The All Seeing Eye

June 11th

Within the shadows still more questions lurk.

Just what did that infra-red sensor see?

Was it some demon of the id at work

Or a shade split from it's mortality,

Creeping in with a fresh maritime mist

Seeking revenge for ancient offences

Or longing for some prehistoric tryst

To reawaken it's long dead senses?

Mark it, THERE, by the patients bed

A vague form of certain locomotion

Shifting through death and past the optic sped

Beyond the eyeball's ocular ocean.

     Oh what could be more strange and scary

     Then the midnight fog of Old Brush Prairie? 

The Caldera

June 8th

Rude criticism, like feasting roadkill crows,

Inelegantly distributes those meats

And such old Pecksniffian horror shows

Lower still more the grace of asphalt streets,

Seemingly a surface where hot lava fell,

And how much lower can hot asphalt go

Then when it cools into Satan's shell

That forever fights Vulcan's spun rubber flow!

Now add in lots of hate slogans that stick

So that car parts can road rage as well.

For flourish, Pitch oil slicks on the trick

And you've got a perfect picture of hell.

     The horse, it was said, we could not replace

     But now the commuter wears the long face.

Overlap Beach

June 7th

Sacred and secular oceans of thought

Often overlap upon therapy's shores

And that beach, if edification is sought,

Is confirmed by modest scholarly chores.

Great concepts on that washed sand have mingled

Sourced from human brainpower most diverse,

And in their old books great thoughts were singled

Where a newer mind is free to traverse.

Now the mind is awash and not the sand

Like some ancient hydrological cousin

That spends most of his time on dry land

Reading library books by the dozen,

     And oh what a difference old books can make

     Upon dismal souls searching for daybreak.


The Evening Aesthetic

June 6th

Poetry's vessel must have a sail

For the breeze of inspiration to fill

But when that breeze becomes a full gale

You must have in place some tried and true skill.

Words, of course, must be blue ribbon choice

And not sorry slang from coked up street gangs

Or twitter account for a moron's voice

No better then an animal with fangs.

The sails are like quatrains and stanzas

There to exploit inspiration's storm

That sometimes shows up like ore in bonanzas

Which must be contained in some sort of form!

     Who knew content and form could be so much fun

     When writing without direct aid from the sun? 

The Blank Page

June 6th

Like boards, words must be measured before cut

Thereby establishing poetry's worth

As like calories condensed in a nut

And unlike the novel fluff of Russian girth

For nature tells us with it's love of fat

That flavors are best when firmly packed

And it's on this concentrated goodness that

Both poets and squirrels have always snacked.

Shells as well fall away unmeasured

As a sacrifice to the greater good

Because obtaining things truly treasured

Can't be done without the requisite wood.

     Wood for the pulp of a blank manuscript,

     Where else to put all the ink that is dript?

The Crux

June 5th

It's the poet who knows that god rhymes with fraud

And entrepreneur with the manure

Where the ambitious farmer will trod

Ensuring the lettuce will "romaine" impure.

And poets also know which euphemisms

Get used to sweeten the bombast

Like the chrisoms used in baptisms

To improve the afterlife forecast.

Early they learn on the nature of things

And what can and cannot be done.

Especially near tyrannical kings

Who get jealous when their subjects have fun.

But poets know best that all is not lost 

To garish prelates or barbaric jihad.

They know great thoughts, like Jesus, must be crossed

For a hint at what it's like to be god.

     And surely beings would be most divine

     Had they concept comparisons like mine!

     They are the crux of interesting souls

     And are how the Midnight Sonneteer rolls.

The Reaper's Tune

June 6th

It's said amazing grace has a sweet sound

All to often overwhelmed by the pipes

So it can be hard to hear it abound

Let alone cure a case of the gripes

Brought on by to much shit in the sandwich

At the poorly planned picnic of life.

Applying more bread is great if you're rich

But first cut the loaf with a cleaner knife.

Or perhaps investigate the bakers

Since it's possible they don't wash their hands

After proving to be explosive shit takers

Unconcerned with where material lands,

     Like in a bar containing fresh salad

     Turning the reaper's tune into a ballad.

The Great Escape

May 31st

May is a month of moon watcher mornings

Where patio chairs reluctantly dew

In the sacred air of owl screech scornings

Which ask "Where the deuce is my witches brew?"

Of course I cannot translate owl screech.

It was only an educated guess,

But if I could master avian speech

I'd listen for secrets they might confess

Since owls, with their night vision goggles,

Have likely witnessed the sorts of dark scenes

That would give day brains disturbing boggles

Like those provided by unsupervised teens

     Or...doomed mice turned out by tractor ploughs

     Trapped, by searchlight moonbeams through maple boughs!

The Knave's Potential

May 30th

Are the beatitudes now so undone

That we are the flipside of jihad's coin

Treating the hun to one more bombing run

Betwixt distractions of bling and loin?

Then rebuilt towers represent defeat

And not the sought for triumph of the west.

We, as well then, are dogs waiting for a treat

And not shining knights passing chivalry's test.

We are meritless wizards of technique,

An Archimedes screw going both ways,

To give alternating progress oblique

Sometimes trending up...then only belays

     Like gigantic ships upon bergs of ice an untapped ocean of nice. 

The Mystery Machine

May 26th

I glimpsed fair Luna's many augured face

And much loved her meridional glow

Which she used for improving outer space

And all the creeping nimbus well below.

How right she was to offer such a thing

For earthly clouds so gloriously crowned

Might just coax the shyest ghost to sing

Of being so... noctilucently gowned

Without looking holographically lit

Like some all to common modern spirit

That cannot seem to comprehend one bit

That ghosts need moonlight for folks to fear it.

     They know that viewers will not be afraid

     Of shades...too electronically portrayed.


May 25th

This verse, writ so you may know my midnight mind

And why it burns it's way through the dark

In search of phrases that are so refined

That of some genius you may see a spark.

A spark that might in some subtle way

Beat back the sneaking forces of despair

Until the solar disk brings forth more day

To have us bask again in beams of care.

Methinks those beams are what provide the spark

That has the midnight mind counting spheres

Which retrograde through a welkin so stark

That it's beauty will counteract the fears

     Of what mere actinic absence may make

     In the gravid hours before...daybreak!

To Chivalry!

May 21st

Now is not the time to cower and pray

In gothic caverns of Christian despair

But to pitch on in to the public fray

With a simple statement that says "I care".

I care about all the so called losers

Abandoned by the sterile logistics

Of the profiting prophets and choosers

Un-flamed by altruistic phlogistics.

I care that comfort, by high rent, is rent

And that people on the streets may suffer.

Is there no way to get what needs spent

To promote a more civilized buffer?

Must we, Spartan-like, leave the weak to the dogs

And menace each other with unsheathed blade

Like the wild and uneducated trogs

That make good people everywhere afraid?

NO.  We are the gods who rule with measure,

Not the brutish lackeys of yesteryear

That valued only trinkets and treasure

Between caving in to another fear.

So, divest yourselves of your inert couch.

Pry yourselves from your perpetual sit

And find a way to stop being a grouch

That shows the world you still give a shit.

     Give a shit about neighborhood folks

     Like the old ladies and messed up young blokes.

     Then give a fresh damn for reviving good cheer

     By raising a pint to...your Midnight Sonneteer!

The Old Familiar

May 17th

You gild the midnight breeze with your hooting

Oh most regal neighborhood owl.

There is no sound more sylvan suiting

To be had from any other fowl.

And it is unexpected in these parts

Where recent times have been so hard on trees

And all of the modern suburban arts

With sounds like yours, always disagrees.

But your tenured wisdom is secured, great bird,

You see tranquility with an elder eye.

You are kindred to my nocturnal word

Just like a lighthouse foghorn in the sky.

     A sky you share with no avian peer,

     Just a devoted...Midnight Sonneteer!

Three A.M.

May 9th

Here in Hecate's favorite hour

Terra firma shackles the solar steeds

And mighty Apollo holds no power

In the cold domain of nocturnal deeds.

Here is where the mist cloaks the drooping limbs

And the trunks from which they have stately sprung

Across the years that the calendar skims

And through the sky in which that mist has hung.

Here lunar laments of coyote song

Snatch at the drifting saturnine dank

As if to help the darkness move along

To mask every lonely canine flank.

Owls scan through last years toppled grass

And hope to see a telltale scurry

That betrays the shape of a rodents mass

Motivated by it's primordial worry

     That the night will not it's existence take

     Before Apollo's triumphant...daybreak!

Aurora's Loom

May 7th

Unconscious collectives of anxious apes

Abandon hate in the somnolent state

And behave no more as rude jackanapes

Where only dreams and snores have fates too great.

Morpheus and Nyx writhe a placid mix

So minds, of anguish, are unmired.

There's no more satisfying way to fix

A human brain that's become too tired.

They both stay up to mark those sleeping hosts

And float above each slumbered form

As if they were some chartered ghosts

Tasked to maintain the hour's darkest norm

     So that refreshed souls a new day will make

     Just beyond Aurora's looming...Daybreak!


April 11th

The mind is to memory but a host

And the skull a vaulting ballroom of thought

Wherein hauntings by it's cerebral ghost

Attempt a verbose waltz or brief foxtrot.

But a nebbish shell is doomed to plummet.

Even if the dome is skillfully braced

There's only so much we might get from it

Before passing years see it's face debased,

Yanked back into the dirt from whence it sprung.

Yet dancing shades of thought may leave a trace,

Just as clear as when church bells have rung,

Lacking only that once handsome face.

     But I trow that handsomeness transferred

     From debased face to ageless text...preferred!

Midtown Purlieu

March 21st.

"There are no small parts only small actors."

Is a phrase not to say in wrist watch shops

For there the small acts are the chief factors

For the proper fitting of time keeping props

And time better kept aids the digestion

When attempting peristalsis at noon.

Yes, staying on schedule is the question

Or your next toilet woe may be to soon!

Of course good company with time must be kept

Especially when publically dining,

But I'm sure your guests are all quite adept

At the most benevolently gay opining

     Amid all of their familial chews

     Hoping the check won't be shocking news. 

March 17th

The green in the grass was lightning bright

As the sunlight steamed the rain off the roof

And the plum tree blooms were blindingly white

Under clouds most apt for opera bouffe!

Then all went dim by a cold Celtic cloud

That seemed to state "Just hold your horses"

"It's premature for spring to be proud

When for two days more winter still enforces!"

So tonight I raise a glass to the sky

To salute the calendar's authority

And also to toast St. Patrick on high

But don't ask me which has the seniority!

     Then tonight's last toast, as my wits deaden,

     Will be well wishes for...The Family Shedden! 

March 17th

In the bawdy times of legendary gods

The Celtic folks first sampled the taste

Of a drink that met with approving nods

Brewed from things otherwise considered waste

Like the cast off grains only horses chewed

And they thought "Why should that beast be favored

When it's food with yeast might be steamed or stewed

To form fine nectars splendidly flavored?"

So they set up shop with big pots and vats

And experimented with the newborn juice

With a lot of tasting in between spats

And in quantities vast enough to sluice.

     Eventually they concocted green beer

     Always best served... with midnight sonnet cheer!

H.M.S.* Peerless

(Her Majesty's Sonneteer)*

March 14th

By boldly scanning poetic frontiers

Nocturnal bards are ever playful

For that's the way to beat trolls and sneers

Be they by the barrel or the tray full!

Sometimes it's tough to boost downtrodden moods

When avalanched by nihilistic bots

Or Cossacks with anarchist attitudes

Instead of hale and hearty English thoughts.

But the Queen's language of superlatives,

So terrific for warships and boners,

Will always trounce... party pooperlatives

And all of their lamentable owners

     Who cannot fathom the cryptic career

     Of the GRANDIOSE...Midnight Sonneteer! 

Run like the wind

March 13th

When all the gods in the heavens, films and books

Abandon all our selfish human ears

And we judge ourselves by our apish looks

Do not be shocked when greatness disappears

Deprived of their inspired psychic lust.

But I'll make do with Zephyr's pristine wind

Since the force of it is something I still trust

As a thing those forlorn gods did not rescind.

So here's an ode to those still fleet of foot

Who make the most of a glorious day.

Sometimes, just finding where a foot gets put

IS... the requisite success to make our way.

     The gods must have known this was all we needed,

     Fresh air, and a pathway unimpeded!


March 10th

Now ides march quickly past the newborn blooms

As trees respire with a more lusty flow

And scots look forward to more scotch brooms

For plants, like rockets, are now all systems go!

Now the sky gets beat by the bees and geese

And with their anxious birdbrain cousin ducks

They navigate for their flocks increase

By following the muse of magnetic flux.

Now crescent Luna surveys the morning mist

With eyes pocked by eternal desires

That she be made mortal once more and kissed

Among the sprouting brambles and briars

     That make the Earth the envy of a sky 

     Full of jealous globes of barren radii.

February 28th

Come, February, just let yourself go!

Let roaring March rekindle the Earth

With wind fortified by more solar glow.

The hemisphere anticipates...mirth!

Nimbostratus nights now start to seem weird

And I fear the next time I see blue skies

That they as well will possess a gray beard

And also give only melancholy sighs.

THAT... will not serve for the launching of kites

Or the altitude gain of heady blooms

Which will not be had on long winter nights

As we incarcerate in dimly lit rooms

     Waiting for the lion and lambs advance

     To mend cabin fever with fresh gallivants!

For the Bookplates

February 16th

A signal purpose in collecting tomes

Is to transform mere brains into a mind

Whereby rude dwellings become homes

In which great thought and virtue you will find.

And though all the marks upon their pages

Are not necessarily so divine,

It will please both I and subsequent sages

If you would gently treat each graceful spine.

If, perchance, their titles don't show it

This library belongs to an artist

And her connubial nighttime poet

Who vainly thinks his verse the smartest.

     So if we have a book that you revere

     Just ask Charlotte or... her Midnight Sonneteer!

Valentine's Day

Tonight, glamourous love will go unsmirched

Stoked by Cupid's invisible arrows

That rain like rays so cosmically unperched

That they even blast though our marrows.

Perhaps therewith Helios lends a hand

And in such fashion rekindles desire

For even mortal love will not be bland

If powered with celestial fire!

To mortal marrow from a stellar core

Methinks such love to be of a power

To be anything but a dreadful bore 

Or biohazard that's tough to scour.

     So for every flare the sun has flung

     A lover, by Cupid's darts, has been stung.


The Commons

February 6th

Trailers to the south and tract houses north

We're lucky Sifton has a park here at all

For open skies are where I sally forth

And those cannot be had at Vancouver Mall

But that good fortune ends when nature calls

While strolling in parks with no water closets.

None! No porcelain bowls with lily white stalls

Where dudes might leave urinary deposits!

Oh it's true the mall has such facilities

And a park loo would burden taxations

But I cannot bear old shopper debilities

And their relentless food court toilet laxations.

     So from excess coffee I vow to abstain

     Or more than the gray skies of Sifton will drain!  

The Grotesquery

February 3rd

Fear, I hear, is a terrible thing

And the cornerstone of a coward.

Yet to the vine of forethought it will cling

For a future lattice safely bowered.

Therewith wild nature is uniformed

And risk is rendered nugatory

So pleasures instead of dangers are normed

Which makes existence more hunky dory.

Reason MUST be fear's administrator,

As an actuarial conundrum

Is akin to a modern encore

Of reductio ad absurdum

     Which helps us forestall those grotesque extremes

     That convert republics into regimes.

Hush yourself

January 24th

Mired in perpetual outrage

The mind of convention is conceited

For rage is not the way of the sage

But just a brain, of decency, depleted.

Oh we are all very dysfunctional

But I hesitate to call it sin

When it is work just to be punctual

About when our labors begin,

And it is easy to lapse into thinking

That ours is the only duress

Or that the apocalypse is brinking

Because a dude walked by... wearing a dress.

     So, please do not speak of cultural wars

     It only confirms us as bigotry's whores.

On DisCUSSion

January 22nd

Honest fellows hate a minced oath

And when I hear one I am winced.

It smacks of truth speciously quoth

And on that note I am convinced.

But like a miner's dynamite

The detonations need some thought

Since explosions can be a fright

And overuse means overwrought.

Still, when sentences get stale

Just mix in uncommon cussing

And you will spy without fail

Some feeble egos... nonplussing.

Brand New Monarchies

January 22nd 

Of the rich the poor should be suspicious

Since we remember from old afflictions

That too much cash makes them injudicious

And prone to corruptions and addictions.

Evil hides behind tradition's shield

And unchecked influence leads to bad things

Which is why old Yankees took the field

To tell the world that... we don't need kings!

Yet now we're told to kiss the rich man's ass

And that any sort of foment is treason.

But sometimes when the boss is ungodly crass

That fomented voice... is the voice of reason!

     Yes, once, the marching deplorables were free.

     Now, "You're fired" by a spoiled debauchee. 

Hooves of Glory

January 14th

My thought today coursed with Apollo's disk

Though I strode only on an asphalt path

Since it's altitude offered lower risk

From airless space and Newtonian math.

It's best if poets remain well grounded

And surely the gods with that will agree

For mortal pride they say is unfounded

And gods must be worshipped from a bent knee. 

Yet I was given feet on which to trod

And old knees do not bend so readily

Nor will they charge like a solar god

Borne by atomic hooves beating steadily.

     Still, might not a poet with some pride dare

     When illuminated by so bold a glare?

Saint Midnight and the Dragon

January 5th

As folly goes I think mine not so bad

When channeled into an honest display.

Oh it had been by a dull aegis clad

Which was an inhibition of dismay.

But now it sparkles like some brand new plate

That treats me to a giggle and a laugh

And is now the kind of charming trait

A chap relies on for an epitaph.

Of course those lines need not be for me,

Buoyed now by invisible armor

Whose weightless cheer has set my folly free

To be it's own rust free harmless charmer

     In a universe where epitaphs laugh

     Because dreadfulness has been chopped in half.

The Elysium Limbo

January 1st. 11:48 p.m.

Now Apollo's sky by Luna is gilt

With a surplus of actinic tribute.

That's how Urania's temples are built

To please that muse of galactic repute.

Only like beams have the requisite span

For architecture of aethereal rank.

Someday mortals may be in on the plan

But we will have to think more like Max Planck!

Meanwhile, certain terrestrial apes

Will jot down their uncaged thoughts of the night

About how well the vault of heaven drapes

When the full Wolf Moon makes the night so bright

     Next to where the Dogstar and Orion plods.

     Tread they heaven, or the graveyard of the gods?

Carpe diem!

January 1st.

The newborn year scintillated my eyes

And in doing so begged that I rove the park.

Well why would I deny such a prize

After spending too much time in the dark?

Then the light my eyes refined from the scene

Spirited my carcass out the front door

With a robustly caffeinated careen

That declared all indoor places a bore!

The teasing welkin soon felt my embrace

As I gazed on Apollo's chariot.

It's fresh caress on my wintery face

made me happy enough to marry it!

     Then Apollo told this midnight sonneteer,

     "Why seize a day when you can have the whole year!"