Sonnettics

A sonnet is as camp as you can get,  
When writing any form of poetry.  
Bill Shakespeare wrote a lot, lest we forget,  
When camp became to be or not to be.  

The drama, darling! Gowns and powdered wigs,  
A tragic monologue with flair divine!  
Soliloquies are served with dainty jigs,  
And metaphors more extra than good wine!  

Oh, couplets strut like queens upon the stage,  
Iambs in heels, pentameter in lace!  
Each stanza vogues, dramatic, bold, and sage,  
With wit as sharp as blush upon the face.  

So snap your fan—let folly take the stage,  
For camp and sonnets live beyond their age!  

I’m presenting sonnet adaptations for T.S. Eliot’s cats:

AI will never know a lover's kiss
Nor understand just why a heart can break
Its ones an zeroes aren't a perfect bliss
They can’t eat bread nor can they eat their cake

A cake of ones and zeroes has no taste
And yet I know that it must taste like shit
AI must think dichotomy’s a waste
Let’s feed it that and watch it choke on it

AI cannot write poetry, you see
Because a poem’s more than simple words
A poem must be felt to truly be
And ones and zeroes are just little turds

Don't eat the shit that AI wants you to
AI is just ai, but you are YOU.

Through fire and frost, where war-torn echoes rang,  
An airborne soul leapt fearless through the fray.  
With courage forged where battle’s fury sang,  
He braved the Ardennes' night in steel and gray.  

Upon the field where death and valor crossed,  
He seized an enemy’s forsaken keep—  
A stolen ambulance at fateful cost,  
To save a friend from war’s unyielding reap.  

Yet home he came, with steady, calloused hands,  
To build, restore, and shape the world anew.  
He moved great halls, he worked the sea and lands,  
A life well spent in labor strong and true.  

Now stands his name where warriors convene,  
A fort, a tale, a legacy unseen.  

The Gilded Chain

Gold weighs upon the soul as iron might,
 A gilded chain that binds the heart in greed.
 It blinds the eye to sorrow's silent plight,
 And deafens ears to cries of those in need.
The hoarded coin, though shining, dulls the mind,
 And drowns the voice of mercy in its chime.
 The rich man feasts while beggars starve outside,
 Yet time will strip him bare, as dust and time.
What vault can guard against the grave’s embrace?
 What wealth can bribe the stars to change their course?
 The fleeting hoard shall vanish, lose its place,
 And leave behind regret, a hollow force.
True riches lie where love and kindness grow—
 Not where the wealth of man has cast its woe.

The Weight of Gold

Gold gathers dust where empty hearts reside,
 A weight that pulls the soul from what is true.
 It builds up walls where open hands should guide,
 And shades the sky from ever-shifting blue.
The banquet swells while hunger haunts the street,
 A veil of plenty hides the hollow cost.
 Soft silks and silver cannot make one sweet,
 Nor save a life once all but love is lost.
No coin can halt the turning of the tide,
 No wealth can buy the breath of one more day.
 The hands that clutch will find they’re left denied,
 As time reclaims what fortune takes away.
Let treasure be the kindness freely shared,
 Not locked away, but given, loved, and spared.

The Hollow Crown

A throne is built on dust, though high it stands,
 Its splendor masking all that lies beneath.
 What power bends the will with grasping hands,
 Yet crumbles at the whisper of a breath?
The feast is full, yet hunger fills the land,
 While plenty sits untouched upon the plate.
 What worth is measured by a hoarded hand,
 If hearts grow cold beneath the weight of fate?
No walls endure the march of time’s decree,
 No name outlives the love it failed to give.
 The chains we forge in wanting to be free
 Are bonds that break the soul we wish to live.
No sum can buy what kindness gives for naught—
 A life well lived, not taken, sold, or bought.

The Silent Cost

The hands that take but never give away,
 Hold nothing once the fleeting hours depart.
 What once was whole is lost in slow decay,
 As walls rise high to shield a hollow heart.
A table full, yet hunger haunts the door,
 The voices dim where silence buys its keep.
 To gather more yet always crave for more,
 Leaves barren fields where love once rooted deep.
No weight can hold the worth of what is true,
 No measure fills the space where warmth should be.
 The things we chase will fade like morning dew,
 Yet kindness lasts beyond what eyes can see.
Let not the world’s excess define the soul,
 For wealth is dust, and love alone is whole.

The Endless Climb

He wakes before the dawn to chase the prize,
 His feet upon a path that has no end.
 The promise gleams before his weary eyes,
 Yet with each step, the road will only bend.
He toils and sweats to pile up his gain,
 Yet finds no rest upon his lofty seat.
 The thirst he feels is quenched, then comes again,
 A fleeting joy that always tastes of need.
The house grows tall, the coffers overflow,
 Yet still the hunger lingers in his chest.
 No weight of silver bids the heart to slow,
 No sum can buy the soul its quiet rest.
He sought to climb, but in the end he found,
 The more he grasped, the less he stood on ground.

The Empty Vessel

He gathers riches, like the seed that falls
 Upon the soil, but thorns will choke the bloom.
 His hands, though full, can never fill the calls
 Of hunger's cry that echoes through the gloom.
The rich man’s storehouse, built with fevered hands,
 Is never full enough to ease the soul.
 He wears his crown but fails to understand
 The weight it bears, the price it cannot toll.
He builds his life on sand, not firm, but free,
 And though he walks, his steps are slow and blind.
 The treasure sought brings nothing more than need,
 For what is gained, he leaves all else behind.
He runs, but never knows that in the race,
 The last are first, and those who give find grace.

The Harvest of the Earth

He tills the soil, his hands set firm with strife,
 Planting each seed with hopes of endless yield.
 Yet when the rains refuse to grant their life,
 The earth remains as barren as the field.
He counts the days, but nature's voice is still,
 The winds that blow will never hear his plea.
 His fruits are few, though he has bent his will,
 For what he sows, the soil gives grudgingly.
But in the quiet wood, the trees will grow,
 Their roots entwined in earth that asks no price.
 The rain will fall, the rivers freely flow,
 And every leaf that falls will yield its slice.
The earth provides without the need to take—
 A lesson learned in every seed we break.

The Thirsting Root

The tree that bends to gather all the rain
 Finds roots that stretch, but never taste the earth.
 Its leaves grow wide, yet thirst remains its bane,
 For all it holds, it cannot drink its worth.
The river flows, it gives, yet asks for none—
 It does not hoard the rain, but shares its stream.
 The sun gives light to all, no favored one,
 While shadows wait, content within their dream.
The harvest blooms, the soil returns its gift,
 The birds take what they need and leave the rest.
 The flower opens wide without a rift,
 Its beauty shared, though none can hoard its best.
Yet man, like roots that cling to barren stone,
 Grows empty, grasping what is never his own.

The Seed’s Journey

A seed is planted in the humble earth,
 It needs no wealth, no treasure to take root.
 With soil and rain, it finds its quiet worth,
 And rises slow, from earth to sun’s pursuit.
No hand demands it grow in gilded haste,
 For time alone will bring the tender sprout.
 The sun will shine, the rain will never waste,
 And yet, no promise will it boast about.
The roots stretch deep, the stem reaches for light,
 It seeks no greater prize than what it’s given.
 No need to hoard the soil, nor claim the height,
 For in its growth, its purpose is forgiven.
And so, the seed becomes a tree, not tall—
 Yet gives its shade, and fruit, and answers all.

The Moth and the Flame

A moth drifts near the glowing lamp’s embrace,
 It flutters round, consumed by burning light.
 The heat it seeks, a fleeting, hollow grace,
 But finds no peace within the blinding bright.
It circles close, with wings both soft and worn,
 A dance it knows, though danger lies ahead.
 The glow grows bright, yet leaves its heart forlorn,
 For in its reach, it meets its fleeting thread.
The lamp it craves will never ease its need,
 And yet it flies, entranced by false delight.
 The flame will burn, and take what it has freed,
 A fleeting dance, consumed by endless night.
The moth, like man, who seeks what cannot stay—
 Chasing the light, he dims the skies away.

The Dandelion’s Bloom

A dandelion springs where tombstones lie,
 Amidst the stones, it finds a crack to grow.
 Its yellow head defies the mournful sky,
 A humble bloom where richer things won’t show.
Around it rest the lavish, cold and grand,
 The graves adorned with wealth and marble’s shine.
 Yet here it stands, with roots deep in the sand,
 Unbidden, wild, without a grand design.
It drinks the dew, the earth it does not seek,
 Uncaring for the riches buried deep.
 The gilded ground is barren, pale and weak,
 While in the dust, this tiny plant will leap.
For wealth is bound to rot beneath the stone,
 While love and life are whispered through the bone.

The Hollow Steeple

The steeple rises high, above the stone,
 Its bells ring loud, yet silence fills the air.
 Within, the walls are carved, but hearts alone
 Are hollow, where the rich forget to care.
The pews are full, yet empty in their call,
 For prayers are spoken but with eyes closed tight.
 The coin is dropped, but mercy will not fall—
 The poor are left to wander in the night.
The altar gleams with offerings of gold,
 Yet hands that give are often quick to leave.
 The righteous praise the wealth they have to hold,
 While others struggle, faith a thread to weave.
A building built to lift, yet weighs them down,
 Its walls so high, they keep the lost from town.

The Bible’s Cover

The pages gleam with gold, the bindings tight,
 Adorned in hues that shimmer, rich and grand.
 Yet within, the words of truth take flight,
 Ignored by hands that never understand.
The cover gleams with jewels, fine and rare,
 But buried deep beneath the gilded skin,
 The message fades, as wealth becomes the prayer,
 And love is lost where riches should begin.
The book, once pure, now sits in silent dust,
 Its ink untouched by hands that hoard their gain.
 The stories speak of grace, of peace, of trust,
 Yet fall on ears too deaf to bear the pain.
For beauty lies not in the cover’s glow,
 But in the heart that seeks the truth below.

The Coin’s Inscription

A coin is tossed, its edges sharp and bright,
 It bears a phrase, but meaning fades in gold:
 "In God we trust," yet through the darkest night,
 The hands that hold it never heed the toll.
The weight it carries pulls the soul away,
 While printed words seem lost in ink and truth.
 For though it claims to guide the heart’s dismay,
 It feeds the hunger, but forsakes the youth.
It spins and shines, yet never finds the path,
 The trust it boasts is hollow in its frame.
 The love of God, once pure, now turns to wrath,
 As riches claim the faith it cannot name.
The coin may say "In God we trust" with pride,
 But wealth will turn its back, and faith will hide.