the similarity in all. Very nicely done Cheeky
I don't know how you do it .. but you do do it don't you almost every day .. I just don't know how, I've neva dared try .. Neville
It is a curious challenge, and I dearly love challenges. Seeming accessible and doable, it morphs into something impossible, an insurmountable height, until you suddenly find you've reached the pinnacle, after which it is a fun challenge that only becomes a monster if you neglect it. Funny, huh?
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.