Sonnettics

It’s warm. The moon illuminates the clouds.
Our jump is set for midnight, so we rest.
As silently as if we’d taken vows,
We wait. Each time we wait it’s like a test.
It’s like a test of patience, not of nerves,
With backs pressed up against the rigger’s shed;
One box is filled with mains, one with reserves.
We wait, clichéd, as patient as the dead.
In time we mount the mains upon our backs.
In time we strap reserves across our chests.
Inside the bird it’s harder to relax,
Because it’s warm and we are tightly pressed.
And still the moon illuminates the sky.
And still we’re waiting silently to die.

Today I’m “Mellow Johnny” on my Felt
The wind is at my back; my legs are strong
If rides are cards, I like the hand I’m dealt
If power’s music, I can sing that song!

It isn’t just a jersey on my back
This maillot jaune declares my ride’s intent
If wind’s the peleton, then I’ll attack
If power’s money, nothing has been spent!

I’ve saved it all, like gold within a bank
My maillot jaune’s a golden, yellow vault
My Felt succumbs to every pedal crank
The gears I crank are bigger by default!

It’s not about the bike; my engine knows
I ride wherever “Mellow Johnny” goes.

About

I wrote this one in honor of Lance Armstrong, aka Mellow Johnny. Whenever I wear my yellow jersey, I think of riding with Lance. He has been one of my inspirations for my own “come-back.”
If a cancer survivor can win the Tour de France, then a guy like me can overcome a TBI and come back to run a sub-3 at Boston and do a sub-10 at Kona!

Spring forward from your sleep and dreamy state
It’s time for daylight savings time to start
Don’t set your clock back or you will be late!
Remember to “Spring forward” and be smart!

In Fall, we’ll all “Fall back” to sleep and dreams
But now we need to wake, and rise and shine
As antiquated as this action seems
It’s habit-forming, friendly, and benign

Ben Franklin is the man the man attacks
The man who’d rather sleep and dream instead
He said it would save Paris on their wax
And keep their candle lights from going dead!

So don’t forget to set your clock ahead
And please be kind to every sleepy-head!

Daylight Savings Time for 2012 begins next week, Sunday, March 11th, at 2:00 a.m. and ends Sunday, November 4th, at 2:00am.

An extra day makes leap year extra long
Okay, it’s just a day and days are short
(at least it makes a pleasant little song)
An extra day for laughter, love, or sport!

I’d like an extra day in every year
I guess I’ll have to do with one in four
It isn’t worth the effort of a tear
(I don’t believe that’s what my tears are for!)

But little songs and tears and extra days
Fit nicely in my sweet sonnettic sight
So thank you, Leap Year. You deserve my praise
For giving me an extra day to write!

Earth’s orbit hasn’t changed; it’s just leap year
The 29th of Febuary’s here

Surreal is like a sonnet without rhyme
Or digging in the trash and finding gold
When blank-verse marks the edges of the moon
Surreal becomes the fastest way back home

Such little songs of poetry may bloom
Like flowers in a field of desert mud
Or finding life in death beneath a rock
Such insects carve their tunnels for their queen

To rhyme without surreal capacity
Enlist the graves of pigeons and of ghosts
Transparent or translucent clouds conform
With paradox, dichotomy, and truth

Surreal is like a couplet found in time
That gives a sonnet just a final word.

I tried to rest, but couldn’t stand the noise
The noise upstairs kept everyone awake
I know it was just active, little boys
But all their noise was more than I could take!

I know that little boys are just fun-size
I know there’s better things that I can eat
But waking carnivores is never wise
When all you are to them is noisy meat!

Just dip them in some batter, add some spice
The noise kids make does little to their taste
A dash of salt makes everything quite nice
Then put them in the oven; let them baste!

So kids, beware when Gramma says you’re sweet
You may be small, but still you’re good to eat!

George Washington deserves more than a day
Virginia was his home before most states
Became the country Washington would say
Deserves respect without prolonged debates

Regardless of the holiday we forge
On some day, late in winter, or in spring
To celebrate our Union’s Father, George
Let’s gather round Old Glory and let’s sing

Let freedom always ring from sea to sea
Let liberty and life be our pursuits
Such happiness belongs to you and me
George Washington ensured our tree had roots

A day which we, his countrymen, revere
Reminds us of the peace he brought, each year.

This is the tune I am working into this sonnet:(emilie)
—-
Within your eyes I see awaiting dreams;
Flow on, flow on into their waiting streams,
On ships of gold that sail into the night,
And drift to shores where everything is bright.

Bright shores of dreams are waiting there for you,
So sleep and may your golden dreams come true.

Within your heart I know the dreams you keep;
Hold on, hold on to them within your sleep.
Your heart of gold will shine forever bright,
And in your dreams will be your guiding light.

Bright shores of dreams are waiting there for you,
So sleep and may your golden dreams come true.

Bright shores where all your golden dreams come true,
So sleep, so sleep, they’re waiting there for you.

Meaning of a shore in a dream.

Tonight I say farewell to all the girls–
To all the wayward girls I’ve ever known–
To all the girls I’ve ever given pearls,
Good-bye to you, and keep them as your own.
I gave them freely, even if you thought
They came with string attached or some design
To lure you toward the traps you often sought
(If you were trapped, they surely were not mine!)
And most of all, I bid adieu to Fame,
The flirt who barely cast a glance my way.
I’m sure she doesn’t even know my name,
Surrounded by her thoughtless boys all day.
And so, resolved and written here this night,
I’m sure she’ll find my bed by morning’s light.

This sonnet is an allusion to one by John Keats:

On Fame

1819

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease.
She is a Gipsey, — will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper’d close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar,
Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

(for Wendy)

1. I Love Your Hands

I love your hands, they seem to love me too
I love the way your fingers touch my skin
My hands applaud the things your hands can do
Come place your hand in mine as we begin
The journey that our hands already know
Along the paths and trails our hearts define
I love the places where, our hands will go
And if your hand gets cold, I’ll give you mine
I’ve got to hand it to your loving hands
They handle life with soft and subtle care
Your handiwork unfolds as peace expands
Your loving hands caress me everywhere
Come press your palms where loving hands belong
And let your hands conduct my simple song.

(more…)