All writing

fireflies are for Julys, locusts are for Augusts
legacies of mostly wise Romans in their togas
when the calendar relents into colder seasons
do beware the Ides of March, Senate had its reasons

a sonnet a day keeps the doctor away
the doctor preferring free verse
so I've taken to writing them into the night
and so far no reactions, adverse
maybe site of injection, so after reflection
I might need to choose a new form
let me try this for size, try appear to be wise
it was dark outside, there was a storm

hope heard some say that she dies last
long after all is lost,
when all that's best is in the past
and all that's needed most
is gone, forgotten, suds of soap
all you can do is grieve
she's heard it all, but being hope
continues to believe

I know I have a way with words
but rarely stop to weigh them
in search of medals and awards
got nowhere to display them
of late though, they have lost some weight
it might be something that I ate

when a dog has its day, does it know
does it care if it's win, place or show
no, its day is complete
when you give it a treat
and you ask it to give you its paw

Your wrinkles, trophy for participation.
The age spots measure trips around the sun.
The line you have to stand in at the station
reminding you that you are not the one.

No first class seats for you, no shiny medals.
As plain and ordinary as can be.
You're not the one that wins, you're one that settles
There's nothing to admire, naught to see.

And yet a part of you still keeps on dreaming
a hopeful, foolish child that trusts, believes,
convinced you've something special and redeeming,
though fate, so stubborn, hides it up her sleeves.

This inner angst, your shrink makes a suggestion,
is likely just a bit of indigestion.

The multiverse, a flexible contraption,
so God's inclined to let it do its thing,
explore the most impractical of options
and strum each strange and quirky cosmic string.

There's one where Eve refused to bite the apple,
no matter the reward or provocation;
makes Satan and the angels try and grapple
with each divine, immaculate gestation.

If there's no bite -- is there no good or evil,
cognition a prerequisite of sorts,
or are these forces integral, primeval
predating Hell and Heaven and their courts?

As Eve and Adam frolic without sin,
their world awaits its signal to begin.

Some days you'd trade a kingdom for a horse.
But mostly, you would rather take the kingdom,
and work to be the subject of a course
on how to pick your battles and to win them.

Some days proceed exactly as you like,
but many are a comedy of errors,
and worst are those determined but to strike
your clenching heart with undiscovered terrors.

Some days it feels that love is labor lost,
a night's dream, nothing more, a passing pleasure,
and others find you paying any cost,
refusing any boundary or measure.

Most commonly, your days are much ado,
and all is well that ends well. Good for you.

The panting dogs of summer off their leash
and roam the Earth from middle spring to autumn.
Parched tree coronas painting a pastiche
of hungry flames. Leaves falling to the bottom,
then offer kindling to the raging fire,
the forests merely husks of former glory,
a fire that consumes the world, entire,
an ashen end to mankind's sorry story.

As Sirius retires to his kennel
and licks his scarred and bloodied, mangy paws,
does he imagine Earth when it was gentle
the planet as it could be, never was?

Anthropocene, as we now rate an epoch.
Anticipate our failure to be epic.

Apparently, two wrongs don't make a right.
Arithmetic is hardly my dominion,
but having seen how right is made with might,
inclined to think it merely an opinion
and not a fundamental, rigid law,
a rule that doesn't tolerate exception,
or axiom from which conclusions flow,
enhancing understanding and perception.

Exasperated, I'm in search of proof,
refuse to be accused of dereliction,
but bound by duty to remain aloof
in separating tested fact from fiction.

Results are coming in, it won't take long.
Unless, of course, I'm doing something wrong.

reason is the harshest prison
trapped by maybes and what ifs
day is rarely for the seizin'
wisdom, precious of all gifts
will seek comfort over freedom
caged birds sing because you feed 'em

Author notes: image from shutterstock.com

Conspiracists that graduate to practice --
mere theories no longer all the rage,
and further, insufficient to distract us.
By practicing, they manage to engage.

Bear witness to the recent UFO news.
The Pentagon, and hearings on the Hill.
Aways from big ole' Bigfoot with his snowshoes,
or choosing the right color for your pill.

What is this urgent need for hidden meaning,
for proving that there is a puppeteer
dictating ways in which each leaf is leaning
and nobody and nothing is sincere?

The one and only "truth" of which we're certain:
there is indeed a man behind the curtain.