The Unclaimed Martyrdom

I used to walk where I had walked before,
The unclaimed martyrdom still in my sights,
But after one or two too many nights
I found myself patrolling the lakeshore
And running. My ambition earned me more
Disparagement than praise. Turn off the lights,
Relax, and laugh. You've got me dead to rights:
I'm still alive, not martyred. Are you sore?

Past perfect simple? Past imperfect? Time
Is only what we hope for: cool, discerning,
The subject of impure and graceful yearning.
This sort of mild complaint, in perfect rhyme,
Is what you choose to call a mortal crime,
But who's dead here? Not me. I'm still here, burning.

What We Require

Look out the window: all you see is rain,
Then darkness. Since we last noticed the sun
Weeks of late fall have passed, which people shun
As if the season is at fault for pain,
For melodrama, for disease, insane
With hatred for our comfort. Summer's done.
Having abandoned reason, every one
Of our companions quit using his brain.

What we require are new companions, true
And sound, awaiting winter silently
For covert worship. I hope you agree:
When wonderful things happen, it's my due.
If sacrifice is made, why not by you?
If love can still be found, why not by me?

Well-Made Verse

I'll manufacture one for you, right here,
Right now: a sonnet with a cold, hard sense
Of timing, of indelicate pretence
(I am the Queen!) and flailing atmosphere
(My underpants are torn). I have no fear,
No wagers riding on some two-days-hence
Events for which my honest recompense
Is money stolen from your fund for beer.

In fact, your drinking has become a shame
Which has alarmed your family and friends,
Who watch your money for unwanted trends,
Like too much beer. You have sullied your name,
You chose beer over poetry: how lame!
This sonnet shows how well well-made verse ends.

The Score

Midway between the ocean and the shore
I stood with you against the enemy.
You said you couldn't say who it might be,
But I stood there, with you, just like before,
And every time, like this time, in the roar
Of waves sounding a lot like destiny,
Nobody came. I waited patiently;
You laughed, assuring me, "I know the score."

The score is nothing-nothing, nil to nil,
A big fat zero, love-love. Now the dawn
Is breaking, sweetheart, and the night is gone.
I thought eventually you'd have your fill
Of vague anticipation. There's no thrill
In all this waiting any more. Come on.