New Blog!

Last year I embarked upon an ill fated resolution to write one sonnet a day for a year. As you know gentle readers, it did not last. But I am trying again! Not every day, it's hard to do that and also have a life, but at least a few times week.
So, here is a new blog. The Sonnet Blog, just for them. I am calling it thus so that I have no excuse to post anything but sonnets there. So it begins, expect regular updates, I certainly will.
If you feel so inclined do please follow here:
http://crazycurlysonnets.blogspot.com/

LXIII Billy Collins life

I life were like a Billy Collins poem,
There'd always be that certain turn of phrase,
That--by the time all of the lines were done--
Would leave the reader poignantly amazed.
Those scraps that hungry tempests love to toss,
Would all be folded into drawers and shelves,
And only fuss from time to time the loss
Of wilder pulses where they once had dwelled.
The highs and lows of passions crushed or crashed
With all their jagged edges on the strand,
Would already have smoothed where they were dashed
Into the wind that blows the other sands.
    Life would just say the things it had to say,
    Then leave us aching, in a gente way.

The Snow Queen Dreams She Has A Heart

I could call you Kai,
Or I could call you Snow, just as easily.
It's cryogenics
That makes your lips blue,
That makes my hands seem warm,
A somnambulance of frost and white bees swarming.
Is it really freedom if I give you a choice?
If I call you Gerda,
Or Reindeer?
If I keep you in summer always, or always winter?
In the south, or the north, of the world.
I could give you all the pieces,
Each unique as a tear or a rose,
Each one the same.
It isn't really language, love.

National Poetry Month and Off the Wagon

Well it seems I can't keep any sort of set schedule or theme on this thing but hey, it's National Poetry Month! And in celebration I will attempt to keep on truckin at random.

LXII

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,"
That's a great line I wish belonged to me,
"Your eyes had once, and of there shadows deep",
Is lovely there as well, if can't you see,
I feel entirely cowed by the great lot,
Of all the wondrous words that predate mine,
Always putting them down quite on the spot,
And nearly always running out of time.
There are so many phrases in my head,
That have been used by better smiths before,
Who forge much better wit, catharsis, dread,
And are set down for glory evermore.
    Though they are wonderful I must complain,
     Of all the poets lodged within my brain.
   

LXI there few things better better than sleeping in

There are few things that rival sleeping in,
There is no better physic for the mood,
Only a few things cause an equal grin,
Most of them are X-rated or a food.
Even if you can't sleep past a late hour,
Just lounging there works wonders for the soul,
The curtains block out all the new day's glowers,
While snuggled up agains the morning's cold.
And yes, X-rated things would be preferred,
Better than simply stretching with a yawn,
But really, owning both sides of the bed,
Is not always a thing to be frowned.
    A morning free does not often come cheap,
    Just knowing your alam will never beep.

LX worst.sonnet.ever.

This one's a cop-out, I apologize.

Scissors cuts paper, paper covers rock.

(These are the real rules, I would not tell lies)

Rock crushes scissors, lizard poisons Spock.

Spock breaks scissors, they lizard then behead,

(You must watch your opponent for weakness.)

Lizard eats paper, (I long for for my bead,

But strategy cannot include weakness.)

Paper disproves Spock, Spock the rock makes poof,

(But vaporize is what it really does,

These are the rules, watch Big Bang, it has proof)

Rock crushes scissors, as it always has.

   I played this game so this poem could get done,

   There were better ideas but fatigue won.

LIX to the lost hour of sleep that goes tonight

To the lost hour of sleep that goes tonight
Out somewhere between dreams and single socks,
I grieve your death, I think it is not right,
To yield you up each time we spring the clocks.
Does all lost time commingle in the void?
Arranged in cliques and old exclusive clubs,
Hours that lovers wish they could employ,
Or minutes used up looking for a glove?
I know your sacrifice brings longer days,
And promises of more sunshine and blooms,
But now beneath the moonlight's tired gaze,
Your time, now lost, would be to me a boon.
     This sign of springtime time promising its charms,
     Somehow always makes louder my alarm.
   
   

LVIII

It's been a long long day all filled with stress,
And petty grim annoyances that build,
Till everything feels done under duress,
And all desires just feel unfulfilled.
With toppling printers and some falling shelves,
And computers that shut down on their own,
A section rearranged by evil elves,
Who have un-alphabetized all my tomes.
These all burn in the wreckage of this day,
Along with customers that have a snit,
And want to correct all the grammar used,
In half the books that live in modern lit.
    The buzz of door alarms fuzzes my head,
     I've never been so turned on by my bed.

LVII I am the jerk in this relationship

And once again my sonnet, we're at war.
There cannot be a peace between us two,
We merely raise--not settle--any score,
You will not do a thing I ask you to.
If you would rhyme more gently to the page,
I could give you all sorts of flow'ry words,
About sweet love, times mut'ny, or this age,
But all you give me for this line is "birds".
Here lies the part where there should be a twist,
Or some great revelation past unknown,
I've not really been spending time on this,
You do not throw me either boon or bone.
   And while you scrub my syntax in the sink,
   Since we can't compromise, I'll go and drink.

LVI dear sir, i am seducing you tonight

Dear Sir, I am seducing you tonight.
Please be here promptly--hat in hand--at 9:00.
There's no need for alarm, for fight or flight,
Whatever you would like to wear is fine.
I've assembled some alcohol to choose:
From wine and beer, to mead, or pert champagne,
You'll take your time to ponder and peruse,
And pick whichever's best to take the blame
For letting all your inhibitions go.
Just toss them in the corner with your hat,
And keep the tie (it's handy) let things flow,
I think we've reached the end of all this chat.
   So grab your glass and take a couple sips,
   And now let me replace it with my






Inspired by this fantastic bit of Neil Gaiman-ness:
http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/18932682858/as-requested-by-too-many-people-making-the-last-post

LV sulky smokey Muse

My Muse is holed up in the bath tonight,
She's pouting and has slid the lock to say
She has no plans of turning on the light,
And thinks that I should take myself away.
I know that she is smoking in the dark,
For little wisps curl underneath the door,
Half hinted adjectives and nouns embark,
Then dissipate not far above the floor.
I only have their charred scent in my nose,
A bit like snow, a bit like summer dust,
They give me nothing even fit for prose,
But here I sit, and write something I must.
   So she will smolder, since she will not flame,
   And later I'll sneak in, and snake the drain.
 
 

LIV leg muscles

Extensor  Digitorum Longus there,
Is closest to the fibula tis true,
Extensor Hallucis Longus dwells where?
Just alongside, though that is nothing new.
The Fibularis Tertius deeper still,
Tibialis Anterior tops both,
These muscles long and varied have no frills,
Inversion, eversion, it is no joke.
There's dorsliflexion caused by these as well,
(That means the toes are pointing at the sky)
Who could have made all this I cannot tell,
I don't have energy to question why.
   If I complain, your patience I must beg,
   This is all just the anterior leg.

LIII Resident Milla

Though I am straight, I think Milla's a fox,

As Leelo she kicks every kind of ass,

She saves the world and cleans the baddie's clocks,

Always possessing special brands of class.

As Alice I confess I like her too,

She has absurd fight sequences down pat,

Gainst every kind of zombie thing with goo,

Though I must say it's starting to feel flat.

How many of these damn things can they make?

I think they're now at six, or is it five?

How much longer can this franchise go on,

Making all live things dead and dead things live.

   For now though I will let the questions end,

   Resident Evil 3 is on again. 

LII nonsense

I would sleep raveled up in poppies red,
All sporting cheshire grins up at the sun,
Perfumed air thick tangled round my head,
Clouds heaped above and hours quite undone.
Glint honey gold far down amongst dark leaves
Caked thick with bees and drowsing to their purr,
The pollen gathered up like barely sheaves,
In all the world the only thing that stirs.
All things with names crawl down between the stems,
Easily brushed away by languorous hands,
I do not want their words or stratagems,
I'd much rather stay here somnambulant.
   To dream in shimmers where warm breezes roam,
   Is easier than searching for my home.

LI Bunnies

The rabbit's linked intrinsically with spring,
With eggs and blooms, chocolates, and rampant sex,
This manifest in lots of fluffy bling,
And num'rous plushy toys made up to spec.
There's baskets of them staring straight at me,
From high atop the bright Easter display,
I feel they are preparing for a spree,
They do not blink, they do not look away.
Each has an inner Frank, I swear it's true,
Harvey would only worsen my great plight,
Dear Anya Jenkins I am quite with you,
Monty Python oh yes, you had it right.
    I think they're multiplying right before me,
    A twitch-nosed hoppy loppy dire army.

L The Eyre Affair

The Eyre Affair is great, not for its name,
It does not warm my heart by wit alone,
I'd read it anywhere, couch, train, or plane,
But there are other reasons I must own.
Richard performed like Rocky makes me grin,
(An audience participators dream)
That's not the thing that gives this novel win,
Nor even my own fondness for it's theme.
The funny names give extra spice tis true
To details that already make great laughs,
There's time travel, and action through and through,
But these are not my selling points by half.
   In this book one can have a pet Dodo,
    And that is why I love it ever so.

 

XLIX happy leap!

Leap year did not do Frederick any good,
He was bound both by duty and tight pants,
If you do not know what I mean, you should,
Go forth and watch thee Pirates of Penzance!
Or horror films get large prophetic kicks
From days that show up four years at a time,
Like Jeepers Creepers (quite a dreadful flick)
Just trust me, I have seen it, it's a crime.
It seems to me an awful lot of work,
Just to keep some calendars organized,
I hope Gregorians got lots of perks,
For keeping all those numbers memorized.
   It may be accruing a cheap patina,
   But oh, it gives great Deus Ex Machina.

XLVIII inception valentine

I wonder what is dream and what is truth,
It's like the ceiling has become the floor,
Like JGL dressed in a three piece suit,
Each time I think I've reached the end there's more.
I don't know where these feelings bloomed out from,
What fateful moment might have truck the spark,
I'm three deep levels down at least, I'm dumb,
Please have some care, don't leave me on the fourth.
Yet so far down where ground can become sky,
And reflections go on and on for days,
I will not stop to think or question why,
I've never been so happy in a haze.
   If it's a dream I hope it never stops,
   You've got me spinning, spinning like a top.

XLVII italian accents

It's hard to do Italian accents,
Without just sounding like a total jerk,
It's easy to start having accidents,
About pronunciations you have heard.
Oh, am I in the right when I attempt,
To put a syllable-ah on each line?
And my poor tongue fears it is in contempt,
When figuring if "th" or "t" is right.
My strategy to solve these obstacles,
Is to eat all the native food I can,
Like pasta and cannoli, wine and cheese,
In hopes my mouth will start to understand,
   Whether the answer comes to yes or no,
    I will be eating all the gelato.
 

XLVI dragon

A think that all the problems in my life,

From transportation to my spirits laggin'

Feeling becalmed and broke and cold at night,

Would all be solved if I could have a dragon.

A dragon I could ride to visit friends,

Who dwell too far away for my comfort,

I'd feed him all the chocolate I could lend,

And help him catch a Kraken for desert.

I'm sure that he would be a spiffing cook,

With specialties in steak and swiss grilled cheese,

I'd sleep quite warm against the cozy nook

His wings make where they brush against his knees.

     I'd never use him for financial gain,

     Just for someone to play with through the rain.

   

LXV just skip this one

I'm blue enough to be a Smurf right now,
With a big batch of melancholy plus,
If there were ten of myselfs sitting round,
I'd be sorry enough for all of us.
I'm worse than any Henry James novel,
The ones where moody thoughts go on and on,
And you wish they just wouldn't think at all,
So you could stop reading of all their wrongs.
I'm really getting down to my last nerve
With this completely rotten attitude,
I wish that from this me-swamp I could swerve,
And steer after much livelier pursuits.
   I'll roust myself as soon as I am able,
   And start my search for a cave that has cable.

XLIV Holmes

A year is simply twenty times too long,
E'er those cheekbones will dazzle me again.
Also the coat that fills my heart with song,
Thy tow'ring intellect, that sweet disdain.
It's hard not to invent bizarre dangers,
Or put myself in peril and defeat,
Just so that you and John my crusaders
Will come and rescue me wrapped in a sheet.
The quips, the jokes, the cunning take and give,
The eye candy at old 22B,
Dear Hudson finding horrors in the fridge,
Your puzzels are the little death of me.
   Oh please return to me my love, Sherlock,
    Don't leave me crying at the Reichenbach.

XLIII that word

There are a lot of words that rhyme with duck,
But I can only really think of one,
So here goes, I'll say it, it is: muck.
Bet you were hoping for the other one.
Which is a rather puzzling expletive,
Because it can mean something that's so nice,
A noun, a verb, adverb, and adjective,
It gives to every life some added spice.
Were we rashly to yell aloud "Sex you!"
At people who annoyed us in our day,
They'd probably be cheered all through and through,
And have their outlook changed in every way.
   I don't know what to write down for this couplet,
   Perhaps it'd improve if I--destruct it.

XLII morbid osteology

When all else has decayed expect our bones,
Our skeletons will lie quite peacefully
Together in the dark, our ever home,
To dream demurely for eternity.
Then we will conjure up pleasures once led
With skin and flesh and wandering lips and sighs,
That every bone will blush a glowing red
Pulsing with memories of our old delights.
Some archeologists will be confused,
Some day long hence when stumbling on our tomb,
Confronted by our rosey light, bemused,
By the lingering scent of some perfume
      Of rain and orchards ripe under the sun,
       But we will give our secret up to none.

XLI thinner

Some nights it growls, runs and runs and runs,
As hungry as a gasping fish for salt,
The dark half of the moon for want of sun,
A free wave cresting that's been forced to halt.
This gnawing sound quite outdoes K.D. Lang,
With it's innate regard for constancy,
This crackling and hypnotic pulling pang,
Has not an end in sight that I can see.
It's both ungentle and not rough enough,
Like wind on plumage of a pinioned wing,
It eats and eats and never gets enough,
Just thinner, (like that book by Steven King.)
  More thoughts like these pace up and down the bed,
  On all the wrong things I am overfed.

XL late night

It's true you often keep me up at night,
I should sleep now, there's much to do come day,
Instead I sit up spellbound, entranced quite,
I simply cannot tear myself away.
Each thing about you is so beautiful,
The quantity of viewings matters not,
You are so streamlined and so delightful,
And all your varied faces are so hot.
When I see you it's such a fine surprise,
Every unscheduled visit makes me grin,
And even half awake with drooping eyes
I'm certain here's where the future begins.

   Star Trek, who says that remakes are uncool?
   Not me, I will just sit right here and drool.

XXXIX Shoplifters

Dear shoplifter's, some tips for when you steal:
First, don't. That makes less stress for all involved.
But if you're set on acting like a heel,
Some things not to do when the beeping's solved:
Don't say you know Clint Eastwood, he won't help.
Don't say someone else stuck it down your pants,
Don't threaten us with bad reviews on Yelp,
Don't come back hoping for a second chance.
When it's time for your hob-nob with the cops
About the hardback zipped inside your coat,
Explaining that a hooker ripped you off
Will really only hurt your case by rote.
    One more: stealing the Bible for your soul,
     Won't help you much when karma takes a poll.
 

XXXVIII garter belts

The Garter Belt came in with vim and sass,
Around the 1940's, give or take.
It promptly kicked the Girdle's uptight ass,
And gave old sleepy stockings extra shake.
And now they can be found most anyplace,
They even have them in the NHL,
They come in satin, leather, frothy lace,
And can make any hockey player swell.
Yes, hockey players wear the sly belt too,
They have too, or their tube socks will fall down,
Reebok has its own brand, I swear it's true,
They work both under uniforms and gowns.
    But whether used for sport, or man's ardor,
    They are a bloody nuisance to secure.

XXXVII Reading All's Well

Dear Bertram, no one likes you, you're a jerk.
You are the dreadful harbinger of bros,
There's not a bit of subtext in this work
That can redeem you. Man, you are a hose.
So you don't like the girl you have to wed,
Then stop harassing girls who don't dig you,
And trying to strong-arm then into bed,
When Helena (though crazy) is still true.
You seem to think that honor's of import,
You even symbolize it with a ring,
And yet as good Inigo* might retort,
"I don't think it means what you think it means."
    Of all your flaws I don't think I'm mistook,
    You are the inspiration for this book:

*
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2y8Sx4B2Sk

XXXVI Downton Abbey. Yes me too.

I have to write this quickly as I can,
So I can keep watching this Downton show,
This evening hasn't gone the way I planned,
It's simply vanished down a long black hole,
Of beads and lace and posh British accents,
And lush green lawns and valets with a limp,
And horrid scheming teams of mean servants,
And meals at long white tables that don't skimp.
All this class warfare ought to make me stressed,
But I find I just cannot get enough,
For everyone's so beautifully dressed,
And can deliver such a gorgeous snub.
       I can't really do other things instead,
       Capitalizing being sick in bed.

XXXV Conan the Destroyer

Oh Conan the Destroyer, how you bulge
With spray tan muscles bursting at the seams,
My need for epic mayhem you indulge,
This film is 80's cheese that golden gleams.
Though of the questing virgin you lose track,
(She's carried off by smoke, she screams a lot)
At least you've got Grace Jones to save your ass,
And sometimes there's the semblance of a plot.
Wilt Chamberlain looms seven feet or more,
But he does not have fabulous ugg boots,
Yours are cross-gartered, stylish through the gore,
You've got a loincloth, you don't need a suit.
    Lackey's you'll slay in prolific amounts,
    As long as no one asks to keep count.

XXXIV A Constant Suitor

Break-ups are oft a young hearts cruel tutors,
I always wonder what it was I lacked,
They never call again, those cold suitors,
But Netflix dear, you always want me back.
You leave me e-mails nearly every week,
Were it legal you'd try wooing my phone,
And even though we never ever speak,
Your focus tells me that I'm not alone.
I know (fickle) you don't really love me,
It's only cause' I'm playing hard to get,
You're only lusting after my money,
And I would ere long find myself in debt.
    Yet still, each time I see your "Come back!" mail,
     My heart will flutter like a ship's glad sail.

XXXIII Happy Galentines Day!

Josie is grateful for her Pussycats,
And Dr Crusher's happy she's got Troi,
Lucy and Ethel always have a laugh,
Xena and Gabrielle don't need no boys.
Buffy and Willow dress to kill, and slay,
And then you've got the gals on Firefly,
There's Jane and Lizzie true in every way,
Beatrice and Hero for their friend would die.
The gals of Gilmore Girls are bonded tight,
There's Sisterhoods of Ya Ya's, Pants, and Luck,
With, tea or whiskey, ice cream, clubs, bad nights,
Good dates, break-ups, they lift us from the muck.
    Whether I want adventure or to talk,
     To all the ladies in my life, you rock!

XXXII

You make me fizz, you make me bubble quite,
So effervescent, light, so clear and clean,
Or oft' times dark, and sometimes clear bright,
And sometimes you're a jolt of pure caffein.
You go so well with almost everything,
I never feel your presence is amiss,
This could now well become a life long fling,
I'm content when I have you at my lips.
Occasionally, yes, you are too sweet,
And sometimes you can blow up everyplace,
It's often fraught when alcohol you meet,
From time to time you leave an aftertaste.
   You never quench my thirst I fear it's true,
    Yes soda, I am talking about you.




T said: "Soda."

XXXI inspired by The Love Letter Project today

I know we all complain of Valentine's
Day number one on all singles shit lists,
We often spend it guzzling down cheap wine,
And trying to forget the world exists.
We blame Hallmark and chocolate companies,
For making our eyes dim and our hearts faint,
And courtly love which came on by degrees,
Then enforced celebrating martyred saints.
Yes all the happy people make us cringe,
(And come on, really, how screwed up is that?)
When we've got parent's, siblings, cousins, friends,
Who all stick by us through thick, thin, and fat.
    And just because we've got no one to screw,
    Does not mean that we can't say "I love you."

XXX number 30!

In every ocean, lurking in the deeps,

Are creatures weird and strange to human eyes,

Distorted things, that wriggle, swoop and creep,

In icy waters carried on strange tides.

A person never sees them in the day,

For they don't venture near to where light shines,

But late at night after the sun's away,

They the slither upwards floating on the brine.

All of my fishy dank Cthulhu fears,

Come round to have a party and a drink,

They talk of bills not paid, and wasting years,

Failures and unknown futures, till I shrink,

     Pulling the blankets up against despair,

     And that's why god invented Teddy Bears.

Mine's a Lion.

XXIX hurt eye

Tonight I only think of jagged things:
Like arrow points and scalpels, fish scales too,
A lie revealed, a cut, torn insect wings,
Spider's silk round a fly, a joint turned blue.
A morning after, sunlight in the eyes,
A crocodile's mouth, a precise wasp,
A sleepless night, a lovers final sigh,
A broken doll, two hands--once tight--unclasped.
Thin paper slicing cross an open palm,
Splinters as tiny as a grain of sand,
These move behind my eyes all the day long,
A final straw that I cannot withstand.
    To ask for softened sleep is not too much,
    Don't ever scratch your cornea, it sucks.

XXVIII D20

My master, or my mistress (possibly),
Is nothing like the sun, nor coral red.
Though not a human, tis an entity,
With all the powers mortals crave yet dread.
He/she doth hold me deep within its thrall,
And sparkles, as Icosahedrons do
With scintillating menace, oh, I fall
Each time, though he is fickle more than true.
My "lady" luck wears armor and a mace,
Uncertain outcome? That's just how she rolls.
Though inconvenienced now by time and space,
She/he's been dressed up with nowhere to go.
    We're both ready, I'm chomping at the bit,
     It's been so goddam long since I have crit.

XXVII synonyms

Protest, bemoan, wail, inveigh and deplore,
Lament, digress, bewail, decry, complain,
Nag, animadvert, bleat, peck, scold, and door.
Wail, mutter, kick, moan, keen, repine, cue rain.
Grouse, squawk, and holler, bellyache kvetch,
Sneer, scorn, deride, remunerate, opine.
Yawp, screech, snarl, gnarl, obstreperously quetch,
Digress, chew over, whine, whine, whine, drink wine.
Cast up, redress, contumely, cry, and bitch,
Denounce, and holler, crab, swear more, and spew,
Gasp, shout aloud, indemnify, screw this,
Recant and whimper, revelate, eschew.
   Sigh, croak, invoke, curse, groan and trip on rug,
   Invoke, revoke, find coffee, find a hug.

XXVI Capt. Picard

The Moral Compass of the Universe,

This title you'd impatiently eschew,

And please don't think I try to be perverse,

When I insist it's absolutely true.

You waver not within your principles, 

You make Earl Grey the noblest of all drinks,

You boldly face injustice where it dwells,

No matter what the higher ups may think.

Oh captain, my captain, forever more,

I would "Engage" for you at any time,

Through wormholes, time warps, (you never keep score)

Shield failure, engineering blips, and crime.

   Your prime directive virus I have caught,

   It smells of valor, and of bergamot.

   

XXV not heartbroken

Let this be clear, you did not break my heart.

I never felt the slightest crack or tear,

Its normal rhythm didn't stop, then start,

Its snapping sound did not make people stare.

I did strain though, a couple of my ribs,

And maybe a few muscles in my cheeks,

My dream life did not have a lot of give,

I overworked a few of my obliques.

I made the kleenex company a mil,

My nose and eyes were salty and quite red, 

My sinuses can feel the echo still,

Of the headache that lived in my sad head.

   So yes, some things were tweaked for a short time,

   But pulminarily I was just fine.

XXIV cat lady

Tonight, I do not wish to go and dance,
Or put on heels, or lipstick on my lips,
Short skirts will not suffice, nor shall tight pants,
My PJ's look like heaven wrapped in bliss.
It does seem wrong to be so lizard-like,
When saturday's, party night by my clock,
But now I think it would fulfill me quite,
To drink warm tea whilst watching new Sherlock.
I'll make it chamomile just to nail down,
The last gap of the settling coffin lid
Upon my twenties, I make myself frown,
Trying to figure out where I have hid.
        The kettles whistling, so I guess that's that,
         I might as well just go and buy a cat.

XXIII anatomy

Anatomy you're kicking all my glutes,
From max. to med. to little minimus,
You only deal in bony absolutes,
Your humerus is not so humorous.
It's getting on my last sciatic nerve,
How much of you there is to memorize:
Like all the ways in which a spine can curve,
My brain is just as tired as my eyes.
From C7 (that's cervical) to tail,
I've got to find and number every bone,
At "lumbo sacral" all my senses fail,
"Oh what a piece of work is man!" I moan.
   This list is just the tip of the iceberg,
    Leave my deeper functions alone, you perve.

XXII pancakes

You are so stacked it's quite hard not to drool,
It doesn't matter to me if you stuff
With blueberries or nuts, even plain's cool,
You smell so dreamy I can't get enough.
Oh Pancakes, you're the paragon of sweet.
You rise high, far above all breakfast food.
You queen it over bacon, eggs, complete--
ly self assured, and buttery to boot.
You're always happy to experiment,
With jelly's, jams, and honeys of all kinds,
When you sport only syrup I'm content,
Then you wear chocolate chips and blow my mind.
     This love affair will not make me thinner,
      Breakfast takes over even my dinner.

XXI Capt. Tightpants

Some men win every war to which they ride,
And fly home righteous on the winds of Fate,
Which clearly will be ever on their side,
Because their morals are both pure and straight.
Some men fight just so they might run again,
Or run, so that they'll get to fight some more,
Or breathe free air, or choose what kind of pain
The might inflict when settling old sore scores.
Some people find life in the in-between,
In nowhere, and the freedom that it grants,
Their ethics aren't particularly clean,
And they look mighty handsome in tight pants.
    You heart flies true, whatever's in your hold,
    You'll ever float my boat Captain Reynolds.

XX ok, cupid

Dear Cupid, we are really not Ok.

The place I point is never where you aim.

This game of blind-mans-bluff is all you play,

It seems I'm always sorry that I came.

I thought perhaps within another realm,

I might escape your shooting average lows,

And there would be more Reason at the helm,

And you'd have better weapons than arrows.

To my dismay I find that as the best

Of algorithms go, you're still no prize,

The answers that you give still fail each test,

Your cache´ is indeed mis-advertised.

    So I'll delete you here, and with some luck,

    Keep at the real world and learn how to duck.

    

    

XIX cleaning

I really really need to clean my room,
It isn't even funny anymore,
There is a swirling clothes vortex of doom,
Upon the place that used to be my floor.
My closet's disemboweled cross the rug,
A hurricane of gore around my bed,
No longer can I simply pout and shrug,
And leave it for tomorrow's work instead.
The skeletons of many cups of tea,
Are scattered round the dresser and nightstand,
It's quite a macabre spectacle to see,
If you jump up, there's no safe place to land.
     I'll take my fresh stubbed toe up as a warning,
    And straightway move to conquer! In the morning.

XVIII muse 1

My Muse is not a fiery thing at all,
She's languid bordering on serpentine,
She drapes herself on divans, and while sprawled:
She keeps a running playlist of Al Green.
She's quite convinced that she's actually French,
And smokes too many long Spanish cigars,
Till I get headaches from the sticky stench,
And trying to translate her "c'est dommage"
When I complain that I have no ideas,
Whilst she just puffs and tries on evening gowns,
And shrugs one shoulder, just to make it clear
She's barely unconcerned with all my frowns.
    So to her expertise I must defer,
    And write a new quatorze all about her.

XVII

The mind is kind of dumb, it oft' forgets,
When water has been moved from near the bed,
Then I'll reach out, thinking a cup there yet,
And knock my glasses to the ground instead.
Likewise in sleep it sometimes reaches out,
For curve of hip or spiral shell of ear,
And other warming things not talked about,
(At least not in great detail, and not here.)
Just as we love the stars undying gleam
Though they've been dead far past months, weeks, and days,
It will replay these old familiar scenes
By ghost light on a dim and empty stage.
      I wake with outstretched arm and my heart sore,
      With a dry throat, my glasses on the floor.

XVI penguins

Oh penguins you make my heart explode.
Though thou art' flightless, you give my soul wings!
Your fashion sense I wish I could upload
For everyone I know who needs dressing.
Analysis called "morphological"
Is quite confounded by your history,
What ancient strata made you choose to fall
Down from the air into the cold blue sea?
In children's books you really do excel,
When paired with Popper, Elliot, or fish,
You slide and squawk and dance so very well,
And always with such formal grand, paniche...
    Ah, you dapper famly' Spheniscidae,
    Your dapper monochrome quite simply thrills me.






Because A said "Penguins!" when I asked.
And we'd been reading this book:
http://www.tonibuzzeo.com/booksonecoolfriend.html


 

XV emo

I feel much like a loaded gun tonight,

With skin as small and close as this dull room,

And restlessness that makes me want to run

My finger down the sharp edge of the moon.

It is a cold thing polished razor bright,

It's pricked out each position of the stars,

And now they burn with such a sullen light,

The sky is filled phosphorescent scars.

This poem should own a lot of broken dolls,

And eyeliner that's drawn on thick and black,

I've got five minutes left to write, oh balls,

The stars are this exploding sonnet's flak.

   I should have fed my Muse some truffles first,

   This poem is emo, I'll give it a hearse.

XIV beer o'clock

Oh sonnet. You're between me and my beer,
A perilous position to be in.
Priorities grow tenuous, it's clear,
I do not know which one of you will win.
I cannot quaff you as I would a draught,
You do not fill me with the same content,
And served to me you certainly are not,
By a bartender with a cute accent.
So if my handling is a little rough,
And I forget your commas, or some lines,
And you resent that you're not pruned enough,
And mumble that you're better paired with wine,
   I will ignore you when they pull my draft,
   You're not a pint of Guinness, not by half.

XIII goodbyes

My love, I cannot seem to form a thought.
I have forgotten how to breathe as well.
It seems (my love) that now, my love you're not,
How to survive un-breathing I can't tell.
Since voluntarily you leave me now,
Involuntary functions are confused
As to the ways of God and Nature, how
Can what was basic law now be refused?
I feel that heart and ears are waiting for
Your tongue to tell my tongue what it should do,
And what function my lips now have, I'm sure
They once did something naught to do with you.
   My skin, still does the work for which it's meant,
   This is the last time it will hold your scent.
 
 
 

XII trying to talk about pain without sounding lame

I don't know how to tell you what it means,
In terms that aren't confusing, or abject,
I only guess what I have felt and seen,
The rest are things that I cannot project.
When every tendon, cell, and fighting bone,
Feels quite suspended, on an endless rack,
You send what's left of you to bring them home,
Which then gets lost, and forgets the way back.
It grows, this sinking sense of orphanhood,
Just breath alone in miles of throbbing space,
The only thing to prove it's understood
You once had form, and that form had a place.
    I try hard to remember on such days:
    Each scattered piece is breathing the same way.


 
 

XI 49ers

Oh! Ignominy of a great defeat,
The breaking of a thousand, thousand hearts,
Each hope and dream that now lies obsolete,
In mud and murk beneath some wicked stars.
When heroes who have sweated, strived, and lost
Must trudge home beaten from a riven field,
The sorrow that it brings, and oh! The cost
To to every soul whose prayers have been repealed.
And ah the long and weary months until
Redemption, may be plotted, tried, and won,
Unwholesome taste it leaves, a bitter pill,
Because we know for now the deed is done.
    We shall not drink at the great bowl sublime,
    But Niners, thou shalt taste of it next time!

X a sad and sorry thing

I'd rather post another's writings here,
That would say better what I want to say.
Which even to myself is not too clear,
I'm running late, it holds me in delay.
I don't have time to ponder for an hour,
The feelings of my heart and what they mean,
I need a rhyming  word, so I'll say "shower",
And something more, so I'll say "in-between".
I'll snicker since that all sounds sort of dirty,
And sigh because that's nowhere near the truth,
I'll drink the beer that makes me think I'm flirty,
I'll think a lot of things that are uncouth.
      I won't re-read this poem or reflect on't,
      A sad and sorry thing is this tenth son't.

IX rain

The rain is great for lovers, and it shows
By falling gently when vows are renewed,
And soaking most strategically through clothes,
Or sheeting down when flight calls for pursuit.
At night, it mirrors passions in the bed,
With gusts and sighs and rattling window frames,
Or if someone is feeling scorned instead,
Makes puddles ripple endlessly. Like pain.s
I love the rain itself, and am content,
Though it be fickle, yet it comes again,
And brings along each green delicious scent
Of spring, and thence no sorrow may refrain.
   Whether my heart be cracked or honeyed sweet,
    It's song will ever lull me into sleep.

VIII Mantones

In keeping with the day and my previous post I accidentally deleted January 18th's sonnet. Here it is. The real Seventh Sonnet, reposted, and out of order. It's really time for bed.



A red bloom like a rose pressed on one hip,
A purple star indented on your toe,
Your lips still hold the shape of my two lips,
And everywhere they lingered sweet and slow.
Two voyeuristic birds are on my breast,
The shape of them a gentle concave thing,
Their silken wings beat time, at their behest,
This bed now has some very damaged springs.
The sunset has been sweated through this place,
It gilds the room from ceiling to bare floor,
The shadow of our hands as we retrace,
Each leaf and vine imprinted evermore
   Into our skins as we lie here replete.
   This happens when you use mantons for sheets.

VII blocked

Sometimes there's just an echo hollowed out.
A shadow of a shadow of itself.
And all the words you've ever thought about,
Are already in books upon your shelf.
Your smile is as tired as its face,
The rest of you's the bluest sort of blue,
Just cold and tired and every out of place,
Quite out of time, and out of patience too.
You've waisted half the night with the TV
Watching too many couples getting wooed,
You've had a few too many cups of tea,
The chocolate cake's not sex, it's barely food.
    You're out of lines with which you can complain,
     So now revise, and listen to the rain.

VI shot

Cupid draws back his bow, you hear a twang,
A fluttering, like bright air full of doves,
You feel the most delightful sort of pang,
Oh, sweeping sweet relief, you are in love!
A thousand crimsons bloom from out the wound,
Like a ripe rose that overwhelms you quite,
You smell the heady blossoms morn to noon,
Dreaming through days and dancing through your nights.
Time marches on, you start to feel a twinge,
A pain that slowly spreads throughout your chest
As if something is lodged between your ribs,
It stings and aches by turns to great unrest.
    You wonder what on earth you have forgot,
    And that's how you remember you've been shot.

V

They say that love's a true mark ever fixed,
Unchanging though the earth and stars may swerve
Into new orbits, should all matter mix,
Alter love won't, possessed of iron nerve.
Through transmutations of the home and tastes,
Though land and borders be unrecognized,
We'll pass the times of large or shrinking waists,
So what if flesh is fickle, we've no lies.
True, fashions never hold from month to year,
(In any rainment dear you look sublime,)
I'm by your side and I'll remain right here,
We'll be united through the end of time.
      Some hearts don't alter, beating two by two,
      That's how I'll always love you Dr Who.

     

IV skin

There are so many synonyms for skin,
Like coating, crust, integument, and case.
Film, hide, pelt, rind, I shudder to be in,
And little better bark or carapace.
This epidermis bearing wind and rain,
And depredations of the make-up brush,
The kiss of sun, the salt of sweat and pain,
Deserves some words that sound a bit more lush.
It runs the rounds from hull to slim parchment,
Or cutis, dermis, peel, surface and rind,
It's thick as stone, or thin as filament,
It breathes in touch, vibration, sense refined.
Though now aglow beneath your fingertips,
It's just illuminated toes to lips.

III moving out

Please take down all your records from the shelf,
Your pictures too, your books strewn on the floor,
Those shirts as well, go fold them up yourself,
I don't want to look at them anymore.
I've cleaned out every room except this one,
The kitchen's clear of every shard of plate,
I've swept the floor, I've scrubbed the sink, it's done.
The rest of these things really cannot wait.
Now take those odd socks paired with my singles,
Now take your scent from out of clothes and sheets,
That tone of voice that gave me such tingles,
Your morning hair, the smirk, now it's complete.
Yes, even take the night we wrecked the bed.
I don't want them, these things, inside my head.

II paper bags

Dear customer, just take the paper bag.
Your preference begs a simple "yes" or "no".
Not info on philosophies you have,
Or judgement when you take your books to-go.
How far you have to walk bears ponderance,
And so you tell me all about your day,
How much you have to carry, and from whence,
For should you 'pack it' what would people say?
The growing line behind you does not care,
I promise you your choices are not viewed
With scorn and censure, no, you will not bear,
Your stance on Nature being misconstrued.
You act as though you've slain a woodland elf,
You feel thus strongly? Carry them yourself.

I.....it begins.....

I

Quite tedious, to some unconscionable,
I do not know why I like sonnets so
Constant, counting tens each syllable,
The iambic can bring my wits quite low.
Perhaps, it is that very steady drone,
So close to my dull heart, a welcome guest
The patient counting of a metronome,
As if the poem and I pressed chest to chest
Could now lie coupled in this single bed,
The words and I, in moonlight buried deep,
The form in graceful lines breathes by my head,
A ghostly partner lulling me to sleep.
It helps to share the night hours with a poem,
The page gets filled, I don't wake up alone.

A Very Bad Idea or, The Sonnets Are Coming! The Sonnets Are Coming

In the interest of preparing for The Love Letter Project http://phren-z.org/ I have decided to write one sonnet a day for the rest of the month. If I can keep this up, we'll see if I can make it for an entire year. Hopefully this will make me a better sonnet writer or, at the very least, a better blogger. First iambic monstrosity posting tomorrow. Shakespeare help us all.