Sonnettics

What father leaves his child with a witch?
By Setebos I curse the wretch to hell
The wretch will from humanity unhitch
The wretch becomes a story I must tell

By Setebos we live before we die
To live or die is often quite the same
Each life is but the telling of a lie
A lie which knows that truth is just a game

Play on, play on, we’ll die in wretched time
What father leaves his child with a witch?
By Setebos you recognize the crime
The players come and go; with you they switch

With Sycorax the witch you had your fun
Your Caliban exists in everyone.

At night I close my eyes and thus go blind
I hope when I wake up I’ll see the light
It seems I always do; I always find
My blindness only lasts throughout the night

Sometimes when I go blind I live my dreams
Sometimes the Mares of Night assault my peace
When I go blind, reality, it seems
Is lost as subtle fantasies increase

It’s only sight, they say; it’s just one sense
We all go blind at times; sometimes it’s choice
At times the thought of darkness is intense
At times it seems my blindness finds a voice

You see the noise that lingers in your mind?
The noise of darkened dreams proclaims me blind.

I watch the streams of smoke as I exhale
They show me words I never knew I knew
They seem to know the breath they would regale
The breath, the smoke, a wispy grayish blue

The streams of smoke are remnants of a gift
A gift from Mother Earth who loves to give
I watch them rise above; I watch them lift
Above the earth, where stories often live

The stories of the smoke begets the streams
(Who says “begets” unless they’re fuckin’ high)
The stories fill the smoke with more than dreams
And dreams of smoke will lift us by and by

It makes no sense, these things of which we spoke
But sense is not the realm of streams of smoke.

The poet’s mind is closed the door is locked
A metaphor is nothing but a lie
All poetry that’s written should be mocked
Let’s celebrate when all the poets die

Do you remember how it feels to be
Or not to be a poem in a play
The world inside the mind you’ll never see
I wish the world outside would go away

Yes I’m a poet and my mind is shut
It makes it easy to reject your words
In poetry the cadences are cut
In smelly chunks of similaic turds

So crumble this one up and wipe your ass
If poetry attacks you, it will pass.

Toe wou ek in Suid Afrika gebly
Toe was ek “ingevoerde boer” genoem
Toe het  geliefde vriende daan gesê
“Nou moet jy net ‘n meise vind, ‘n bloem!”

En nou ek wil ‘n bietje kerrie hê
En rys. Ek hou van blatjang op my kos
‘N braai is altyd lekker. Glo my!
(Ten minste stuur my fotos in die pos)

Ek wou “Die Stem” nog weer met jou gesing
Ek mis die Kersfees in ‘n somer maand 
Onthou ek alle woorde word net "ding"
Die taale meng in die geliefde land!

Gedagtes kom natuurlik nog aan my
Want wil ek in Suid Afrika gebly.

The stories of the rainbow have been told
In myth and magic since the dawn of time
Some stories we have heard are very old
But old or new, such stories are sublime

Sublimity is rainbows in a word
The words of rainbows form a story arc
The colors of the rainbow can be heard
As water droplets leave their promised mark

A bridge, a bow, a promise, just a few
Of rainbow stories heard or felt or seen
A sunlit world of water, clear and blue
A rainbow tree with leaves of rainbow green

Unique, the rainbow story has no end
Forever’s how the rainbow has been penned.

At first we stretched and learned to stand upright
Perhaps because we tried to reach a star
The stars were out of reach, not out of sight
Too bright to be ignored, but oh, so far

To reach the stars we’d need to build a ship
We taught our hands to build the things we’d need
At last we reached the moon, a simple trip
What else would be required to succeed?

Success we found was more than just one word
Complexity of words revealed our plight
To reach the stars we thought was not absurd
And if we couldn’t be there, we would write

And so we write about the place we are
Until one day, we know, we’ll reach a star.

We called out as we exited the range
“No brass! No ammo!” meant the range was clear
To some this declaration might seem strange
But strange or not our sergeant had to hear

Except when we shot LAWs our sergeant said
“Of course there is no brass! It’s fired away!”
“You hit the target; now the target’s dead”
“Now drop and think about the words you say.”

And so we dropped for push-ups at his feet
Except Edgardo, Private Gaud was smart
He didn’t like to exercise in heat
He answered sergeant with poetic art

He called to sergeant as he walked on by
“No rockets in my pockets,” was his cry!