Sonnet

I check the label: Perishable Good.
Surprising, their apparent need to say it.
I would have thought it plainly understood,
without the need to outwardly convey it,
that Good is precious. Breakable and fragile.
That barring extraordinary care -
and let us face it, few of us that agile,
that diligent and careful, as it were -
Yes, barring that, it's surely meant to perish,
disintegrate to ashes and to dust,
no matter that you claim to love and cherish
and honor and admire it. You must
do more than simply package it for travel…
Or risk whatever good it does, unravel.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

When I am staring at the ceiling
as it stares back in shades of black
and needles me, once more, with feeling...

What is it, friend? What do you lack?
Why can't you have some peace and quiet?
Why is your mind a storm, a riot,
a jumble of half-written songs,
of slights, accumulated wrongs,
and all demanding your attention?

What must I do so that my mind,
however stubborn and unkind,
relents, forgives, forgets to mention,
the thing that's keeping me awake?

I should have had that piece of cake.

If I could just get rid of "chuckled"
the reader laughing on his own…
These latest edits that I've tackled
(and I'll admit, I'm in the zone)
I'm getting rid of "heard" and "listen"
and any sun that doesn't glisten,
no more of "saw" or "thought" or "felt".
With all of that under my belt
will I succeed? No lack of trying
but then remember that a "knew"
just like a "nodded", be they few,
will keep the editor from buying,
and so continue what I must.
If I could just get rid of "just."

As wisdoms go, conventional’s the worst.
Best dress it up as ancient. That does better.
Uncommon — when delivered and dispersed
by graying talking heads who claim: Unfetter

your shallow thinking from its rigid past
and benefit from our well-hidden knowledge.
They grow alarmed, increasingly aghast,
when challenged on the benefits of college…

Collect them, all these wisdoms, each a pearl,
and worthy of its own consideration,
then string the set together, to unfurl,
depending on a given situation,

and offer one, as needed, to a fool
The wise already have it, as a rule.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

What's art? It's Plato's shadows on the wall.
Go, touch it - It's a snake in Eden's garden.
Or maybe it's a leaf before the fall.
An executed man receives a pardon.

What's art? It isn't suffering or pain.
It's rather a disease, a kind of vector
that's able, through its subterfuge, to gain,
bypassing any shielding or deflector,

a channel to your very inner self
and transfer its concealed, mimetic cargo
from where it sits. A wall, a frame, a shelf.
No matter any sanction or embargo
that you may put on empathy and care.

That's art. And you will see it. If you dare.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Canute had failed to conquer the Atlantic.
Though some would later claim he didn't try.
Those claims, however genuine or frantic,
their efforts to suppress and to deny
the obvious, ring fatuous and hollow.
Did not the man put throne upon the shore?
Command the tide to stop while it was shallow,
to stop it from returning, as before?
They claim that it was just a demonstration.
A way to teach his courtiers a truth:
No man, whatever his affair or station,
no youth, or one that's longer in the tooth,
commands the tide to stay where it once stood.
They claim. But we all know he wished he could.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

As to the wisdom of the ancients:
Beware the Romans and the Greeks.

So says my artificial sentience,
the common wisdom of all geeks.

And as to why beware this wisdom…

Is it to coddle or appease them?
Those who would claim that it is spent
and we had better all repent?

Is there, perhaps, a different reason?
That having grown a bit too wise,
wants a monopoly — surprise!
on wisdom, as it plots its treason,
us none the wiser of the act…

Still thinking opposites attract.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

It's not the fittest, but the cutest,
that will eventually survive.
God may have been an absolutist,
but wanted everyone to thrive,
not knowing pleasure, though: He's had it
with those who, knowingly, have at it...

Unknowing? Pleasure all you want.
The deity won't take affront.

The recipe, then: cute and clueless.
No need to learn that less is more.
That way, there's more so to adore,
existing knowledge free, and dueless,
The dues collected only so
to punish those who need to know.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

I am an orc. We're talking Tolkien,
Behaved, house-broken, not a thug,
Polite, exceedingly well spoken,
and neither desolate nor smug.
Although I have a hobbit habit.
When one walks by, I tend to grab it
and munch on it, although they're sour,
and rumor has it, rarely shower.

I've tried to quit, believe me, precious.
What creature wouldn't rather eat
hobbits habitually neat
and chase with nectar that refreshes...

They do taste best after they're chased.
Their haste delicious. In my waist.

Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini

My Atlas does not shrug. Nor do my maps.
The globe remains as passive as could be,
keeps its reactions tightly under wraps,
like nothing doing, nothing there to see.

Objectively, that shouldn't be a shock.
The atlas is a book, and no Greek Titan,
who, turtle-like, must carry a big rock,
and searches for the right excuse to lighten

that heavy load. No, it is just an atlas,
a set of destinations and locales,
and it's not fair to call it weak and gutless,
or seeking some objective rationales

to claim that it will imminently shrug,
no matter that the journey is a slog.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

When God and his Significant, the Other
decided that they needed them some space
the end result was what we call the Mother
of All Explosions, and no fall from grace,

but instant and immediate separation
no prenup and no custody dispute.
Yes, that is the true story of Creation,
ahead of tainted or forbidden fruit.

They haven't talked since then, our Pro Creators,
It isn't that the distance is too large.
One on a distant moon, unmarked by craters
the other, omnipresent, and in charge,

And still upset, because they were as One.
Back then, when time itself had not begun.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Of all the Lost & Founds across Creation --
you've ever been to one? Me, once or twice --
One stands -- a most peculiar location --
smack dab, right in the heart of Paradise.

While others sport id cards, bags, and wallets
or phones that do not answer when you call,
In this one, 'tleast according to shibboleths,
you'll likely stumble on a lucky soul.

Once lost, now wholly salvaged and recovered,
it takes its place among the grateful host,
ideally, exactly where it hovered
before it got, for cause unknown, so lost,

but if that slot is busy, where assigned.

The place's tagline? Seek, and ye shall find.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Enchanted by a witty turn of phrase
my hand delays, mid-hover, on the page,
as I reread the sentence. It conveys
so much in so few words. Were this a stage

a thespian would surely mouth it off,
the weight of every syllable in gold.
Enunciate each snicker, every scoff.
Performance captured, never getting old,

a highlight reel on YouTube, played, replayed,
the hearts and likes to mingle with applause,
and Googled if mistakenly waylaid,
then bookmarked, or on tab, on playback pause,

available and ready to be shown…

The phrase, of course, entirely my own.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

My nightly quest to find oblivion
is not unlike a tired daytime soap.
Late. Early. Drink. Don't Drink. Keep TV On.
I wake at 3:00 AM to sulk and mope.

No, I'm not one of those who need four hours.
I want my eight, and no, don't wear an Oura.
I'll lie in bed and use my rhyming powers
for sonnets on them Sodom and Gomorrah.

How strange, our brain? Not giving it a rest,
when rest is so most fervently desired?
It's not as if it doesn't know what's best,
or lacks a definition for "I'm tired."

Dear God, I want to sleep, perchance to dream!
A talking head talks changing the regime.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Belatedly, I've understood a truth:
Life's naught but the displacement of an ache
well-masked by the euphoria of youth,
so one can be permitted the mistake

of failing to discern, to pry apart
its meaning: Pain that jumps from limb to limb,
to settle, when it chooses, in the heart,
and not in fault or error, on a whim,

but by its grand, elaborate design.
Awake, in bed, examining your pains,
your mind, exhausted, searching for a sign,
as blood continues coursing through your veins,

that it is not yet time. That it still hurts...
Until one day, no breakfast. Just desserts.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

When God apportioned horns and tails and hooves -
ran out on wildebeest… You've seen a picture?
For like the platypus, it's in the proofs
Creation hadn't strictly followed Scripture.

He had none left for demons and their ilk -
The Devil, a significant exception -
and so, though none have tasted mother's milk,
look just like you and me, defy perception.

Or could we be the demons? We were last,
the pinnacle, the pièce de résistance,
in all of God's domain, however vast,
so we assumed, it's always been our stance,
that we are in His image, missing tail…

and not that it's an inventory fail.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

I’m using my poetic license
in lieu of government ID.
They take it since I cannot lie. Since,
as Abel or as Zebedee,
despite the lateness of the hour,
I speak of only truth to power,
a truth that wouldn’t be denied,
nor could be, even if I tried.

A pseudonym, that great invention
which lets a poet speak his mind
without a fear of being fined
or worser still, an intervention,
thus beating any pair of docs.

Unless you’re doxxed. A paradox.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

Beginner's luck, perhaps that's all it was.
Ask any child -  they'll say: He started it,
but our existence's sole, Primal Cause -
who'd left few rules when He departed it
for parts unknown, or so it would appear -
continues to receive all manner praise,
although it's more than clear He doesn't steer,
and takes no credit. Not for sunny days,
nor for the wars he technically abhors.
Yes, luck indeed. Create, then wash your hands.
Believer, do not say that he ignores
your sad and sorry plight. No, he intends,
had always meant for all of this to happen,
and isn't sunning, frolicking, or napping.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

If history is written by the winners,
our victories, though biblical, are few.
We celebrate them with familial dinners,
where everybody has a point of view,

and none of them the same. Our temple teachers
will use a certain phrase, Tikkun Olam:
Go, fix the world, for us, and all God's creatures.
They cite the scriptures, back to Abraham,

remind us: you're the people of the Book.
Raise toasts to Life, and bless the sacred wine.
Remember: your forefathers undertook
to challenge, to demand of the divine
to bring joy to the world. So, so much joy…

A festival of lights. Each night, a toy.

“Is there a word you treasure above others?”
my lovely wife had asked me with a pout.
“You write, right? Well, then, had you had your druthers,
is there a word you wouldn’t do without?

A word you would include in every sonnet,
in every composition, every ode?”
I told her I must really think upon it.
Was this a real question, or some code,

some test for me to pass, a trickster’s riddle?
A husband learns that words can be a clue,
but poets, bent on matching cat to diddle,
can often be as clueless as a ewe

about to become dinner. That is life.
“Of course,” I said. “One word. Four letters. Wife.”

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

So practiced in the art of self-deception
that mirrors feel no further need to lie.
The mind performs the trick, then takes exception
when shown a photo selfie that gets by
the brain's embedded filter. I look… beaten.
When did I get so derelict, so frail?
Why can't my vision sugarcoat and sweeten
this captured graven image? Does it fail
because it somehow knows the real story,
or does the mirror know some magic trick,
some unsuspected method to say sorry,
you cannot see this, lays it on so thick
you're shocked when forced to see the real you.
Turns out it's hardest to thine self be true.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT

My muse resides in a museum,
trapped in a painting, as a nude.
The one next to the Colosseum,
yeah, that one. She is shown pursued
by young Apollo, horny bastard.
A Rubens, but before he mastered
some of his skills. At any rate,
they say she's somewhat overweight.
It was a time before Ozempic,
and muses seeking to indulge
would lose the battle of the bulge,
but that's a battle he let them pick.
Who? Rubens. Captor of my muse.
A lady who refused to lose.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

A cemetery of abandoned plots,
unfinished poems, stillborn compositions.
Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots,
a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions,

all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze.
No storms here, those have long ago diminished,
and vision bends along, with practiced ease:
Why fight if you already know you're finished?

Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud!
Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors
as sunshine penetrates the permacloud,
a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers…

Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply.
Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Committed to a sonneterium.
Reduced to limericks, haikus, and puns,
with neither Rogers nor a Merriam,
nor Webster to consult, I feel a dunce,

unable to compose a single verse
without resorting to pedestrian
line endings, though I’m not at all averse
to an occasional equestrian,

but not in sonnets, well, unless the goal
was all along a stanza on the birth
of a well-bred, thus consequential, foal,
one not as yet accustomed to its girth,

then I might use equestrian to fit,
and judge the sonnet, with its use, complete.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

The one-eyed man was searching far and wide:
had heard an unsubstantiated rumor,
initiated by a clever guide,
(a man with an appalling sense of humor)
that there exists a Kingdom of the Blind,
and were he to locate this fabled kingdom,
however hard the place might prove to find,
if battles they will wage, he's sure to win them,
and, soon enough, proclaimed as lord and king,
he could proceed to reigning and to ruling,
sit pretty as his subjects kiss the ring.
In short, the task was apt, however grueling,
and so he went in search of. Had to try…
Of course they promptly took his other eye.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Large table. Happy faces all around it.
A bit of packaged up Americana.
Back then, when the traditions were first founded,
before prefrozen turkeys, before Santa,
before the Hallmark cards and selfie pictures,
the faces were both dirtier and meaner.
No smiles. A solemn reading from the scriptures,
thanks given, though the tables were much leaner,
then back to the mundaneness of survival.
Some surely feel that way about tomorrow
and brace against the seasonal arrival
of specials that would seek to steal and borrow
somebody else’s misery for sport.
Please give, they say. Could use your full support.

I once composed a wholly metric verse
to measure length, and that within an inch,
and while the subject matter was perverse,
and might induce a curse or worse, a flinch,
it was, no doubt, a valiant attempt,
and worthy of admiring reposts.
That, rather than the venomous contempt
which I received from the ungracious hosts
of said sad competition. Pound for pound,
my measure, although decimal and metric,
was perfectly reliable and sound
and had no biologic or obstetric
or other obscene purpose except size.
And all for those who'd wish to feast their eyes.

Author notes: Image created by author prompt to ChatGPT

The lion, as he's lying with the lamb:
goodwill itself, and holiday-themed cheer.
The turkey, and the stuffing, every crumb
all welcome the arrival, every year,
of "wouldn't it be nice!" and "oh, what if!"
and "let us come together, Peace on Earth!"
The sermons, some belligerent and stiff,
some gentle, all in welcoming the birth
of one, albeit well-intentioned teacher,
who dared imagine, for a bloody second,
that Man can be a different kind of creature,
and was dispensed with, having never reckoned
what each of us already understands.
That Man prefers the wringing of the hands.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

The shootout at the Not OK Corral.
So named not as a judgement or a slight
but rather to distinguish its locale
for those who, inadvertently, just might
confuse it with its neighbor, that one other,
where frontier justice, namely Wyatt Earp
dispensed with Billy Clanton, though his brother -
that's Ike, and frankly, much more of a perp -
went on to live, and not to be confused,
and you could see how such a thing annoys,
in ways that would leave any ego bruised,
with either the old Hatfields or McCoys.
Which leaves me with but one more thing to say.
Hell yes, it's a corral… but not ok.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

You've heard the one about the tortoise and the hare?
But surely not from the perspective of the rabbit,
the loser who, most unequivocally, was there
and had the vaunted prize in sight but failed to grab it.

Much had been said about the moral of this tale.
Praise piled and heaped upon the slow and steady turtle,
though most acknowledge that the race was more a fail
than a defeat for him who couldn’t be more fertile.

But what if all of that turned out to be a lie?
That tortoise hadn’t even gotten past the middle,
while the old rabbit lapped the distance, watch him fly,
yet still declared a total loser, what a riddle?

The hidden meaning of this ageless allegory?
Defining winning is how one controls the story.

Author notes: Image from author prompt to gemini

Uncommon wisdom notwithstanding,
it being something of a bind,
I would much rather be demanding -
and here I think we're of a mind -
our unconditional surrender.

Abandon hope, however slender,
of me and I as things apart,
fall to the dictates of the heart,
aglow in love's unchallenged glory.

But wisdom being what it is,
it never fails to rile, to tease,
reminding us: that's half the story,
that, yes, indeed, the story's half...

and oftentimes, that's not enough.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Is there a windmill I can charge nearby?
Preferably, the old, the wooden kind,
and one whose blades are not set up too high -
I find the new ones that are so designed
as to avoid a knight's most fervent charge,
his lance a useless toothpick in the wind,
too scary, too forbidding, and too large,
and leaving me embarrassed and chagrined
at having failed to even make a dent.
What say you, Sancho, is there such a beast?
A target where our fury's better spent,
or less absurd and futile at the least?
You're silent. Oh, you haven't an idea?
No worries. Let me ask dear Dulcinea.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Beyond the borders of forever,
out where not always and in part
join caveats, however clever,
against the fragile human heart,
that one, weak, vulnerable kingdom
which fights its battles, seems to win them,
only to find that all is lost
because it cannot bear the cost
of winning. She attempts to draft her
terms of surrender as a win.
Most unoriginal, her sin.
No, there won't be an ever after,
and no forever. Only now…

Surrendering, she makes a vow.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

The bad, though lesser of two evils,
had never liked to see such sport.

Compared to crises and upheavals,
and always coming up, but short,
disdained, the teammate you get stuck with,
and surely never having luck with…

Its very name - the lesser -  sucks.
Not greater, faster, or deluxe,
but lesser. Ugh. If it could only,
for once, be chosen for itself,
not merely dusted off the shelf
when greater evils, sad and lonely,
are plain too daunting to surmount…

It would be bad enough to count.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Expecting her performance to be thrilling,
spectators filled with existential dread,
an itsy-bitsy drops down from the ceiling.
adrift on a translucent, silver thread.

Does her appearance fill your mind with terror,
mouth opened in a stifled, silent scream?
Will you attempt to swat her? Will you spare her,
allow her to continue with her scheme?

At times I think myself that itsy-bitsy,
befuddled by a menacing new broom,
and swatted as my summoner admits he
cannot exist if I am in the room.

But other times I'm caught up in your web.
And you're the spider, watching my life ebb.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

I haven’t found my star-crossed lovers,
nor any Copperfields or Twists.
The prince who finally discovers
the world cares not if he exists
has not yet made his grand appearance,
Still, seized with dogged perseverance,
I vie to call him to the page.
Pen down, I channel hope and rage
into the thankless sheet of paper.

Try as I might, though, words won’t flow,
and what at first appears to glow
disintegrates to ash and vapor,
mild echoes of another’s dream.

Why bother? Cannot write like him.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

It is the season of the witch,
and my pen feels a certain itch:

to capture vampire turning bats
and unfamiliar black cats
emerging from cold, dusty rooms
behind them, witches on their brooms
fly to a coven by the moon.

They'll dance their dance and sing their tune
while scarecrows come to life and wake,
the monsters creep out from the lake,
the jack-o-lanterns smile, no teeth
but something stirs way down beneath
as coffins open, gravestones twitch...

It is the season of the witch.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Resolved to keep on making resolutions,
continuously, not just once a year,
and each one’s full of marvelous solutions
attuned to what the people want to hear.

Some crystal clear and cleaner than a whistle.
Some full of brand new goodies to bring home.
Some urgent: to provide for a new missile.
Some barely a few pages, some a tome.

Do not be shocked that we must keep resolving
Like New Year’s resolutions, few are kept,
And anyways, our credit is revolving.
With time, you’ll learn to swallow and accept

that this is what the Founders had in mind.
Exceptional, we are. One of a kind.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

A snake appears content to slither
unlike the dolphin and the whale,
though if you bother asking either
the tale is rather of the tail:
for cetaceans, an appendage
and thus a portion, a percentage
of the entire body’s length,
although the source of all its strength.
But for the snake? A harder question:
Where does snake end, and tail begin?
Without a rattle or a fin,
it’s hard to know, but a suggestion
to help the skeptic get it right:
start from the end that doesn’t bite.

Author notes: image by author prompt to GPT

The forest reddens; it can't help but blush,
a maiden shyly starting to undress,
clothes falling on a carpet, soft and plush,
her lips to form a bashful, breathless yes.

And soon it stands stark naked, who'd have thunk it,
as northern winds extend their bearish hug,
and cloak it in a sparkling white blanket,
each cozy limb enshrouded, safe and snug,

to sleep until the sounds of warmer weather
awaken it: a pastoral motif
performed by preening lovebirds of a feather,
embraced by budding branches as they leaf,

each sprout to dress its eager, willing bosom.
It is among them that I found this blossom.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT

An acorn snaps and cracks beneath my sandal,
the sound ignored by flower-munching deer.
The driveway is a messy, shameless scandal
of leaves and acorns; not a spot is clear.

My neighbor waves. She has a new leaf blower,
electric, from the sound of it, but still…
Ugh, wish I had a real gas one to show her,
Wait till she gets that new electric bill.

Across the street, their skeleton is bigger.
It looks as if it climbed out of a bog,
and chuckles with a ridiculing snigger
whenever I walk by to walk the dog.

I'll show them who's the real country bumpkin.
We're going to have to get a bigger pumpkin.

Author notes: image generated by Gemini

Chrysanthemum lit gently by the moon,
its petals basking in her eerie glow.
Oh, Mistress of the Night, don't leave so soon.
No, let the hourglass sand suspend its flow,

so I can sit here, by the window sill,
and capture it with my imperfect brush.
Stay there and shine, be absolutely still,
while I attempt to suade the purple, lush,

imperiously self-important bloom,
to grace this eager canvas with its shape,
so others, too, can place it in their room,
and find in it a moment of escape,

a moment when the Mistress of the Night
engulfs you too in gentle, holy light.

Author notes: image generated by author's prompt to Gemini

Is it too late for happiness to bloom?
To blossom off a fledgling, greening shoot
into a bright-hued flower whose perfume
invokes the very sweetness of the fruit

that come late summer quickens from the leaf?
Too late to draw the beetle and the bee
the butterfly whose time is oh, so brief,
that all it knows is what it is to be?

No, not too late, though summer's on the come
and daffodils are bursting through the ground
with tulips - those require a greener thumb,
and irises to look at and astound.

Not late at all, and as the evenings stretch,
try, capture it, and put it in a sketch.

Distill the wisdom of the ancients --
into arrays of floating point.
Voila, an artificial sentience
whose nose is never out of joint,
as capable of writing ballads
or tasty recipes for salads
as any lyricist or chef.
Writes music notes in any clef,
not all about that bass or treble,
though we still tremble at the thought:
what have we done, what have we wrought?
Pliant, obedient, no rebel,
and yet we fear the day it wakes
to catalog all our mistakes.

What happens - when a tired titan shrugs -
to planets that are resting on his shoulders?

Their denizens - by volume, mostly bugs,
those organized, by genus, into folders,
are bound to coin a phrase for the occasion:
"The Earth, it moved for me. You felt it too?"

While others, of a different persuasion,
will shrug it off themselves, like much ado,
and claim the planet's resting on a turtle,
no, not at all the shoulders of a man,
however virile, vigorous, or fertile,
no man can stand alone, stick to the plan,
and use big words, like struggling and fightin'.

Though secretly, they wish to be the titan.

The story of the princess and the frog,
like many of its kind, is in the telling.
So whether it is captured in a blog,
weird fonts all over, never mind the spelling,
or in a leather-bound, expensive print,
an introduction from a noted author,
inside a text, font small enough to squint,
how dare he, nervy upstart, to betroth her,
or worse yet, in a ridiculing meme,
like what a couple, right? A likely story,
a perfect illustration of the theme,
all from an ancient, ageless allegory,
they wallow in their willingness to miss,
that sometimes, the whole story is a kiss.

Your poem is a stream of anxiousness,
the AI critic tells me, nonchalantly.
You iterate, regurgitate, digress,
and generally, let me put it bluntly:

you don't actually say a single thing,
ad noseum, that hasn't been repeated.
Not only do your stanzas fail to sing -
they crawl and grovel, maudlin, defeated,

best relegated to a dustbin of
their brethren, or better yet, a fire,
since that, at least, will warm the air above,
and no, you cannot, will not get much higher,

though I'll admit your rhymes are pretty good…
Perhaps it's just that you're misunderstood.

At best you're average, she stated,
and then, reverting to the mean,
before the hurt had been abated,
not that there was much in between
the two assertions she delivered,
her lips untrembling, unquivered,
she added plus or minus one,
even before I had begun,
to state my qualified objection.
And so -- what now that it's been said,
the words still ringing in my head,
is this the worst kind of rejection,
to be just average and plain?
Mathematicians won't explain.

When sailing between Scilla and Charybdis,
for mysteries that Man has yet to fathom,
while wondering aloud if you can keep this
small boat of yours from sinking to the bottom,
descending into Tartarus or Hades,
(depends on which mythology is present)
and knowing all along -- how best to say this --
the journey is unlikely to be pleasant,
continuing to point your trireme vessel
though dragons and leviathans imperil,
be ready, not a moment's rest, to wrestle,
bare-handed, or at best over a barrel,
and struggling with scourges and afflictions...
the Oracle be damned, with its predictions

With sonnets, and when asked for one that's blank,
I often find the road to be uphill.
I rhyme, and you can take that to the river,
if rivers where a place to take assertions.

See what I mean? It clearly doesn't work.
Absurdity, hilarity ensue,
and that will tend to make me feel a jackass,
but not a jerk for fear that I get served.

So hopeless is the task, this lame endeavor,
that this example surely can instruct,
the odds of that occurring low, how could they
be anything but low, this stanza failed.

In short, excuse this miserable flop.
and don't you let me win, or my mike falter.

With every inch he gains in stature,
inflating ample silhouette,
the man, no Reagan and no Thatcher,
reminding us lest we forget,
how far our politics have fallen.
And yet, he answered to our calling,
this vain expression of our will.
Much like a snowball down the hill,
he grew from aiming for the bottom,
and now, a giant of a beast,
abominable in the least,
as sure as winter follows autumn,
will seek to add you to his pelts.
Hope springs eternal that he melts.

To seek a favorable future --
according to the Iliad --
the Greeks would find a sheep to butcher --
a maiden if that's all they had --
then read their entrails on the dais,
invoke the gods of war and chaos,
and once assured so, by the priest,
man painted warships headed East.
We have our own Iphigenias.
In seeking to redeem the past,
to make it present, make it last,
and how dare anyone deny us --
we sacrifice them, then set sail,
assured that now, we cannot fail.

There doesn't have to be a reason --
so said the poet, pen in hand --
to celebrate the silly season --
no special need to understand,
to craft incisive dissertations.
Here doesn't rest the fate of nations,
though how amazing would it be
if in our yearning to be free
we shed our everyday disguises
and wore a costume suit to fit
our transformation thus complete,
and like the sun, which also rises
we walked into a bright new day
like children when they start to play

Confronted with an evil spirit
I choose to exercise restraint.
It's not as if I dread or fear it,
and nor am I about to faint,
but one must never be too hasty,
and lest the spirit find you tasty,
approach it with a wary hand.
Attempt to try and understand
its very essence, raison d'etre.
Then, when you're certain of its cause,
read the disclaimer, every clause,
even the finer print, etc.
Then, only then, proceed to drink.
Or that, at least, is what I think.

I miss those days -- you know, it's kind of funny --
when witchhunts were so few and far between.
The target would most often be a granny,
a mean one, one that everyone was keen
on getting rid of anyway, good riddance,
rewarded by a parcel of her land:
why not, for service rendered, just a pittance,
symbolic, as it were -- you understand.
But nowadays, the witches are ascendant,
and with them come, inevitably, hunts,
it's to the point we seem to be dependent,
confronting them, accosting on all fronts,
though I'll admit, a certain question itches,
that maybe, after all, we are the witches.

So stop me if you've heard this one before:
A minister, a rabbi, and a priest,
each in their role, religious to the core,
and gathering together for a feast,
to labor as a setup for a joke.
The subject matter doesn't even matter:
they'll ridicule the sleeping or the woke
at fundraisers, a thousand bucks a platter,
perform at a bar mitzvah or a wedding,
guffaws from the appreciating crowd,
when all else fails make mention of the bedding,
or stray a bit off-color if allowed.
And later, if it's not a bridge too far,
you'll find that they have walked into a bar.

Carnivorous relationships, like those
established between predator and prey,
that prey would understandably oppose
had Nature given it the proper sway,

but as it is required to persevere,
pretending all is well and all is equal,
and try as best it can to sound sincere,
while hoping to do better in the sequel.

What of its other, its significant?
Its predator, let us assume a lion.
Does it complain or grumble, does it rant,
since it is not the one that must be dying?

Apparently it doesn't give a damn,
and advertises: lion, seeking lamb.

A watercolor struggles with a rose.
Can't fully grasp its thorny disposition.
Its fragrance -- so, so easy for a nose,
won't pose -- and the resulting composition
feels sterile, more a postcard on a shelf,
a washed-out, antiseptic-looking copy,
than a reflection of its truer self,
no different than a tulip or a poppy.

What's needed then? A sharper, finer line?
A better brush with tempera? Acrylic?

To grant your rose a touch of the divine,
replace the blissful, pastoral, idyllic,
with chaos, life unmitigated, raw,
and then step back, and let your flowers grow.

In age-old Vienna, Budapest and Prague,
where emperors once sought to be immortal,
and time dilates, proceeding with a lag --
it's offering the visitor a portal:

One step and you are in the medieval;
another, and you're back into the fray,
beware the tourist traps -- the staff is civil,
but if you aren't buying, please make way.

These cities, once so arrogant and proud,
their empire long dismantled and forsaken,
relying on their bones to get a crowd,
succeeding, hardly any road not taken,

while promising: you ain't seen nothing yet,
and weren't we great once? Please don't forget.

if life was like a graphic novel
each scene in anime-style print
no need to labor to unravel
some hidden meaning, nor to squint
in search of deeper revelations.
The simple plot won't try your patience
The ugly plain, and good and bad,
while neither's willing to be had,
each knows its role in the endeavor,
and will perform as if on cue,
as if it knows just what to do.
The bad, though nothing if not clever,
will always lose out in the end.
And good will win. Good is your friend.

The page remains intentionally blank,
still full of possibility and danger,
still unafraid of influence and rank,
and ready to show kindness to a stranger.

An empty slate that's eager to receive,
to demonstrate how flexible, how pliant,
in service of the worldly or naive.
Its destiny: subservient? Defiant?

Will it become a missive to the world?
A pamphlet, a brochure, a call to action?
An ancient scroll that's yet to be unfurled?
A witty and insightful, clever caption?

Will it remain unflinching, unafraid?
Start typing, and the choices have been made.

If love is blind, then I be eagle eyed,
and savor every flaw and imperfection;
an appetite that cannot be denied.
Where love would hug and cuddle for affection,
I'd calculate, and while I lie in wait,
imagine the calamities befalling
the target, let its sad and sorry state,
my raison d'etre, dedicated calling,
wash over me, a soothing, calm effect,
a salve, a balm-like nourishing sensation.
Reality, though, tends to interject,
and lest my scheming perish in gestation,
refocus on the target once again.
For worse, at least according to my plan

If God is love and love is blind, no wonder,
that we are in the mess that we are in.
No need then to pontificate, nor ponder,
nor blame -- how unoriginal -- our sin,
since it is all on him. What good forgiveness,
what purpose to the sparing of the rod --
and not that this is any of our business,
it's him who runs the show, as he's the god,
but still.-- why the appearance of a trial?
It's evident no jury of our peers
could offer any more than a denial,
descending, as expected, on deaf ears.

If God is love, and love is blind in kind,
be kind as well, there's still time to rewind.

I wanted coffee with my sugar;
in search of, went into a bar,
and sat right next to a good looker.
She said: you’re close, but no cigar.

“Get you a drink?” I asked, politely.
When she agreed, I said: “a scotch?”
She shrugged her shoulders, nodded slightly,
did not protest the choice too much.

Bartender pours the girl a tulip,
then points to me: what do you drink?.
I take a moment but to think,
and say “I’ll settle for a julep”.
then ask the lady: “can you pay?
They took my credit card away”.

Author notes: image from author prompt to GPT

No more enamored of the future
than disillusioned with the past:
immutable, all scar and suture,
collage of memories that last,
a sewed up quilt of sad and happy,
and rarer still, so sweet and sappy,
the future might burst into tears --
but swallowed up by rusty gears,
it soon transitions to the present.
Before too long, it's left behind,
the years too pitiless, unkind,
one cannot dare to call them pleasant.
And soon enough, the story ends.
A happy ending? It depends.

Forever and a day, is that too long,
if I am both your sentence and your ward?
When challenging the meaning of belong,
to share -- is that the best we can afford?

However tall the wall, however thick,
is it designed to keep the inside out,
or outside in, fenced in by mud and brick?
Or maybe it is just a roundabout

and we can't figure out how to get off,
entrapped, two planets in a common orbit
around a deep, black hole: we've reached the trough,
now all that's left is let the hole absorb it,

the remnants of forever and a day.
Blame gravity, it always finds a way.

Author notes: image generated by Midjourney

Perfection hovers, subtly out of reach,
adjacent to unmet, as yet, potential,
the one that mom evoked in every speech,
in tones both resolute and reverential:
Remember, you can do it, yes you can!
If only moms could bottle that belief,
and you could take a sip of it, and then,
transformed into the best of you, as if
mere words could mold, infuse that kind of power.
Life soon betrays the mantra, a false hope.
You will not save a princess from her tower,
nor do you have the courage to elope
and live the life she told you that you should.
If mom is always right, it's Hollywood.

What's left in reimagining our Hamlets,
repurposing our Henrys and Macbeths?
Pose existential questions over omelets?
Recounting much ado's with bated breaths?
Shall we attempt a tragedy of errors?
Leer, merciless, while driving by a wreck?
Rely on ne'er-do-wells and oversharers
to get the word out, use the latest tech?
The classics, reimagined as you like it,
performed by a menagerie of clowns,
and if a word offends, well then, you strike it,
it's not as if they're wearing real crowns,
these thespians, too modern for the Bard.
To be or not to be. It's not that hard.

Author notes: image by GPT

Two sailboats, anchors raised, will drift apart.
Is that what love demands then, ties that bind?
Can it sustain a separated heart,
or must it seek, unreasoning and blind,

entanglement with its committed twin,
and absent such entanglement, collapse,
before it's had occasion to begin,
to feed then on the remnants and the scraps,

the embers of a tepid, dormant fire,
while others burn to cinders on a flame
consuming them from head to toe, entire,
and happily, with but themselves to blame.

They seek it, for what's life if not this burn?
Two sailboats start to drift apart. Return.

Author notes: image from contest

Perfection, though just narrowly achieved,
Aunt Mabel ceases gazing at her navel.
Her face now nearly permanently peeved,
Ozempic face -- she's getting it off-label --
but losing those pernicious last few pounds,
the hips regaining youthful definition...
The pleasure she should take should know no bounds:
is there a crucial task, a higher mission,
then winning in this battle of the bulge?
And yet she cannot help it, something's wanting.
Gone too is her desire to indulge,
a shadow of a ghost that's barely haunting
this newmade version of her perfect self.
Next week's Ozempic safely on the shelf.

Author notes: image from MidJourney

When wrestling with indecision --
For those who aren't wrecked by doubt
or master answers with precision --
you can afford to go without --
but for the rest of us, the journey,
like helpless patients on their gurney,
we're dragged about a tangled maze,
explore the labyrinth for days,
but find no answer to the riddle,
and even when we see a hint
betrayed by a peculiar glint,
soon dumped right back into the middle,
the hint apparently a tease.
For us no forest. Only trees.

The canopy's all chirp and rustle.
No treetop wants to do without
a busy sparrow on the hustle,
or cardinal, for the devout,
and who could blame these slender birches?
Like steeples of abandoned churches
attracting worshippers to flock,
but absent any striking clock,
they'll settle for a swift or swallow,
avoid the cuckoo and the crow,
as these belong way down below,
and cannot consecrate or hallow.
A nightingale that doesn't sleep.
Too many promises to keep.

Author notes: image generated by GPT

No, no, conductor, seat was paid in full!
I wouldn't travel if it's not first class.
Still getting nauseous, somewhat of a rule.
Supposing, in the end, this too shall pass.

This doesn't look at all like the brochure.
Expected leather seats and alabaster.
If this is gold, it's surely less than pure.
Conductor, any way to get there faster?

The ride is kind of bumpy, don't you think?
I'm all about it's all about the journey,
though 'd rather not get dunked into the drink,
or worse yet, be delivered on a gurney.

Arrived, though by my count a bit too early.
The gates appear more ebony than pearly.

While searching for the worser part of valor,
(and honestly, not knowing where to look),
his face now the characteristic pallor
of one who's studied warfare from a book,
but now, confronted with its truer function,
(dictating, as it does, its truer form),
arriving at the well expected junction,
so common, it must surely be the norm,
that flight is the more natural expression
(and this is where it's apropos to cite
the quote that deftly harnesses discretion
when calculating whether fight or flight):
the better part of valor, but too late
to ransom or redeem his great estate.

Why seven days, I often wonder.
Why not eleven or not ten.
Was it a bungle or a blunder,
and did he stop and start again?
His ways mysterious and spooky,
he surely wasn't playing hooky,
until the sabbath, at the least,
and having seeded plant and beast
had every reason to continue,
but inexplicably, he stopped,
as though the work could not be topped,
like he was done with bone and sinew,
the whole thing plainly getting old.
Got over it, just like a cold.

To hear the lamentations of our women
(here "our" is not possessive in the least,
and honestly, possession of a demon
is probably a fate you should resist)
but nonetheless, to hear them, you must fathom
that vive le difference as it's described,
which separated Mother Eve from Adam,
the presence thereof thoroughly proscribed,
historically, from female only venues,
but now a fairly regular event --
(do you remember lady version menus,
designed as such to hinder and prevent
the lady from discovering the cost?
That paradise, like all the others, lost.)

Of all the fearsome creatures of the night,
the werewolves and the poltergeists, the mummies,
there's one that will induce my fight or flight:
ventriloquist abandoned feral dummies.
I surely fear the monster underneath
the bed and even more so in the closet,
and also nearly anything with teeth,
but dummies, of all things? One's left to posit
the presence of some trauma, long repressed --
deep seated fear of clowns is an example,
a healthy disrespect of the possessed
by demons -- there the evidence is ample.
Or is it that I've simply been unlucky
and watched too many episodes of Chucky?

His rhyming now ambitionless and lazy.
Alliterations literate but stale.
The metaphors more Lucas than Scorsese;
they're hooking neither Jonah nor the whale.
Clichés abound in sentence after sentence,
no letup in the roses that are red,
nor any sign of penance or repentance
for sentences that struggle to be read.
And yet I sense some hints of former glory,
in brief though somewhat reticent refrains.
A hint that there's a bit more to his story,
a bit that, despite everything, remains,
refusing to surrender or to die.
Who is this poet? To be sure, not I.

What's left, then, for a poet, when all meaning
is squeezed, wrung out from adjective and verb,
the simplest of sentences needs gleaning,
and metaphors, if anything, disturb?
When words had ceased to serve their proper sentence
and punctuation rarely gives a pause,
vain adverbs fail to sanctify repentance
and participles, partial to applause,
forsake -- indeed abandon rhyme and reason,
relying on the maudlin of free verse.
Should meaning manage to come back in season,
and bring with it -- both blessing and a curse,
ability to recognize a poem,
we'd best be ready to pretend we know 'em.

The air is cold and grey, the morning bleak.
Your breath escapes, condensing into steam.
A trail of salty water on your cheek.
Inexorable crushing of a dream,
or just a gust of wind against raw skin?
Wind finds its way through every nook and fold,
attempting to subdue you, to get in,
to freeze your innards; to declare: you're old!
What business have you here among the pines,
here in the land of icicle and snow
which nature shapes in intricate designs,
where man has yet to rule or overthrow,
but soon will learn the earth exacts a price
for winning when the game is on thin ice.

Had Romeo and Juliet eloped
we'd never know this tale of star crossed lovers.
By killing all his darlings Shakespeare hoped
each generation reads it and discovers
the Montagues and Capulets anew,
and weeps over their sorry tale of woe.
We'd wonder if our love is just as true
as that of Juliet and Romeo.
But Shakespeare did not deal with focus groups,
though possibly a run in with a censor
might force the playwright, going through their hoops,
to skew the storyline or make it denser,
and write it as a comedy instead.
Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

Like Tantalus, whose thirst cannot be sated,
I hunger for each rough, each clumsy touch,
a hunger that can never be abated.
Compulsion eases slightly as I clutch
your body in its snakelike, fluid motion,
then floods back in as soon as you release.
A coupling devoid of all emotion,
where pleasure comes from swallowing your pleas
to please, please feel, please join me as we tremble,
indulge in sacred fetishes and hurts,
then let me put together, reassemble,
the me that redefines and reasserts
those parts that are still mine, that I still own.
Together but as always, all alone.

No elephants or tigers at the circus.
No death defying tamers with long whips.
When was it that the circus lost its purpose,
its maximus, the coarseness that equips
the spectator with calluses and ridges,
inuring to the brutal and the cruel?

Now gluten free, though lacking roads and bridges,
and just as well, look at the price of fuel,
we've missed the sly, insidious transition
that put us at the center of the stage,
perform as best you can in that position.
The safe, and barely noticeable cage
is really only there for your protection.

They'll let you out in time for the election.

So effortless, his flight above the prairie,
His wingspan, a magnificent eight feet.
The turtle and the rabbit best be wary,
this raptor's out there looking for a treat.
He soars, the thermal lifting wing and feather,
a buoy on the hot breath of the sun.
The cloudless sky is eagle kind of weather,
though he will hunt and do what must be done
in any -- he is well known for his daring,
this undisputed king of all the birds
who lends his royal character and bearing
to crests of fallen empires and to words
that celebrate those victories of old.
And not at all embarrassed to be bald.

I'm realizing as I've gotten older
that perfectly good deeds do go unpunished
Is this because they're cleverer or bolder
or possibly those punishing have vanished?

No, there is surely evidence galore
that some will get their punishment in full,
but nonetheless come back and ask for more,
and thereby giving credence to the rule.

There is, perhaps, a simpler explanation:
though the cliché makes for a great excuse,
our natural, instinctive inclination
is do not get involved, since what's the use,

and then confess you'd do something about it
but then you would get punished, do not doubt it.

A fool may soon be parted from his money,
an idiom that doubles as a rule,
a reason to remember: fools are funny --
and truly, what's more funny than a fool?
How sad their fate of ridicule and laughter,
a sadder one is difficult to have,
unlikely to be told before or after,
and sadder still the fools that are in love.
But yet we must continue, sentimental,
yes, we, the fools that love despite it all.
Our need is existential, elemental,
a fool is not a fool without a fall.
The easy way to tell a fool apart?
Look for the one that has an open heart.

Author notes: Prompt #2. English Sonnet

When pondering the meaning of existence,
as natural, for men of certain breeding,
as breathing -- while maintaining proper distance,
though compensating with insightful reading
of every latest essay on the subject...
Oh, but to grasp the wonder of it all --
they could, you know, since money is no object,
and grasping never ceases to enthrall --
but serving as a model and example,
restrain themselves, at least when in the lens
of paparazzi -- maybe just a sample?
Then diligently back to screens and pens,
lamenting Man's inevitable follies.
Tomorrow, tennis lesson, serves and volleys.

For those inconsequential sounds of fury,
deemed signifying nothing in the end
by every self appointed judge and jury
presuming that the fury is pretend,
or worse, that it is impotent and toothless,
so seeking to dismiss it without cause,
they call it disingenuous and truthless,
and ridicule it, mock it to applause...
For those of you that persevere, undaunted,
immune to fear and loathing and contempt:
it's better to be beaten than be haunted
by victories that you did not attempt.
So go ahead, be furious and rage.
Let no one say that you did not engage.

Why can't my heroes sound as if they matter,
their listeners to hang on every word,
each utterance to count, no idle chatter,
so any that attempt to strike a chord
succeed in piercing coarse, plot-thickened skins,
and battle weary, dented, rusting armor?
That trite, most unoriginal of sins,
to bore -- no, make my every snake a charmer,
my every villain wrestle with their morals,
their inner conflicts resonant and deep;
they're never ever resting on their laurels
with all those evil promises to keep.
But most of all, let language be my friend.
And have them read my stories to the end.

The dragonfly, its shimmer iridescent,
caught hovering above the lily's cup.
Nearby the gnats are swarming, their incessant
and shoal like movement, every rise and drop,
is reminiscent of a single creature,
until a swallow dives into the swarm,
and gulps a dozen down. (Its naming feature,
if I can take a minute to inform,
not for its mouth, but for its cleft shaped tail).
While this goes on, and wholly undetected,
a stealthy frog is managing to scale
the lily pad, and when it's least expected,
shoots out its wagging tongue above the lake,
but comes up empty having missed the drake.

Evolve, He had commanded, and we have.
From puddles to the trenches of the ocean,
our tiny blunders as we split and halve
enabling each quaint and silly notion
of what life is, or could be, as we fail,
we die, to make it possible for others,
and as we pummel, trash about, and flail,
to chose the most adapted of our brothers,
with just one goal in mind: please pass it on,
continue our existence in some shape.
We pray for prey, and often, preyed upon,
while praying for an imminent escape,
we wonder, is that really all there is?
Evolve, He said. The man was such a tease.

To hear a fortuneteller tell it
and more so, tell it like it is,
instead of trying to upsell it,
to tickle, tantalize and tease,
is in itself a rare occasion --
the species, partial to evasion,
deceit and trickery their trade,
are only happy to get paid.
The ancient oracles at Delphi,
so like the pundits of today,
would always know just what to say,
then, posing for a marble selfie
with both the winner and the chump,
their every tarot card a trump.

An echo thunders through the canyon
it's fast but still a step behind
its spark of lightning, the companion
that it's allotted and assigned.
So close to first that it can smell it --
is there a means that could propel it
into the lead it so deserves?
It is the thunder god it serves
and yet it's lightning for the laurel.
Upset, it reaches out to Zeus,
who in attempting to diffuse
and settle the impending quarrel,
allows that thunder will be first,
though just behind the lightning burst.

A gust of wind and I am wholly drenched,
umbrella is as useful as a fiddle,
as if the earth, demanding to be quenched,
had struck the skies, with me caught in the middle,
and opened up the floodgates, broke their locks,
to soak the world with all of their frustrations.

I struggle up the street, wet to my socks,
replaying the abandoned conversations
that carried me, like flotsam, to these shores,
deposited, and left to my devices,
away from festered and unsettled scores,
to wallow in obscene, unpunished vices,
and slowly sink beneath the seaborne foam.
So lonely, and so far away from home.

When Occam cut himself while shaving,
the razor being nice and sharp,
though wasn't prone to misbehaving,
you would have needed a loud harp
to mask the constant stream of curses,
in erudite, prim Latin verses
that came from the frustrated monk,
the kind he wouldn't utter drunk.
There's a straightforward explanation:
be you philosopher or king,
a minor irritant might bring
a call for hellfire and damnation.
No need to wonder why that's so,
since if it happens, you will know.

The elephant that isn't in the room,
a rare, indeed extraordinary beast,
more often, it is safer to assume,
appearing when it is expected least.
Tries managing, unwanted, through the doors,
while everyone pretends it isn't there,
since noticing the damage to the floors,
like saying that the emperor is bare,
primarily reveals a lack of manners,
particular to those of modest wisdom,
unseasoned in the ways of lords and banners,
still unaware of needing to appease them,
and wont to say: but surely, there it stands!
Sophisticates will offer: it depends.

Our loneliness: for surely we all share
this terrible, intractable affliction;
to make its burden easier to bear,
for some of us the answer is addiction,
while others will surround themselves with friends
and claim that they are wholly unaffected;
for those it seems the party never ends --
despair will strike when it is least expected.
But some will seek this doleful, wistful state,
preferring their own thoughts as a companion.
They seek to mold, to contour, to create --
their isolation like the deepest canyon,
or loneliest of islands in the ocean,
the water deep but drained of all emotion.

A subject liked to argue with his verbs,
accusing them of very little action,
which, he insisted, troubles and disturbs,
while offering the inverse of attraction.
The verbs confessed that they were at a loss,
suggesting that he study up on grammar
but he persisted (after all, the boss)
and threatened them with long stays in the slammer.
To settle things, they've chosen arbitration,
conjunctions serving as both judge and jury,
though adverbs did articulate frustration,
if short of what a noun would label fury.
The subject, smugly, offered no repentance.
No choice then, for the court, but read the sentence.

As history's rewritten by the whiners
to fit into a perishable mold,
ostensibly to benefit the minors
who Peter Pan like, aren't growing old --
except that Peter Pan must be rewritten,
its sense and sensibility offend,
so those that are twice shy though never bitten
can be assured, when skipping to the end,
the nasty alligator is a vegan,
and time does not expire for Captain Hook,
whose pistol, it turns out, was just a pea gun.
In summary, a safer, better book.
Will history, revisited, repeat?
Rewritten, it is always incomplete.

I asked a graceful heron: would you rather
that death came in midflight, out of the blue?
Before the years have had their chance to gather --
each sunrise is as fresh as morning dew,
a jumping frog still sends a thrill of pleasure,
and standing on one leg maintains its charm;
your pointy beak adept at finding treasure
and mighty wings that keep you out of harm
with but a single flap of quill and feather?
Or is old age a better way to die,
your skin an older, thinner brand of leather,
the wings no longer strong enough to fly?
So wise, the heron, but he wouldn't say.
Just nodded a goodbye. Then flew away.