It's Sonnet Time!

The Captain stands beside me as I write, lest I faint.

I have been stricken-and death my destined bedfellow, beckons calmly, as if to say, "It's all right. It will be over soon. " He speaks of this fever that torments me-the aching in my bones and the soreness of my ears and throat. I am a walking talking ENT's dream.

Here's my first effort:

Ode to The Chef

Running out of time [I know, could I BE more trite?]

-eating cherries, succulent and sweet

drinking vanilla vodka Coke(TM) with lime

Salad is served, we begin to eat.

Two kinds of dressing

both homemade-superbly ambitious

prelude to blessing

us with perfectly delicious

meat. There is no need

for dessert. Champagne

is enough. Then Weed.

Or did I forget? Insane

but that's how it works, erasing

time. And later-sated, I sing.

Here is the next poem:

Impatience

Patiently I waited

hoping and wanting

-to be sated.

A week. Another day waiting

the impatience tore at me.

But I was calm.

Yet. Full of nerves, see?

Packed tightly. With balm

you unwound me expertly

over and over, delivering

to the point of pain so sweetly

something

that cannot be duplicated

only given, never traded.

Last sonnet is a commentary of my current condition: sick.

Sickening

Sickening quickly

death becomes

me. Sickly

and green, my body hums

a tired tune.

I'm ready. I know

you can take me soon

and sow

a new beginning

my death

drink my blood, dearest. Sing

of your conquest. Sing it! Breathe my breath!

Take me irrevocably down

grinding me sweetly completely into the ground.

All right. It's difficult to judge one's own work. It's very difficult. But I don't think it's that bad, is it? Fans?

I remain, feverish and dying,

Hilda Stinson