Writing Sonnets For My Beloved

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Writing sonnets for my beloved
But I cannot speak in pentameters
The lines & sentiment lost on my tongue
Erasing the stray marks upon the parameters

Mother Nature is exhausted
Discovering it’s time to hibernate
Humble beauty of the landscape
Folding into herself unto the infinite

Hearing the last strains of Autumn
But the air is still hot
Clinging to a customary belief
While we hide behind a fig leaf
But we all know leaves fall and rot

Knowing The Beauty That Lurks

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Knowing the beauty that lurks
Though she’s hidden by the shroud
Draped by the promisingly sheer veneer
Whispering taunts, teases & getting loud

I hear the excitement in her voice
Grasping for control – keeping it steady
My passion & desire suddenly obvious
My world brightens when she’s ready

Running Headlong Into The Woods

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Running headlong into the woods
With your meaningless tropes
Escaping any notion of your gaze
Slipping confinement & your stubborn hope

Never wished to be dubbed “wild”
At least not in your repetitive sense
Feeling numb to your expectations
Not remaining to hear your bland defense

Each step leads me further on my trek
Compounding the rules I unwittingly defied
Down the trail & away from your excuses
I didn’t listen, but I’m sure it’s all justified

I’m The Footnote To Your Memory

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I’m the footnote to your memory
Everyone will remember how you touched their soul
I’m just the quiet guy in the background
Working hard to help make your vision whole

I’m not the one to be seen nor heard
But to fade away when they extinguish the lights
Forgotten once the dream falls to recess
Sealed once we find our departing flights

I never wished to distract from you
I humbly serve your silent grace
No aim to conjure something more
Merely to bask in beautiful refraction of your face

I Don’t Have Pretty Eyes To Attract

I don’t have pretty eyes to attract
Nor a beautiful body to distract
A middle aged, middle class white dude
with no street cred
With charm & gentlemanly conduct
instead
I’ll have to choose the proper words
To prevent from being misheard
Where did our youthful exuberance go
Closed off from a litany of feelings of truth
But I don’t want to be like them
Not worried about a bent halo or tarnished tiara
Angst of foregone conclusions
I want something of substance
Never tamed by society’s expectations
A slow, smoldering strangeness
Embracing the stature of being a little weird
Impervious to judgements of being bland
For through and through, I can only be me
Never standing for someone else’s brand
I hope to always be wild enough to be free

Margaret Chittenden

“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”
― Margaret Chittendenwriter-1421099