What You Have Believed

While I was fighting those two darling wars
You spoke with someone who disliked my work,
Describing it with something like a smirk
To you, and opening his mind and pores
To show you how these tricks feel on all fours.
He told you, falsely, I was just a clerk.
Call it a foolish whim, call it a quirk,
But we have finished. You have closed the doors.

Whore! Never cared, I never cared that you
Had slept with anyone and everyone
Who called you pretty names. That is your due,
And I was busy, carrying a gun.
But what you have believed was never true:
I never stole one word. Whore. We are done.

Posting Sonnet Number 730

If you read one of these sonnets per day
(2005, in August, I came here),
You’ll reach this as you end your second year.
Yes, that’s a lot of sonnets, I must say.
Well, maybe I don’t need to say it, eh?
Maybe my deep concern, my honest fear
That people won’t tot sonnets up is sheer
Ridiculousness. Toss that thought away!

I know that every child finds time to count
With sure delight and wonder. We make jokes
About not having to bribe, plead, or coax,
Because the love of numbers starts to mount
The path to glory from true wisdom’s fount.
It’s seven hundred thirty sonnets, folks!

Hymn to Courage

I never learned properly how to kiss.
My wife accepted this, like all my faults,
Courageously. How could I ever miss?
The target moves towards me, and then halts:
I fire my Cupid’s-arrows at her heart,
But she already loved me, much too much,
And by the time I was prepared to start
She waited at the finish for my touch.
I’ve never been the man that she deserved,
But I’m aware of that, and she was, too.
I guess that time and space are really curved:
How else could I explain how her love grew?
I engineered things neatly, needlessly,
Relentless, cheated of my misery.

The Usual Story

I slammed my head into the tall man’s nose,
Then kneed him in the groin. The other one
Had quickly grabbed my shoulder, but I spun
And broke his middle finger. He then chose
To use his other fist; that’s how it goes.
Ducking below it neatly, I said, “Son,
You’re way too slow.” I found his holstered gun
And pulled the trigger, hitting several toes.

I am a peaceful man, a gentle soul
Whose love of sweetness, light, and poetry
Should shield him from hurt and disharmony,
But trouble finds me, and it takes its toll,
Leaving our lives unwholesome, and unwhole,
Demanding our response, implacably.