The Good Dream

I’m writing this enormous poem now,
So sometimes sonnets won’t get posted here.
I know you’ll miss them, maybe raise a brow
In quizzical disdain, or rabid fear.
Well, maybe fear’s a word that’s too extreme,
And maybe sonnets aren’t all quite divine.
That people need a fix is just my dream,
But it’s a good dream, and it’s mine. All mine,
And only mine, apparently. I fret,
But am resigned; there’s still gin in my cup.
I worry that my readers will forget
To check in here if new delights aren’t up.
Sometimes, something will still occur to me
That needs the sonnet form. Come here and see.

An Indifferent Place

The world is cold, harsh, an indifferent place
Filled to the brim with hatred, and lost souls
Dispersing aimlessly through ragged holes
Torn in the fabric of this empty space
We live in, utterly devoid of grace.
Go out, from the equator to the poles,
And find one decent thing. I have no goals,
No hope of safety, nor of saving face.

The world is filled with pain, cruel and rife
With hard and evil choices. Do fire ants
Taste worse than those vice-presidential rants
About the way I haven't led my life?
Today I went clothes-shopping with my wife.
She looked at everything. She bought some pants.

The Sweeter Boon

I'm not devoted to those empty sweets
Or chocolate rabbits, even solid ones,
Or gum drops, fruit ices, or sticky buns.
The plainest foods, the things an old man eats,
That's what I like. Your serving maid repeats
The question, but I'm sticking to my guns,
Refusing jujubes (they give me the runs),
Raw honeycomb, and all those other treats.

And yet there is a pleasure I would know:
A finer, sweeter boon, one simple kiss
From you — or if not, from that little miss
Who offered me the larder's contents. Oh,
Her lips are red, like yours, and thrill me so —
Don't leave me begging hopelessly like this!