V. 2, #191: October 6, 2013

Today I nearly called this whole thing off.
"I've had enough," I thought, "of squeezing stones
for blood, and getting ink instead. With knowns
and unknowns dancing in my brain, that scoff

at my attempts to lock them up with rhyme,
an alchemist who only gleaned fool's gold
from pencil lead--who now, exhausted, old--
has learned the bound and circuit of his time."

But then another voice, boist'rous but small,
spoke up: "Come on, old man, you're halfway there!
Don't puff your cheeks and act like you don't care
if this remains unfinished after all.

"It's true, another year won't make you rich;
but still--you will complete this son of a bitch!"

V. 2, #169: September 14, 2013

By now a tired theme, but once again
I've got no time to write a sonnet well;
therefore, I must commit the poet's sin
of crafting sloppy verse. But what the hell.

No batter hits a homer every time
he steps up to the plate to face a pitch.
Just so with meter, imagery, and rhyme:
sometimes you've got to fudge the ol' sumbitch.

If I'd an ivory tower, I'd take me thence
and view the kingdom from aloft; my quill
would dance in fairy rings around the sense,
and draw from words and beats the dreams I'd will.

But I've got chores, a dinner to be cooked,
a wife to please--so you can see, I'm booked.

V. 2, #155: August 31, 2013

It's just one of those nights where nothing comes,
and what's drug out by main force just won't fit.
You scratch your aching head, twiddle your thumbs
for hours, without one word to show for it.

You run through lines abandoned in the past
for inelegant meter, dodgy rhyme,
or bare stupidity, try to re-cast
them into something usable this time;

Of course that doesn't work, so you just glare
at your impotent pen, that mocking sheet,
so clean and smug, returning your blank stare
 until you blink, admitting your defeat.

Sometimes it hits me light a ray of light--
but I guess the Muse had other plans tonight.

V. 2, #135, August 10, 2013

If you can write a sonnet after hours
of driving, carting wife and family
to Florida, sir, I salute your powers.
You are a more resilient scribe than me.

If then that poem, scribbled with your eyes
all bleared and bloodshot, should be worth a damn,
your gift is rarer than you realize.
You're many times the sonneteer I am.

But if you rack your brain and only find
cobwebs and road signs clogging up your thought,
the dream of rest enveloping your mind
and robbing you of what small skill you've got,

And yet you try to do it, faithfully--
I've solved your riddle, charlatan: you're me.

V. 2, #119: July 25, 2013

Don't have much time, so let's get this shit done!
I've got places to do, and things to be.
As poems go, this won't be a great one,
so keep your expectations low. You see,

To be a poet's not that good a deal--
you have to sing, although you want to scream.
And if you slip, you're not "keeping it real,"
as punk kids say. But I won't break the stream

of words I've started. Keep the pressure high!
Put both fists in my temples now, and squeeze!
I'll pop this sonnet like a zit. Let fly
the pustulent parboiled prose, if you please!

So now I'm at the end. No need to strain.
Come back tomorrow, and we'll try again.

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.

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, #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.