“Secret Sonnet” (For Kookshow Baby of Cult Radio A-Go-Go)

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Feeling awkward, feeling shy

Watching her from a distant shore

Lips in motion, speaking softly

Pop references and movie folklore

Her eyes peer deeply, I suspect

I shield my own, to remain invisible

I would tremble if she knew

What I feel in this moment, so incredible

A foolish tingle in my heart

Though we are a continent apart

 

Younger, bolder, all the rest

Things that I long ago surrendered

Her wilding vibe does not retreat

From what I can only blankly remember

She gives me courage to go forth

But my own will is weak and pale

I fear that if confession comes

I’ll lose this cloak of fantastic tales

In the light of discovery

Naked truths will be released

 

Better is it to confuse

With twists and turns of prancing prose

Let the misdirected mime

Silently say what the keeper knows

If I speak in literal terms

Of the soulful surging in my veins

She might damn me with disconnection

We might not touch this way, again

I hesitate to take the risk

Though I yearn for the sweet taste of her kiss

 

Will I be tagged as a fool?

It is a chance to soar, or slip

To be a seeker, finding treasure

Or an erratic, radar blip

I think it likely that suitors, aplenty

Must already be outside her door

I have so little gold to offer

So little of a love reward

Crouching in the shadows here

Doomed by this burden of fear

 

Art alone is my device

Wielded with a wordless oath

No sight or sound to be detected

Traveling toward this realm of hope

Every flash of jewelry and polish

Teases me, as I ride

Her gaze awakens my intentions

I pray for courage and a steady stride

In my arms, she would linger long

My muse, my siren, my princess of song

 

Too soon the virtual spark abates

I am left alone, cold and cut

Stilled while pondering a plan of action

Paralyzed as the book is shut

Perhaps someday I will do better

Perhaps someday I will arise

To stand before this coastal queen

And render myself to the tide

I know this stirring must be genuine

But now, we have reached the end

 

Blank goes the computer screen

An empty cupboard, a folded tent

I sit low on my throne of shame

Weighed upon by a lover’s lament

If I had another language

To communicate this mystery, untold

I might at least get a resolution

More pleasant than growing gray and old

How could I expect her to surmise

The adoration behind my disguise?