Alouette

An idle thought, a sad reminder, marks
This afternoon, a long and boring one
While I wait for the setting of the sun
(A sunset empty of delight, or sparks),
And try to stop believing that the larks,
With their plucked beaks and tendency to run,
Are after me. I’ve been under the gun,
But only small things bother me, like quarks.

I may be in the dark; I’ve lived too long
Not to appreciate the blissful state
My ignorance has left me in, both late
And soon, getting and spending, right and wrong,
Dispensing with women and wine — not song.
No, I’m still singing at a startling rate.

I Blame the Weather

Rents and disruptions in the atmosphere
Are nothing much compared to my own loss;
Some of the rolling stones have gathered moss
And silent thunder, fog so bright and clear
We shield our eyes, our sorrows sweet and sheer.
Fear warms our hopeful hearts with a cool gloss.
I grimace smartly as I hand across
My calling card, approaching much too near.

I blame the weather, but won’t back away:
We’ll be together some time, I insist,
This tether binding up our fates has kissed
(Light as a feather) our two souls today.
I put on leather and enter the fray:
Whether or not you want to, manage the twist.

Aim for the Neck

Aim for the neck. Once silenced, he won’t speak
And try to ruin everything you planned.
If you miss altogether, he might stand —
Not quite in opposition, but oblique —
Confusing them with Latin, modern Greek,
And mighty Tagalog. Just wound his hand,
No more, and, bellowing to beat the band,
He will oppress you, leave you faint and weak.

But aiming for the neck resolves the matter
(If you don’t count the sanguinary flood),
So do it right, now. This could be a dud;
A fine success; a win; a sour mess flatter
Than a pancake, so ignore the splatter,
Aim for the neck, and then mop up the blood.

This Unpleasing Bauble

I just ran dry this week. I couldn’t think
Of anything, not slowly, not in haste,
Although words may seep from my pores like paste,
Erato sometimes giving me the wink
And bam! A sonnet! Could I use a drink?
No, all I had was absinthe, and one taste
Made me forget pentameter. Disgraced,
I huddled underneath the kitchen sink.

When I came out, I watched the summer sky
And felt my lack of resolution wobble,
Sure that, with good luck, I could somehow cobble
Some verse for you, not aiming very high.
I knew I was only one sonnet shy,
So I concocted this unpleasing bauble.