Miscellaneous Sonnets

and Other Poems


Home Page  -> My Poetry  

Please note that these poems are entered in approximately chronological order of writing, earliest at the top to latest at the bottom.


Binding Forces

The force that mages use to fetter spirits, 
to hold them to the Earth while warding harm, 
is binding within geometric limits. 
Shape failure: mage's work will fall to charm. 
When thrall submits to bondage of the body, 
the master's discipline in ties of trust: 
that binding forged from leather straps or bracelets, 
may fail and leave the players out of lust. 
A word connects the thing for which it's symbol. 
The denotation, link that binds the speech 
to object, cannot be but changeful, 
thus meaning fails to comprehend or teach. 
A binding force may sometimes truth entail, 
yet ties that bind are often known to fail. 


From the Undead Poets' Society Journal:

How will I eat thee? Let me count the ways.

I will eat thee to the liver and lights and brains

My mouth can reach, when leaving only stains

Behind where once was face.

I'll eat thee to the point of spacing

Uncouth grunts between each bite.

I'll eat thee freely, never feeling spite.

I eat thee purely, not with mayonnaise.

I eat thee with the zeal of the undead

that being all I have to face my fate.

I eat thee, in order to be fed,

My appetites appeased. I must sate;

You have no hope, unless you take my head.

Then I will stop, undeath will then abate.





David Honigsberg, 1958-2007:

It's not as if we've seen and know Death well,

we've pushed Him back, away over the years.

So when He comes we think of age: "Hell,

it's much to soon for them." The sum of fears

grows, and we find ourselves looking back,

afraid of how we'll end and what we give

for life. Don't let the fear make you pull back:

those we remember thus were here to live.

(no envoi)







abi's Back to Visit California


Abi, the one who knows just what to test,


and binds books beautifully (or not, in jest),


the Lady of the Lady of Khazad-dûm,


is moving on. She's jumping blind, no room


for error, a bit of fear, but lots of zest


for what comes next. As for the rest,


she carries it with her; I would assume


it will be easy finding where she will resume.


Jet-lagged, but glad to see the old home ground,


she has returned to Oakland in the Bay


from Scotland, still she'll miss the Bank.


Now we in cyberspace who've talked and clowned


while she grew weary on the way,


have heard that she is there, Great Ghu be thanked.






200 miles above the Earth, halfway to space,


running 2 miles with every step, each footfall


matches one in Boston. Floating near a wall,


restrained by cords she runs a marathon pace


to match her sister on the ground. The grace


of motion changes without weight, but will enthrall


the viewers down below. She hopes that recall


of her run by kids will spur them on to race.


She's wise to help the young enhance their time,


using her place to lead them into winning


some measure of the grace she can apply.


But those of us who've watched the rockets climb


and hungered for the worlds' new beginning,


might wonder how this race will help us fly.


 




Pyrotech


Smoke bombs and fire and ringing in the ears.


Perchlorate stings the eyes and makes the smell


that fills the nose. We wipe away the tears


from fumes and peer into the midget hell


created by our craft. Don't stand too close,


the lore relates, or lose a precious part.


That safety lore passed down the years to those


who use the lore from those who lore impart.


The kids these days don't handle safety well;


they get no lore from older pyro addicts,


but copy television tricks. They get too close,


pick up duds, otherwise auto-darwinate.


Their common sense is rare, rash urge inflicts


a harm they could prevent. Perhaps a dose


of parent's wisdom could allay their fate.


 


De Gustibus


We all find mirth in one thing or another:

Stooges for some the acme of delight,


for others dreary crap. One brother


may laugh long at Austin Powers, one might


think well of Mel Brooks' gassy lines. The cause


of disagreement out of ken, to taste


we had best ascribe it. Some viewers' craws


stick at Survivor, by others it's embraced.


For me no humor comes from degradation,


disrespect, and pain. I am not alone:


my friends hold views on humor much like mine.


We feel a strange and troubled fascination


for debased humor. Find humor in the moan


and grope of sex? On that we can't combine.


 


Do Not Be Evil


Google: "To strive, to seek, to find, and not ..."?


We don't know where they think they're headed,


or what they'll do to get there. Take a swat


at "Don't be evil," others have and dreaded


what Google'd do if not held down to it.


Could they be building AI to supplant us,


or instruments to reign over the net?


The questions will continue to enchant us.


For all we ask ourselves just what they're doing,


for all we seek to understand their goals,


No matter how we try to augur omens,


We will not know what secret plan they're brewing


or if commitment to their maxim weakens,


until they day they unveil what they're doing.


 



The Evil Overlord applauds:



In the beginning we need a few lines


to lure in the readers and get them to stay.


Starting with action, then flashback's a way


to get going quickly, then fill up their minds


with backstory, setup and color.


But do this too often and readers get jaded;


they don't buy the books, their interest has faded,


and TV, so written, will not please the watcher.


Now into an arms race, each book must try harde


to get some excitement into the beginning.


After awhile it's not clear who's winnning;


I doubt, though, the reader or even the author.


Some adore the action and some insist on plot


that has a complex structure. How to pull


each kind in depends on what their type.


If you insist on hooking them, and then deliver not,


you'll lose them in the finish, they'll feel the wool<


over their eyes, and they will call it tripe.





  CBS surrenders to racist commenters 


A moderator needs to keep the peace,

to banish trolls and those who flame and rail.

Without respect the flame wars will not cease.


Discourse would fail if there were no police.

Enforcement cannot use the threat of jail.

A moderator needs to keep the peace.


Ignoring bullies will not give surcease;

facing their ranting anyone would pale.

Without respect the flame wars will not cease.


Once started pileups surely will increase.

Each poster adds a share of fire to the bale.

A moderator needs to keep the peace.


A flamer vents his spleen to get release

then hunts more victims, hammer seeking nail.

Without respect the flame wars will not cease.


No scheme will all the posters please;

some hope for reasoned speech to fail.

A moderator needs to keep the peace.

Without respect the flame wars will not cease.

 

 

 "The sky isn't evil. Try looking up."

It's not the very words we use that matter:
saying 'please' or 'prithee' 's not the issue.
The lives we lead together form a tissue
of acts and speech that some hear as patter.
If acts are not acknowledged, unions shatter,
smashed by lack of care that says 'I dis you'.
A simple 'Thanks', 'I love you', or 'I miss you'
is all you need; not world on a platter.
Be polite routinely and you'll see
that teasing or insults can oft be fun,
not tear relations up but keep them whole.
Keep politeness in your mind and you will be
much better as a friend in the long run;
and feed the love that livens up your soul.
 

 

Corpsicle


I wanted Death to stay its hand,
so slept the still, dark sleep of ice
in hope the centuries I would span.

The doctors said they had it planned:
cures for all ills would soon suffice.
I wanted Death to stay its hand,

My life could be both long and grand.
I was willing to pay the price
in hope the centuries I would span.

But with each cure the ills expand,
and benefit's o'ercome by price.
I wanted Death to stay its hand,

I finally came to understand
that I must put my life on ice
in hope the centuries I would span.

In helium chill I've made my stand.
If I'm thawed is a throw of dice.
I wanted Death to stay its hand,
in hope the centuries I would span.



Ode to Making Light


Dark Ages scribes spent lives to save the wisdom
of philosophs renowned from former times.
Copying and recopying used their lifetimes
while error crept in, turning order random.
Invention of the press soon increased freedom,
dividing Church from Stately pow'r betimes.
The spread of words recorded, prose and rhymes,
became an acid, soon dissolving kingdom.
Now the Net spreads words to ease our boredom,
and helps us spread both wisdom and pastimes.
A few, oft those accused of thought crimes,
essay to keep words from being struck dumb.
Words, set free, return to free their speakers;
words held hard will wound when used in fight.
Words offered as gifts to make us ponder
are words we often see on Making Light.



Posting Comments



William, and Walter, and Wendy have nothing to do with the case.
The creation of verse in the threads we traverse
helps keep Making Light our own place.
Pastiches will keep us amused,
and puzzles will sharpen our brains.
The words that we write on this blog day and night,
are as dear as the blood in our veins.




The Dream-Quest of Pooh Corners



They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
Alice' psyche is terribly scarred.
"Stand near the fire and you will get charred,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We saw a sentry turn into a fox.
"Those who go searching go mad from the shocks,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We looked for Cthulhu, but he never came.
"When he gets here he'll bring us the flame,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
The parties they give end in terrible sounds.
"Better not stay here, they'll let loose the Hounds,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We saw a shape with myriad of wings.
"Don't know what it is, just one of those Things,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
"What do you think has come out of the sea?"
"Don't know, dear, but it's coming for me,"
Says Alice.




The Analysts' Lament (not quite a sonnet)


Search the raw data however you will,
hope for connections to help you decide.
Write a report that your seniors deride.
This is the path through the analyst's mill.
Grinding the facts small in hope that your skill
can produce a high likelihood tale to confide
to the ones who can use it in future to guide
their courses with actions their plans to fulfill.
After a failure your work was the cause,
after success, well, it merely inspired;
what hope do you have that it can work out right?
Take in as much as you can without pause.
Let out only as much as required.
See only what's visible from a great height.



For Our Lords and Masters


As we look up from our poor earth below,
we see the great ascending on the wind.
We know they hold us small, think we have sinned,
by not inheriting. Our blood boils slow,
but sure, more as our owners' greed doth grow.
They do not care a whit, for we are pinned
beneath their wings, our numbers thinned
where they wish to reside or just to go.
What message would I wish for them to hear
within their palaces of wealth and favor?
I'd wish for them to know just how it feels
to live a life so small, so ruled by fear
that all I have, and love, and savor
can disappear beneath their deals.




Not According to the Laws of Sparta


Down by the Hot Springs Greeks of all sorts fell.
Of Spartans and Thespians, all have heard.
But scarce we hear of others undeterred
as Spartans by the scrum's pell-mell.
Thebans, prisoners, the Spartans spurred,
Their helots of Lacon also, are interred
there where the marker asks us to tell.
Scarce 300 Spartans made immortal on that day,
faced the Immortal Medes. Thebans broke, fled,
cut down as they ran, helots stood and died.
900 slaves with honor served and lay
upon the bloody ground, their case not pled
for glory as their masters, just beside.
It is not meet their honor should decay.





Unforeseen Consequences of the New FAA Air Traffic Control System.


"This was a quiet place," the gryphon said.
"A perfect place to raise a chick.
All things in time, no need to be so quick."
She turned away to hide her eyes, hot red.
"But with the years the humans' way has spread,
the migrant birds that once had flown so thick,
now gone, as if erased by magic trick."
She turned her head and raised her voice in ire,
"Full well the years yield grief to us who fly.
Our glamor's almost gone, as you can see.
But it's too soon to put us on the pyre,
for we'll away where still is open sky,
and lands where maps still show where dragons be."




Well Beyond All Maps


The world was so small when I was young;
so small I needed more on maps than showed.
The world should have basilisks that crowed
and dragons who could speak in any tongue.
But as I grew so did the world, hung
in night with stars like diamonds in a lode,
and crowded out the magic I'd bestowed
with space and time where planets moved and swung.
Still later though I found a 'verse so vast
that space cried out for more to fill the gaps.
Now I am small, desiring to go back
before the world's size had grown so fast
and left no beasts and dragons on the maps.
I find now naught but poems fill the lack.




Mission Accomplished?


They called us out and put in us their trust.
A force whose strength and skill would hold at bay
the unexpected terror that came on that day,
the dark 'gainst which our light and might would thrust.
Then off we went to fight in Iraq's dust,
to bring to heel Saddam, to make him pay
for all the horror, torture, and decay
he had inflicted with a rule unjust.
We brought him down as all had known we must,
but left the country deep in disarray,
with services and law thrown down to rust.
Now violence stalks the souk and leaves behind
the bodies of the ones who could not flee.
Our comrades pay the price of leaders' greed.
The ones who live lose limbs or minds, are blind,
and being no more use, discarded like debris.
We wonder now the meaning of "succeed".




Joy of the Rings


We look beyond the world's air,
to find the universe' surprise;
for joys like these we can't prepare.

The telescope extends our stare,
the jewels of worlds in our eyes.
We look beyond the world's air.

With radio we try to share
music to which the spheres give rise
For joys like these we can't prepare.

Our probes take years to go out where
all we have is wild surmise.
We look beyond the world's air.

To look far out beyond the glare,
to look at distant alien skies,
for joys like these we can't prepare.

Now we hope to take the dare,
to go ourselves and see the prize.
We look beyond the world's air,
For joys like these we can't prepare.




The Many-Headed Sock


Sockpuppets are a foe the like which Hercules would know;
a Hydra-headed monster looking for a place to crow.
What nonsense comes from many mouths they hold to be a truth.
But those who have to listen just feel that it's uncouth.

"Stay thy sword!" the heads all shout, "do not my posts delete!"
"You must allow the multitude to hear my grand conceit!"
"Removing all the vowels as well would be just immature."
"Besides," they say, "without them, I'll lose my bingo score."

The Moderator takes no note, she's heard it in the past.
It all comes down to trollishness, impoliteness unsurpassed.
So many heads have reared up now the point is hard to see.
She'll cut off one or two of them to be replaced by three.

Eventually the socks run out or get lost in the wash;
'Cause no one's even listening to all the puppet tosh.
The threads have turned the trollery to poems and to song,
The monsters all have gone away, their act has got the gong.





The Great Year Turns


The seasons' axle is the dark of night.
The carousel slows, stops, for just a day.
The wheel turns slowly as we rise to light.

The heavens turn in cycles in our sight;
it took us centuries to see the way
the seasons' axle is the dark of night.

The year repeats the path of geese in flight;
letters written on the blue in gray.
The wheel turns slowly as we rise to light.

Great Year turns slowly, quern of might,
as Terra's spin tumbles under Sun's sway.
The seasons' axle is the dark of night.

We tremble now to know our plight;
to see the depths of world's decay.
The wheel turns slowly as we rise to light.

Yet wheels go round, return is right.
As in large so small obey.
The seasons' axle is the dark of night.
The wheel turns slowly as we rise to light.




Solstice


One moment of eternity that comes and goes;
its line of passing points to light from dark.
The still point of the year upon which turns the arc.
The nadir of the day is reached and now it grows.
The cold, electric air suffused with blue-gray glows,
that gather at the turning point to spark
the change that will make lush from stark,
and turn the year's ebbs once again to flows.
Around the hearth the air is golden warm;
filled with smells of feast and season's cheer,
the talk stays close to earth, and kith, and kin.
The outer world turns on moment arm
about the fulcrum of the departing year,
as here inside we live in moment's skin.




Out of the Rift, Endlessly Orbiting


We grew up near the Rift, where days don't change.
The cold and dark of winter never touched our hearts.
Now far beyond the warmth and light we range.

Given where we're from it's not so strange
that shortening of days unease and fear imparts.
We grew up near the Rift, where days don't change.

The things we've done since then have caused some change:
We're not the ones we were when we first made those starts.
Now far beyond the warmth and light we range.

Yet when we find the fearsome and the strange,
all we are conflicts with our new arts.
We grew up near the Rift, where days don't change.

Who once were prey are masters who arrange
the world, and order all its parts.
Now far beyond the warmth and light we range.

For all since then our origins estrange,
when faced with winter, reason oft departs.
We grew up near the Rift, where days don't change.
Now far beyond the warmth and light we range.





Keeping Thunder Lizards

You think our way of living inhumane,
because we keep a dino under roof?
Not so, I say, let me supply the proof.
I'll point out that the reptile's quite urbane;
and doesn't like to sleep out in the rain,
nor hunt and kill a meal upon the hoof.
That's good, for here the prey would make a "Woof",
and neighbors would react with deep disdain.
Besides the cold-blood much prefers the heat
that insulation can provide up there
to cold and rain that's frequent in this clime.
Our attic guest is really rather sweet,
with style of conversation that's quite rare.
worth keeping close although beyond its time.





Three Little Pigs, Redux

The project leaders are pigs, so they say,
but the lone wolf is clearly the boss.
The quickest construction is made out of hay,
nothing faster have I come across.

But the wolf can reduce the cheap house in a day,
he'll huff and he'll puff and he'll toss
the contractors out of their jobs without pay,
leaving one piggy minus a doss.

Wood's the construction for minimum pay;
anything else takes a loss.
The savings can always be used to defray
the fortune that wolf-proofing costs.

But huffing and puffing can still have a way
of leaving the sticks all a-toss.
The wolf wind against wood still will hold sway,
and the wood will end up all criss-cross.

On the other hand brick's made of clay
so you see, and far less heat moves across,
so brick can keep global warming at bay,
by reducing the energy costs.

That brick for the wolf will signal dismay;
his failure he will try to gloss.
The piggy inside will be safe from the fray,
the wolf? He'll just go on the sauce.




Dune vs. Culture

A ghola in his lives may hear a tale.
Idaho tells how his master Paul
once had a vision of the Cosmic All
against which even Fremen can't prevail.
Golden the Ships Were that did sail
with Minds aboard could make a Mentat crawl,
without a need for spice to sense the call
of folds in space and blaze a trail.
Not so fierce as Fremen, even Saurdakar,
the people of this Culture do not care
for jihads, war, the spice, or deeds of glory.
Maud'Dib's disgust was great, he vowed he'd bar
the course of history from going there,
and write a warlike end to his own story.





Sir Arthur C. Clarke 1917-2008

A giant rose from the Somerset coal,
A mind at home far out in the night,
or in the tides of the Center's light;
he lifted us up towards that cosmic goal.
He wrote of the fire the Titan stole,
future earth, alien air, the sight
of shapes in water in luminous flight,
and always the road to space and its toll.
He knew our path to be fraught and far,
filled with wonder and horror as well,
yet he never uttered a word of despair.
He found awe in the storms of a star,
in the well of life at the heart of a cell,
and showed us a starry road to fare.




Down to the Net in Threads

I must now post on the open thread, where dragons bask in the Light.
And all I ask is a story to tell, a story that comes out right.
And the word's ring and the rhyme's sound and the verse forms matching,
and the yarn's warp and the yarn's weft and the new babes hatching.

I must now post on the open thread, for the call of the groansome pun
is a far call and a dear call, that bids us on to fun.
And all I ask is that glorious crew, and the brave flags flying,
and a grand cry, and high cheer, and the LOL-cats sighing.

I must now post on the open thread, to that literate atmosphere.
To the book thraed, and the song thread, where the word's the final frontier.
And all I ask is a high tale from one who can manage the trick,
and a sharp eye and a kind heart when the world seems sick.




Light as Wave and Particle

Sun's light replaces darkness at the dawn,
relinquishes its place again at dusk.
The stars send down reminder, but a husk
of brilliance cross the light-years drawn.
The field equations show that light rides space,
its forces constantly reversing roles,
but, just as true, a flood of photons rolls,
carrying insight at the fastest pace.
Illumining our minds is what we say
about our apprehensions of the world.
The grasp we take on life as we are hurled
through sights we'd savor, and yet cannot stay.
More meanings light may have for us to take;
We'll find them at the place where light we make.




You are L33t, Father William

In my youth, said the troll, I took to the net,
to find out where someone was wrong.
And the consequent flamage made everyone sweat;
drove away those who didn't belong.




Words Crave Meaning

IWords crave meaning just as speakers crave the air.
Eloquence without it won't impress.
But finding meaning's hard, we oft despair.

When writing often I will sit and stare,
I want more meanings than my words possess.
Words crave meaning just as speakers crave the air.

I need some help so I'll not tear my hair;
some expert's words to take and then profess.
But finding meaning's hard, we oft despair.

There are net references I have found out there,
they help me find the words; alleviate distress.
Words crave meaning just as speakers crave the air.

Still, there's a better way, prose can't compare
to poesy wielded with finesse.
But finding meaning's hard, we oft despair.

Defining words with verse, you are aware,
makes meanings all the better to express.
Words crave meaning just as speakers crave the air.
But finding meaning's hard, we oft despair.





Incommensurable

There is no shame in raising a sweet word.
Rhyme holds reason up to see the sun.
Comparisons are odious when verse is done.
I do not ask my sonnets be preferred.
Instead I want all speakers voicing rhyme,
and writing so their lines will often scan.
The joy verse brings to others is my plan,
and song that's raised to fill our space and time.
Spirit's not a thing of gods and ghosts,
it's how our minds relate to all around.
Verse fills up that spirit, makes it abound
with all the feelings that we value most.
It's no surprise than that I do not care
whose verse is better, as long as verse we share.





No One Likes a Giant Zucchini

You are large, oh Zucchini:
your name must be marrow.
If you were much smaller,
we'd call you courgette.
I've filled up with your fellows
a giant wheelbarrow,
The fact that I grew them
I deeply regret.





Memorial

The Pheonix rises not up from the ashes,
it was always there before the fire burned.
Lives not lost are held in thrall and turned
away from life by echoes of the crashes.
We try not to see the images of smashes.
We who live soon feel that we are spurned:
what was it on that day that they had earned?
And can we answer that in other clashes?
Often in the course of normal dashes
from daily task to task, we stop, concerned.
Have we forgot those lost because we yearned
for nothing more than liner, blush, and lashes?
The Phoenix is still here as ever was;
life cannot be lived in black alone.
Put red on lips and warmth in voice again.
And when someone asks why just say "Because
the monument we build is not of stone,
but lives that can hold joy as well as pain."





"Against Earworms, Even The Gods Strive In Vain"

sung to the tune of Billy Joe's "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me"

What's the matter with the faith I believe in?
Can't you tell that it's out of style?
Should I find another ministry to give to?
Maybe look farther up the dial.
You haven't thought about the Problem of Evil;
and your doctrine on Pain is medieval,
Hell fears, bash queers, give atheists the loud sneers,
It's just another god's decree.

What's the matter with the way I treat a woman?
Can't you tell that she's a human being?
But I went and let her out of the kitchen
You're gonna hafta do a lot more freeing.
You gotta know you care too much about gender,
your privileged status is bound to offend her,
chaste lives, young wives, living in your own hives,
It's just another god's decree.

It doesn't matter what they shout from pulpit
'cause the rules are made behind the scenes.
If the doctrine is sound
they'll just have to come round
to knowing that it's a god's own plan,
and that's how it all began.

Why follow him to the jungle unthinking?
'Cause it acts as a test of faith
Should I give my kid the Kool-aid we're drinking?
Are you sure it will be quite safe?
Paranoia makes a priest temperamental,
Pretty soon he'll go completely mental,
Most dead, rest fled, leaving all the faith shred,
It's just another god's decree.

What's the matter with blood sacrifices?
Can't you tell that they go too far?
Do you think that torture suffices?
If you do, we know what you are.
Aztec rites will get the hormones a'pumpin'
Whole lotta violence, and a whole lotta humpin'
Axe raise, priest prays, blood sprays, crowd bays
It's just another god's decree.

Everybody's talkin' 'bout the new faith
Baby, but it's just another god's decree.





Catastrophe, Seen From a Distance

At least I know my friends are fine.
They don't appear upon the screen.
The dead were others' friends, not mine

I click, and scroll, and read each line,
and try to find the sense between,
at least I know my friends are fine.

No longer blocks of earth align,
where houses stood, survivors keen.
The dead were others' friends, not mine.

Museum, cathedral, bank, and shrine.
No place was safe, not great or mean.
At least I know my friends are fine.

Each post and tweet helps me refine
my picture of the deadly scene.
The dead were others' friends, not mine.

Many faces, ruin obscene;
destruction's face becomes routine.
At least I know my friends are fine.
The dead were others' friends, not mine.





To Hubble On Its Final Repair

We'll go no more repairing that keen eye
that's brought us views of farthest time and space.
Remaining life will be as long as grace
allows, to seize faint light from out the sky.
New cameras gather different light on high,
reaching deeply for the smallest trace
of eldritch beauty on Existence' face.
Those pictures make imagination fly.
Later 'scopes may bring us pictures from beyond
the distances that Hubble's gaze can pierce,
recording kinds of light unseen 'til then;
better built; still from this one were spawned,
that first went forth to fill a hunger fierce,
and push our sight once more beyond our ken.






Northwest Winter

The winds of Fall are slowly tap'ring off;
the Top-Left Coast this year won't fly away.
But that just means the rains are here to stay;
they'll give us reason now to sneeze and cough.
Oh yes, the sun sets earlier each day.
We'll soon be deep into the time of SAD.
The lack of light will drive some of us mad,
and some will use blue lights to chase the gray.
This time of year is when we read long books,
and flock to hear the symphony's reportoire.
We crave the things that entertain inside.
Brave souls who walk outside in rain get looks
from people who will only go by car,
but we won't melt and neither will we hide.







Those Who Play with Fire

She has fallen toward this moment all her life.
The elements within her, air and fire,
causing her to burn, now light her pyre;
they've left behind a trail of smoke and strife.
As short and dark as she, so is the arc
of trouble that she followed down to here.
As hot and bright she burned, so love and fear
fueled fire that consumed her; left no spark.
I cannot lay before you only praise;
there's much of her gave others pause to scold;
it's certain that her ending came not well.
Some through life a mortared castle raise.
Others build a ship for travels bold.
Judith rose and burned and then she fell.







Squid Dreams

Tentacle porn makes me furiously think
as the squid slides appendages out from its cape.
yet many a viewer will not even blink.

the viewer watches and doesn't shrink.
the victim writhes and tries to escape
Tentacle porn makes me furiously think

As porn, it's accepted with nudge and wink
tentacles circle and wrap like tape
yet many a viewer will not even blink.

Grabbed and held, and starting to sink
and just out sight is a maw agape
Tentacle porn makes me furiously think

Tumid and swirling right up to the brink,
the tentacles pull and poke and scrape,
yet many a viewer will not even blink.

And the tentacles wave in a cloud of ink
you can just make out the erotic shape
Tentacle porn makes me furiously think
yet many a viewer will not even blink.






Saving Throw Versus Shiny

To buy or not to buy, that is my question.
What gifts an iPad might on me bestow,
weigh less than does my Apple brand obsession.
Would'st take me to a new compute plateau?
But yet what use for such a techy toy?
I've laptop, iPhone, yes and iMac too.
Will multi-touch provide me much more joy
than UIs that I now use can accrue?
For in that purchase now what debt may come,
when we have signéd off this dear transaction?
To what slings and arrows might we then succumb,
thus losing more than gained in satisfaction?
Oh noes! I've missed my saving throw 'gainst shiny:
no choice have I and fanboy must I be.






"He's a Genius But He's Dead" #1

Will brought down words of fire from heavenly spheres;
their sound and sense filled up the stage right full.
He wove all hopes, all loves, all hates, all fears
into a prince who gazed upon a skull.
His greatest words he gave to eldritch sprites,
a king made mad by loss, his heart abreak,
a Jew brought down by neighbors' hates and spites,
a queen bereft, betrayed, embraced a snake.
That stage was bare when first his plays were shown,
young men took parts as women t'obey the law.
The groundlings roared at japes just like their own,
scenery for the words that earned their awe.
Those words have sounded down the years since then
To show us who we are as women and as men.






"He's a Genius But He's Dead" #2

He was a genius and now he's dead.
"Which one?", you ask, as sev'ral have been held
to be the Bard, Shake-Spear, you see instead
Francis Bacon, as some aver, impelled
to hide his authoring of common verse.
Mayhap instead 'twas Earl of Oxford wrote
those lines of magic that our souls immerse.
He was a poet and playwright of note.
Some hold out for Marlow, poet/spy.
He had the talent and the words to spare.
If so, Deptford just seemed his place to die;
he hid from those who'd punish lack of prayer.
But I wil hold to my Bardolatry,
The Bard of Avon I accept with glee.





STS-132

They mount a thread of smoke to reach the sky;
we hold our breath below. Recall of sight
of those before who lost their lives gives fright
until calm voice reports all safe; we sigh.
And so again we've sent them to the black,
explorers yes, but artisans as well;
carrying breath for later ones to dwell
there and move outward on their track.
Rejoicing's tinged a melancholy hue:
Atlantis will not ride again the fire;
her sisters are all soon to follow suit.
Though plan's not made, I hope some day a crew
will board a future craft to journey higher,
while giving these adventurers salute.





Nautilus

Looking back I see shells that enclosed me,
that spiral chain compartmented in time,
smaller they the closer to the prime
casing in which I first set out to sea.
Forward are things that can be touched and smelled;
things that can be used to build a world.
Bits I take up from the current swirled
about me, others drop, away from me propelled.
The shape of what will be does not come clear
past all the jetsam floating front of me;
what's needed now's the aim of my travail.
And what takes shape around me year by year,
is not the castle grand I would decree,
but still a house in which I can prevail.