All writing

Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service,
and none of this for better or for worse.
The marriage institution meant to serve us,
for some a blessing and for others curse,
why can't it be just like a Vegas wedding,
a happy, sloppy, tipsy love affair,
with someone at the ready: change the bedding
and leave no sign that anyone's been there.
We study our relationships like car wrecks:
slow down for a quick look, and then rush by,
and passing judgement notice all their defects:
if it's this bad then someone better die.
No, nothing neat and packaged about love.
Of cert not of the consequence thereof.

Of cert not of the consequence thereof.
You won't hear that one from the mouth of preachers,
when talking about marriage, about love,
or risk a startled snicker from the bleachers.
Since love is an invention of the mind,
a pirouetting egret serves its purpose,
so long as he's the procreating kind,
but so does any bird, so why the circus?
Did Nature have a different kind of goal
than merely the survival of the fittest?
A salmon swims upstream to chase his shoal,
but surely of a mind to prove the neatest,
the bestest, fastest salmon he can be.
Still hopes to find his soulmate in the sea.

To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet.
I know, I know, the fashion is long out.
A woman would no more go with a bonnet
than grandma would have thought to go without,
And serenades? As like as not to hinder
the questing of a modern Cyrano.
He's better off to list himself on Tinder.
He'll still get the occasional "oh, no!"
when prospects see that nose in real life,
but others thinking opposites attract,
uninterested in the title "wife",
might nonetheless employ him for the act.
So that is modern love, but I'm old-fashioned.
I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned.

I'll settle for a sonnet, if impassioned.
Is there a point to any other kind?
True love cannot be limited or rationed,
a creature of the heart, not of the mind.
Unbounded, unconstrained and all consuming,
love cannot wait to taste you, to inhale
the perfume of a field of poppies blooming,
to search for words but ultimately fail,
because, how could it not? As a mere mortal
who's blessed with but a glimpse of the divine,
I'm praying for a covenant, a portal,
a sip of sacred, sacramental wine
that cannot be discarded or dismissed.
I lick my lips: remember how we kissed?

I lick my lips: remember how we kissed?
A taste of ripened strawberries still lingers.
I found myself unable to resist
the running of your hair right through my fingers.
To gently stroke your soft, peach colored cheek
and trace your pouty lips and teasing tongue,
the thought of it still makes a man grow weak.
Whatever may be wasted on the young,
it isn't love, I think we've proved that much,
or have we? Has the passing of the years
done anything to dull or numb your touch?
Is love still just as animal, as fierce?
Yes, strawberries, I think, oh they were sweet!
A snack, hon? Is there anything to eat?

A felony or misdemeanor.
These words are poorly understood.
One seems the opposite of meaner,
the other feels as if it should,
but if it was in fact its inverse,
then you might think the deed's indeed worse,
whereas the opposite is true,
depending on your point of view.
I will elucidate, as follows:
back when the French had ruled the day
to felonize meant to betray,
and thus go swinging from the gallows.
Betrayal's always of a kind.
The other crimes? We pay no mind.

A laugh, a laugh, my kingdom for a laugh!
Not something that you're gonna hear too often,
but if you're prone to speaking off the cuff,
without the common sense to mince or soften
expressions of your effervescent glee,
regardless of their circumstance or placement,
then whether paid for, or indeed for free,
deriving satisfaction from abasement
will put you at the risk of losing all.
Yes, silence is still worth its weight in gold
and speech still free, but there's a protocol,
unwritten though it is, and jokes grow old.
And so it turns that in the Land of Woke,
you'll lose entire kingdoms for a joke.

Will Death not come and rescue me entire?
What use is Life without you, dearest Queen?
Be back within in your arms, my one desire,
but Death refuses, nowhere to be seen.
And so I pass my days, in melancholy,
recounting each caress and every touch,
but it's of little help. How can one tally
the depths of my despair when it is such.
"Go, live", so says my fool, but Crystalina,
I have no use for the advice of fools.
The sun may rise again, and grass get greener,
but ours, the kind of love that knows no rules,
demands I spend my days in solemn prayer.
I'll join you soon, love, fairest of the fair.

Author notes: prompt: V. Her final ode (Sep. 2013)

How do you find the road less traveled?
Is it the color of the stones
with which the road was paved or graveled?
Betrayed by somewhat darker tones,
aha, so this one sees less traffic.
The reasons might be geographic,
the curvature of its design,
or possibly, an errant sign.
Still, you would like to make a statement
and so despite the simple math
you choose to choose this lesser path,
no matter that it's an abatement,
so step by step, betray no fear,
and when you get there, say: I'm here.

testing a haiku
the AI keeps on blocking
my rhyming sonnet

Oblivion, our final destination,
the one we cannot turn from or avoid.
First forced into the world beyond gestation,
appearing superficially annoyed,
we quickly get the hang of it, and weep,
afraid to doze or even catch a wink,
and only later learn to long for sleep,
on nights when we seem cursed to lie and think,
while staring, helpless, into nonexistence,
our outsized brains locked into overdrive,
continuously measuring the distance
to that ignoble end. To be alive,
in constant fear of death, what cruel twist.
The price we pay for knowing we exist.

I wonder, stranger, did you see him fall?
So beautiful, his wings, just like a swan's,
but bigger, much much bigger. Dark and tall,
complexion that's more Coppertone than bronze,
and face, that of an angel in a grimace.
It made me hurt, that pain, as if it's mine.
Some say that he was trying to redeem us,
to liberate our souls from the Divine --
what value do they have if there's no bidder?
Convincing God each one of us has worth,
though dust to dust, He'd better reconsider,
no matter that He'd made us from the earth,
sky iron's at the core of every pebble.
The final spark was given by a rebel.