Sonnettics

Our many states and people still are one
The one that brings together many hopes
Two hundred fifty years and still not done
And yet still bound by strength exceeding ropes

The “rope” of this great nation can be found
In every heart that beats with freedom’s blood
The blood of hope that stains this holy ground
Still nurtures every blossom, seed, and bud

A declaration made is more than words
Our independence grows when we are true
We rise together like majestic birds
Like eagles bound for freedom in the blue

United in our union we still soar
And know what we can be, and so much more.

Remember when the sidewalk felt like Hell
When everything would melt as fast as ice
If cold is whispered, heat must be a yell
Of words when eating jalapeño spice

The heat of words that linger past their sound
Like sweat that lingers long on reddened skin
Or wilted plants collapsed on sun-baked ground
Of earth that’s baked too hard to let them in

Can similes evaporate in verse
In heated lines of poetry we read
And no, don’t say: “You know, it could be worse . . .”
What’s worse is never something sane folk need

My sanity is sapped by summer’s heat
Where poems droop in rhymes that just repeat.

I’ve always been connected to my God
My God, who always listens when I sing
Thus, as I understand, I find I’m awed
By awesomeness that dwells in everything

In everything there’s God, and God is great
God speaks in every sound, in every word
Eternity is now; I need not wait
My God is here, and never is defered

Yes, Thou Art God, eternal and divine
Divinity is every word we speak
And truth is true; it’s yours and it is mine
The truth of God transcends whatever’s weak

Connection is divine, and great, and true
And God connects to all: to me and you. 

I heard the hungry people pray for war
I heard them pray their leaders all would die
The prayers of hungry people, more and more
Became the cries of violence, by and by

Dear God, they called, we know it isn’t right
But neither is starvation—God agreed
The hungry people then began to fight
Their God Approved and Prayed they would Succeed

The Prayer of God was strong enough to kill
The evil some called wealth, called theirs alone
And thus of death they had their righteous fill
Though righteousness was never really known

At least the hungry people ate quite well
While all the wealthy bastards burned in Hell.

A god that needs a church is not a god
At least, that's not the god I've come to know
And though I know my knowledge may be flawed
At least it goes where no one else can go

You see, the god I know is only mine
I don't presume to know your god at all
Or his, or hers, or theirs; that suits us fine
My god and me; no audience at all

And should they not, that's really quite alright
“To care or not to care” sounds like the Bard
You see, my god is not inclined to fight
A god of peace--to be one isn't hard

Just tell your god you don't believe in war
I'll bet your god, like mine, knows something more.

A yellow brick, a metaphor of time
A time for metaphors that mark the way
Oh Dorothy! Is there nothing else sublime
Sublimity is more than bricks you say

That’s deep, you bitch. Just give it to me straight
As straight as simple lies or simple storms
Your wonderland is strange and yes, you’re late
And yet you deviate from all the norms

Your deviance, a holy trinity
Becomes the way you live when you are lost
So, trade it in for silver liberty
And pray to god you never learn the cost

The cost of every yellow brick you find
Is paid by someone else’s simple mind.

I guess she didn’t know she broke my heart
I wonder if she thinks I broke hers too
Both time and space had pulled us far apart
The way that time and space are bound to do
I guess her love was just a metaphor
I wonder if our poetry was wrong
The verses we composed became a chore
And we could not complete our little song
We turn to face reality and find
Our love, our hearts, our song could never last
We turn to words to which we are resigned
Our love is words that linger in the past
The hearts we broke eventually will fade
To times we shun and spaces we have made.

We tend to long for time that's disappeared 
Although we know we'll never get it back
It's gone. It's gone, exactly as we feared
A train that travels down a rusty track
The rusty track of time is still traversed
By everyone, regardless of their age
A play of destination, unrehearsed
Performed upon a creaky wooden stage
If time was just a sonnet, who would write 
The little song that everyone must sing
But, out of tune or even out of sight
We know the final couplet time will bring
From time to time the similes get old
Like grapes that turn to wine or bread to mold.