Sonnettics

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.

 In search of heaven, men have come to climb
In search of more than just some mound of stone
The heights of these transcend the heights of time
Atop a man feels more than just alone

He stands where inspiration may descend
Necessity became a place to seek
The heights of time he thought he would transcend
Becomes the words of thoughts he longs to speak

For not all men are able to ascend
Where truth begins its journey from on high 
The stream of conscious liquid will not end
But flows within our valleys bye and bye

Its traverse of the mountain is serene
The water of such truth is cool and clean.

 

Weep, weep not, thou knight of faith by torment
or despair. The sacrifice desired
at Moriah–by thy god required–
exhalts thee to a throne beyond lament.
Transcend the Law, and by obedient
action, leap the chasm where Hell is fired;
tread the highway, which by god inspired,
guides thee to thy heavenly endowment.
Now Hell hath opened wide its gaping door,
and doubt hath pierced both father and the son;
Moriah is a holy mount no more–
the ram upon its slopes is free to run.
Cries Abram, by his son’s blood now reviled,
“My god, my god, has let me kill my child.”

(This is an old sonnet I wrote back in my undergraduate years, maybe 1990?)

 Sweet Sirens sing to draw me from the sea
The sea, a path I’ve drawn through wind and waves
To take me to a place I long to be
And yet, I’m drawn by songs my spirit craves

If home is not where Siren’s songs are heard
Then why is home the place I long to be?
Will home surpass the notes of ev’ry word?
The spoken words that bind or set me free?

Alas, sweet Sirens sing beyond such words
Alas, I am compelled to heed the call
The call of more than songs of simple birds
Or rhythmic waves that rise and see me fall

I fall like others, where I make my choice
Of words or music, songs of notes or voice. 

And where mistakes repeat, repeat, repeat
Like legs that lift and fall, that lift and fall
In shoes that know the softness of the street
And yet, deny the rhythmic sole to call

The beat of life’s mistakes becomes a song
A little song that’s published in the night
And when the other runners sing along
You’ll hear the wrong of ev’rything that’s right

And so you turn to face the past that flees
And yet you face the back of what succumbs
To words that wear a sickly-sweet disease
Because they’ve learned that truth adheres and numbs

And where mistakes repeat before they end
They’ll learn the words I’ve offered to my friend.

The softness of her face becomes an Art
Portrayed in skin and shadows drawn by will
The will that shows the magic of her heart
That brings the joy of beauty she would fill

She fills her lines with curves that can emote
The thoughts that show her face beyond her eyes
And ev’ry word she speaks is to denote
Each story she would tell without surprise

Surprise appears regardless of her words
Like clouds appear within the bluest sky
Above the songs of flight of soaring birds
That reach for heavens where their songs can fly

I see the truth within her face’s song
The right of softness where her words belong.