Archive for the ‘Sonnets’ Category

Alice finds an answer

Wednesday, January 8th, 2025
Here's a story for you:  

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**"A Whiff of Wonder"**

Alice stumbled through the forest, her head spinning with the riddles and peculiarities of Wonderland. The question lingered in her mind like a ghost: *Who are you?* It was a question she had been asked countless times that day, and one she couldn't quite answer.

The Caterpillar lounged atop its mushroom, languidly exhaling blue-tinged smoke from its ornate hookah. It watched her approach with its heavy-lidded eyes, the smoke curling lazily around its segmented body.

"You again," it said in its slow, melodic tone. "Still no closer to an answer, I presume?"

Alice hesitated. "No," she admitted, folding her hands in front of her. "But I think I might be. If I could just...think more clearly."

The Caterpillar tilted its head, a curious expression crossing its face. It tapped the side of its hookah with a chitinous claw. "Perhaps clarity is not what you need," it mused. "But expansion."

"Expansion?"

It leaned forward, offering the hookah’s slender stem to her. "A whiff of this," it said, "might help you see the paths hidden beneath the brambles. A little...perspective adjustment."

Alice’s cheeks flushed. "Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never tried anything like that before."

"Then how can you know what it might teach you?" the Caterpillar countered, a wry smile playing on its lips. "If you're to answer the question, you must first be willing to ask it properly."

The smoke swirled hypnotically in the air, its sweet, earthy scent curling into her nose. Alice felt a strange pull—curiosity and caution entwined. *Could it really help me?* she wondered.

Taking the stem hesitantly, she glanced at the Caterpillar. "Will it...change me?"

The Caterpillar laughed, a sound like the rustling of leaves. "Everything in Wonderland changes you, Alice. Why should this be any different?"

With a deep breath, Alice placed the stem to her lips and inhaled. The smoke filled her lungs, warm and strange, and when she exhaled, the world seemed to shimmer around her. Colors brightened, and the lines of the forest softened as though they were melting into one another.

"Who are you?" the Caterpillar asked again, its voice reverberating like the hum of a distant bell.

Alice closed her eyes, letting the question settle in her mind. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a riddle or a trap. Instead, it felt like an invitation.

"I am..." she began, her voice trailing off as images danced behind her closed lids. She saw herself as a child in her mother’s garden, as a curious wanderer in Wonderland, as a million possibilities and contradictions all at once.

When she opened her eyes, the Caterpillar was watching her intently.

"Well?" it asked.

Alice smiled softly. "I think I’m...a question still being answered."

The Caterpillar chuckled, withdrawing the hookah. "Not bad, little one. Not bad at all."

As Alice turned to leave, the world seemed lighter, as if Wonderland itself had sighed in relief. The question still lingered, but it no longer weighed her down. Instead, it felt like a companion, urging her forward.

And somewhere behind her, the Caterpillar exhaled another plume of smoke, satisfied.

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What do you think?

A Sonnet on the Effects of Smoking a Really Sharp Joint With Mrs. Robinson Playing Somewhere in the Background

Monday, January 6th, 2025
“There seem to be matryoshkas everywhere,”
She said through tawdry teeth with bated breath
I chortled like a hawker at the fair
As if I was a simile for death

“Matryoshkas know who chooses to believe,”
She brushed aside my laughter-bathed-in-guilt
I said the damned matryoshkas could deceive
Because that’s just the way that they were built

“They’re built like little gods that come apart”
She whispered through her veil in puffs of blue
I wanted to believe, but had to fart
And thought I heard them call: “Coo, coo, ca-choo”

And so our worship turned to Russian Dolls
We see them everywhere in hallowed halls.

Ode to Marijuana

Friday, January 3rd, 2025
Life is a thin wisp of bluish gray smoke
Breathe it in deeply and hope you don’t choke
Wait for the visions from Mary or god
Life is the awe with which everyone’s awed

New strains of freedom are here to be found
Grind them and smoke them when no one’s around
Laugh if you like, but it isn’t a joke
Life is a thin wisp of bluish gray smoke

Born without blood, sometimes born without seed
Flowers can flower, and weeds, they can weed
Banned and accepted by fools and by kings
Sweet are the flavors sweet cannabis brings

Green is the valley and golden the sky
Search for the paths that can get you so high.

Tale of the Chinook King Salmon 

Sunday, December 29th, 2024

As The Dams Are Removed From 

The Klamath River

The Klamath is my road, my path, my home
Too long my kind, though royal, have been lost
The purpose of my journey, not to roam
But out to sea, then back at any cost
The cost of this, my journey, has decreased
My road, my path, my home has been restored
The sacredness it feels has now increased
The sacredness that used to be ignored
And thus I swim where freedom lets me go
I go to where I need to be at last
At last where I began in Klamath’s flow
Is where my freedom calls me from the past
The past is past and yet I know the way
A salmon king for yet another day.

Indica

Tuesday, December 24th, 2024
Indica is a goddess, dressed in green
She visits me in visions bathed in smoke
Such fantasies appear before they’re seen
An invocation needed to invoke

The call of buds she bears is heard by those
Who listen to the songs she hums aloud
And yes, she is aware, Indica knows
Such songs are those of which she can be proud

The pride of sweet Indica draws me in
To places she invites me with commands
Dichotomy is not her only sin
And yet by this she issues sweet demands

The goddess named Indica has a voice
That likes to make you think you have a choice.

The Beauty of Mortality

Tuesday, December 17th, 2024
The beauty of mortality of life
Reveals the subtle colors we can find
In times of joy or even fear and strife
Like thoughts that live within the mortal mind

Like rainbowed thoughts that lend themselves to art
Regardless of just how such thoughts are seen
The now in which they blossom from the heart
Proclaims their mortal beauty un-obscene

Obscenity is holding them within
For fear of being punished by some God
Who uses some dark fear He calls a sin
Why can’t He see “eternal bliss” is flawed

The beauty of mortality is this
That life is more than some eternal bliss.

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AI analysis via ChatGPT:

This poem reflects a philosophical and emotional meditation on the fleeting nature of life, juxtaposed against the concept of eternal bliss. Here's an analysis:

### **Themes**
1. **Mortality as Beauty**:
- The poem highlights how the transient nature of life gives it depth and beauty, emphasizing the "subtle colors" of experience that come through joy, fear, and strife.
- It contrasts the vibrancy of mortal life with the monotony suggested by the concept of "eternal bliss."

2. **Creativity and Expression**:
- The "rainbowed thoughts" metaphor underscores the link between the impermanence of life and the urge to create art and express oneself.

3. **Rebellion Against Dogma**:
- The poem critiques the fear of divine punishment ("punished by some God") and questions the value of a rigid promise of eternal bliss, implying it may lack the richness and spontaneity of mortal life.

4. **Acceptance of Mortality**:
- The conclusion asserts that the ephemeral nature of life is what makes it meaningful, rejecting the idea that eternity is inherently superior.

### **Structure and Form**
- The poem is written in rhymed iambic pentameter, creating a sonnet-like feel with quatrains leading to a closing couplet.
- The rhymes are clean and deliberate, emphasizing the themes with a formal structure.

### **Imagery**
- The "rainbowed thoughts" evoke vibrancy and multiplicity, symbolizing the creativity and emotional spectrum of mortal life.
- References to "fear" and "sin" suggest an inner conflict shaped by external religious pressures.

### **Philosophical Undertones**
- The poem subtly aligns with existentialist ideas, where meaning is found in the fleeting, finite nature of life rather than in promises of eternity.

### **Overall Impact**
This work resonates as a critique of conventional religious ideals about the afterlife, celebrating the beauty and significance of mortal experiences. It invites readers to cherish life's impermanence as a source of meaning and creativity.

Brigid of Kildare

Tuesday, December 17th, 2024
She sings to help the living and the dead
She sings to help the poets find their song
Tis Brigid of Kildare who fills my head
And shows the words I write where they belong

She told me once of Coventina’s sin
She told me Coventina fell in love
A mortal man whose name she said was Finn
A poet’s story Brigid told me of

I wrote it down to honor it and her
A story made of words that must be told
Upon my page the words I did confer
I picture her as never growing old

A poet and a muse, with long red hair
She comes to me as Brigid of Kildare

The Magician

Friday, December 13th, 2024
The Magus (or Magician if you must)
Is he-behind-the-sleight-of-hand you see
He tells you things that you should never trust
Like how to be and also not to be

Magician (or The Magus, take your pick)
Performs the best when he is paid in gold
Simplicity is such a simple trick
Like magic that is heard but never told

Above, below, he’s somewhere in between
Where magic is the mover and the art
He’ll show you things you’ll wish you’d never seen
Like flowers that aspire in your heart

The Magus or Magician seems to be
A fool in search of some divinity.
________________________________________

Image by Pamela Colman Smith  (16 February 1878 – 18 September 1951)

The Fool

Thursday, December 12th, 2024
The Fool begins a journey without end
A journey that’s forever and a day
To find true wisdom and perhaps a friend
Bewrayment are the words he’ll never say

Delirium and frenzy are his dance
A solitary dance to find a song
But if your paths should cross by circumstance
He’ll call to you to come and sing along

I know we’ve all been called at times to sing
And dance the tarantella like a fool
Perhaps he really thinks that he’s the king
And everyone must bow before his rule

His Highness is the Fool that we all know
Wherever he proceeds, we all must go.
________________________________________

Image by Pamela Colman Smith  (16 February 1878 – 18 September 1951)

Sophia

Friday, December 6th, 2024
I love Sophia like my love is new
Sophia knows my love transcends my heart
Imagine, if you will what she can do
Fulfilling her divine and noble part

Sophia is her wisdom and her grace
A god to worship everywhere she’s found
A god who knows her high and holy place
She speaks to me at times without a sound

At times I hear the music of her voice
Within the words I find I need to write
To signify that my belief is choice
I choose to dwell within her holy light

Sophia has been with me from the start
Within the thoughts that dwell within my heart.