Poems

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.

things have gotten so political
they are going to
primary colors

A belly full of laughs is on the menu,
mixed in with the occasional raw tear.
And that's what you expect when in this venue.
What was it in the ad that drew you here?
The actors with their bios and their pictures,
the effervescent, luminous reviews?
The playwright and director, Broadway fixtures,
all smiles in their promotion interviews?
Can anything compare to simple laughter,
forgetting all your major aches and pains
and anything that's still to come, but after,
for now you're here. The Playbill that explains
will try but cannot substitute for this.
An evening in the theater. And bliss.

pollinators
pond with gators
bush or two
and park
curators

Some chocolates in a crimson, heart shaped box.
If ever there's a thing that says I love you
with much less of an effort -- maybe socks,
a teddy or a teddy bear, what have you,
I don't know what it is -- the corner stores,
the pharmacies, the strip malls...and those cards,
in proper shade of pink: oh, she adores,
he cherishes, they worship, with regards,
and on and on. Is any of it real,
or just another method of pretending,
to mask, to hide the way you really feel,
behind the ostentatious, never ending
display of fake emotions. Dwell upon it.
To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet.

Utopia is just around the corner,
feet pacing, she is champing at her bits
and terabytes. We really ought to warn her,
but no, not yet, best wait till she commits,
too late to change her mind, cause we all want it,
despite the protestations and the plaints.
And what comes after? Cannot see beyond it.
The history of shackles and restraints,
attempts to hold the genie in the bottle,
does not inspire confidence or trust.
If anything, we're apt to go full throttle,
oh, sure, some things will break, we'll readjust.
I see she's made the turn, about to find me.
Best practice that fake smile. Get thee behind me.

Awake, the words are swirling in a maelstrom
and fighting off the sentences they're given.
Insomnia, that's where I get these tales from.
Fall into bed, in hopes to be forgiven,
if only for one night, but no reprieve.
Past midnight, I am staring at the ceiling,
and struggling: to give or to receive,
then try the sentence one more time, with feeling.
A volta flashes, an unlikely spark,
exhaustion, or a touch of inspiration?
Whatever, I'm still lying in the dark,
and truth be told, awash in perspiration.
A blink, and I pass out, sleep gave no warning.
The writing down will have to wait till morning.

Our scene: a hunter's cabin in the woods.
Outside, the night has woken up the crickets,
and predator and prey resume their feuds.
A spiderweb laid out atop the thickets
is glistening with moonlit, pearly dew,
its owner absent, swallowed by a sparrow,
or dinner for an overzealous shrew.
A rabbit peeks, nose sniffing, from her burrow,
the crescent still too bright, she's in no rush.
First hesitates, then springing into action,
takes off for parts unknown across the brush,
her bushy stompers excellent for traction.
Each creature's purpose solely: eat, prey, love.
The hunter's here for all of the above.

sprinkled with stardust
the sky effervescent
god as an artist
had painted the crescent
yellow as cheddar

I'm light as a feather

Author notes: image from Facebook

Tuscany, Gascony, Italy, France
brunch in the courtyard, a touch of romance
where are the people, you'll see 'em
they're off to another museum