Sonnet 1417

This is a sonnet.
Shakespeare wrote a lot of these
In his leisure time.
He’d just lie around
On his first- or third-best bed,
Crankin’ out the verse.
Prolificity
Could have been a word by now
If he’d made it rhyme
‘Cause he had “the knack.”
Spenser’s namesake sonnets were
Objectively worse.
With some practice, though,
Once you’ve worked the pattern out,
Sonnets aren’t a chore.
Even Ed Spenser,
Author of The Faerie Queene,
Had some chops, but he
Was a vowel slut
So obsessed with extra E’s,
Always adding more,
That he overlapped
His rhyme scheme so he’d wind up
With a double-E.
Shakespeare’s scheme was slick:
He’d start off A-B-A-B
Then — head-fake — C-D!
Repeat for the pair,
Then throw down E-F-E-F,
And the coup de grace,
Two G’s for the win!
Redefining sonnet forms
For eternity!
Spenser and his crew,
Crowded in the groundling’s pit,
Could but watch with awe.
Good’s not good enough:
Acme; excellence; sublime;
Which word is the one
That can do justice
To Will’s sonnets? He’s a star!*

*Nothing like the sun.

Director’s Cut

Most scripted movies hit the screens
With stories chronologically
Arranged, but when they shoot the scenes
The order’s not the one we see.
The hero’s journey takes them from
Point A to, say, Point L or M
To best a test and then to come
Past Z to A; we follow them
Around the alphabet, and yet
Production schedules often try
To maximize each day on set
And shoot both A’s at once. That’s why
Our love is like a movie. How?
We have our happy ending now.

Trucks!

Acknowledged universally
No less than Austen’s famous Truth
Is, when you’re young, it’s fun to see
And hear a great, big truck! As youth
Recedes, oftimes the joy that rose
Unbidden when a diesel roarer
Thundered by fades, too, and those
Who recognize the loss feel poorer.
Grownup obligations rise
To primacy, and traffic matters
More; your erstwhile child’s eyes
That widened now see plans in tatters.
Psst! Hey, kid, today your luck’s
Returned in Salem: Lookit! Trucks!

Selective Disservice

Recognizing patterns is a skill
At which humans excel, perhaps because
A predator is less likely to kill
The prey that figures out that’s what it does.
Darwinian selection is to blame
For those of us who can’t not recognize
That every single presidential claim
These three years weaves a tapestry of lies.
When Donald Trump inhales as if to speak,
Veracity recoils, sore afraid
Of coming into contact with the bleak
Mendacity with which the truth’s betrayed.
Words have definitions. There are rules
For using them, ignored by clowns and fools.

Holiday Pâté

Tomorrow marks three work days in a row!
I’d gotten used to having [Something] Eve
Then Wednesdays off. Those days are over, though,
As, like my true love’s geese, they had to leave.
I’m serious, those geese made quite a mess!
Suffice to say, they weren’t just laying eggs.
I’ve never seen a bird make doo with less
Fresh food–those greedy swans just left them dregs,
And yet the laying lawn’s a soggy slick
Of rain-soaked cylinders of gray-green goo.
I’d scoop the poop (although it makes me sick)
But I’ve got work tomorrow! Sad but true:
A week of geese excreting on my lawn
Is what it takes to make me glad I’m gone.

Can’t Trust That Decade

It seems to me the Twenties are afraid.
They had a chance to make themselves stand out
By rendering our work weeks un-Mondayed
And exit every weekend sans a pout,
But though the opportunity was ripe
For harvesting, the chicken Twenties choked,
And all our hope was just a hunt for snipe.
They ought to have their calendar revoked.
It’s possible they’ll yet redeem themselves,
Rise up courageous, finish with a roar,
And crank those scales of 1-to-10 to 12s
And teach me not to doubt them anymore,
But Monday happened, and it wasn’t great.
Unless this was the last one, it’s too late.

Drownin’ In My Tears

I woke up with a haiku in my head–
Well, that’s not true. I woke up with the name
Of some old one-hit-wonder band instead,
And as an earworm, that’s not quite the same.
I worried in the dark about the group:
Was it a trio? Duo? Were there four?
When next I woke, their song was there, so, poop!
Don’t Pull Your Love is mine forevermore.
The answer, if you’re interested, is three:
Dan Hamilton and Tom Reynolds were two,
The third’s Joe Frank Carollo; you can see
How that’s confusing. Then came that haiku,
Which dealt with whether having no elbows
Would alter hat design. Now no one knows.