An Ironman is more than one who Tris
We swim, we bike, we run; we do all three
One forty, then point six, we’re girls and guys
I’m one of them, but now there’s more to me
An Ironman no more, I hit a car
My bike was trashed; I almost lost my foot
And yet I need to thank my lucky star
And surgeons who made sure my parts stayed put!
My ankle has titanium inside
The plates and screws keep everything secure
I’m able still to swim, to run, to ride
I’m more than most triathletes, that’s for sure!
I’m back in training now; I have a plan
To challenge M-Dot. I’m an AlloyMan!
I wrote this sonnet while flying from Seattle to Chicago on my way home to Virginia.
Dichotomy is silent words of truth
In silence I can hear the roar of thought
I miss the solitude I felt in youth
I hear the poetry that time has brought
Together, words like precious pain inspire
If inspiration comes from words at all
I love the cool intent of rhythmic fire
I watch it rise and hope its heights will fall
When lies belie intentions, hope recedes
Like tides that ebb from beaches of deceit
The water that brings life, brings life to weeds
Sweet flowers drown and feel their roots retreat
There has to be a middle road or song
Where all my silent words and thoughts belong.
Yay! My first high altitude sonnet!
Happy Birthday, Scott!
I’ve orbited the Sun once more today
While riding on this globe that’s known as Earth
The rising of the Sun’s a perfect way
For Helios to celebrate my birth!
I’ve grown to more than just a little song
I still remember being just a seed
But Helios’ light has made me strong
And from the cloak of night I have been freed
From night to day, my volta is complete
From day to night, I journey through my dreams
I never knew that life could be more sweet
Than birthay cake or even some ice creams!
Another year has passed through heaven’s sky
And yet I know you know, I’m just this guy.
This is the tune I am working into this sonnet:
Remember when we said we would be gods?
Remember when we learned what gods we were?
Our memories are such divine facades
They’re plaster words to which our souls demur
The things we said became forgotten tripe
As things we tried to do became mere words
The gods we were could only grouse or snipe
We couldn’t even fly like little birds
Omnipotence was poetry we read
But when we tried to write, our pencils broke
Our graphite souls were brittle, pencil lead
And when we’d try to sing, we’d only choke
Let’s learn to write with just a mortal pen
And be content with being simple men.
I hear the birds, they chirp a Christmas song
They fly around their Merry Christmas tree
They seem to know where all the notes belong
They seem to want to sing to you and me
It sounds like they are singing Silent Night
They chirp it softly, like angelic choirs
They may not know the words, and yet they might
All calm and bright, their Christmas song inspires
They fly where joy is found on Christmas day
They fetch a star to top their Christmas tree
I love their song and hope that they will stay
And sing their Christmas song to you and me
I love the peace their song will always bring
On Christmas, by the tree where sweet birds sing.
An Angel and a star and then a child
There’s Peace on Earth because he brought Goodwill
When shepherds saw the baby boy, they smiled
And Sheep that know his love are smiling still
The wise men brought their gifts to show respect
Today we give our gifts with love and joy
On Christmas day our hearts and souls reflect
The precious story of a little boy
A little boy, the Son of God, who came
To give a priceless gift to us, his kin
We celebrate this giving in his name
With Christmas gifts we wrap our love within
The Angels and the stars watch up above
As we all celebrate this Christmas love.
I am. I write. The words are only words
This existential poetry is me
While some exist in existential herds
I think, therefore I think that I am free
I choose to write these clever little songs
My being-in-itself, the Words of God
The Words of Sartre’s God, my verse prolongs
Sonnettic form in place of some ballade
A poet of bad faith and yet I’m more
An Ironman, a TBI, so what?
I used to stand and shuffle to the door
But now I think my static line is cut
The words are only words; I’m more than that
Dichotomous, a mountain on a flat.
My nights are filled with metaphoric dreams
They flood my sleep with hopes in which I drown
They’re flooded by what once were little streams
And hopeful tides arise as I sink down
I tread such nights within my nightmare fits
I’d swim, but there’s no land within my sight
I wish my dreams were nothing more than bits
Of similaic rain on stormy nights
I toss and turn within poetic seas
My words are waves that mock my gentle bed
Poseidon never hears my simple pleas
He only seems to want me cold and dead
And so I write my dreams in lyric verse
Like little songs I’m waking to rehearse.
Iraq is more than just a fertile land,
Where writing’s birth on tablets may be seen
The Tigris and Euphrates make the the sand
Which wind and water move to keep all clean
Cuneiformic words remain today
To tell how long Iraq has given life
The words may change, but still their meanings stay
With truth and beauty, Sumer’s words are rife
The sand is also wet with sweat and blood
They mix as they evaporate with heat
They linger in the clouds until the flood
Of justice comes to make their gift complete
Within the skies of fertile lands remains
The gift of liberty in healing rains.
The spirits at Bull Run seem glad to see
Our pack of Fat-ass runners on their trails
We know the Blues and Grays of history
Who punctuate this land with solemn tales
Our Fat-ass run may start our day with pain
And yet, our pain is filled with vibrant joy
The spirits know they didn’t die in vain
Their memory is power we employ
They lived and fought and died that we might run
That all might run, regardless of their skin
And though our race is over, we’ve begun
To show the world that everyone can win!
The spirits of the Fat-ass runners stay
At Bull Run, with the spirits, Blue and Gray.