Sonnettics

Horizon marks my ocean’s distant shore
Soft clouds that drift above are water too
At times they bring me rain; at times they pour
But not today; horizon’s sky is blue

I’ve watched the sun bring color to my day
I’ve felt the sunlight’s warmth in peaceful rest
I know at night, the sun seems far away
But night begins with beauty in the West

The beauty in the West is sunset’s art
The art of light that colors all we see
Reflections on the shore remind my heart
That every day belongs to you and me

Our ocean’s shore reflects our sunset’s light
Horizon’s clouds bring beauty to our sight.

Beach Sunset

https://youtu.be/dD3z6gjJM2U

To live a scripted life, a fool must act
The world’s a stage where all we do is play
Some spill their blood to sign a binding pact
As if the words the write are what they’d say

No words are true, come read poetic lies
I spill them on the page, the screen, the ground
The Word Is God (with all that that implies)
What’s lost is only lost until it’s found

If you should lose your ink, you’ve lost your blood
Some writers know the truth of every lie
Some see a drop where others see a flood
Some bleed, and bleed, and bleed, and then they die

But others live forever, by their ink
We are because we write, not simply think.

​
Our forest world is full of mighty trees
I like my tree the best; it’s tall and strong
It’s filled with leaves that rustle in the breeze
The winds of time produce a mighty song

Our leaves all sing; our root provides their tune
Though like their songs, the leaves all come and go
But not the root, the root remains, a boon
Established and ordained to help us grow

Our root provides an anchor in the storm
Fierce storms have blown down leaves from time to time
All leaves will fall; it’s just a forest norm
New leaves will grow, our tree remains, sublime

Regardless of the leaves, our tree bears fruit
I hope all leaves keep faith within our root

​Nobody sees what’s amputated, lost
And yet it’s gone, as surely as some limb
Invisible, yet not without a cost
This TBI’s annoying, if not grim

What’s gone is my ability to show
Emotions that display humanity
My feelings still exist; a fact I know
As surely as the sane know sanity

And so I write my feelings time to time
Like carving some prosthetic lines of verse
At times they limp; at other times they rhyme
At times they seem to say: “It could be worse.”

At least with my prosthetic poetry
I’ve found a way to share humanity.

I walk beside the waves, upon the sand
The beach reveals my destiny, divine
Where flotsam comes to rest, I often stand
The divination of the beach is mine

I’m not some Hamlet, asking what to be
I just survey the driftwood, buoys, and rope
The tides have cast these pieces here for me
Like random lots to read in faith and hope

It does me good to contemplate my finds
Like contemplating life beyond the now
Beyond the simple fate of simple minds
The treasures of the sea have taught me how

Divine, like divinations on the beach
Such mare sortem maps my fortune’s reach.

And now that I am well, the dreams have ceased
When time was out of sync, I sang my song
And now that I am well, my time’s increased
The right to sing is counted mostly wrong

Come sing of time with one who knows it well
He thinks he knows it better now than most
And yes, the “he” is me; I’ve come to tell
How time reveals the depth of God’s great boast

That man was in His image made, divine
And yet, His chronoception must be skewed
He’ll never see a day like I see mine
With clocks that have mortality imbued

I see the darkness in the light of dawn
And know before I wake, the dreams are gone.

I plunge my mind in filth, and what appears?
Some shit that rhymes and jingles like a song
A sonnet bathed in putrid shit for years
Can only come from words that don’t belong

Profanity is quite the fucking verse
It sounds like holy scripture or a fart
Though neither one is better, both are worse
And move until they find the life of art

Take five iambs and shove them up your ass
In fourteen days you’ll crap a sonnet out
The stench will linger on in methane gas
No matter what your sonnet is about

Then wipe the joy of filth like fecal ink
And flush it to the cesspools where we think.

With years of rust, reflected on the sand
While ocean waves still crash the boat’s old bones
Imagination’s memories are grand
At least the ones the time of tides condones

Though tides recede with time, they’ll flood once more
Like memories imagined in the dark
When memories or tides approach the shore
On life’s reflected bones, they leave their mark

The cargo of our dreams may be washed out
When waves of rusted time precludes desire
And yet we still remember they’re about
Dichotomies of ocean waves of fire

Some dreams we have may rust on time’s wide beach
And yet time’s vision stays within our reach.