The Mania Explainia

Sonnets? But why? Are they not a bore?

Did they not die out with the cavaliers

Or fade away in rune font times of yore?

Nay! They are here and cheer the eyes and ears!

Undisciplined verse lacks clever timing

It’s untutored beat is ever a shame

But sonneteers with glorious rhyming

Jot glamourous thought for immortal fame.

When formless poems seem so poorly wrought

Sonnets gracefully tell their tales

And will not leave the reader so bestraught

Like those all too common free verse fails.

     Melancholy denizens…rejoice!

     Your night is lit with a clarion voice!

And because...


My mind condenses impulse into thought

Which I then consider worth jotting down.

What might, by this procedure, be bought

Beyond preventing yet another frown?

There is some glory in triumphant wit.

More so than a mere mechanical fix.

The joy is not just to make things fit

But to do so from an eclectic mix.

From scatterbrain into ordered refrain,

Like atoms cooling into crystal,

tumbled wordage is flumed into a stain

More compelling than a brandished Pistol.

     The passage from sword to plowshare is clear

     When it is lit by...The Midnight Sonneteer!


Or because...


Without drama nuance is overlooked,

The squeaky wheel gets the grease you know,

But dodgy lies can get us Donny brooked

and that's just not a sonneteer's tableaux.

Though the drab conventionals are in charge

With limp whips of banal sarcasm,

It's perspective, not dread, we should enlarge

And have stoked with enthusiasm.

So fly, fair sonnet, out among the spheres

And waft yourself through the midnight skies.

Declare to all virtuous sonneteers...

to ignore the creeps that criticize.

     It's time to regain the risqué beret.

     Viva the rhyming, nocturnal hombre!


And also because...


The better marks of civilization

You may think insignificant at first

If influenced with love of privation

Or that all but the rich deserve the worst.

Diogenes too dug the simple life

And I could sleep in a tub if I must,

But to thrive through inevitable strife

A poet's shelf could use a bronze bust.

Some candelabra for Liberace,

Nancy's china with air force coffee pot,

And all the finery of Versace

Could be had by selling one rich dude's yacht.

     So it's a kindness to milady's purse

     To compose only penurious verse.


And...


Midnight Sonneteers will have opinions

Which should be laced with some measure of wit

To distinguish himself from the minions

Who may otherwise just think him a twit.

Wit, I have read, shows likeness in unlike things

And is for poets a wonderful force.

But to the bourgeoisie it never quite clings,

Therefore...viva Concordia discors!

I've become convinced scatterbrains have worth

But try proving that to bankers and crooks.

They only care if their wallets have girth

And not about reading virtuous books.

     Money is boring for a mind that teems

     and even a bum has wit in his dreams.


But especially because...


Everyone has desires and concerns.

Don't imagine they'd have time for mine.

But lots of thinking so uselessly churns,

Then torments the brain and dim witted spine.

Such angst could use more lateral routing

To dodge obsolete caveman reflexes.

Then no more will we engage in shouting

at modern, surplus, techno perplexes.

A mind is as Mother Nature ordains

It's weakness to some a strength to others.

Consider that when a father complains

and blames human flaw on the mothers.

     So, I'll take a sheepskin in old poetics

     But call the degree... "Applied Dyslexics"