Sonnettics

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.

VHTRC Website

The leaves at Leesylvania mark the trails
Like decoupage that changes as we walk
Through forests where the art of life prevails
As leaves decay in unison, en bloc
Some leaves don’t ever want to leave their tree
They only see the winter, not the spring
I wish they knew what life their fall would be
And then, perhaps, they’d know their song, and sing
Potomac tides persist as forests grow
And though their leaves may wash into the sea
One day their water will return and flow
Through roots and trunks like now, eternally
While leaves at Leesylvania lay like art
They mark the paths eternity will start.

Descartes believed he was because he thought
I wonder if he thought because he was
My TBI occurred and I forgot
To blame my brain for thinking like it does
Like bringing thoughts of old René to mind
I think, therefore Descartes must think I am
But if I’m not, René will come to find
A flood of thoughts that burst his little dam!
I have a TBI, therefore I am
Philosophy’s a love that’s gone to waste
Epistemology is just a dram
Of medicine we take in thoughtful haste
But since I took my time with what I knew
“I feel, therefore I am,” is much more true.

Sanguinis Christi’s bottle shattered here
Where sinner’s feet scuff by in filthy haste
There’s nothing for the masses to revere
There’s only broken glass and bits of waste
And yet, the glass reflects the purest light
Though it may never hold his blood again
One sinner’s spirit sees a different sight
A master of mosaic, finding Zen
He takes each piece within his humble art
He washes each with water, makes them clean
The shards of each and every broken part
To build the beauty only he has seen
From this, Sanguinis Christi’s shattered form
Iconic art becomes the master’s norm.

Another day is spent too far apart
And yet our hearts can feel each other, near
More close than beauty ever comes to art
Or warmth and wetness comes to every tear
And yes, although my tears are warm and wet
When I can feel your heart so far away
I love to feel the love I can’t forget
I love to write the words I want to say
You bring me peace and beauty, strength and grace
Within my gentle dreams with joys of life
Like cheerfulness illuminates your face
I love to bring my dreams to you, my wife
Our hearts can be together, in our dreams
Eternity is closer than it seems

True, sand is small, but causes oysters pain
It finds its way into an oyster’s heart
Although it may be just a tiny grain
Intrusion means a precious pearl will start
To oysters, sand is small, and yet it’s rough
And so they coat the sand with something smooth
The layers of their coating is enough
To blanket little blemishes, and soothe
The oyster’s pain; it’s how a pearl is made
From something small that causes such great pain?
Will sand embark on such an escapade?
Or does the oyster seek the tiny grain?
If pain can cause a precious pearl to form
Perhaps my pain is just a sandy storm.