Sonnets Here, In-House

In Honor of John (EveningStar)
Burkitt and Trail Life​


Both weeds and cancer cells delight in growth,
And every thief is anxious to be free.
Great cleverness is boasted by each oaf,
While narcissists cry, "I believe in me!"

Self-love has never served as any proof
That one loves others. No amount of fun
Or laughter shows that someone values truth;
You need to check the fruit-- see what they've done.

What started well, some evil may invade;
This may compel the keepers of the flame
To burn a bridge, create a new brigade,
Preserve the essence, though they change the name.

The mere word "Scouting" was just that: a word.
John chose the substance, not the blinded herd.
 
The Girl without a name

I could see her clearly out of the corner of my eye

Beauty beyond any that I have seen in my life

Bronze skin, nut-brown eyes

Her spirit radiates beauty


She is divine

I can't get her out of my mind

I pine for her when she's not around

When I am with her I am found

Without her I feel lost

I sit and wait in this lonely park

It's called the Gir Forest

That noise comes from my throat

At the frustration of her not being here

I hear a step, but no one is around
 
Sunday Morning at Spirit of Hope Church

Upon the open Bible at our church
A fly came down, to take off and repeat.
The fly gained no advantage from this perch;
There certainly was nothing it could eat.

Just one time would be understood as chance,
But that disgusting fly just would not quit.
Again, again, again, disgusting dance;
The chance to soil a Bible beckoned it.

As did that fly, so does the Lord of Flies:
He wants to make things filthy, just from spite.
Too many mortals, led on by his lies,
Try also to defile what's clean and bright.

Since cleanliness is next to godliness,
All cleanliness is hated by that pest.
 
A Nutritious Sonnet

I dug away a lot of weedy thatch,
Which for so long had sat there mockingly,
Then planted my new cauliflower patch,
Which also had a lot of broccoli.

Then eight or ten tomato plants went in,
Along with something for my Carol's taste:
Though I think jalapenos are a sin,
I planted two such plants, correctly spaced.

At church, in season, we hold an exchange
Of garden produce; it began today.
My jalapenos were at center stage,
And fellow Christians carried them away.

Of those hot peppers now my hands I wash,
To wait for the maturing of my squash.
 
About Having A Burden One Cannot Easily Tell Others

If he -- but wait, I mustn't say his name!
If she -- but wait, I mustn't tell you that!
If they -- would this expose them all to shame?
If we -- no, I'll make someone smell a rat.

That time -- hold on, I mustn't lose my head.
It was -- no, I don't want my blunders known!
But this -- once told, it cannot be unsaid!
And I -- but no, they'd spread it all by phone.

A million billion times we've heard the words
"Don't gossip;" so, can nothing be revealed
To anyone? The untold secret burns
Within, and who knows how the burn is healed?

"Just talk to God," they say; they think I don't?
An untold secret makes you feel remote.
 
It just came to me: who's to say I _can't_ write a sonnet about the Grey Eagle science-fiction books I am now writing?


My coming sci-fi novels all take place
When mankind hasn't _quite_ flown to the stars;
When Israel's been launched out into space,
And India's transplanted onto Mars.

On Earth, as hinted at with Alipang,
The new-style Soviets abolish faith.
No one recalls the hymns which once we sang,
And slavery pretends to keep you safe.

Some evil scientists decide to grab
A man called Eliot, the main good guy.
They give him super-powers in a lab;
Then he escapes, as he pretends to die.

Grey Eagle he becomes, and shows high class;
But as for villains, he will kick their egotistic pretensions into a waste receptacle in both metaphorical and essentially literal senses.
 
One of the _least_ helpful things ever said by anyone when talking about literature was, "A poem should not mean, but BE." Except when I'm joking around, my poems _always_ have a deliberate meaning. In this case, the meaning to be conveyed is complex enough that I am compelled _both_ to give a prior explanation, and to spread my message across _two_ sonnets.

A few weeks ago, over on Facebook, a movie distribution company called Fandor began advertising something like a subscription offer, for people to watch the films of some bizarre independent director. The advertisement was illustrated by a still picture presumably from one of that director's movies. My sonnets will divide up the job of interpreting the scene, about which I know nothing but what it looked like.

The Apparent Feelings of the Young Female Character

This park bench might as well be some foul rack,
Deep in the torture cells of some grim king.
With clenched fists, in despair, my head leans back,
For screams which drown the birds' attempts to sing.

I don't expect my screams to bring reply,
For who in all the city cares one twitch
About the grief that makes me wish to die,
About the way life tossed me in the ditch?

What use to hope a hero may show up?
It was a phony hero who betrayed
My love, who put the poison in my cup,
And who is gone by now, his game well played.

I know no God or angel who might save
Me from this misery, so let me rave!

My Own Feelings When I Saw That Picture of the
Seated, Screaming Woman From the Unknown Film

A pale blue dress she wears, with one sleeve torn;
A pretty girl-next-door face clenched with pain.
That mouth yells to the sky, "Why was I born?"
She cries that she, and we, have lived in vain.

I know that's just an actress -- it's not real.
They paid her money to portray despair.
But Lord, she did it well! I have to feel
The writer, or director, once was there.

O independent movie-maker, you
Have died, or so I hear. What life-long wound
Led you to place that sad scene in our view?
Did you think there was hope, or think us doomed?

Be that as may, I hope sometime, somewhere,
To save someone from such cold, grim despair.
 
Copperfox said:

e,

I know that's just an actress -- it's not real.
They paid her money to portray despair.
But Lord, she did it well! I have to feel
The writer, or director, once was there.

O independent movie-maker, you
Have died, or so I hear. What life-long wound
Led you to place that sad scene in our view?
Did you think there was hope, or think us doomed?

Be that as may, I hope sometime, somewhere,
To save someone from such cold, grim despair.
Click to expand...

Very nice.
 
Sonnetizing a recently-posted prayer request

"No good deed goes unpunished," says my Mom,
Applicable to sister Randi, who
Has just been hit by one more sickness-bomb,
Though good deeds are what Randi's known to do.

So generous, compassionate at heart,
Is Randi, comrade of my teenage years!
How is our mother ever going to start
Believing in a God Who dries our tears,

When He, for DECADES, has put Randi through
So many, many medical ordeals?
I chose my path, proclaiming God as true,
Yet I can understand just how Mom feels.

To tell those in distress, "Rejoice! It's cool!"
Is to invite the label of a fool.
 
Don't ask me whom this is about

Twice in my life, this insult has occurred.
I was attracted to a female soul
Much younger than myself; you never heard
How my heart's longing fell down this black hole.

Each time, I did as realism ruled:
That is, I twice accepted my harsh lot,
Barred by my age -- then found I had been fooled!
Men older than _myself,_ in each case, got

The girl I couldn't have -- yes, _older_ men!
How's that for being hit below the waist?
At least henceforth, I won't face that again,
Since, finding Karoliina, I've embraced

An older _woman_ by less than a year;
To be too old OR young no more I'll fear.
 
Like movie serials in black-and-white,
Where lions almost ate the heroine,
Where heroes looked like they might lose the fight,
And railroad bridges threatened caving in,

So Writing Club's a place of perils dire,
For authors who let too much time elapse.
Unfinished rhymes or novels might expire,
Surviving only in the Archive stats.

Therefore, I write this filler on my thread
Of sonnets, just to keep the thread alive.
If no conclusion springs up in my head,
I'll use whatever junk I can contrive.

So blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah,
And blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
 
On sore Throats

There is a phrase, "a tickle in my throat."
The ones who use this phrase are strangely calm.
My sore throats are a _prickle_ in my throat
At _best;_ the worst, like swallowing napalm.

At least, in my old age, I find I'm spared
(Most of the time) from pustulating sores
Inside my throat. Time was when such things flared
And made my speech and swallowing hard chores.

I'm hoarse now, and such pain as my throat has
Derives from coughing _deep_ down in my chest.
The coughing fits make me look like a spazz;
Yet somehow, Sunday, I rose to the test

By _singing_ in the choir, not on a bet;
I was the only tenor they could get.


 
Subtle Verses Upon the Theme of Having a Gout Attack Last for More Than Three Weeks



!#_\\@^=/:$);:mad:&\"<{-:mad:!+]*!!!


--- times fourteen lines.​
 
My wife, known here on TDL as Karoliina Aleksandra, asked me last night whether I could write a sonnet about a dog. I told her I actually had done so at least once here in Writing Club, years ago. The dog whom Carol had in mind was one personally known to me as well as to her: a very small male dog, now deceased after living to a fairly old age. So, to oblige my Finnish sweetheart, I have written TWO sonnets in the dog's honor, neatly divided by chronology.


My wife's friend Julie found a shelter dog
With black and curly hair -- a tiny thing,
In shape a dachshund. At a speedy jog,
He entered Julie's house just like a king.

He ran upstairs to Julie's bed, and claimed
It as his own. His brand-new Mom was pleased.
Of course, the pre-owned pup had to be named;
She chose "McTavish," and thenceforth she eased

His loneliness with constant love and care.
Her son and daughter, Dan and Mary, found
It did their mother good to have him there,
And Tavish was one happy little hound.

Then, almost faster than the pup could pant,
His Mommy's friend had turned into his aunt.

= = = = = = = = = = = =

This quasi-dachshund, barely rabbit-size,
Acquired a boundless taste for Beggin' Strips.
He'd beg for doggie treats with pleading eyes,
And soon enough, a treat would pass his lips.

Aunt Carol hosted Tavish frequently,
Which was the only way he could be glad
To leave his house. In Carol's company,
He'd walk, and belly-rub were to be had.

Between his Beggin' Strips, he'd warm her lap;
And when one Joseph entered Carol's life,
Old Tavish quickly charmed the kindly chap,
Who joined in walks with puppydog and wife.

We spouses both would miss the short-legged midge,
When Tavish walked across the Rainbow Bridge.
 
Hope you don't mind me hijacking, but as an aspiring and amateur bard, I wanted to share this wee bit of low-quality poetry I have just whipped up. Oppinions (no matter how unkind) are very much appreciated. I broke a rule or two in writing this, so it may hardly be called a poem.

What good is it when
A girl befriends a boy
Whose life she claims to want in,
Filling an old and open void,
Only to abandon him at
The slightest change of circumstance?
Love that lasts while convenient
Is no love at all.
If such "love" were a fortress,
The first stone would make it fall.
Where is the prince and the princess?
Who is the king on their throne?
Where is their code set in stone?
Do they ever feel the shame
For the hearts they maim?
 
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Sir Tom, you must not have been around for the real glory days of Dancing Lawn. When I had more followers for my sonnet-writing, I _welcomed_ all those who wanted to post poems of their own on this thread, _including_ poems which were not strictly sonnets. Therefore, I am nothing but pleased that you would post something of yours here now; I'm only sorry that it should have to be on an unhappy subject.

For what it's worth, you're not alone. As you know, I've been married three times in my sixty-three years of life on Earth, my Mary and my Janalee being called home to Aslan's Country before my Carol came along. But for _each_ of those three successful courtships, I experienced at _least_ another three serious disappointments. It's part of life, but if you don't let it destroy you, it _will_ make you stronger.
 
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