But I'm afraid it's over. I was out of town and missed writing the sonnet of the day for Saturday and Sunday. The second cycle of 365 in a row is and will be incomplete.
I toyed with the idea of making it up and going on like nothing happened. But that's against the rules, and besides, I'll admit that I have not felt inspired to continue. In fact, it's kind of a relief to not have it hanging over my head for a change. Which I think says something about my motivations, or lack thereof. So ending it now is, I think, the right thing.
I'm proud to have managed so many in a row, even if I think I could count on my fingers the poems that were really good this time round, and still have digits left over. In a way, it makes me even prouder of my first time through: not only having completed it, but in the process producing some of what's likely my best work. Unfortunately I'm not in a place where I can repeat that now--in fact, I probably never will be. And that's okay.
To anyone who has been reading, I'm sorry for the anticlimactic finish. I don't think I'll stop writing sonnets altogether, and should I produce something I think is worthwhile, I'll definitely post it here. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and best wishes.
Scott
Monday, October 28, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
V. 2, #210: October 25, 2013
I just saw Papi's dog run down my street,
if you could call it running. One leg gone,
another just a useless piece of meat
that hung there as he hobbled toward my lawn.
He's obviously in pain, and I'd feel bad
but for the fact that dog's angry and mean,
with foam all down his jowls like he was mad.
More rank grotesquerie you've never seen.
On moonlit nights in Autumn that hound bays
for hours, and the sound is like a soul
in Hell. It makes me shiver in my bed.
Those blood-red eyes, that tongue as black as coal,
that smell like he's been nosing something dead...
and no one's seen old Papi now for days.
if you could call it running. One leg gone,
another just a useless piece of meat
that hung there as he hobbled toward my lawn.
He's obviously in pain, and I'd feel bad
but for the fact that dog's angry and mean,
with foam all down his jowls like he was mad.
More rank grotesquerie you've never seen.
On moonlit nights in Autumn that hound bays
for hours, and the sound is like a soul
in Hell. It makes me shiver in my bed.
Those blood-red eyes, that tongue as black as coal,
that smell like he's been nosing something dead...
and no one's seen old Papi now for days.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
V. 2, #209: October 24, 2013
That's it, get out! I'm giving you the boot!
The old heave-ho, as sailors used to say.
I'm stuffing you back down the garbage chute
you climbed up from. I'm calling it a day.
Like last week's papers, baby, you're old news.
Like birds that squawk too much I set you free.
You're out like my old pair of mud-caked shoes.
I'm pushing the ejector button, see?
You're welcome as mosquitoes, gnats, and flies,
or half a worm baked in an apple pie.
So buzz the hell on off now, if you please,
and let this gesture serve as my goodbye.
Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, and fare the well;
on second thought, strike that. You go to hell.
The old heave-ho, as sailors used to say.
I'm stuffing you back down the garbage chute
you climbed up from. I'm calling it a day.
Like last week's papers, baby, you're old news.
Like birds that squawk too much I set you free.
You're out like my old pair of mud-caked shoes.
I'm pushing the ejector button, see?
You're welcome as mosquitoes, gnats, and flies,
or half a worm baked in an apple pie.
So buzz the hell on off now, if you please,
and let this gesture serve as my goodbye.
Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, and fare the well;
on second thought, strike that. You go to hell.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
V. 2, #208: October 23, 2013 ("Night of the Werewolf's Wife")
Lawrence, we have to talk. Tonight the moon
is full, and I just have to have my say.
If you don't stop this foolishness, and soon,
I swear to God I'm calling it a day!
I've heard the story half a hundred times:
the beast that bit, the gypsy, blah blah blah.
Let's face it--that old hag's panhandling dimes
and mocking you, halfway to Omaha!
That silver star she said you ought to wear
is tin. You're not a wild, bloodthirsty cur.
And plus--you're bald. I said it! Yes! So there!
That's why you yearn for supernatural fur!
Now come inside and get back in your clothes.
Don't make me come out there and smack your nose.
is full, and I just have to have my say.
If you don't stop this foolishness, and soon,
I swear to God I'm calling it a day!
I've heard the story half a hundred times:
the beast that bit, the gypsy, blah blah blah.
Let's face it--that old hag's panhandling dimes
and mocking you, halfway to Omaha!
That silver star she said you ought to wear
is tin. You're not a wild, bloodthirsty cur.
And plus--you're bald. I said it! Yes! So there!
That's why you yearn for supernatural fur!
Now come inside and get back in your clothes.
Don't make me come out there and smack your nose.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
V. 2, #207: October 22, 2013 ("Zé do Caixão")
The Undertaker stood behind the tomb
and drummed his taloned nails upon the stone.
He smiled to think of every splintered bone
he'd placed inside the crypt. There still was room.
The girl stood weeping near the parish priest
as four young village men let out the ropes
that lowered to his rest the one her hopes
had centered on. Well, that was done, at least.
Soon he would call upon his hunchbacked slave
to bring her to his flat. Then he would see
if she was strong enough to bear his son.
If so, he would know immortality
through blood; if not, he'd find another one.
Joe smiled, his eyes and soul black as the grave.
and drummed his taloned nails upon the stone.
He smiled to think of every splintered bone
he'd placed inside the crypt. There still was room.
The girl stood weeping near the parish priest
as four young village men let out the ropes
that lowered to his rest the one her hopes
had centered on. Well, that was done, at least.
Soon he would call upon his hunchbacked slave
to bring her to his flat. Then he would see
if she was strong enough to bear his son.
If so, he would know immortality
through blood; if not, he'd find another one.
Joe smiled, his eyes and soul black as the grave.
Monday, October 21, 2013
V. 2, #206: October 21, 2013
The giant crouched down low. He spread his back
as broadly as he could, and clutched the child
close to his chest. The goblin general smiled
and signaled to his archers to attack.
The little girl clutched tightly at his arm
and cried. The giant gently kissed her head.
"There there, be brave, my little love," he said.
"I swear I'll keep you safe from any harm."
He knew he might, with one tremendous blow,
send goblins crashing down the mountainside
and free the kingdom from their evil blight.
But then he'd have to let the scared child go,
and turn away from her. He held her tight,
while arrow after arrow pierced his hide.
as broadly as he could, and clutched the child
close to his chest. The goblin general smiled
and signaled to his archers to attack.
The little girl clutched tightly at his arm
and cried. The giant gently kissed her head.
"There there, be brave, my little love," he said.
"I swear I'll keep you safe from any harm."
He knew he might, with one tremendous blow,
send goblins crashing down the mountainside
and free the kingdom from their evil blight.
But then he'd have to let the scared child go,
and turn away from her. He held her tight,
while arrow after arrow pierced his hide.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
V. 2, #205: October 20, 2013
It sits upon the lower playroom shelf,
its shoulders shrouded with a layer of dust.
The cymbals it once held have gone to rust.
Its yellowed teeth grin like the Fiend himself.
A tattered hat sits on its plastic head,
a pin-striped vest pulled tight around its waist.
The shards of that glass dome that once encased
the thing lie all around. Its eyes are red.
Once, long ago, a child put in the key
and wound the spring inside till it was tight.
He never could have known what he had done.
And now, the blasted thing's the only one
who ever moves, applauding every night
its handiwork. And no one knows but me.
its shoulders shrouded with a layer of dust.
The cymbals it once held have gone to rust.
Its yellowed teeth grin like the Fiend himself.
A tattered hat sits on its plastic head,
a pin-striped vest pulled tight around its waist.
The shards of that glass dome that once encased
the thing lie all around. Its eyes are red.
Once, long ago, a child put in the key
and wound the spring inside till it was tight.
He never could have known what he had done.
And now, the blasted thing's the only one
who ever moves, applauding every night
its handiwork. And no one knows but me.
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