Colette
Corrine
Elaine
Marie
Cosette
Helene
Bernice
Danielle
Lucille
Inez
Jolee
Lizette
Pauline
Cherise
Colette
Corrine
Elaine
Marie
Cosette
Helene
Bernice
Danielle
Lucille
Inez
Jolee
Lizette
Pauline
Cherise
She floats above the village streets at night
In search of some forgotten tale of old
Her ghostly form is beautiful and white
Her ghostly tale is one that's often told
Her life became the sorrow of remorse
Her death became the sorrow all can feel
A ghostly essence runs its ghostly course
A hidden tale the teller can reveal
The teller of her tale this time is me
I saw her in the village where I live
She seemed to know the tale she sought to be
In me she found a teller she could give
Her tale of unrequited love and more
Of life and death, a dark unopened door.
I think the world needs sonnets to survive
Survival is the perfect lyric art
The sonnet form, a heartbeat still alive
The perfect sonnet dwells within the heart
The heart of every poet beats in time
With nature, like a song of subtle love
The love of every sonnet is sublime
Like rains that quench the world from clouds above
The sonnet turns its theme to fit the sound
Of everything the human heart might hear
It finds its voice where every voice is found
It sings to every person, far and near
Survival of the sonnet, on the whole
A metaphor of our collective soul.
The cost of doing nothing is too steep
I guess that means it’s time to “roll up sleeves”
We’ve landed in some shit that’s more than deep
It doesn’t matter what the Trump believes
The “shit” is his election. What the fuck?
How many millions wasted precious votes?
I guess too many like to press their luck
Obtuse to what their orange choice denotes
So, time to scrape up pig shit one more time
A job nobody ever wants to do
But pigs will shit like criminals will crime
And cleaning up will fall to me and you
Democracy requires work that’s tough
Sometimes it stinks, but we are strong enough.
This sonnet is an allusion to the re-election of Donald Trump. It also contains an allusion to a summer job I had as a teenager, shoveling shit out of a pig barn. I still remember the farmer telling me that I was the first kid he’d hired who wasn’t afraid to get in there and scrape the pig shit off the floor. I use the metaphor of “shoveling pig shit” as a reference to anything that may be distasteful, but still needs to be done. I think it works perfectly in this case. For the next four years we need to roll up our sleeves, plug our noses, and wade boot-deep through the shit as we do all we can to clean it up.
The Word of God is everything you write
I write The Word of God in structured verse
It’s not The Truth, The Truth is not The Light
The Word is God like everything perverse
Perversity is such a clever Word
It turns away from normalcy with cheek
It’s also God; at least that’s what I heard
Perversity is when you hear God speak
The Word of God is found in every book
And every song whose lyrics are defined
By words the poet finds where they might look
Whenever God might linger in their mind
So speak or write and know that Thou Art God
And know that Words are words and might be flawed.
I found a sonnet on my path today
Ironically it sat right on the trail
Just past the point where nuts would often lay
I often forage words to no avail
But this time I picked up a whole damn verse
The squirrels had passed it by like something bad
A nut with weevil larvae or much worse
I guess they didn’t see it like I had
I heard the sonnet fall through autumn leaves
I heard it just before the bridge, the brook
Inviting me to cross what it believes
That sonnets may be found if one will look
I think i heard the brook call out my name
A forager, a sonneteer, the same.
I walk a path adorned by fallen leaves
It must be autumn now, the air is crisp
A treasure trove of colors, not for thieves
Although I steal their colors like a wisp
A wisp of little metaphors, all mine
Oh look, the final sigh of maple’s breath
The trees prepare to sleep; the trees are fIne
The forest path is not the way through death
I walk this living path to comprehend
That life is full of seasons to enjoy
These vibrant colors do not mark an end
They simply show the art the trees employ
The pathway bearing leaves, a living thing
Reminds me they’ll be back again in Spring.
I’m not just some “damn yankee” in my mind
I’ve foraged all across this fruitful land
I find great joy in everything I find
Yes, even if it’s not what I had planned
I’ve foraged oysters from the Puget Sound
I forage nuts New England loves to share
In Utah it was Camas that I found
In Idaho there’s rose hips everywhere
But midwest morels always call me back
To Michigan, a place I’ve also lived
The U.P. doesn’t seem to have a lack
My foraging expresses life un-sieved
For foraging, America’s the best
Come forage now with me from East to West.