V. 2, #200: October 15, 2013

Two hundred sonnets--quite a hefty sum
by any standard, most folks would agree.
Break out the champagne, diet coke, and rum,
and raise a glass to such tenacity.

Two-thirds a year or so of daily toil
of running through the alphabet for rhyme
(like this: first boil, then coil, then hydrofoil--
that's how these things get done, most of the time).

I know the quality has fallen off
since long ago I first took up my quill,
but if my verse should make the critics scoff
I hope at least to be praised for my will.

Who knows if in the end it's worth the while;
Still, if it's shit, at least it's quite a pile.

V. 2, #195: October 10, 2013

I don't have much to write about tonight.
My day held nothing special nor unique.
I didn't fall in love or start a fight;
did nothing to provoke a Muse to speak.

A carbon copy of the day before,
and copies just grow duller, indistinct;
a dozen more, and yet a dozen more,
till Meaning is illegible--extinct.

So what if I go through life uninspired?
Who said existence ought to be enjoyed?
Such is preferred, of course, but not required;
recall you're fortunate to be employed.

One day you'll finally have enough put by
to quit, go on a cruise, relax...and die.

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, #183: September 28, 2013

The kids are outside playing on the swings,
which means inside, an eerie silence reigns.
These moments I can steal for other things:
I can veg out with TV, wrack my brains

for clever rhymes I might use in a verse,
or read a book--my God, such luxury!
Just drink a cup of tea? I could do worse.
I'm paralyzed by possibility!

But no, the whoosh of sliding patio door
alerts me quiet time is at its end.
The house is mere cacophony once more,
the broken peace beyond my skill to mend.

My singing muses suddenly are mute.
Good thing for children they're so fucking cute.

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, #107: July 13, 2013

I've thought of giving up, a dozen times,
just stop, and never think of it again.
Quit updating the blog and wrestling rhymes;
find some secluded spot to stow my pen.

Let someone else call out the iambs' march,
beat dactyls and trochees back into line,
or bend their metered thoughts until they arch
into a pleasing shape, that isn't mine.

I've really got no reason to continue.
Not much here worth the time it takes to read,
and no one frequenting this run-down venue
to see if we're still open. Grim indeed.

So--if a poet doesn't make a sound
and falls, who cares, if no one is around?

V. 2, #105: July 11, 2013

I'd crank out sonnets every single day
as long as I could hold and pen and pad,
if I thought, at the end of it, you'd say
I'd done a noble thing few people had;

I'd force my secret thoughts in molds of verse,
expose my red, raw heart for all to see,
if afterwards, while following my hearse,
you told the world how well you thought of me;

But I do not expect such eulogy,
from you or anyone. I've made my peace
with how I'll be remembered when I'm gone:
a vomiter of doggerel, that's me,
who only gave his rotten Muse surcease
at death, and was no one's sine qua non.

V. 2, #101: July 7, 2013

So now I've passed one hundred posts again.
It's something to be noted, one would think.
The dreams and visions I've leaked through my pen,
the blood and sweat I've used in place of ink,

have now produced this electronic stack,
a figurative ream of poetry
quite worse that those I did a few years back,
but still--if quality and quantity

are not entirely separate, I might hope
that perseverance will pay dividends;
that if I give my muse a nice long rope,
she'll trap a few fine thoughts before it ends.

So I'll continue cranking out the rhyme.
At least no one is watching me this time.

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, #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, #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, #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, #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, #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, #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, #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.