Category Archives: Shakespearean Sonnet

Poet’s World [Sonnet]

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I exited through my old, mundane door,
 and heard a melody so blissful / sweet,
  and saw some colors never seen before.
   That song, those sights, danced me down the street.

A neon breeze both warmed and cooled my face.
 The pleasure wave that I'd once known as sin
  was flaring, with no feelings of disgrace,
   but up my spine a trill of violin. 

Euphoric, I ran 'til I felt lungs burn --
 so fired with energy that my bones hummed --
  But as I felt the wheels begin to turn,
   I realized the depths must remain unplumbed.

Before my druthers, I had to go back.
 To sustain this would give me a heart attack.

Note to Self: A Sonnet

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Don't fill your vaults with glowing, shiny stones.
It's invitation to all cheats and thieves. 
Don't know by mind what you don't know by bone.
Make sure you've lost before you up and grieve.

Then when you grieve, take time to fully feel.
Don't let your mind write stories so untrue
that they turn melancholy like a wheel
that gathers and grows with each turn anew. 

Be kind and true, but not so kind and true
so as to kill with gifts or a mean tongue.
Don't do what would be best that you not do,
and only sing of those heroes unsung.

Oh, every piece of wisdom has its day,
so don't hitch so tight that you're led astray.

Where Live the Idyllic Folk? [Sonnet]

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In rustic cabins far away from here
there live some happy people of the woods.
With ruddy cheeks, they're exemplars of cheer.
They never visit cities selling goods.
They live on what the forest can render,
and that's not so much, but it is enough.
They tune themselves to nature's vast splendor.
In cold, they don skins, but when hot, go buff.

Or, perhaps, I lie, and no such people
exist in this world or any other.
And woods people fuss on matters, fecal --
just like you, I, and all our grandmothers.

These cheery, simple woods folk must exist,
if only in the mind of this fantasist.

Winter Days [Sonnet]

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My winter days are vaguely seen from here,
but I cannot yet see the very end:
only the plain that is the sum of fears,
a sum that only living on transcends.

The peek I take looks like my days back then.
It's not so Batman noir as I've been told. 
My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
The act of living life is growing bold. 

In dreams, that dreadful hour calls to me,
and I feign sleep and turn my back on Death.
If he can't be seen, maybe he can't lead,
and I can soldier on with my next breath.

My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
It's good to gasp every now -n- again.

I’ve Never Been Lost in the Woods [Sonnet]

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I've never been lost in the woods,
though I've been lost so many times.
I've been lost in my neighborhood,
and I've been lost within my mind. 

You say the trees look all the same.
I say that's some speciesist shit.
No. I don't know the trees by name,
but that doesn't matter a whit.

I've never been lost in the woods:
lost means wishing to be elsewhere.
Lost is all about "woulds" and "coulds."
But I'm not lost if I don't care:

don't care I don't know this exact spot,
'cause I know precisely where I'm not!

Relentless Rain [Sonnet]

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It rains for days on end in this city.
The people peer out under umbrellas.
Nothing 's washed clean; it's soggy & gritty
and brutal as a Kafka novella.

The streets aren't light, but nor are they true dark.
The light isn't absent, just sapped of vim.
The gray that remains is like Fall in Denmark.
Relentless rain is relentlessly grim. 

The gutters are glutted with murk and sludge.
The rushing waters can't sweep it all clean.
All work 's drudgery and all walks a trudge,
and there's no sparkle in the pavement sheen.

Do some "sing in the rain?"  No, they just mock --
their umbrella flipped out and w/ sodden socks.

City Sonnet

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A million lives are packed in this city,
and each one struggles to be its own self:
the starving, rotund, ugly, and pretty --
the tailored and those who buy off-the-shelf.

And everyone fails, yet they all succeed
in being different, while being alike.
And they all heal, while they also all bleed,
and almost all would survive a first strike.

Everyone knows someone - just not neighbors.
They love to remain enigmatic at home,
while transparent with those who share labors --
though some want everyone to leave them alone.

A city is a strange place full of strangers,
and those who choose it thrive on its dangers.

Accidental Travel [Sonnet]

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If you can follow rivers to the sea
by drifting without thrashing or grasping --
just let the flow take you upon a spree,
a spree of dunk and breathe, without gasping,

then you will witness all there is to know.
You'll see shaky shanties and vast estates,
the birds in flight and creatures: fast and slow,
the weeping willows, and fish tempting Fates.

If you can roll around the rocks -- always --
and never crack your head and silence all
the voices saying you've reached your end-days,
and never rush and never, ever stall...

If you can do all this and keep the flow,
it won't matter you don't know which way you go.

Storied Lands [Sonnet / Idyll]

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In mountain meadows, bleating sheep abound,
and green grass grows as high as their hunger
allows -- about as high as cricket grounds,
but I am lost in fantastic wonder.

It seems to me this is a storied land,
not merely grazing space, but where dragons
once flew, and one might see giants, firsthand --
a place that's never known a plow 'r wagons. 

It's where magic must once have arisen,
if ever such a place had existed --
where sparkling streams still burble and glisten
whose secret is kept ever tightfisted.

If you stumble into this storied realm
don't let its siren sight overwhelm.

The Marigold Dance: or, Party Pivot [Sonnet]

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The dance they did amid the marigolds
was such a captivating sight to see.
It made a storied world of the household,
and it filled hearts and minds with quiet glee.

Their bodies glistening, naked and wild.
They stomped in muddy soil with grubby feet,
and hearts did sing as childlike souls did smile,
and all dancers hinged and moved like athletes.

But with an ankle twist, the party lulled -
one dancer fallen from the frenzied horde.
The momentum was lost, and minds were dulled, 
and musicians played only some sour chords.

The flower petals all began to wilt 
and dancers wandered home in shame and guilt.