V. 2, #93: June 29, 2013

A quiet house, a cold afternoon beer,
and silly horror movies on TV,
with nothing much to do and less to fear,
I'm happy keeping my own company.

I play guitar, sing loud as I can shout,
talk to myself and answer back as well,
go to that website friends told me about,
but couldn't click at work, for fear of hell.

Tonight the house will fill with noise and light,
the kids returned, the wife there at my side;
much less peaceful and free, but that's all right--
my need for loneliness is satisfied.

I'm not an antisocial wreck, you see;
I just know, without a break, that I could be.

V. 2, #92: June 28, 2013

This work week's back is one I'm pleased to see--
it's lingered, listless, longer than it should
I'd kick this anthropomorphology
in its unwelcome keester, if I could;

It's been a monster, wreaking havoc with
my peace of mind eight hours of every day.
And worse than that, like vampires out of myth,
has sucked the joy from time reserved for play.

But now its reign of terror must needs close,
and in its place, Goddess Weekend Divine
sheds light and idleness on all of those
who've kept their faithful eyes upon her shrine.

Some say I should improve my attitude;
to them I say, "It's done. Now beer me, dude."

V. 2, #91: June 27, 2013

So White is purity--a virginal
young woman, her white robes spotless and clean,
led to the altar, while a madrigal
vibrates cathedral pillars, lichen-green;

And Pink, carnality--the folds of flesh
bedewed with lusty moisture, slick and sweet,
where wild young oats are sown, and bodies thresh,
discovering the ecstasies of meat;

Then Red, mortality--the pulsing flow
of thick, rich blood from veins cut heedlessly,
thoughts thickening, the puddle creeping slow
past fingers tugging earth, most needlessly.

A flash of White again, fading to Grey,
then finally Black--past that, no one can say.

V. 2, #90: June 26, 2013

He draws the lines exactly how they look
to him, the photograph in black and white,
like lines of poetry in his sketchbook,
erased, redrawn until they flow just right;

He pays attention to the empty space
between the features, all proportions true;
the gentle, soft gray contours of her face.
It's perfect. There is nothing left to do.

But still there's something missing in the eyes,
a form resistant to the graphite's trail
that he is powerless to realize,
against which his artistic efforts fail.

He crumples her and throws her in the bin.
A fresh white page. He sighs. Begin again.

V. 2, #89: June 25, 2013

Some days there's just no water in the fountain,
no wind to blow your sailboat to the shore,
no rope to haul yourself with up a mountain,
no apple left around the bitter core.

Some days you've emptied every brimming vessel,
and spent your last two bits at the arcade;
some days the train's gone clean around the trestle,
and all that you can make has done been made.

But some days there's a jar of peanut butter
with just a little left stuck to the side.
You grab a knife, and scrape and cuss and mutter
and finally get your craving satisfied.

It isn't much--it isn't even free.
But some days, friend, it doesn't have to be.

V. 2, #88: June 24, 2013 (For My Daughter, on Her 9th Birthday)

Thea, my love, my most beautiful rose,
today I sing the glory of your birth--
who brought down to this undeserving Earth
perfumes no other flower could disclose;

You put the gentle summer breeze to shame,
such is the loving warmth you radiate--
a beauty poetry can't duplicate,
a sweetness that could have no other name.

Whatever sadnesses may yet remain
for me, whatever tragedy still lies
in wait, I have known happiness enough;
for galaxies of stars could not contain
the simple sacred wonder of your eyes,
nor bound the vastness of your father's love.

V. 2, #87: June 23, 2013

Perhaps I could have realized my dreams,
had novels lined on shelves in every store,
my name on all the spines, fans wanting more.
I'd buy my printer paper by the reams;

One different decision, other paths
pursued, I might be up there on the stage,
a god to screaming groupies half my age,
who'd give me head to sign their photographs;

But then I might have been a drunken wreck
like Hemingway, or died of overdose
in some record producer's opium den.
The happiest might be the path I chose:
day job, my daughter's arms around my neck.
Perhaps this is the best it could have been.

V. 2, #86: June 22, 2013

There is a place behind the hospital,
beyond the pauper's graves and wrought-iron fence,
that saw the suicide of Donnagle,
and every night for years has seen it since.

Who knows how he slipped out, got away clean,
eluded nurses, searchlights, and barbed wire,
lugging his can of stolen gasoline,
and, calm as bishops, set himself on fire.

And so it's been for fifty years or more,
behind abandoned rooms and rusted gates:
at midnight, spectral flames begin to roar
and that poor madman screams, and dissipates.

Some say a doctor was involved somehow;
but anyway, it doesn't matter now.

V. 2, #85: June 21, 2013

No time to put your feet up on the bed
and contemplate the things you did today.
No time to put your hands behind your head
and watch the lazy evening drift away.

No time to sit and have a glass of tea
with dear old friends who've stopped to say hello,
nor to re-read The Old Man and the Sea--
short book, even for Hemingway, you know.

No time to watch TV or strum guitar;
no time to go for walks or play a game.
No time to look around at where you are--
tomorrow and tomorrow look the same.

No time for anything but turning in.
Best get your rest--soon we begin again.

V. 2, #84: June 20, 2013

The monkey sat upon the mountaintop
where cold winds blew and snowstorms raked the crags,
and charged supplicants twenty bucks a pop
to ask their questions, and receive gift bags.

Most queries tended toward the quite inane:
"Will I ever be rich?" "Who'll be my mate?"
It drove the wise old simian near insane,
but still he answered, at the going rate.

One day a young girl summited the peak,
and said, "I have no question for you, sir.
I think the ones who trust your wisdom weak,
and lacking fortitude. Don't you concur?"

He smiled, stretched out his hand, and shook his head.
"I do. That's twenty bucks," the monkey said.

V. 2, #83: June 19, 2013

If you were truly happy, you would smile
each time a trifling pleasure went awry.
you'd wink your eye without a trace of guile,
and in the face of disappointment, sigh.

It would not matter much if now and then
things did not go the way you wished they would;
you'd take the loss, anticipating win--
a balance beam tipped always toward the good.

But no--you grit your teeth and agonize
each minor irritant and small defeat,
quite sure that every setback prophesies
a life of failure,  total and complete.

Each cloud is lined with silver, though, my friend:
one of these days, its going to have to end.

V. 2, #82: June 18, 2013

Oh Motorist! Who gunned your Honda through
this four-way stop, though I had reached it first!
Of all the reprobates I ever knew,
you and your selfish ilk are sure the worst!

Discounting traffic laws and decency,
heedless of all potential accident,
you count yourself the roadway's regency.
May birds bespatter you with excrement!

You risk collision, injury, and jail
to shave three seconds off of your commute.
May your headlights explode, brake systems fail,
and hornets build their castles in your boot!

Till Justice turns her sword on you at last,
I curse thee with my horn's contemptuous blast!

V. 2, #81: June 17, 2013 (Happy Birthday to Me)

I guess I'll never be a movie star,
be loved by millions, live a life of ease;
I'll never drive a fast Italian car
or date as many models as I please;

I'll never do a Fresh Air interview
about my novels and their fine awards;
I'll never be a rock star idol, who
makes female fans freak out and flip their gourds;

I'll never be the things I dreamed I'd be,
I won't accomplish what I yearned to do.
I'll live a life of sullen normalcy,
No better and no worse than all of you.

And when I die, it will be all the same.
In fifty years, no one will know my name.

V. 2, #80: June 16, 2013

I crammed my words into a pepper mill
and ground them down to sounds and syllables,
shook consonants into the mix until
they'd seasoned all the stewed participles;

I reached for parsley, rosemary, and thyme,
but put them back for spicy similes
as fiery as flambe. I added rhyme
for flavor, then threw in some English peas.

Now that the pot was almost full, I stirred
it vigorously, bringing it to boil;
the mixture steamed and bubbled, then a word
popped out and burned my fingers like hot oil.

It's done, so sit and have a cup with me.
It might not taste that good--but hey, it's free!

V. 2, #79: June 15, 2013

Let car-crash noises infiltrate your dreams,
awake to a cacophony of bells;
have coffee while a fireman's siren screams,
and breakfast to the sound of cats in wells.

The car alarms will get you through midday,
and chattering chimpanzees will stay for lunch;
all afternoon a mad wild ass will bray,
then listen for the trash compactor's crunch.

With any luck, when evening rolls around,
the chainsaws will be almost out of fuel;
the metal grinders' loads will all be ground,
and neighbors' Harleys will have ceased their duel.

Then you can lay your weary head to sleep,
lulled by the smoke alarm's relaxing beep.

V. 2, #78: June 14, 2013

It's travel time! Wake up and help me load
the car. Shake out the cobwebs in your head.
C'mon, let's get this freakshow on the road!
I felt your pulse--I know that you're not dead.

There's miles of open road ahead of us,
and hours without a single bathroom break;
I won't be moved, no matter how you fuss,
so hit that toilet now, for goodness' sake!

We'll stop at every roadside tourist trap,
and gawk at each pickled two-headed snake.
We'll buy a lot of useless plastic crap
that says, "Wish you were here! Pookausey Lake."

Then, once we've finally reached our destination--
well, that'll be the end of our vacation!

V. 2, #77: June 13,2013

It won't be long, my love, and all the care
that kept us up at night our whole lives long,
the bands around our wrists we thought so strong
will dissipate like steam into the air;

One day, perhaps not soon, but not too far,
desires and needs will vanish with our breath,
and in that restful slumber we call Death,
we'll hope to be no more than what we are.

So, knowing that such freedom is our due,
and waits for us no matter how we strive,
it makes no sense to pound our chests and fret.
Let's walk a little slower, just we two.
Watch sunsets. Smell the rain. Just be alive.
Kiss me.The sun's still high. We've ages yet.

V. 2, #76: June 12, 2013

The sleepy little Snufflepuff had stopped
to rest along the steeply sloping road.
His chubby fuzzy body stooped and dropped
onto a very rockish-looking toad.

The toad croaked out, "Get off me, you big lump!
I'm not a stool for floppy, furry freaks!
Besides, the downy whiskers on your rump
will likely give me allergies for weeks!"

The weary, worried Snufflepuff arose
and made apologies for his neglect.
"I didn't mean to irritate your nose,
good sir. I'll just move on then, I expect."

The toad harumphed, then turned to let him pass.
That's when the Snufflepuff cold kicked his ass.

V. 2, #75: June 11, 2013

The tall man never moved; he simply stood
stock still, under the shadow of the trees.
Leaves swirled around him like a swarm of bees.
His grinning lips stretched farther than they should.

With thirty yards between him and the pane
of glass that shut the night wind from my room,
his eyes still shone like twin coals in the gloom.
Above, the moonlit cloudbanks threatened rain.

It felt like hours, eyes fixed on that blank stare,
my teddy bear clutched tight. I could not cry,
could barely even breathe--until at last
the storm broke. Lightning tumbled from the sky
brought momentary blindness; when it passed,
I turned to call my mother.

                                             He was there.

V. 2, #74: June 10, 2013

We called them gumballs--pulled them from the tree
by careful handfuls, every time we could.
They looked like medieval weaponry,
a morning star, its handle living wood.

All spherical, spiked thorns along thin seams
with one bare stem on top to grip them by,
we'd pouch them in our shirttails, choose up teams,
take cover, declare war, and let them fly.

With no objective except to attack,
and daring, pointless forays from each side,
advancing until we were beaten back,
our ammo ran out, or somebody cried,

We sweated out the dusky autumn hours,
till called inside for cookies, milk, and showers.

V. 2, #73: June 9, 2013

Oh glory be to God for smelly things,
For pungent cheese and vinegar in vats;
For swamps and all their rot and moulderings,
For incontinent dogs and pissing cats;

For armadillos flattened in the heat,
Their outlaid innards all puffed up with gas;
For unwashed athletes' armpits, sweaty feet,
For butts, and all the fragrances they pass.

What would a summer be without the pong,
So strangely chemical, of angry skunk?
Praise Him who made the musk so foul and strong,
For every fulsome, fecund, fecal funk!

Though flowers' powers might be fine indeed,
Sometimes I think a stink is what we need.

V. 2, #72: June 8, 2013

A princess was imprisoned in a tower
(it happens to a lot of them, you know),
and years on end nobody had the power
to kill the beast that would not let her go.

This beast, of course, was quite a nasty dragon,
a fiery, fiendish brute par excellence,
whose castle no king yet had hung a flag on,
whose roar made most brave knights besmirch their pahnts.

So one day, tired of waiting for defenders,
the princess (who had read some Buddhist texts),
chanted some prayers, then burnt herself to cinders!
Which left her captor shocked, dismayed, and vexed:

"It's brave, and quite a statement, I'll allow--
but folks will think I did it anyhow."

V. 2, #71: June 7, 2013

The columns on the porch are drab and boring.
The drapes and carpeting are out of date.
We'd rank near last if anyone were scoring
our home decor. It would not even rate.

We'll watch a hundred hours of Flip My House
and learn to maximize our curb appeal;
put in a Zen rock garden while we grouse
on House Hunters. (It isn't even real!)

Then, once we have exhausted energy
and funds alike, we'll beam with homely pride,
to see our house as it was meant to be:
perfection in facade, a dream inside!

It makes me misty, dear, even to tell it;
The house we've always wanted--now let's sell it!

V. 2, #70: June 6, 2013

She said her friend Max was invisible,
and only spoke when grown-ups weren't around.
Her parents thought the notion risible,
of course, but cute. And then one day they found

their dining chairs stacked like a pyramid,
and arcane symbols scratched into the floor.
The kitten disappeared, their keys were hid,
and late at night, small hands rattled their door.

Her parents frowned and sent the girl to bed
without her snack. The attic floorboards groaned.
Blood drizzled thick from every shower head,
and something in the basement pitched and moaned.

She giggles in her room. She likes this game.
She knows that Max is really not his name.

V. 2, #69: June 5, 2013

The lobster is immortal, practically,
and all his life he grows and grows and grows.
Just how big one might get, nobody knows;
his only limit is catastrophe.

If neither caught nor eaten, he'll expand
to twenty, forty, fifty pounds or more;
and one who watched the pilgrims come to shore
might still bestir the deeper ocean's sand.

And maybe, further out, beyond the reach
of lobster trap and cage and fishing net,
silt billows from beneath two ancient claws
the size of sunken ships. And one day yet
he'll roar and rise toward the moon that draws
him, like the tide, to crash upon the beach.

V. 2, #68: June 4, 2013

You want to scale the planet's highest summit?
If that's the way you choose to spend your time,
I will not be the one who keeps you from it;
as far as I'm concerned, go on and climb.

Clamp on your crampons, sharpen up your pick,
and acclimate yourself to thinner air.
Suck bottled oxygen if you feel sick,
and tell your friends it's "just because it's there."

While you do that, I'll sit here on my haunches,
imbibe a beer or two and watch TV.
Some folks don't mind if they develop paunches
and let the day drift by. One such is me.

What good to put yourself in God's own nest
in record time, if you can't ever rest?

V. 2, #67: June 3, 2013 (The Creature's Lament)

This used to be a quiet neighborhood,
three million years ago, or maybe four.
Lagoon was clean, fish plentiful and good.
On sunny days, I'd bask right on the shore.

But then the water turned an inky shade--
who knows the reason? Crocodiles appeared
to fight for food. Not many of us stayed,
and those who did turned taciturn and weird.

Now I'm the last to bear my species' name.
I swim these shadowed waters solitaire
and longingly gaze up watch the dame
do butterfly and breast strokes, unaware.

She's lovely...but c'mon. It couldn't work.
Those kind of thoughts make Gillmen go berserk.

V. 2, #66: June 2, 2013

The dog next door is mean and muscular,
with bear-trap jaws and eyes as black as pitch,
disposed to barking jags crepuscular,
nocturnal, and diurnal. Not a bitch

in heat within a one-mile's radius
of our backyard puts pheromones on the breeze,
but this canine town crier has brayed to us
glad tidings of her imminent menses.

He prowls the bound'ry line like Cerberus
alert for souls escaped from Hades' flame.
Step through the patio door--he's there for us,
to growl and howl us back from whence we came.

He stands triumphant, confident he's won;
he can't know yet about the pellet gun.

V. 2, #65: June 1, 2013

I almost missed my deadline for today.
No opportunity to sit and write.
So this is just a placeholder to say
I'm meeting my requirements tonight.

It's hard to write a sonnet in a club,
With amplifiers ringing in your ears.
But I'm still doing it just for you, bub.
So my account will not be in arrears.

Not many compose sonnets while half drunk
And listening to a metal cover band.
But here I am. Because I care, I dunk
my head in cold iambic verse. I stand

by my promise to write, for good or not.
I've done it. Sorry,  but that's all I got.

Supplemental: An Apology for the Previous Poem

I know the poem I wrote today was bad
I really thought about taking it down.
The thing is feeble, childish, ugly, sad,
and scatological. It made me frown.

But if I take down every poem I write
that doesn't live up to my lyric dream,
I'll scarcely have a sonnet left. I might
as well just quit and go out for ice cream.

Not every dog's a champion of its breed.
Some smell, some bite, some might be blind or worse.
Put them to sleep for that? Too cruel indeed;
I feel the same about my mongrel verse.

So let's move on. I fully realize
it sucked. And for that, I apologize.

:)

V. 2, #64: May 31, 2013

It crawled from tile to tile across the floor
I watched and mapped its progress like Descartes--
Each spider twitch, each spasmic fit and start
of its segmented body. Even more,

The whip-slash of antennae, sharp as pikes,
the iron-gray, thorn-studded carapace,
the eyes like cursed jewels in an idol's face
aflame with evil admonition--yikes!

No broom could dent the armor on its back,
no spray snuff out its Luciferan life.
I cowered in the corner, butcher knife
in hand. Consumed with fear, my bowels went slack.

Lucky for me, it seemed to like the scent.
We're roommates now. He helps out with the rent.

V. 2, #63: May 30, 2013

The zombies shamble up and down the aisles,
their jaws agape, their eyes all glazed and red.
Not one will shift his arms nor turn his head
to mark another's passage. No one smiles.

The zombies' brains don't rot. They're not blank slates.
Their skulls are crammed with figures, lines of code
to be debugged. It's neural overload
that keeps them in their sad, subhuman states.

Yes, once they lived. Their hands held warmth and sense--
but that was long ago. Now, fingers curled
to keyboard-scratching claws, they shun the world
and haunt their cubicles like revenants.

They stumble out for coffee, stiff and slow.
Don't look them in the eye--just let them go.

V. 2, #62: May 29, 2013

The man paused at the door and turned to stare
at what he'd leave behind once he stepped through.
The road stretched out for miles--familiar, bare.
What lay beyond this portal, no one knew.

He saw the well-worn paths he'd paced for years,
all long, slow spirals, concentric and clean.
Beside them, choked with weeds and pointless tears,
those left untraveled, unknown, and unseen.

He paused to look, and like Lot's wife he learned
how ruthless God can be to those who stay
too long to reminisce, fearful, unsure.
Perhaps she wept to see how Sodom burned--
perhaps, instead, she merely wished to say
goodbye. He turned around. There was no door.

V. 2, #61: May 28, 2013

Perhaps I'm getting soft in my old age,
my stony stoic front ground down by years.
It seems ridiculous at this late stage
to be so often moved to senseless tears;

The radio brings trite, corn-sweetened pap
that blurs the road until I wipe my eyes;
News stories leave me misting like a sap
for reasons hard to consciously surmise.

A harsh word from my son, my daughter's kiss,
a half-remembered line of poetry,
and I'm a blubbering mess. What causes this
strange flood of new sentimentality?

Rain, wind, and time lay veins once covered bare;
and nerves pain sharpest, thus exposed to air.

V. 2, #60: May 27, 2013

When she was just a child, there on the floor
amidst her building bricks and bits of string,
she learned what many kids had learned before:
with the right parts, you can make anything.

And so through school and university
she studied what things fit, and where, and how;
she struggled on through all adversity
and failed experiments (Bug-Dog; Cat-Cow).

Till finally she saw it in a dream--
amino acids lined like Lego blocks!
She woke and wrote it down--then, gaining steam,
accomplished it, breaking all Nature's locks.

Now Jaguar-Eagle hybrids rule the skies,
and she smiles, polishing her Nobel Prize.

V. 2, #59: May 26, 2013

Upon a time once, far away form here,
there lived a princess known as Scary Jane,
whose suitors screamed and scattered, pale with fear!
The King asked his advisors to explain.

"Could it perhaps be how she spins her head
right the way round?" pondered one trusted Duke.
"Or how she levitates, raises the dead,
and covers all her would-be beaus with puke?

"She summons branches from the Haunted Wood
to tear their flesh and prod them shamelessly.
Of course they run away! Anyone should.
The fault's your daughter's, Sire, it seems to me."

"No one's perfect!" the King said, with a cough,
then asked his men to cut the Duke's head off.

 

V. 2, #58: May 25, 2013

Today it's by the numbers--there's no time
to do it right; just doing it's the thing.
Mechanically slot meter into rhyme
and hope that one or two of them will sing;

But if they don't, if all your clumsy feet
trip on themselves, don't let it get you down.
No drummer never missed a single beat,
and writing's always been more verb than noun.

A stream of water, falling drop by drop
can penetrate the strongest stony wall.
With time, determination not to stop,
and patience, you'll get through too, after all.

That rare bird Inspiration's very nice--
but sometimes Perspiration must suffice.

 

V. 2, #57: May 24, 2013

Connections have a tendency to fail:
some water seeps into the circuitry,
a flash, a little smoke, and suddenly
you're tapping at the keys to no avail;

Or something quieter that doesn't show--
a wire, corroded due to lack of use
or bare neglect, curls up and wriggles loose,
thus severing the current's normal flow.

So many things can disconnect our ends
from what gave them their power, till one day
we find ourselves alone and in the dark,
where once we shared the light with cherished friends.
Thing is, it doesn't have to be that way:
Hold our your line. Here's mine. Wait for the arc.

V. 2, #56: May 23, 2013

My Time is not a maniac scattering dust
as Tennyson would have it; He's a slow
cold monster, covering everything with snow
that makes my machinations stall and rust.

He stretches out His frigid hand and turns
momentum to inertia, blood to ice,
and growth to atrophy, until the price
of Change seems far too great. Whatever burns

in me, whatever dreams he's yet to snuff
between his fingers like a candle's flame
grow fainter day by day and year by year,
while I sit by and watch them disappear
in smoke, till what remains is not enough
to summon into thought, or give a name.

 

V. 2, #55: May 22, 2013

She turned and left the room without a word.
Some stared at him, his thoughtless cruelty
still hanging there like smoke. But as for me,
I coughed and made believe I hadn't heard.

But I could still make out her heels' tattoo
upon the marble tile, still see the way
her mouth convulsed, with nothing she could say
to counter that, and nothing she could do.

He bowed his head, ashamed, and left. I sipped
my gin and thought of her, the lipstick smudge
we sponged off my shirt collar in our room.
The band played. One by one, the guests all slipped
out to their cars. With no one left to judge
me then, I drank, still breathing her perfume.

 

V. 2, #54: May 21, 2013

My inspiration comes from breathing in
and every time I breathe out, it expires
My soul is born, it dies, and lives again
as often as biology requires

My eyes create the world from rays of light,
and then destroy it every time I blink
It crumbles and reconstitutes, not quite
the same it was before, I sometimes think.

And cell by cell my body is replaced
at night when I'm asleep. A year or two,
this mortal coil will crumble into waste
and what remains will be completely new.

So am I me? Or am I someone else,
condemned to replicate these faulty cells?

 

V. 2, #53: May 20, 2013

You boys go on ahead and have your fun.
I won't try to convince you not to go.
Some things won't let you rest until you know,
and in your eyes I see that this is one.

The key is on a ring above the jamb.
Be sure you mind the loose boards on the porch.
There's been no gas for years, so take a torch
or flashlight. It's not like a give a damn,

but if you're fool enough to head upstairs,
the room's third from the right. Set up your glass
and wait till one, not stirring from the spot.
I'm old. There's not much in this world that scares
me now, but I'll say this: I've seen the lass
before. Another time? I'd rather not.

 

V. 2, #52: May 19, 2013

Benny was only seventeen years old
the night he disappeared. An average kid
who did no worse than anybody did
at school, nor better neither, truth be told.

They say he climbed the city's water tower
on some fool-hearted dare. He danced atop
its dome--the girls were begging to stop,
the boys just egged him on. And then a flower

of bright kaleidoscopic brilliance flashed
above his head like some magician's act.
There was a sound like falling, broken glass.
The kids all gaped, waiting for it to pass.
It did. They found Ben's clothes, folded, intact,
right where he'd stood, beside a pile of ash.

 

V. 2, #51: May 18, 2013

The cat sits quiety and licks its fur;
meanwhile the dog is sleeping on the chair.
It's getting late, and no one seems to care,
or else they lack the energy to stir;

Games have been finished, boxed and put away,
the TV dark and silent for a change.
Such sudden stillness counts as something strange
in this house, where it's always noise and play;

There's nothing cooking on the stove--outside,
the sun sinks silently beyond the trees
and soon the sky will purple like a bruise.
So, separately, without a thought, we slide
into the night, completely at our ease,
as though we hadn't anything to lose.

 

V. 2, #50: May 17, 2013

The doctor doesn't know where he went wrong,
but something's got his Creature out of sorts.
He plays his PS3 the whole day long
and never bathes, not even after sports;

He eats five meals a day, as many snacks,
and watches TV like it was his job.
Ask him to clean his room, and he reacts
as if you were some crazed, torch-bearing mob!

Invites friends over without asking first,
throws parties that make matchsticks of the lab,
and when confronted, screams "Dad, you're the worst!
I never asked to be raised from the slab!"

"Oh horrors!" quoth the doc, "That kid of mine
has grown into a Teenage Frankenstein!"

 

V. 2, #49: May 16, 2013

There's never going to be a better time
than now to change your life and start anew.
But that's not saying much--it's no sublime
intelligence says so, nor makes it true;

Just simple mathematics: days subtract
from years, and with them opportunity
for renaissance dwindles as well. Thus Fact
reduces Dream to cold futility.

Moment by moment, changes we've got planned
meet their negation and resolve to naught.
It's exponential; so we understand
the maxim's much less happy than we thought:

"There'll never be a better time than Now,"
because Tomorrow will be worse, somehow.

 

V. 2, #48: May 15, 2013

I was a Monster for the FBI
back in my younger days. The scientists
fused to my back the arms of octopi,
and gave me a gorilla's arms and fists.

For watchfulness while in the field, my eyes
were deemed too weak, so half a dozen more
were grafted on--eagles' and dragonflies'.
For fearsomeness, a lion's teeth and roar.

I'd rustle gangsters, sting spies with my tail,
and cripple crooked cops, given the chance.
Those were the days! You should have seen them wail
in terror, drop their loot and shit their pants!

Now I'm retired, and glory days are done.
Except for Halloween--that's always fun.

 

V. 2, #47: May 14, 2013

It doesn't bother me if no one reads
my scribblings here, these wayward drops of ink
I scatter heedlessly; I hardly think
such service one that any stranger needs.

This wordy stream might bear some specks of gold
that, if I'm lucky, settle in my pan,
but more wash past. I do the best I can;
The water's shallow here, muddy, and cold.

There was a time when, screaming myself hoarse,
I splashed and floundered, desperate to be praised
by all who passed. But now I am content
calmly to watch the river take its course,
kneel down beside it, quietly amazed,
and cup it in my hands, a sacrament.

 

V. 2, #46: May 13, 2013

We helped the doc move boxes--homemade crates
of pine and cedar. Research cores, he said,
extracted from some cave, encased in lead,
and stored. He paid us twice our normal rates.

The next day Peter's leg began to swell.
His foot took on a sickly greenish hue.
The doc said there was nothing he could do
but get some rest and hope all would be well.

And now it's been three days since we've seen Pete,
and one since paramedics found remains
they think must be the doc's, but can't be sure.
But worse: they found footprints out to the street,
three-toed and clawed, that match the bloody stains
I tracked to Pete's apartment's splintered door.

 

V. 2, #45: May 12, 2013

I cannot give you everything you want,
or even most of it--that's just a fact.
My pockets aren't a never-drying font
of golden coins; my mattress is not packed

with Franklins, hidden from you out of spite,
or some perverse desire to kill your joys.
I don't withhold from malice--though I might!
Fit punishment for greedy little boys.

In truth, the little money that I make,
left over after mortgage, bills, and food,
I freely give; you just as freely take,
and call me stingy when it's gone. How rude!

One day you'll have a job, and understand.
Till then, for answer take this empty hand.

 

V. 2, #44: May 11, 2013

Don't need to do the things I do, but still,
I do them just the same, and damn the cost.
Don't care if it be good or it be ill,
I will not be advised, dissuaded, bossed.

I'll wreck my liver, conscience, posture, mind,
with acts most inadvisable and wrong.
Just watch me go wild, feral, crazy, blind--
and if it smarts, it will not hurt for long.

Oh sure, I could watch what I eat and drink,
weigh others' feelings equal to my own,
but where's the gain in that? Do others think
of my emotions, or themselves alone?

Some folks will help you now and then, and smile,
but hope one day you'll make it worth their while.

 

V. 2, #43: May 10, 2013

You see it in the way he sits: his spine
gone strangely limp and strengthless. How he bends
over his desk, eyes focused on the screen
before him, chair sunk lower every hour,
till inches separate him from the floor.
It seems like every day there's something else
to make his eyelids droop, his body sag.

At night he tells the wife and kids he's fine,
pulls himself straight, goes out to drink with friends
or reads. The bathroom mirror shows him clean
and trim. No one would ever guess the sour
black bile he swallows, hid behind this door.
Down in his gut the venom churns and swells.
He wrings himself out like a dirty rag.

 

V. 2, #42: May 9, 2013

Jocephus String is loose as anything;
He shapes his limbs and joints with just his thoughts.
Of all contortionists, Jo ranks as king.
You ought to see him tie himself in knots!

His sideshow colleagues hardly think it's fair
How he can twist his spine into a braid,
Or fix his arms and legs into a square
As tight as any Boy Scout could have made.

His finger nooses never lose their bite;
His Flemish Shin Bend goes without a Hitch.
As for his "Manly Slipknot"--it's a sight
to see. That's why he's so well-known, and rich.

He's got a fiancee named Cindy Snow,
Who says he makes the most delightful beau.

 

V. 2, #41: May 8, 2013

The flood caught everybody by surprise.
One moment sunshine, gentle breezes, birds
singing their hymns; then almost before words
to name it could be formed, the western skies

exploded into darkness. Clouds rolled in
and roared as though in anger, dumping sheets
of rain on hissing asphalt, turning streets
to rivers, yards to lakes, as if again

the Lord had judged the world, His rainbow oath
forgotten in His wrath, and this time none
were marked for mercy. Rising waters swept
down gullies, drowned the ones who tried to run,
destroyed the homes of saints and sinners both.
We climbed up to the roof, sat down, and wept.

 

V. 2, #40: May 7, 2013

There must have been a time in ages past,
when hunters stalked with sling and stone and spear,
a curse that would leave modern man aghast
existed: there was no such thing as beer.

How primitive their lives, without a balm
to salve their apeish brains back at the cave!
No golden brew to make the savage calm,
nor help the fearful brute stand straight and brave!

Was Mankind's progress founded on the dream
of some magic elixir he might drink?
Were boozy bubbles topped with heady cream
the font of Evolution? Makes you think.

A toast then, to the race that tamed the beast
with bigger brains, hops, water, malt and yeast.

 

V. 2, #39: May 6, 2013

The dream he has is always just the same:
he finds himself inside the house alone.
Someone he recognizes, but can't name,
steps from the shadows, holding out a phone;

He takes it, holds it up to his left ear,
and listens as a voice he thinks he knows
says something unintelligible. Near
insane with murderous anger (why?) he throws

it to the ground. It shatters, made of glass.
The shards rebound and pierce his face and hands.
The air around him thickens, a morass
like cold molasses. Now he understands

for one split second everything he's seen--
but waking, can't think what it all might mean.

 

V. 2, #38: May 5, 2013

To ride a woolly mammoth would be fun,
Across the frozen tundra like a king;
Set antelope and bison on the run,
who never saw nor smelt of such a thing.

To harness Nessie like a motor boat
And waterski behind her on the Loch
Would be a hoot--I'd try hard not to gloat,
With Scotsmen gaping from the shore, in shock.

I'd have a Bigfoot be my bodyguard,
And Yeti for the bouncer at my door.
He'd keep the fans away who crowd the yard
to glimpse these things that no one's seen before.

At night I'd lay my weary head to sleep,
And count my Chupacabras, just like sheep.

 

V. 2, #37: May 4, 2013

Hands clamped around the wheel as if Grim Death
were coming up fast in the passing lane,
he pushed the pedal down, near half insane
with fiery wrath against her. Every breath

was laden with a curse most inhumane,
as pictures of their bodies intertwined,
the P.I.'s glossy photos, underlined
and time-stamped, fired the furnace of his brain.

Not soon enough, he would stand in the door
of that venomous snake he'd called his friend
and partner, watch the blood drain from his face
while she would only scream. A moment more,
and he, the last alive, would torch the place,
then eat his gat. And that would be the end.

 

V. 2, #36: May 3, 2013

The cold wind slithers through the Johnson grass
and hisses as if every fibrous blade
had cut it deep. A traveler might pass
and wonder what rough beast lies in the glade

so wounded and ferocious. Overhead,
gray clouds turn lucent from the hidden moon
and cast on living skin the pall of dead
but walking things. Some ancient, mystic rune

engraved decades ago on Palmer's Rock--
which stands the meadow's sentinel, alone
--glows most unnaturally (as if to mock
an absent God), the shade of polished bone.

It's said at midnight haunting music plays
and spirits speak. But no one ever stays.

 

V. 2, #35: May 2, 2013

Brunhilda was the girl who lived upstairs--
abusive father, mother disinclined
to intervene. They woke one day to find
her bath run red--she'd bled out all her cares.

The basement was the home of young Clarice,
who had no problems anyone could see--
found dangling from the age-scarred apple tree
out front. Her note read simply, "Grant me peace."

And now, though life had placed the two apart
by three warped floors and more than sixty years,
it seems each lonely soul has found its friend:
dark footsteps down and up the stairs portend
long nights of echoed whispers, laughs, and tears,
and childish games that never meet their end.

 

V. 2, #34: May 1, 2013

A bad taste at the back of my sick throat,
as if the Toad of My Most Loathsome Thoughts
were squatting there to rub his slimy bloat
against my tongue's most pink, receptive dots;

Or rather if the Sewage Treatment types
who purify the gurglings of my Id
have not repaired the rusted, leaky pipes
that bear the filth away. ("Tough cookies, kid.")

There must be scientific terms to name
the foulness trickling toward my stomach wall
and reasons for its flavor; just the same,
I'd much prefer it not exist at all.

But no--I'll keep on gulping down the crap
until my white blood cells shut off the tap.

 

V. 2, #34: April 30, 2013

The Muse might not take sick days when she's ill,
but her poor servants are not born of Zeus.
We cannot of ambrosia drink our fill
and feel all better. When the phlegm cuts loose,

And poets bark like Cerberus in  Hell
to clear their mucous-riddled Pipes of Pan,
it will take more than verse to make them well--
Asclepius cannot, but Tussin can.

So put a warm compress upon your head,
you versifier. Sip some lemon tea.
Set by your quill; take two of these instead.
Get lots of rest--just read or watch TV.

A day or two and you'll be right as rain,
and maybe fit for poetry again.

 

V. 2, #33: April 29, 2013

Not every day will make a feller glad
He put his big clodhoppers to the floor;
There's plenty sad-dog days he'll wisht he had
Not cast his pear-shaped shadow on the door.

Sometime too hot the Eye of Heaven shines,
And gives a man a sunburn on his head;
Some days are only swerves with no straight lines,
Such as rewards the ones what stood in bed.

And yet we keep on rising with the sun
To pass our hours in turmoil, sweat, and strife,
In hopes this day will be a better one
Than that which come before it. Such is life.

A blind hog roots an acorn now and then;
Take heart from his example: try again.

 

V. 2, #32: April 28, 2013

With one month down, eleven more to go,
I'm feeling pretty good about it all.
They haven't all been great, they haven't all
been gems, but then they can't all be, you know.

But for all that, a couple have been fine
if I say so myself. No masterpiece,
perhaps, but halfway decent ones at least,
and all of them, for good or ill, are mine.

Sometimes I stumble over clumsy feet
(like dactyls or trochees), and sometimes rhymes
are near, or not so near. But there are times
when magically, my sense and rhythms meet.

Still, sometimes there's just nothing much to say,
and you get something like you got today.

 

V. 2, #31: April 27, 2013 ("Dizzy Spell")

Before the spinning world had settled down
to something like the staid solidity
I'm used to, and my consciousness more noun
than verb, under my feet the earth turned free

and liquid for a moment. Suddenly
the tilt of polar axis could be seen;
the house pitched sideways like a ship at sea.
I gasped and clutched the doorjamb, turning green,

when, just as quickly, everything grew still:
angles were thrown back perpendicular,
and Gravity asserted his one skill.
Less time than thought, and things were as they were.

Except that afterward it seemed to me
Prudent to view things more suspiciously.

 

V. 2, #30: April 26, 2013

I used to be a simple plumber, see?
Clogged toilets, leaky faucets, sluggish drains.
I never showed my crack. Not once. Took pains
for modesty (the overalls are key).

So when the weird stuff started, I just shrugged.
Sure, cleaning flytraps out of pipes was strange,
and turtles, mushrooms...still, it made a change--
I stomped 'em down to pulp, and wasn't bugged.

But then they had to go kidnap the dame,
and that was something I could not abide.
Maybe it's just that old Italian pride,
but I was steamed--my brother felt the same.

So off we went. The rest you prob'ly know.
Now, where's that tub you said was draining slow?

 

V. 2, #29: April 25, 2013

She knew we'd all been taught the same hard rule:
you never hit a girl, no matter what;
and with that fact came power--if she caught
a classmate jawing at her like a fool,

Her wrath was swift and ruthless: scratches, slaps,
and punches beat down on his head like hail.
Impotent and humbled, he'd turn tail
and run away, beg mercy--cry, perhaps.

We were just kids. I couldn't even dream
that someday I would have to bite my tongue,
sit on my hands while those I could not fight
stepped over my bruised head. Now, it would seem,
I owe her thanks. She taught me, while still young,
how to stay low, and keep my mouth shut tight.

 

V. 2, #28: April 24, 2013

Don't be in such a hurry to get older--
it's nowhere near what it's cracked up to be.
More rain in Spring, the Winter just gets colder,
and things begin to cost that once were free;

Adulthood seems a party never-ending
to kids who're forced to go to bed at eight,
but all those bills to pay, collections pending,
are what we fret about, and stay up late.

If you knew what I know, you wouldn't hurry--
You'd swing and hopscotch every single day,
jump rope and watch cartoons, and never worry
'bout anything but how much you can play.

You'll get to where I am before you know it.
So have some ice cream, kid; try not to blow it.

 

Happy Anniversary to The Sonnet Project

I just realized that yesterday was the 7-year anniversary of the first sonnet of The Sonnet Project, and thus the 6-year anniversary of the original project's completion. I'm still very proud of that year of sonnets, and am kind of amazed it's been so long ago since it all began. Here's hoping Volume 2 will give me the same occasion for pride, once it's done.

Oh, and also yesterday: the birthday of William Shakespeare--definitely one of the greatest inspirations for anybody still writing sonnets in English. Happy birthday, Will.

--SS

V. 2, #27: April 23, 2013

I'd know you even if God took my eyes:
my fingertips would trace your forehead's peak,
your eyebrows' line, your nose, your lips, your cheek--
such contours I would surely recognize;

In darkness I could reconstruct your face
from memory, a likeness true and sure
as any sculptor's skill. I could endure,
almost, the long blind years, with this one grace.

There yet may come a time you turn away
from me, my love, and never more bestow
your sparkling glance on me, your smile, your kiss.
Abandoned in the pall of that black day,
I'll build your shadow in my sightlessness,
And thank my vanished stars I studied so.

 

V. 2, #26: April 22, 2013 ("I Can't Get No")

If Mick grew discontent with girlie action
Back when he was as hot as ice is cold,
What hope have we for any satisfaction
When we are half as hot and twice as old?

It matters not what cigarettes you smoke when
Your hair's gone gray and wrinkles scar your cheek;
No girl will make a man who's tired and broken,
Whether he will or won't come back next week.

The chords of Time go strumming ever forward,
Much faster than Keith ever played guitar;
And we, like ships the wind is driving shoreward,
Break on the reefs before we cross the Bar.

Youth's music fades too fast; we mourn the loss,
Sit in our rocking chairs, and gather moss.

 

V. 2, #25: April 21, 2013

The world has never seen their like before--
abominations from a distant star;
They make Death, Famine, Pestilence and War
look tame--and they go by the name of GWAR.

Monstrosities bred only to destroy,
Balsac, Beefcake, and Oderus the Vile,
Jizmak and Pustulus--their only joy
derived from smoking crack and spewing bile.

They roam the earth, annihilating towns
with metal, figur'tive and literal,
rejoicing in the gurgling, dying sounds
of fans, the very Earth their urinal.

"What are you?" Mankind asks. "Demons or Gods?"
Cthulhu's Cuttlefish just smiles, and nods.

V. 2, #24: April 20, 2013

Someone is reading poetry tonight,
and folks are listening most attentively;
he's got a podium, a reading light,
a glass of water near at hand. To see

him standing in his spot, reciting lines
he birthed as painfully as any child,
the crowd has traveled miles, dressed to the nines.
They've ordered drinks, in homage to this wild

young worshiper of Euterpe, this odd
interpreter of universal themes,
this tireless troubadour, picked out by God
to shape the world through fevered songs and dreams--

While I count syllables and sip my tea,
in hopes that next year, maybe, he'll be me.

 

V. 2, #23: April 19, 2013

He was encouraged from an early age
to see himself as greater than the rest,
and took the training well--at every stage
of life, grew more assured he was the best.

No matter how his friends tried to convince
him otherwise, he knew that he was blessed,
especially approved by Providence
and marked for glory--till (you might have guessed)

One day another managed to upstage
him on the field; his world stopped making sense;
he crumbled inward, choked with fear and rage.
He wept, tore at his hair and beat his chest
and died. His simple lesson must be stressed:
Parents, don't teach your kids self-confidence.

 

V. 2, #22: April 18, 2013

Let's clean this filthy room--no arguments!
It looks like a tornado hit this place.
There's never been disorder this intense--
I bet this mess could be observed from space!

There, underneath the bed--what is that thing?
A sculpture made of dirt, or year-old fudge?
How long have these used plates been festering?
A scientist might test the mold, and judge.

There's laundry strewn around like autumn leaves
after a hurricane. Is that a sock
stuck on the mirror? I might get the heaves!
Except by now I'm steeled against the shock.

No groans! The time has come--lace up your boots.
I'll get some Lysol, and the Haz-Mat suits.

 

V. 2, #21: April 17, 2013

The honeysuckle waves its sinuous strands
at me, so near it almost seems to mock
my separation--like it understands
the glass between us, solid as a lock.

The branches of the oak tree softly sway
just inches from my face, bedeviling me;
and on its arms the squirrels bark and play
oblivious to all my jealousy.

It's cruel, almost, to let the sunshine flow
through windows that don't open, by design;
to torture office denizens who know
how near fresh air and Spring are, and how fine;

A few more hours to go till our release;
till then, you Lords of Nature, give us peace.

 

V. 2, #20: April 16, 2013

Today I want to think of pleasant things:
of flowers jeweled with dew and ringed with light;
hundred thousand butterflies in flight,
the shimmering perfection of their wings--

Let me have kittens tangled up in string,
and puppies gnawing on their masters' shoes;
Lt's play a game where no one has to lose,
nd nothing is at stake. Let's dance and sing.

Tomorrow there'll be time enough for hate,
for blackened bodies lying in the street;
or worlds where nothing can survive that's sweet
and innocent. For now though, let it wait.

Let me have one last day where life seems kind
Before the Truth forever strikes me blind.

 

V. 2, #19: April 15, 2013

Like Hamlet said, the readiness is all:
so rub the sleep out, friend, and be alert.
You never know when Chance will make the call,
so sitting by the phone's not going to hurt.

Clear everything between you and the door;
Lace up your shoes, stretch out your legs and calves,
hydrate, and wait, fingers pressed to the floor,
eyes up and open--don't do things by halves.

Stay tense, notched like an arrow in a bow,
and when you hear it, take off like a jet!
Maybe you'll miss it still, but not for lack
of heart. Life takes some things you don't get back,
and hesitation only breeds regret,
which is the worst. Believe me, kid--I know.

 

V. 2, #18: April 14, 2013

The color of the sky was odd that night--
a yellow glow sat on the eastern cloud
that covered Pliney Mountain like a shroud.
It wasn't natural. It wasn't right.

Jim Thompson's dog would not step foot outside.
It cowered in its corner, whined, and shook.
Melinda read a page from her Good Book;
Her sleeping newborn, Blake, woke up and cried.

Then suddenly, a preternatural gloom
flooded the sky, and everything went dark
Jim ran to get his gun, Melinda screamed
I, driven perhaps by some internal spark,
ran almost in slow-motion, like a dream,
and found the horror waiting in Blake's room.

 

V. 2, #17: April 13, 2013

This afternoon, it's just the two of us:
kids are away with grandparents or friends,
and we're alone to reap the dividends
we're due on our account of pent-up lust;

Let's rip each other's clothes off, feel the sun
on our unmentionables! Let's christen each
and every room, make such love as would teach
Eros a thing or two 'bout how it's done!

What's that you say? Come on, housework can wait!
No need to do the dishes now. Oh please!
I'll scrub the toilets later. Let's just--jeez.
No, never mind. It's fine. In fact, it's great.

You take a nap. I'll tidy things down here.
No, I'm not mad. Why would I be, my dear?

 

V. 2, #16: April 12, 2013

If things don't change, they're going to stay the same.
Inertia's more than simple gravity--
it weighs down thought and possibility
and causes cherished dreams to pull up lame;

Resolves to ash the brightest burning flame
and drowns ambition in humility;
turns fervent hymns to sleepy homily
in which things never change, but stay the same.

Kept fed, denied the hunt and liberty,
even the wildest beast can be made tame.
And after years of toothless lethargy,
he may not even mourn what he became.
Sit still, you'll find it's true, eventually:
If things don't change, they're going to stay the same.

 

V. 2, #15: April 11, 2013

With thoughts all dandelion down, my brain
flung to the four winds like a sailor's song
I sit to wring the ink out once again,
from wrinkled sheets of poetry. All wrong,

But like the sacrifice of Isaac, asked
to test his father's heart and check his pride.
I offer to the Muse this daily task
In hopes that when She pleases, She'll provide.

So let the wretched ink flow from my pen,
in Voynich, beautiful and meaningless;
If I keep at it, maybe now and then
a little treasure will my crimes redress.

Tonight I might have nothing fine to say;
but I will live to write another day.

 

V. 2, #14: April 10, 2013

This place should not be able to contain
your loveliness within its drab, gray walls;
as soon hold back the sea or stop the rain,
catch each blue diamond drop before it falls

and weave them all together in a veil
to frame the golden glory of your face
as, if I could, I would--and for your trail
I'd knit the silver moonbeams into lace.

But here fluorescent bulbs emit a glare
devoid of warmth, and rain can't penetrate,
nor moonlight shine. And so you must stay bare
of all these ornaments I contemplate.

A shameful lack, and one I can't correct;
it's probably just as well you don't suspect.

 

V. 2, #13: April 9, 2013

Decisions made without a second thought
Change you--a million possibilities
Are born and die with "Yes" and "I Will Not,"
Provide and rob you of such liberties

As you might never dream were yours to take:
That woman from Accounting you've admired
For years, had you delayed your coffee break
A moment, might have snapped and had you fired

For making eyes--a moment earlier,
She might have noticed your designer pants,
Said so, you'd pay a compliment to her,
And soon become her lover. Wicked Chance!

To show the paths we missed while unprepared,
And kingdoms we'd have won, had we but dared.

 

V. 2, #12: April 8, 2013

Don't think about it--just look straight ahead
and jump. Anticipate the upward thrust
of air against pure gravity, and trust
the panicked voices screaming in your head

Are wrong this time. If you believe your wings
can bear your weight, are more than clumps of wax,
some feathers, and a balsa frame--relax,
and put away such fearful reasonings.

You cannot think how Death perhaps awaits
below, his claws outstretched to clasp your soul.
Think only of the glorious azure sky.
For he is surely lost who hesitates,
and should you fall, at least you'll perish whole,
not piecemeal over years. Go on now. Fly.

 

V. 2, #11: April 7, 2013

So once upon a time there was this fish
(called Glubblubdub--but friends just called him Mike)
who had the power to grant a single wish
to any fisherman come down the pike;

One day a young girl caught him, using worms
(you prolly figured such would be the case)
and Mike, to save his tail, laid out the terms
to his amazed captor (whose name was Grace).

After a moment's pause, she shook her head.
"If you could grant a wish, why would you stay
like this? Why not become a king instead,
and rule creation till your dying day?"

"By George, you're right!" Mike said. "I'll do that thing!"
And this is how a catfish became king.

 

V. 2, #10: April 6, 2013

The girl, suddenly radiant, as though
in some god's ecstasy, began to sing
with no real melody. She started low,
the soft notes disconnected, wandering,

A young child's tuneless song. And yet we all
stood still and listened. She struggled to climb
to higher notes, a strange, hypnotic call.
The way her body swayed to keep the time,

Not metronomic--rather like a blade
of grass cuaght dancing in the gentle wind
before a storm. Then her crescendo, loud
and keening--and whatever spirit played
through her brought its weird music to an end,
while she stood mute, just smiling at the crowd.

 

V. 2, #9: April 5, 2013

Look busy--someone told me our new boss
is coming round to visit. Clack those keys!
He's said to be the kind who might get cross
to find his faithful code monkeys at ease.

Pull up a spreadsheet! Maximize it fast!
The more arcane the better--that's the stuff.
With any luck he'll nod and amble past,
convinced our current workload is enough.

Let's print him out a stack of fat reports
that would make Archimedes shake his head;
then we can surf the web, talk about sports,
and catch up on our Words with Friends instead.

I mean, it's not as though we're lazy slobs--
it's damned hard work pretending we have jobs!

 

V. 2, #8: April 4, 2013

Sometimes the storm clouds roll in like a train,
with thunder like steel wheels on iron rails
that throw off lightning sparks. Sometimes the rain
falls like a judgment. Other times it hails.

Sometimes the wind feels like it wants to tear
the clothes right off your back; the dry leaves hiss
and rattle like a snake. Sometimes it's fair,
the breeze as gentle as a lover's kiss.

Sometimes the sun beats down like it's perturbed
at all us crawling creatures here below.
Sometimes it leaves us cool and undisturbed.
(Don't even get me started on the snow.)

If you don't like the weather, wait a minute.
That's how it is in Arkansas, now innit?

 

V. 2, #7: April 3, 2013

The smell of motor oil still makes me think
of fish. My uncles pulling up the drive
with river water pouring out the back
of that flat, dented boat they always took
to check their trot lines; then they'd lug the chest
of bluegill bream and channel cat on ice
into the dingy, cinder-block garage

Where old petroleum mixed with the stink
of doomed aquatic creatures, still alive,
mouths gaping as in shock. The men would smack
the catfish with a mallet. Wrenches shook
on pegboard, vicious pliers bit down to wrest
the skin from flesh. The bream they'd scale and slice,
while I crouched down beside the bench to watch.

 

V. 2, #6: April 2, 2013

A few things I can do: brew my own beer,
change out the oil and filter in my car,
cook macaroni, keep the sink drain clear
of hairballs, and play mini-golf near par;

Strum half a dozen tunes on my guitar,
hold down a barre chord, sing almost in tune,
and belt it when I can't; find the North star,
identify the phases of the moon;

Define "frugivorous" and "picayune,"
recite Macbeth's "Tomorrow" speech by heart,
refrain from drinking whiskey before noon,
and finish almost everything I start.

Which may not seem like much, but that's okay
by me. It's more than some folks, anyway.

 

V. 2, #5: April 1, 2013

We never use the back room anymore,
not since the night Dave spent there, years ago.
Just what he saw I guess we'll never know,
but I'm no longer curious. That door

will stay boarded and shut. The keening wail,
the growling thing that scratches at the jamb
on winter nights--I do not give a damn,
just so it never learns to bend a nail.

I let Dave out that morning, afterward--
his hair streaked white, the blood all down his face,
those empty eyes. That was enough for me.
There's no one in this world who needs to see
what that poor bastard saw, hear what he heard.
Whatever haunts that room can have the place.

 

V. 2, #4: March 31, 2013

Hey, pardner! You--the one with mutton chops!
The lady said get lost, so let it pass.
Don't make me come down there and kick your ass!
Somebody's sure to freak and call the cops,

And neither of us needs that--least 'ways you.
(I figure you're no stranger to the law.)
So if you like the way God made your jaw
fit in its place, take my advice: go screw.

There's always one like you, can't let it be:
some rooster thinks his tail's the best in town,
till some other old cock spurs him right down
to blood and feathers. Friend, that cock is me.

That's what I thought. See, darlin'? He's all show.
Could I buy you--goddammit, where'd she go? 

 

V. 2, #3: March 30, 2013

Now and again, a sudden shift of clouds
will let a little sunshine in to chase
the shadows from the dusty attic shrouds
that cover up my memory of your face.

I pull the sheets away, and there you lie--
so still, perfectly frozen in my mind;
Love in your smile, and mischief in the eye
that long ago to me turned cold and blind.

There was a time our days were filled with light,
and all our nights with passion, heat, and cheer;
But now it's just this half-remembered sight
of you, preserved but fading, year by year.

And I, curator to lost love and lust,
pull up the sheets to save you from the dust.

 

V. 2, #2: March 29, 2013

The aliens aint' comin'. If they was,
I figure they'd of been in touch by now.
No circled crops, no mutilated cow,
no colored lights at night, nor eerie buzz.

The lines I chalked out back, straight as a rail,
to help them land their ships, done blown away.
And if them E.T.'s got something to say,
my dish ain't picked it up. The grade is "fail."

I thought they'd come. I scrimped and saved and planned
for when they'd liberate me from this dirt,
where everything is hate, and fear, and hurt,
and nothing good can be allowed to stand.

But now I know I'm stuck here, just like you.
I don't know what in hell I'm gonna do.

 

V. 2, #1: March 28, 2013

I feel like I've been powerless for years,
Or optionless, which comes out just the same.
All rooted in routine, stock still with fears,
Till choice is even less now than a name.

I've let the things I loved go slipping though
My grasp, like water held in shaking hands;
The days pass into months, and nothing's new.
And nobody I talk to understands.

I don't know if I've been dead, or asleep--
If waking resurrection's on the card
Or not. I just know things I thought I'd keep
Have disappeared, and finding them is hard.

I'm searching, though. It's tiresome and it's tough,
But something has to change. Today. Enough.

 

"Sonnet XI" by Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

--Pablo Neruda

Where Have You Gone?

(This is one I wrote some time ago, but didn't post, for whatever reason. I found it in a notebook and thought I should put it up here before I lose it, as I don't think it's *entirely* terrible.)

Where have you gone? I've searched and searched for years
with no result. An obsolete e-mail,
an out-of-date address; the track gone stale
and no new clues. Still, no one disappears--

The world's not half as big now as it was
when Fate threw us together that first night
and we our bodies; touch and taste and sight
remain as sensual memory always does.

On college websites, Facebook--lost, I try
to find you, in my dotage looking back
to where the ghost of you burns like a flame;
I still can feel your heat, and hear your cry
of pleasure--then your form dissolves to black
and leaves me in the dark, Googling your name. 


--SS

Berta

You always kept some water by the bed
in case you woke up thirsty in the night.
I still remember that—and how the light
cut fault-lines through the glass. And once you said
you felt just like the white stray cat you fed
with scraps on paper plates you left outside.
When she stopped coming round, Lord, how you cried—
the water down your face, eyes puffed and red.

I think sometimes about the night you tried
to make me say I loved you—how the bright
blue tears stood in your eyes, where gold light bled
its heart-breaking refraction; how the sight
drew out my ugly truth; and how instead,
now knowing what I owe—I should have lied.

--SS

Happy birthday, Berta, wherever you are.

-----------------------------------
Original version on The Sonnet Project, December 29, 2006 (link)
Published at The Hypertexts, November 2008 (link)

"XVIII. Oh, when I was in love with you..." by A. E. Housman

OH, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they ’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.


--A. E. Housman