For Charlotte

January 27th, 2018

I forged for myself an iron decree

That my lady's fiftieth birthday

Would not treat her as mine did me

And that we would she may.

On that score I gleaned we were agreed

Because I'm the awesome sort of guy

That gives his wife some actual heed

Unlike those wretched chaps that never try.

"Thai" was her edict for birthday cuisine

For she knew of a lovely place to dine

And later on when things were more serene

We marked the day with sparkling wine.

     Oh how to know, when I was young and drifty,

     That a chick could be so fine at fifty! 

Homo Authentithicus

January 16th 2018

Tragic indeed is the state of a man

That will not search for a good lady's touch.

Wisdom tells us to date outside the clan

And to never let her think that it's Dutch.

Such trouble is never too much to ask

And may result in a pleasant outing

As long as you wear sincerity's mask

And never speak of internet routing.

For unmanned are they that at keyboards poke

And potentially could be spasmodic.

Yes, such a lover would be a bad joke.

Oh there's a chance they might be rhapsodic,

     But nevertheless I'm inclined to besmirch

     Those coupling only with engines that search! 


An S.T.D. production.*

*(The Superlative Theatrics Department)

January 3rd 2018

What might there be to make men think

Or give the ladies their next thrill

With only paper and black ink

And a well cut pelican quill?

It resonates through rayless gray

And pulsates past tenebrous murk

To counsel people who dismay

That men, at romance, will not work.

It scans the sky and wayward star

And notes the music of the spheres

To fashion verse so fucking noir

That beatniks will be moved to tears! 

A motive force you'll think a trick

Played on bland puritan apes

By something pruriently sick

That haunts them in their dreamscapes

     ...At the darkest lovelorn hour.

     Behold! (cue lightning AND thunder)

     ...The Sonneteer's Midnight Power! 


The Fortunate Morsel.

Mother's Day 2016...Noon. A True Story.

Upon a May morning at breakfast

My lady dined on some scramblege of eggs.

Lovingly blent so no longer fowl

She then, with ease, enjoyed the repast.

Then from still drowsy lips fell unchewed dregs,

That stained her blouse and made her scowl.

"Why scowl?" quoth I. "Thy breast was but gently pressed".

Then she said she feared her raiment  was wrecked

And tis true that's no way to start the day.

Then I, of the crises, wisely addressed...

"Blame not the morsel upon blouse bedecked,

Fate has decreed that the best place to lay

For your bosom, my dear, is the vertex of grace

Even morsels know there's no finer place!"

Aurora's Whims

May 2017

You amend dreams like warm blooms do to may,

Or as a fervent breeze treats a cold bed

After a merry dancing of the drapes.

Thereupon like an odalisque you lay

With eyes of intent that can't be misread,

A goddess demanding her plucked grapes.

Your contours, honeyed by your heat,

Have the bright amber nebulosity

Such as seen on halos and angel wings.

It seems my eyes with each other compete

To scan you with accruing ferocity.

From your tresses to toes my frenzied glare clings.

Then suddenly we're a tangle of limbs

and I cannot be among you too much.

Well, that's how the dream goes up until dawn.

But Aurora spoils our Morphean whims.

She interferes with your finishing touch

By providing instead... an awakening yawn!

     I wish just once she might let us conclude,

     I'd hate to think that Aurora's a prude! 

Shopping in 1988

A chap strolled into Vancouver Mall

For there was the love into which he would fall.

He met her in the frame shop

And what he saw made his jaw drop

Because her frame was the finest of all.

The flying Roses

Old Jenny Wren and Old Robin Redbreast

Were keeping house in Old Woodsey Town.

They swept the den and fluffed up the bednest

With garden flowers and new pillow down.

For Valentine's he brought her some roses

Which were growing by a big windowpane.

They were placed just so for human noses

But if they were not missed who would complain?

When flying home he thought of his wren

and noticed his cock getting bigger.

So when he found her preening in the den

He fucked that bird with passion and vigor!

     Oh, she wanted an oral Valentine

     But beaks are terrible for good sixty nine.


The Singer songwriter sounds like a machine

On sale at a large fabric store.

One that produces musical routine

By artists that fashion a premature snore.

Bequeath to me not a song of your woe

Nor batter my brain with accounts of duress.

Some mirth and pleasure should a tale bestow

Augmented with pornographic caress.

Great minds need more amusement than solace

Not a tune that will bring about sleeping.

Poets of pleasure, or whatever you call us,

Prefer something cheerful, not baleful weeping.

     Please sing a simple and happier sound

     And stop trying to be so fucking profound. 

That first date.


Here's a warning to she that I may woo.

It is wise that you might mistrust me

Or the gilded words that my teeth may chew.

Yet, try to see what I cannot unsee.

That most magnificent vision... is you!

Oh you may scoff at me for attempting charm

But your beauty will make man blood brew

Into fevers which may cause some alarm.

I hope you place on me not too much blame

For being smitten with your faultless form.

That, and your demeanor, fan love's flame

Into something like a magnetic storm,

     And like a compass drawn unto the poles

     My attention is what your charm controls!


I was given turmoiled dreamery

Of bold assassinations and murders,

With a host of grosser obscenery

On a stage of bloody beams and girders .

Why send me dreams of these clotted horrors?

Why not a scene of placid moon and stars

For all we prone, depleted snorers

Instead of more frets than mile long guitars?

Morpheus, please, give me sweet scenes of love

Where no one has bullets passing through heads

And sexy angels drift down from above

To make out with me on rococo beds.

     You know dreams with violent burnishings

     Are no match for sex on fine furnishings.

Vive le France!

Oh taunt the noble Frenchman if you must

But if you've seen a youthful Gallic maiden

And the beauty with which she's laden

Then you would understand the Frenchman's lust.

So bear with him as he cools his jets,

For it will take a bit of doing

To think of something other than screwing

The mademoiselles in their corsettes.

You may think Pierre is far too sleazy

Or that he cannot control his loins,

But there are girls that for Gallic coins

Will make underwear removal easy!

     They say French men, with sex, are too obsessed

     But sacrebleu, see how their chicks are dressed!  

The Mistress

September 4th 2013

There's a maiden kneeling upon my desk,

Her hindquarters resting on her heels.

She's a stoic Polynesian burlesque

Unconcerned about what she reveals.

Her grass skirt won't hide her perfect thighs.

Dark hair and bright lei drape on buoyant breasts.

Her scanty raiment might be unwise

But at least in her tress a red bloom rests.

She adjusts said bloom above her ear

With upraised arms, and shoulders bare.

Who is this tawny nymph with the flawless rear,

Peerless bosom and swart, vigorous hair?

     No, she's not a tart or tropic island vamp

     ...But a thirty five dollar table lamp!

Domestic Bliss

March 2017

Each of your eyes is like a bright comet

And your teeth, I notice, never turn green.

Nor do your kisses taste like vaseline

And, I swear, I've never seen you vomit.

You have respect for what's under the sink

And most of your text remains lowercase.

But you've more than habits I wish to embrace

Which stirs my passions so near to the brink!

The brink of what? Perhaps I'm fanatic

But your beauty promotes rapid heartbeats

Like the sort you find in coked up athletes

Or any truly... dedicated lunatic!

     I hope these words are kind to your ear

     Ever the aim of... your Midnight Sonneteer!