Sonnettics

She only screams when life gets in her way
The way is hers and only hers alone
As she inhales the blue smoke of the day
A burning bud she calls her very own

But screams unshared are quiet screams at best
They fill the exhalations of the night
As quiet screams their noise is thus expressed
Within the darkened weight of sacred light

The sacred light of ganja fills the breath
Of innocence, parading like a king
It knows the path of life proceeds to death
And god is good who gives us everything

And so she screams to god to smoke a joint
And thus reveals which prophet to anoint.

Inflation means the cost of shit goes up
(Not really “shit,” that’s just a metaphor)
The holy grail becomes a paper cup
And Walmart is a “posh” and “glitzy” store

If money doesn’t matter we’ll be fine
But if it does, I guess we’re really fucked
If money marks a thin, translucent line
We’ll look back on it and we’ll say “that sucked”

Inflation sucks the life from lifeless joy
The same way death betrays what came before
Should money really mean that much? Oh, boy!
Is prostitute a nicer word for whore?

Inflation seems to be the price we pay
For anything that gets in money’s way.

My Susan Blue is waiting at the gate
She’s waiting there to go out for a walk
Her waiting bears the grace of beauty’s fate
A fate of which philosophers will talk

Philosophy of beauty bears the name
Aesthetics, beauty learned is beauty felt
Should Susan Blue go by another name
Her sense would still leave beauty where she dwelt

It’s more than what is felt or seen or heard
Come learn aesthetoception, one more sense
Much more than just the meaning of a word
It waits for you, with Susan, by the fence

My Susan Blue aesthetes her beauty’s grace
She wears it in her hat, her clothes, her face.

Thanksgiving is a time when thanks are felt

To give is to acknowledge we’ve been blessed

Regardless of the hand that we’ve been dealt

The fortunes leave the future unexpressed

The past provided now with all we feel

Be thankful for tomorrow when it comes

The now is god, but doesn’t make us kneel

The now to which all thankfulness succumbs

I’m thankful I’m alive; I nearly died

But that was many yesterdays ago

I still have now-ness instantly inside

Tomorrow never happens, this I know

I know that life can change and does at times

The way that final couplets end in words.

Nov. 10, 2016

I am not a fan of our president-elect either, but I have faith in our

country.

I remember my military oath at times like this. I didn’t swear to support and defend any person, president or otherwise. I swore to “support and defend the Constitution.”

I have faith in those roots. Politicians come and go like leaves on a

tree, but the tree stays strong because of its root.

I wrote this poem for that:

———-

Our forest world is full of mighty trees

I like my tree the best; it’s tall and strong

It’s filled with leaves that rustle in the breeze

The winds of time produce a mighty song

Our leaves all sing; our root provides their tune

Though like their songs, the leaves all come and go

But not the root, the root remains, a boon

Established and ordained to help us grow

Our root provides an anchor in the storm

Fierce storms have blown down leaves from time to time

All leaves will fall; it’s just a forest norm

New leaves will grow, our tree remains, sublime

Regardless of the leaves, our tree bears fruit

I hope all leaves keep faith within our root

———-

Stay strong and keep faith in our root.

A playground’s where a kid can be a kid

Can you remember when you were that free

Remember all the things we freely did

The playground’s where we’d always want to be

A jungle or a castle, built for fun

To spin or slide, especially with friends

Sometimes there was a field where we could run

A place to play where friendship never ends

The grass is green and skies above are blue

The seeds of friendship grow and grow and grow

Regardless of what kids may want to do

The playground seems to welcome them and know

It knows it’s built for kids to just be free

The playground’s where they always want to be.

To quilt you need to know you’re making art

The art of warmth, a quilting metaphor

A fabric poem, written from the heart

It’s poetry, and yet, it’s so much more

More senses are engaged in what you make

Than any simple poem, read or heard

Reach out and feel the warmth, for goodness sake

The warmth you feel is more than any word

To quilt, the artist works with more than thread

The quilter works with colors, textures too

And warmth, I know it’s already been said

But quilted warmth is everything you do

May every quilt you make be seen as art

And may the warmth of quilting fill your heart. 

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.