Sonnettics

The truth is more than what is not a lie

A lie is more than what is not the truth

The words of gods are trinkets you can buy

I purchased some while I was in my youth

But now I see both truth and lie defined

I’ve found that trinkets fade and turn to rust

A waste of time with ignorance combined

Belief is faith in words one shouldn’t trust

They’ll take your money, promise you reward

But first you have to live their way, then die

The price you really pay, you can’t afford

Don’t sell your life for nothing but a lie

A lie is not the truth you find nor seek

And words are more than sounds the liars speak.

Her life was more than just a Silent Spring

A life of music lived with music heard

She listened to the songs the world would sing

The songs of every season, every bird

The daughter of a brilliant mother earth

Her sisterhood reminds us all to live

In harmony with Gaia of our birth

To take, it’s true that we must learn to give

We give attention to the songs we hear

That carry us to places we would go

And with our sister Rachel ever near

We find the truth of life in all we know

We know her life was more than Silent Spring

She led us on to question everything.

America, a place where all are free

To live a life of happiness by choice

America is home to you and me

To share the things we love with freedom’s voice

The voice of freedom sounds just like a song

The song of freedom calls to all who hear

It calls us to the home where we belong

A home where life and liberty draw near

Sweet liberty and life are things we love

Two rights with which we’re born, and one more too

With these, our future peace is like a dove

Of happiness that all of us pursue

America, we love the truth you share

With everyone: a place, a song, a prayer.

The words beyond the poetry are here

Just put your hand upon my sacred heart

Let’s feel the pulse of magic we revere

Let’s listen to the sounds beyond the art

Beyond the art is more than simple noise

Beyond the art the artist begs your leave

To share the reverent hope the world destroys

To share what fills that cracks of cracked reprieve 

The words beyond the poetry are gone

Before the pulse of magic leaves to beg

Before we find the colors of the dawn

And tack them down with some semantic peg

The words may be the pegs we find to use

The words beyond the poetry we choose.

I feel good morning, even though it’s cold
The warmth of coffee mingles with my words
I call them “mine” and hope they don’t get old
Or fly away like silly little birds

To fly away is freedom’s final gift
To birds or even quick poetic lines
The warmth of freedom rises as I lift
My coffee mug with other prescient signs

The signs of life will change from day to day
Like seasons change their warmth throughout the year
And yet, the warmth of words will always stay
And share themselves with those who stop to hear

I feel the words “good morning” in the light
That waited for this freedom through the night.

We’re free because we live where freedom reigns
We’re free to celebrate the lives of all
Let’s celebrate with beautiful refrains
Accompanied by those who hear the call

We live where folks are brave enough to serve
True service comes in many shapes and forms
Our celebrations recognize the nerve
Of men and women standing through life’s storms

Our town was built with strength and love and care
It stands, a model of it’s brilliant past
Our history is stories all can share
Our future knows the way to make us last

Our town is Hebron, watch now as we pave
A future pathway for both free and brave.

–Scott Ennis, July 4th, 2021

For times when my capacity is small
The neural pathways glide to comtrovee
I wonder if it threatens one and all
Of fleegunds in repooh confrasticly

Will flesh bespeak the hidden garlemphew
Will garlemphew return to days of creel
An accident of sounds the chawg renew
With irons dull by rotten lastig steel

True times will bind the hands with which we speak
We speak of words as if the gods will die
The strong will end below the waves that freak
The nouns and verbs on which the gods rely

It doesn’t really matter when they come
The sound of stains enhance a hardened scum.

Coronavirus reared its ugly head
In 2020, all around the world
To fight it we’ve been told to stay in bed
I wonder who’s in bed all snugly curled

The Donald? No. He thinks that he’s immune
Immune from common sense and nothing more
I wonder if this bug will change his tune
Or if the Donald’s just a stupid bore

My social distance grows and grows and grows
At every news report of quarantine
It’s news of death-by-snot from someone’s nose
While toilet paper’s nowhere to be seen!

Coronavirus, what a lovely mess
And when it ends is anybody’s guess.

I don't know what it means; I just don't know.
Did I do something wrong, some kind of sin?
I'll tell you what I can; I'll take it slow.
Although I'm just not sure where to begin.

You know, He came and spoke to me each night
in Perfect Glory, stood there with His Son
above the floor in robes of brilliant white,
for twenty years or maybe twenty-one.

But not last night. His presence didn't shine.
His voice was mute; His Son was absent too.
I'm left without the water or the wine.
I haven't even got a fucking clue!

Oh shit, do you suppose He might have heard?
Or should I raise my fist and flip the bird?

Poor Jesus didn't mean to start a cult
Poor Christian folk believe the poor boy did
Be glad he doesn't see the poor result
Of how his life with "Christian" crap's been hid

Poor Mary was a simple girl, a teen
Who found that she was pregnant and unwed
Cast out, the "law" proclaimed she was "unclean"
Though true, it isn’t what the gospels said

Let’s steal the rustic solstice to ensure
Our celebration of poor Jesus stays
Alive, though he is dead, and let’s adjure
The simple, rustic people with our ways

We’ll call it “Christmas,” decorate with shit
No one will ever know the truth of it.