I think the world needs sonnets to survive Survival is the perfect lyric art The sonnet form, a heartbeat still alive The perfect sonnet dwells within the heart
The heart of every poet beats in time With nature, like a song of subtle love The love of every sonnet is sublime Like rains that quench the world from clouds above
The sonnet turns its theme to fit the sound Of everything the human heart might hear It finds its voice where every voice is found It sings to every person, far and near
Survival of the sonnet, on the whole A metaphor of our collective soul.
The cost of doing nothing is too steep I guess that means it’s time to “roll up sleeves” We’ve landed in some shit that’s more than deep It doesn’t matter what the Trump believes
The “shit” is his election. What the fuck? How many millions wasted precious votes? I guess too many like to press their luck Obtuse to what their orange choice denotes
So, time to scrape up pig shit one more time A job nobody ever wants to do But pigs will shit like criminals will crime And cleaning up will fall to me and you
Democracy requires work that’s tough Sometimes it stinks, but we are strong enough.
This sonnet is an allusion to the re-election of Donald Trump. It also contains an allusion to a summer job I had as a teenager, shoveling shit out of a pig barn. I still remember the farmer telling me that I was the first kid he’d hired who wasn’t afraid to get in there and scrape the pig shit off the floor. I use the metaphor of “shoveling pig shit” as a reference to anything that may be distasteful, but still needs to be done. I think it works perfectly in this case. For the next four years we need to roll up our sleeves, plug our noses, and wade boot-deep through the shit as we do all we can to clean it up.
I call to Coventina in my need To bring to me her blessed healing rain She calls to me with words I feel and heed She sings with showered notes a soft refrain
When Coventina hears the parched who thirst She sings the dulcet songs of living wells When water came to be, she was the first The first to learn the stories water tells
The stories and the songs she shares with all Are filled with brilliant life and brilliant love She loves the life of every waterfall She sings of rain that falls from clouds above
The goddess Coventina comes to heal With water simple words cannot reveal.
The Word of God is everything you write I write The Word of God in structured verse It’s not The Truth, The Truth is not The Light The Word is God like everything perverse
Perversity is such a clever Word It turns away from normalcy with cheek It’s also God; at least that’s what I heard Perversity is when you hear God speak
The Word of God is found in every book And every song whose lyrics are defined By words the poet finds where they might look Whenever God might linger in their mind
So speak or write and know that Thou Art God And know that Words are words and might be flawed.
I found a sonnet on my path today Ironically it sat right on the trail Just past the point where nuts would often lay I often forage words to no avail
But this time I picked up a whole damn verse The squirrels had passed it by like something bad A nut with weevil larvae or much worse I guess they didn’t see it like I had
I heard the sonnet fall through autumn leaves I heard it just before the bridge, the brook Inviting me to cross what it believes That sonnets may be found if one will look
I think i heard the brook call out my name A forager, a sonneteer, the same.
I walk a path adorned by fallen leaves It must be autumn now, the air is crisp A treasure trove of colors, not for thieves Although I steal their colors like a wisp
A wisp of little metaphors, all mine Oh look, the final sigh of maple’s breath The trees prepare to sleep; the trees are fIne The forest path is not the way through death
I walk this living path to comprehend That life is full of seasons to enjoy These vibrant colors do not mark an end They simply show the art the trees employ
The pathway bearing leaves, a living thing Reminds me they’ll be back again in Spring.
I’m not just some “damn yankee” in my mind I’ve foraged all across this fruitful land I find great joy in everything I find Yes, even if it’s not what I had planned
I’ve foraged oysters from the Puget Sound I forage nuts New England loves to share In Utah it was Camas that I found In Idaho there’s rose hips everywhere
But midwest morels always call me back To Michigan, a place I’ve also lived The U.P. doesn’t seem to have a lack My foraging expresses life un-sieved
For foraging, America’s the best Come forage now with me from East to West.
There once was a cuckold named Tom Whose wife thought that she was “da bomb” But when she “went off” The neighbors would scoff And he had to try to stay calm!
The carousel is old, but still it turns Will it succumb to time eventually The gears will rust and rotten wood still burns I try my best to set the horses free
The carousel played music made of joy But now it skips through songs like broken glass A ghostly little girl and ghostly boy At times appear when living children pass
A spooky shortcut to a different time It marks another place where fear is found As if the joy it knew was just some crime And still it’s old, and still it turns around
The carousel is old and we are too The ghosts of kids we see are me and you.
Who hails the Queen of Femininity Who calls on Her to pray for us who sin The Mother of our own Divinity A call that often comes from deep within
Is bitterness the essence of the call As Maryam protects our ship of reeds The essence of Her name protects us all A name that even Sancte Pater heeds
The Mother God is Strength and Love and Grace She hears us when we call on Her in need She hears us from her high and holy place A place where She espouses Word and Deed
And so we know to whom we need to pray Deliver us in Glory, Mater Dei
