Category: sonnet
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Your Church and Mine
driving through this rainy morning Sundayyou in your puritan dress and humming hymnsand me trying to remember when last I wentto service, to the gathering of the faithful, whenlast I broke bread with the brethren andfeasted on the flesh of a two-thousand-year deadsavior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straightinto my mind and soul,…
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Sophist on a Soapbox
Let us dance among clouds singing of Deathsuch mornings as we awaken to predawnand dancing fall from heaven, though it’s merelysky, and drub our heads against anotherday as the planet turns on its axischasing this eccentric path around our sunspinning in Earth’s backwater neighborhoodin a galaxy we call Milky Way –and what is death? merely…
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Working on this Sonnet
SOULFUL?How much in our lives do we give away?And for what? To whom? How much love we spendunwitting, never counting returns untilbroke and wanting with hunger-angered fistsclenched in supplication. Some say poweris the social currency, but I arguehere that suffering buys all resourcesmeaningful to the soul – and what is ‘soul’?Some may ask – young,…
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THAT GREENBAUM DAVE
back in the day, was a cat named Dave Rossused to come ‘round to Yella Dove with freshcut grass – no one was ever sure if he grewit in his greenhouse over by Quincyor in some nearby field, but it was eitherthat or his ice-fishing expeditionsto Canada – anyway, they called himDave-the-one-hit-wonder; he was mythicfor…
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Theodorian Rhapsody
future uncertain but certainly – brightangel on my shoulder, lucky cloverfilling my pocket with wishes I ridelike horses into unicorn meadowsovergrown with posies gathered from allthose forgotten nursery rhymes . . . o Seussianlife: how can I unstar my belly to strideproud among these lovely other sneetches? scrape from these foolish eyes all delusion,o father…
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Sonnet Exercise
this is just an exercise, no actual sonnet was written: when I procrastinate, my muse, let’s callher Liza for the sake of argument,badgers me like a boubous boiling upunder my metaphorical skin – whichis very similar to corporealskin, but itches via dissimilarsenses . . . she castigates me now for thisstrange digression into metaphysics,but it’s…
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Another Lost Sonnet
If Furies were muses, what poet would dare the empty page? tongue stuck in dry cheek, brain electric with fear, yet thrilled to seek glory against their rage. what laurel could then suffice to crown our versed heads? or should we boldly sing our yawp for silent bleak awards of empty lauds? no longer chic…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 