Sonnettics

The mystic faith in poetry is found
As words proceed in processes unknown
The metaphors we’ve planted in the ground
As seeds that by the mystic winds are sown

The ground itself is only faith in truth
The truth of time that waits for time to pass
At times semantics seem, at best, uncouth
Like similes that kick the poet’s ass

If beauty lives, that means it also dies
The death of beauty happens every day
True mystic poetry is filled with lies
And only faith reveals its narrow way

The needle’s eye provides the mystic’s sight
It may not be a poem, but it might!

Beyond the stories everyone has heard
Beneath the substance right below our feet
A tragedy is told that seems absurd
A sophistry that no one should repeat

And yet, by repetition, we’re entranced
We bow before the gods proclaiming “truth”
The “truth” by which their lies are all enhanced
Provides us with refreshment most uncouth

Dichotomy of sophistry is this
A worm that eats up filth and shits out gold
Like Death exists to give us all a kiss
Like poetry that grows semantic mold

They say the word of god should be sublime
I say it needs a final couplet rhyme. 

In Coventry, Connecticut was born
A hero and a patriot, a man
Regardless of the colors he had worn
He showed his worth as only heroes can

We know his name and how he gave his all
A hero when America began
He felt the Revolution’s righteous call
A martyr for a cause, but first, a man

A man who always gave his very best
A man who grew up from a precious boy 
His mother knew that she was very blessed
And his successes always brought her joy

A scholar of the classics while at Yale
We know his name; his name was Nathan Hale

It all depends on what you mean by “God”
Some wise old man? I don’t believe in that
A concept by which we are always awed
OK, but wait, that sounds just like my cat

Did God create the world? My cat says no
The world is just perceptions, nothing’s real
Reality, a place God doesn’t go
Reality is fantasy we feel

Do you believe in fantasy, at least
It all depends, again, on what you mean
If fantasy is like some awe-ful beast
Then yes, that sounds like something that I’ve seen

“I’ve seen” is just a metaphoric trope
For that with which this poet needs to cope.

Delusion, unacknowledged, brings us light
Although it may be darker than we know
Should I believe in things beyond my sight
Does darkness help my quaint delusions grow

Delusions seem at times to be more real
Than plain reality perceived by most
Perception is reality we feel
Like what they used to call the Holy Ghost

Perceptions are delusions we define
And feelings are the senses we employ
To understand existence; it’s a sign
A sign from god, god hopes we might enjoy

Enjoy the life you live as you perceive
Delusion makes reality believe.

The Lilith is the demoness of night
An emanation of the other side
The side where darkness covers all that’s light
Before the Eve, she dwelt as Adam’s bride

Her hair is long and dark, uncovered sin
The sin of sex, subservient to none
And thus she takes the sleeping man within
Her wild desired sex, the evil one

The evil she expresses makes some weep
She kills the children in their mothers womb
Or in their beds when they are fast asleep
She seems to find her way from room to room

The Lilith emanates an awful will
Of midnight sex that also seeks to kill.

Inspired by work presented on Youtube by Dr. Justin Sledge, Esoterica

AI generated images of Lilith:

Reality is how we’ve all been fooled
We watch the machinations some call god
The god of my reality is dead
The machinations vanished in the light

You think you bring the hope of blinded eyes
Reality persuades us all to look
To look at god who hides beneath the stairs
And corners us with poems we can feel

You think Reality is god? You’re blind
Just listen to the chiseling of light
While death becomes a poem in your book
And you will never feel the truth exposed

It means that you were right and I was wrong
But we might meet within a sheltered song.

They, unrestricted by a gender role
They, unrestricted by a simple noun
They is My God, the Lover of my soul
I seek to feel Their Mercy, wear Their Crown

They must have hands that help Them to create 
The metaphor of hands both weak and strong
I feel God's hands in everything, innate 
Begin, believe, behave, become, belong

They is My God who is both First and Last
They rules above and also in my heart
Eternally, They shows They is steadfast
Forever with me, They will not depart

In knowing Them I know that I’ve been awed
And I am proud to say They is my God.

When Dreamland catches fire, all is lost
New Yorkers are no longer entertained
With nine alarms the park will feel the cost
And Coney Island’s dreams are thus constrained

Still biting heads off chickens on the pier
The Freaks and Geeks may try to carry on
But fire makes the brave New Yorkers fear
When Dreamland burns to ash, the dream is gone

Will history remember how they came
What used to be such fun is now a mess
Will Dreamland ever know another name
Like Nightmareland? That’s anybody’s guess

A metaphor for dreams that might burn down
Cuz Dreamland’s gone from old Breukelen Town.