The Last Sonnet of 2023

The last sonnet of twenty twenty-three
Reports a full year liveried in sin,
A bad society made not of tin
But something even flimsier: a bee
That bumbles and won’t fly, a destiny
Made evident behind a wicked grin.
We don’t complain about the state we’re in;
We won’t look — there’s no other road to see.

Now, understand me, I’m not crying, Look!
Move on: avoidance makes a lot of sense,
If following the news just makes you tense,
Remembering this villain and that crook.
Maybe we’ll read about it in some book,
Published somewhere, ages and ages hence.

Apologia Pro Prosodia Sua

That’s right: I shouldn’t have rhymed “intersects”
Last week with “texts” — it just isn’t exact.
I play with rhythm, sure, but leave intact
The rhymes I use, how each word pair connects.
As everyone who knows me recollects,
I’ve been quite vocal, as a matter of fact,
On proper rhyming. It’s a brutal act
To rhyme “has-been” with “bane.” Some hateful sects

Won’t even try to fix their nonsense. Shame!
Even a robot would improve on this!
Can’t anybody see something’s amiss
With sloppy rhymers (whom I will not name).
Poems are art, not some infernal game.
There are some lips, Olaf, I will not kiss.

Electron

If I describe electrons to our friends —
Something I almost never have to do,
I’m glad to say — my finger points at you:
“The negative,” I state. Perhaps time bends,
Perhaps (I don’t believe this one) the ends
Could justify the means, maybe this stew
Contains real mutton and not just tofu.
Not so with you, a man no one defends.

In every case, when someone intersects
With you, catastrophe comes following,
One personal existence hollowing;
A jam jar’s measure of mayflies collects
Around you. There are classical Greek texts
That speak of you. I hear the swallowing.

Too Much Steam

Divide the last free dividends by two
And let’s be on our way. We’ve been together,
Waging economic war in leather,
Masked and under pressure — now we’re through.
I hoped to be disjoined at last, from you
And from this feeling that uncertain weather
Might be all they need to cinch this tether.
I won’t face wind and rain in this canoe.

You claim that sinking will confirm our dream,
A consummation wished for; you’re devout,
But I say let’s turn this canoe about
And head for shore. This is a gentle stream
Until we meet the ocean. Too much steam,
My darling, is what we can do without.

Too Late for Dying Young

It isn’t too late now for dying young,
Is it? You know, I’m only seventy.
I feel just like I did at twenty-three,
And not quite dead quite yet, although my tongue
Is turning blue, I’m coughing up a lung,
My elbows hurt, and I’ve been lost at sea.
I still remember drinking eau de vie,
Your hazel eyes, and every song we’ve sung.

Each time I come across a waiting puddle
I have to choose between feeling the rot
And leaping in. You’re in my every thought:
Each touch reminds me how you craved a cuddle,
And each caress puts my brain in a muddle.
Too late to die young? Maybe, maybe not.