Poems

ah, here is young Pythagoras
he is all points and angles
is it a wonder, looking thus
he studied those triangles
and to his bullies, he showed them
Pythagorean theorem

the sun, fragmented by the forest
into a thousand points of light
bouquet of a celestial florist
the shadows dancing in delight
reflecting purple, gold and brass
now trapped forever, amber glass

The devil, in his quest to reign supreme,
decided that he'll need a few more souls.
Perusing through his arsenal, a meme
seemed best equipped to engineer their falls

Thus harvesting the clicks, he sat to watch,
as fingers pointed and as stones were thrown,
and souls fell, just a bit, just one more notch;
the meme appeared to strike just the right tone

Devil's dessert, delicious schadenfreude,
his constant goal, his ever present theme.
No need to check with Skinner or with Freud.
You know now why you love a clever meme

I had a peculiar dream
a well known psychologists team
Yung, Skinner and Freud
dissect schadenfreude
and all is not what it would seem

like radioactive elements
civilizations have
a half life

that point past which

most goodness
has been spent
and darkness looms

do show me those that would oppose
however thorny, this red rose
or those that still ignore the thrill
of this delightful daffodil

those that refuse to heed the hues
of violets, and sing the blues
over a poppy's bitter cup
and chase their dragons while they nap

those who, their irises split so
they cannot see the snowdrops thaw
how can you help but pity those
it is for them, this thorny rose

The forest, soon to wake up, makes a sound
of stretching sleepy limbs from head to toe.
The snowdrops peek above the thawing ground,
and squirrels settle scores with friend and foe.
A songbird dares to test its vocal chords;
the orchestra then joins the exercise.
A symphony presented for awards,
ambition as important as pure size.
How do they know, the critters, low and high
that time has come to sing their way to love?
That serenade they must, however shy?
Was there a signal sent from up above?
All that exists must serenade the spring,
and so I join the chorus, and I sing

my friends and colleagues
faces on video calls
I miss our lunch breaks

Another call. The faces take their places.
A choreographed dance, fit for the stage.
Cliched, exhausted, hackneyed social graces
and tedious routines refuse to age:
"oh, hahaha, I think you are on mute",
"I'm loving your new background, it's so cute!"
A few more fits and starts, the meeting lingers.
I push it to the side, my nimble fingers
are working on a Wordle while they chat.
I cannot mute it though, might miss a question
and get invited to another session.
(Yeah, fitting words to boxes is all that!)
The last two years, you ask? They have been trying.
But all in all, preferable to dying.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2803653-Poetry-Symposium-Competition-Sonnet-Categor A modified Onegin sonnet

Granddaughter called today, on Facetime
and in her hand, a big balloon
she said: "it's almost past my bedtime,
but grandpa, are you coming soon?
We have new flowers in our garden",
she hiccupped then, then added "Pardon!,
and also mommy said I could
get a new puppy, if I'm good!"

"I'll see you soon", I said, "my dearest"
the screen had just been at its clearest
the pictured turned a little blurry
and hastily, I wiped a tear
"real, really soon, hon, don't you worry,
I'll see you really soon, my dear"

awash in sharp, resplendent colors
the flowers grow on No Man's Land
defying the most ardent scholars
those seek, in vain, to understand
the shrapnel from misfired missiles
had long since sullied the good earth
no semblance of a rose or thistle
no one to plant a virgin birth
and yet they grow, a splash of happy
a limbo, in between two hells
red, crimson blood, a field of poppies
right next to unexploded shells

armchair warriors
love working from home
the modern art of war