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.