All writing

When searching for the moral of a story,
which oftentimes is right below the surface,
but on occasion, plot and allegory
so driven by, it seems, a lower purpose,
work overtime to keep it out of sight,
and manage, to the reader's consternation,
to veil it. How can one determine right,
or give a rationale, an explanation,
while drowning in both nuance and finesse?
If good and bad are matters of perspective,
of understanding more, and judging less,
then likely it's to help you to discern
what otherwise you'll fail to see or learn.

"Magnificent", the editor opined.
"The characters are fresh and well developed,
their dialogue so mannered and refined.
It left me feeling cuddled, no, enveloped,
immersed in the protagonist's escape
to the remote, enchanting destination,
where as you put it, dreams are taking shape,
and nightmares have been left out of creation.

That said, it doesn't quite fit our form.
For one, had you a chance to check our guidelines?
A sonnet is so far outside our norm,
that we are forced, observing from the sidelines,
to wish you all the best, and much success.

Regards,

The Editors,

The Plumber's Press

The world is not a graphic novel. And not a play.
Though there's no lack of shit to shovel
in ways both typical and novel,
nor lack of characters that may,
to the astonishment of all,
behave as if they're in a play.
Each curtain call,
bow down and pray.

Author notes: patterned after Frost's Fire and Ice.  Image generated by GPT

magic phrases soar and hover
meet a frenemy, a lover
they're awaiting your first look
open it, and you'll discover
beauty hides under the cover
of any ordinary book

Author notes: image from facebook

When wrestling with indecision --
For those who aren't wrecked by doubt
or master answers with precision --
you can afford to go without --
but for the rest of us, the journey,
like helpless patients on their gurney,
we're dragged about a tangled maze,
explore the labyrinth for days,
but find no answer to the riddle,
and even when we see a hint
betrayed by a peculiar glint,
soon dumped right back into the middle,
the hint apparently a tease.
For us no forest. Only trees.

"this town could not be hillier", so thought her new familiar,
and he could not be sillier, this ordinary cat.
Aloof and supercilious, and carefully punctilious,
and neither wild nor villainous, and no, not in a hat.

Author notes: image from facebook

sit in a circle, knees tight
which is your left, which is right?
steady, please wait for your turn
remember, we're here but to learn
one sip at a time, pinky out
this is what style is about

Author notes: photo from Facebook

Cobblestones shimmer and shine.
Bell towers scrape the divine.
Sailboats adrift on the drink.
Sky runs from redeye to pink.
You didn't come for the views
Venice, in orangy blues

Author notes: image from facebook

For the mammoth to be wooly,
covered up, and nearly fully,
it was cold, or even chiller,
and so lacking a chinchilla,
it developed its own coat.
Now as hairy as a goat.

Its contemporary, rhino,
ripped but naked, s'far as I know,
It embraced this new found fashion.
Undertook it with a passion.
With the outfit now complete,
set and ready to compete.

So did all the megafauna --
(since the tropics were no sauna) --
became furry in a hurry,
fear no blizzard, ice or flurry,
mega large and mega biased,
stomp about the Older Dryas

By the time the ice had melted,
the Neanderthal, well pelted,
ruled the cave from Spain to Asia,
although sadly, on occasion,
he was eaten by a bear.
Few Neanderthals to spare.

Came across our fledgling species --
least according to my thesis --
found the thinly limbed Cro-Magnon,
though still lacking bow and cannon,
but, this needed to be said,
irresistible in bed.

What of us, all their descendants?
Rightists, leftists, independents,
homo sapient and stupid,
ruled by Ares or by Cupid,
learning, slowly, to behave.
But still living in a cave.

Author notes: image generated by GPT

The canopy's all chirp and rustle.
No treetop wants to do without
a busy sparrow on the hustle,
or cardinal, for the devout,
and who could blame these slender birches?
Like steeples of abandoned churches
attracting worshippers to flock,
but absent any striking clock,
they'll settle for a swift or swallow,
avoid the cuckoo and the crow,
as these belong way down below,
and cannot consecrate or hallow.
A nightingale that doesn't sleep.
Too many promises to keep.

Author notes: image generated by GPT

No, no, conductor, seat was paid in full!
I wouldn't travel if it's not first class.
Still getting nauseous, somewhat of a rule.
Supposing, in the end, this too shall pass.

This doesn't look at all like the brochure.
Expected leather seats and alabaster.
If this is gold, it's surely less than pure.
Conductor, any way to get there faster?

The ride is kind of bumpy, don't you think?
I'm all about it's all about the journey,
though 'd rather not get dunked into the drink,
or worse yet, be delivered on a gurney.

Arrived, though by my count a bit too early.
The gates appear more ebony than pearly.

While searching for the worser part of valor,
(and honestly, not knowing where to look),
his face now the characteristic pallor
of one who's studied warfare from a book,
but now, confronted with its truer function,
(dictating, as it does, its truer form),
arriving at the well expected junction,
so common, it must surely be the norm,
that flight is the more natural expression
(and this is where it's apropos to cite
the quote that deftly harnesses discretion
when calculating whether fight or flight):
the better part of valor, but too late
to ransom or redeem his great estate.