To do list for 2018.  

December 31st. 2017


Global warming is so easy to fix,

Unlike the spleen of cultural conceit,

And life is a soiree where we all mix

And the best way of avoiding defeat.

Central Australia needs a small sea,

Fed by canals that come from the ocean,

And dug by robot koalas scot free

With solar power providing the motion.

Then, every structure gets a white roof

To reflect the sun as would an icecap.

Underneath, humans can relax aloof

Sipping cocktails of tropical rice sap,

     Cropped from a library of heritage seed.

     An arsenal of tolerance...Indeed! 


Lamentatory lines composed upon a Boxing Day park stroll.

Whimper not that future robots will kill us

Because their cold logic tells them they must.

For efficiency's sake they won't make that fuss.

Only arms need be lopped to gain their trust.

That border betwixt "man with" and "man at",

Where arms are concerned, was always thinnest.

Such is the way of this animal planet

And has been so since arming beginnest.

The octopi have four times as many

But certainly not four times the choler

Or predilection for pinching a penny

Like any well armed human scholar.

     Thus I fear men at arms must ONLY grip books

     Or robots will replace their arms with hooks!

Christmas Day

The presents are open, the tree is lit,

And we've emptied the giant red socks.

Yesterday's ham is reduced a bit,

But how can you tell if it came with hocks?

The shells are cracked and the filberts chewed

And the refrigerator is stoked.

Soon some more coffee will be brewed

And the woodstove embers lazily poked.

But best in show is that rare Christmas snow

Which fell this year in a civilized way

And not in a vigorous subzero blow

That moves into town for a two month stay.

     Second only to albinos out farming

     How can anything so white be so charming?

Distractions

December 7th


That wacky two bush hand bird of fancy

Was always perched just outside the window

Making academic successes chancy

Like equations, or essays by Rousseau.

It's feathers were too brilliant to ignore

It even squawked in all the richest hues.

Sometimes it sang and other times would soar

High above concentration's avenues.

It flapped and fluttered to keep me focal

As blunt reality spake "excusez-moi".

I heard the rude gallic in it's vocal

As my attention suffered coup d'état.

     ....What's this? All along it was NOT a bird,

     But Sir Metaphor's helmet plumage... coiffured! 

Tax reform

December 7th

If a punishment ought to fit the crime

Then the wealthy must be bled with leeches

Or at least endure this humble rhyme

To counteract conservative screeches.

They say dollars are not national blood

But mother's milk only they must suckle.

If others suggest that they share the flood

The response will be a haunting chuckle.

Somehow, laughing all the way to the bank

Has become a respected way to act.

Whatever happened to that tough old yank

That would shake his head at that lack of tact?

     He sits, there, by an economic ghost

     And warns "Healthy leeches make a sick host". 

Glorifiable

November 29th

The farther away from my youth I get

More florid pleasures become understood

And less and less do I pointlessly fret

About the earnest things I once thought good.

Now I sail the seven syllabic seas

And navigate caesura's shifting swells

Because there is no better way to please

a mind wherein surplus glory dwells.

Now infested with rhyme's chirping dulcets

I've come to expect some order with words

And not waste time with prose sermonettes

Worse than... the scattershot droppings of birds.

     Verse revives much like wine from the grail

     Then the mind blows...like wind in a sail!

Hail Siftonia!

November 27th

Things manifest themselves in odd places

As when venal folks do things that are kind

Or dark horses winning triple crown races,

Or lofty thoughts in a simpleton's mind.

And humans achieving an edified state

Doesn't seem a very likely default

In a part of town whose ultimate fate

Is exalting commercial asphalt assault.

Ah Sifton! Where finance cracks beauty's nose!

Where good taste gets a hard knuckle dusting!

Where motor oil and gas are all that flows

And all of the cheeseburgers...are disgusting.

So many acres razed, and cemented,

A dried prune bonanza into curbing.

Am I alone to think it demented

And environmentally disturbing?

Can we not bring back a measure of earth

And again root something that offers shade?

How could those trees of yore been shorn of worth

Without the citizens feeling betrayed?

Some neoclassical gardens would help

Or some gothic ruins with creepy caves.

Or laboratories with man eating kelp

Under a vaulted roof with sexpartite naves.

And where are all the naked bronze girls,

Accompanied by stream spitting cherubs,

With mermaids and nymphs diving for pearls

or dining on clams in big marble tubs?

Dammit Jim! The fine arts need a doctor!

One that gives business facades a facelift.

Someone who chisels on Gamble and Proctor

And treats architecture as a public gift.

We need odd manifestations right here

And not just in Paris, London, or Rome.

Of course, a good start is a midnight sonneteer

If you want a suburb to seem like a home. 

Today's Weather

November 22nd

Zephyrus blew in cheerfully today

And effusively shook hands with Chinook.

The boundless sphere of Atmos was at play

And vented all the nooks it overtook.

So I opened all the windows and doors

And bid the sky give it's greatest gust.

Then, like a Titan with titanic snores

It blew out some of summer's old dust!

Oh how handy is the turbulent sky

To give chase to hackneyed fragrancy

And, thus, offended olfaction deny

By boosting rank...wafture...vagrancy!

     And...if I could somehow train a nor'easter

     I'd fly around on my blasted keister!

 Game night (December 10th)

November 20th

Now as we drift through winter's long nights

Great minds need to be greatly diverted.

Preferably without family fights

Or anything hauntingly perverted.

A prerequisite for peaceful hijinks

Is a hall, like Valhalla, with tables.

But where no swords and only booze glass clinks

As auditory background for fables.

But no afterlife locations will do

When the revelers have hearts that still throb.

Luckily there's a place we can use in lieu,

A house in Washougal just right for the job!

     And it has the cleverest of names,

     The Buffalo Ranch... Throne of Games!


On Ginsberg's "Howl"

October 13th

Once, I possessed an open mind

Which I assure you was my own

I used it to read Ginsberg's "Howl".

Well, I don't wish to be unkind

But those words seemed randomly sown

My first reaction was a scowl.

So I tried a second reading.

His words looked clipped and pasted,

Mashed to the page with cruel force.

Was he desperate? Was he bleeding,

Or perhaps just strangely wasted

By some bizarre urban remorse?

Was there a narrative to track,

Or should I have bothered to try?

Words like photos pinned up on a board

And in between all is black.

Could I, from this, some deep meaning pry?

Was there something I ignored?

I thought it some chaotic list

From a generation not so great

Of a world full of flaws.

His knowledge of words can't be dismissed

And it's not a poem I hate

For the bleak picture that it draws.

     But frankly, the Howell to be well versed in

     Is the rich one they call... Thurston.

Harvest

October 7th

Set not too quickly oh dangling moon

For we need effect of your soothing beams.

Treat the raging apes to some subtle tune

That lulls them into tranquilizing dreams.

With backlit nimbus set care adrift

To be marooned upon some distant shore

Or lodge it tightly in some comet's rift

That it might not be found...forevermore.

Gild with ease the spheres where music plays.

Such overtures are all too lacking

At our clumsy Earthbound soirees

Where good taste has, of late, been slacking.

     Oh host that ennead, before you sink,

     Of every muse that makes mankind think...

     Far beyond this place of rude distraction

     To ponder some Hesperidean satisfaction.

     Struck thus and with cares neatly dispatched

     A mind may, at last, find peace securely latched.

 

The Midnight Ride of The Sonneteer!

September 30th

Racing his sonnet cycle through the night

The witch hour poet rode with demon speed.

The world of verse was a scene of blight

And of his mighty wit there was great need!

His bardocucullus, though tightly snapped,

Caught the evening air dramatically

And as it's endings fearfully flapped

The rest behaved ...Micro climatically!

Core heat retained he sped from rhyme to rhyme

And deftly dodged yet another cliche

to menace the literary paradigm

That says all poets must be blasé!

     Yes, vehicles of genius need steering

     For superior midnight sonneteering!

On sonneteering

September 21st

Perhaps it's a protected position

Like laureates and supreme court judges

Or pyro technicians with ignition

And the bakers who flavor our fudges.

But mortality and time have a say

And word farers have only so much clout.

Inevitably there will come a day

When the new bard carries the old one out.

I do recognize I could use more pay

And would even take Canadian dough

In trade for poems about Thunder Bay

And the ways in which it may drain or flow.

     P.S.

     Numismatists are in a great pickle.

     No one can improve on the old beaver nickel.

The Merry Mint

There is, in August, some merry mint to see.

Oh it declares that status with it's bloom

And shares it with each and every bee

From cheerful dawn until the twilight gloom.

From bloom to bloom the bee must land and flee,

More cargo must be taken to the hive.

They cannot fail her royal majesty

in the mission that keeps them all alive.

But, diligent speck, where's your domicile?

How far do you fly in this wretched heat,

Mere meters or an arduous mile

Before you make your final flight complete?

     Your procedure seems dreadful, plucky little bee,

     That merry mint you pluck supports the bourgeoisie. 

Nocturnal Mortality

August ?


The calendars ruthless march takes a toll

And each year there's less vinegar to piss.

Yet maturity may prove sweetly droll

And that I will accept in lieu of bliss.

That major muscle group bombast of youth,

Wherein the vinegar was the fuel,

Had me so embarrassingly uncouth

You'd have been better off with a mule.

Now, sometimes, towards the end of a day

That inelegant vigor seems misplaced.

Time is no captain's order to belay

And so what I have left I must not waste.

     Therefore of slumber a sonneteer must care

     Happily, it must be midnight somewhere.

Dog Days

Now Helios, scourge of the blanched and bald,

Descends from his searing annual peak

Much less likely to brutally scald

Some pitifully hatless, hairless freak.

The dog day beams of the harsh solar disk

Should've flocked whitey to a haberdasher

To better fend off  radiative risk

From a heartless stellar  atom smasher.

Yet still they bare their high albedo pates,

As if those dainty scalps were made of tile,

And chance poor dermatological fates

instead of deflecting rays with style.

     Think they a hide as thick as a donkeys?

     Nay! Not the foolish mortals men call honkies!

Terrestrial Rotation

August 5th


Apollo's furnace daily does it's worst

And wildfires turn the sunsets red.

It seems like all of the Earth has been cursed

And out of doors is just no place to tread.

Even the night offers little reprieve

From nature's sentence of oppressive heat.

I now believe what live lobsters percieve

Or any other kind of boiled meat.

Luckily, poets work around the clock

To produce something cool for the ages,

And, I find with this planet I can block

All sorts of distracting solar rages.

     Yes, when daytime air reeks of sylvan death

     Bright sonneteers favor a midnight breath.


Satan's Toilet

July 21st


Yes, civilization is on the ropes.

Chivalry has taken one on the chin.

And as for all the pierced and tattooed dopes

I just don't know where the deuce to begin.

It's all too much like the Huns at the gate

And the worst of them all is president.

About that I know it's cliché to prate

But that house needs a new resident.

No one really wants things to be crude.

Texans don't even want oil that way.

And so from refineries they extrude

A substance for the devil's own bidet.

     Well refined or not some things are just bad

     Like tweeting to much that something is sad.




The Phantom Ossature

July 6th


Smelting verbal ore into cool verse

Is a delightful way to pass the time

Since my unruly mind I now coerce

To snare stray thoughts upon a strand of rhyme.

Only thusly may madness be tamed

Or forged into rarefied coherence

Rather than be lost in aether unnamed

Like Frisbees over oblivions fence.

Oh how that ominous border offends!

How dare it threaten my fragile story!

I'd have entropy itself make amends

For all it has done to mortal glory!

So I scratch away on parchment or wall

To boldly state that with mirth I will dwell

And although one span of life is too small

I will find merriment in some ink...well.

Yes, I'll jot thoughts down and jot them nicely

Then get them printed so they will linger,

Then do it again twicely or thricely

And in this way show eternity...my finger!




Cheeky Monkeys

June 27th


Turning cheeks and praising meeks start our weeks

Then it's back to boss hard ass on Monday.

Monkeys need more than lip service techniques

If they're to get along when they play.

Sunday morning peace takes it's toll I guess.

Apes into angels is too much to ask.

Evolution is too lengthy a mess,

There must be some way to speed up the task.

Let us create a robot courtier

That might demonstrate how to dine and dance

And to behave graciously sportier

Whenever sick folks shit in their pants.

     Let us make robots of special talent

     To temper our goofus with gallant.



The Frenchies Seek Him Everywhere

June 22nd


Modern conversation can be a fright

With All those pistols on rustic hips.

The savages are ready for a fight

If you're reckless with the use of your lips.

Barbarous dolts might think I'm perversed

Should I savor some silver tongued love.

Yet,  glad fancy must be warded and nursed,

I fear poltroonery gave it a shove.

Then the internet beat it down more

And told it to get a haircut and job.

But, some seek fancy as never before,

Chafed by terse snob or rude slob...

     They seek it there, they seek it here...

     and expect it from a midnight sonneteer. 

All for one and one for all

June 21st

France too once suffered a cockalorum.

Then, as now, the spoiled folks always felt

That the thing to do was to deplore'im

Since he, like farts rudely dealt, had smelt.

The spoiled, rife with their own sort of rank,

Had lost all of their ancient street cred

And that is why it is they we must thank

For the national leader good people dread.

Now no one knows what's false and what's true

And mercy is a merit to be mocked.

Valid scrutiny gets beaten askew

Until Justice itself gets defrocked.

     The peeps are vulgar. They stew in base fear.

     The antidote is... The Midnight Sonneteer!

The Call of The Wild

The quarter moon greets this first night of June

And in between some screens of breeze-borne cloud

It weakly teases out a nearby croon

That would make the most fervent canine proud.

Oh call to the pack mighty neighbor hound!

Surrender to that lunar seduction

With your finest lycanthropian sound

And never spoil it with reduction!

Curse not yourself with thoughts of tranquil sleep

For the villagers must be made aware

That tides during a quarter moon are neap

Or... of human sleep a dog just doesn't care!

     I cannot think why else the brute must bay

     But clearly the owners think it's okay.

Happy Birthday to #9

April 18th


I do not know, as yet, if you have heard

About the poet who rules the night

With chiseled stanzas of well chosen word

Like the sort that might give werewolves delight.

He champions the old gothic whimsy

Like Edgar Allan Poe or some old ghost

Whose haunting voice is not weak or flimsy

Like some daytime T.V. talk show host.

Oh the time has come for all to witness

The genius of my nocturnal thought

And glorious linguistic fitness

The kind, you know, that just can't be bought.

     But hold! The bells have struck! Your day is here!

     Happy Birthday from...The Midnight Sonneteer!