surf comes in with gentle kisses
tells the sand of how it misses
the blue waters of the deep
hidden canyons, dark and steep
and the sand, rapt, listens, listens
as the sunset gleams and glistens
Author notes: image from alabamanewscenter.com
I open my journal
in summer and fall
one entry, diurnal
the seasons may roll
and winter may hinder
and autumn reach bottom
hope spring is eternal
from winter to autumn
a poem must deliver
in case you ever doubt it
a chuckle or a shiver
it cannot live without it
its form must serve this function
while otherwise maintaining
the requisite conjunction
(am I per chance mainsplaining?)
this can achieve a certain
expected satisfaction
and then, throw wide the curtain
observing the reaction
but doing it on meter
can often be exhausting
rob Paul, best give to Peter
no matter what that's costing
to some he's just another cock
from Pinterest or Shutterstock
and posing for as full a spread
as page allows -- as to its head,
seems rather small, were size to matter,
but matters not, and hens will flatter
Author notes: image from birdspot.co.uk
Announcer says: approaching Sonnet Station.
My ears perk up. I'm going to Nantucket.
The book is stillborn, midway through gestation.
Nantucket being where one goes when fuck it.
I chuckle at the thought of all the has-beens'
debating whether dots must have two spaces.
The dusty bookstores and their empty dust bins;
the never-will-bes' in their coffee places.
What kind of town would call itself a "sonnet"?
A poet colony? Is it contagious?
Romantics seize your soul and feast upon it,
and rhyme-a-dozens masquerade as sages?
Full stop. Doors open. Sky is grey with rain.
I hesitate... then leave doubt on the train.
the box said do not touch and do not open
but did they listen? surely, they did not
against all odds, apparently, were hoping
that those who labeled it simply forgot
a bad mistake, you really can't ignore her
not if the sender's first name is Pandora
a sunflower challenged a rose to a duel:
you're not only stubby but you're also cruel
those thorns in your side have hurt many a lover
and any that pick you will surely discover
that your shallow beauty comes only with pain...
he stopped, feeling no further need to explain
the rose swallowed the barbs and replied with aplomb:
I may often grace a distraught lover's tomb
and surely my crimson, the color of blood
but I can do yellow as well as your bud
and yes, I don't follow the traveling sun
its light stops for me, because I am the one
and so they kept at it, a petal for petal
a flowery duel to test any mettle
until craven ravens got the sunflower's seeds
and the rose's great vines overran with green weeds
and the garden turned fallow, and dirt turned to dust
for the must be a winner, surely there must.
poor Hephaestus works as best as
he can muster, even faster
god-made steel sold for a steal
inlaid with gold and alabaster
Greek demand way beyond plan
and so he has to ship in bulk and
signs each sword and every order
so he shortened name to Vulcan
Labyrinth, they have a tour.
headlined by the Minotaur,
long since broken and quite tame.
He just hasn't been the same
since that deal with Theseus,
who I hear is busy as
Ariadne's daddy's aide;
selling yarn: they have it made.
Branded mugs and pottery,
and of course a lottery
each man is an island, but all in one ocean,
in life giving waters that ripple and churn
the waters, they carry, in roundabout motion
ideas, like seeds, to each island in turn
as some islands bloom with all manner of flotsam
and others turn desert, dead shells on the beach
life doesn't give up and keeps coming, although some
determined old atolls remain out of reach
on some nights she thinks Aladdin
out there helping the downtrodden
but on others she's afraid
that he's found a pretty maid
Jasmine, in her brand new life
no more princess, now a wife
Author notes: image from vectorstock.com
Well, let’s talk Paris if you think we must.
Our moonwalks up and down Champs-Élysées
Was any of it more than wanton lust,
a textbook love affair, a sad cliché?
The promises, the lies, oh, but we knew!
We knew, but let the city have its way,
and so, the days we had, too few, too few,
would not allow for truth. We had to say:
“I love you”, “I will leave her”, “I’ll come back”.
“I’ll always”, “I’ll remember”, “I'll be free”.
Our hearts, as if they’ve always had the knack,
pretended not to hear and not to see.
Alone now, in the early winter chill...
And Paris? Never had it, never will.