Sonnettics

I heard a song when I was just a boy

It called to me to learn its every note

A melody made simply to enjoy

I searched in places some might call remote 

But home is where the heart can music hear

“Remote” is just a place where I can be

“Remote” is where the birds can gather near

“Remote” is where they sing their songs to me

The songs of birds are beautiful and strong

Their strength is found by listening in peace

I still believe I hear a peaceful song

At times their peaceful melodies increase

Remote and peaceful music calls me still

To where I want to go and where I will.

I listened to Walt Whitman’s tale tonight
He lived a life of poetry for all
Poetically his words were always right
The words I heard tonight could rise and fall

They rise in strong crescendos like the dawn
They fall in festoons from his lovely lips
And still they rise and fall though he is gone
He lingers like the touch of fingertips

The Leaves of Grass are where the poets walk
They signal life that springs to life with words
The words are written, but to me they talk
And then they fly away like little birds

And though they fly away from those who spurn
The words of Walt seem always to return.

Yes, I am a professional poet, a sonneteer.

I have commissioned various sonnets/lyrics. I am available to compose sonnets at your request.

My cost is $100 per line of pentameter. $1400 for a sonnet. This is slightly less than I’ve charged in the past, but I like the number 14. I take payments via PayPal, once we’ve agreed upon a commission.

email me at: sonnettics@gmail.com or scottennis@gmail.com with “Sonnet Commission” as the subject. Looking forward to writing kick-ass iambic pentameter for you!

When sleep becomes elusive as a fox

I chase the dreams that dwell in shallow graves

I find that death has claimed a wooden box

And hides beneath the stones that no one saves

My metaphors are mixed like fox and stones

And yet, there’s still a coffin in the ground

The music there is made of solemn tones

And sung by bloody birds without a sound

It’s poetry, so everything is right

As right as scraping horse shit off the street

When water turns to wine there’s more of it

Of poetry, not wine before we eat

All mimsy were the sounds that no one’s seen

It shows the way that mold is oddly green.

The second Tuesday of November calls
It calls for every patriot to vote
The right to choose who represents us all
‘Tis something true democracies denote

Each vote that’s cast will represent the will
The people’s will; the voice of everyone
A vote, a voice, a call that lingers still
Like Tuesday calls to all, come rain or sun

We vote because it matters who will lead
We choose our leaders by majority
November’s is a call we all should heed
If we would give our will authority

The second Tuesday of November’s near
Prepare to be a voter without fear!

I stand out on the porch to smoke my pipe
I fill it up with weeds I’m sure you know
With leaves and buds as potent as they’re ripe
The way the natives smoked them long ago

For lungs, I hear that mullein is the best 
So I pick leaves and lay them out to dry
To grind it up with ganja is the test
To smoke them both at once, I often try

The mullein and the marijuana blends
At half and half their smoothness thus combines
As if the two green weeds were long lost friends 
I smoke and pay attention to the signs

I call it mullejuana, now I share
That word with all you smokers, everywhere.