Sonnettics

The piper has been paid; the rats are gone
But rats are smart and hungry; they’ll be back
We know the night is followed by the dawn
But every brilliant day will fade to black

The cycles of the universe reveal
That opposites do more than just attract
The universe is like a turning wheel
The folks of Hamelin learned this simple fact

Both rats and children come and go in time
It seems as if it's fated thus to be
Perhaps there is a moral, most sublime
Perhaps the universe will set them free

The universe continues to go round
In quiet cycles piped without a sound.

At times I see my Sita in the sky
At times I see my Sita in my dreams
I know she’s far away, but I must try
To bring her back, no matter how it seems

My time without my Sita is like Hell
Naraka would be better than this life
But more than just a story made to tell
The world is always better with my wife

I’m every man who’s lost a precious gift
But gold and diamonds never will compare
To my dear Sita, who I want to lift
And show the world that she is good and fair

I need my Sita with me, by my side
My precious Sita, oh, my precious bride.

A festival that celebrates our town
We're Hebron, a community of friends 
The maples here achieve a great renown 
And every year we hope it never ends

The sugar from our maples is so sweet
It flows when trees are tapped in early spring
It flows like friendship flows down every street
It seems to make the people want to sing

A festive song, a festival we love
We welcome all with hope that always grows
Like maple leaves on lofty limbs above 
Through which the joy of maple syrup flows

The winter snows will melt and go away
While Hebron’s Maple Festival will stay.

I watch the maples sway across the street 
The wind seems gentle, tinged with gentle rain
The gentleness of morning is complete
As gentle dreams of reverie remain

The reverie of gentle autumn days
Remembered in the winter times of chill
I wonder if a maple tree that sways
Remembers when it used to stand stone still

The memories of trees are like the wind
A paradox with roots that wait for spring 
A memory no weather can rescind
The maple tree has other songs to sing

I watch the maples watch as I compose
A gentle song as gently I repose.

As odd conditions find their tongues are slit
Like fiendish fangs they drip with mothered blood
If born with light they start before they quit
Eternally what bombs becomes a dud

Explosions of conditions draped with fur
Expressions make the most of rancid dawn
Untold by children told to be unsure
The offer states the honor which has gone

We find the bitch of all we might expect
As heinous scars of rotten-rendered-meat
While more than this is what we recollect
And recollections hold what gods repeat

My mistress finds a place to don her hat
While screaming faithless fiction to her cat.

I watched Surreal suck cobwebs from my eyes
That bitch knew how to blend the disks of time
He painted worms like carnal squishy thighs
And only cared for things that wouldn’t rhyme

Like god-below-confusion camping out
Where sultriness enjoys a drink or two
I’ve seen Surreal behave like Holy Doubt
He knows what Holy Doubt can often do

My God, My God is this what Dreamers feel
I Am My God, I Am The Fucking Word
Confusion leads to everything Surreal
True visions run the risk they might be blurred

So blurred in blood the veins of time congeal
As cobwebs dance with God who is Surreal.

For Valentine's Day

Every good love story needs a good sonnet. 
This one is for Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce:
-----
They found each other somewhere in the light
A metaphor that knows just where to look
To see beyond the limits of plain sight
A simple story in love’s storybook 

She sings her songs of love with dulcet voice
A song becomes much more than what she sings
The words of love become a lyric choice 
Like songbirds know the tune of precious things

He must have known true love will know it’s true
It overcomes uncertainty and more
It seems to know precisely what to do
To show the love beyond love’s metaphor 

And now together they are TNT
An acronym for what was meant to be.

They say that Pandæmonium’s design
Was drawn by heaven’s architect as well
A place that was approved by One Divine
The place they call the capital of Hell

From heaven cast, the demons found a place
Where all created demons always dwell
Then suddenly there seemed to be a race
To what they call the capital of Hell

If Pandæmonium begets blank time
Or time becomes a god like me or you
We see the Word become a goddamned Rhyme
As if it all depends on order too

Is all we need from life, a simple song?
The place where Pandæmoniums belong.