Lumpy- Headed Sonnet

lumpy

Image source: google

Lumpy- Headed Sonnet

Greetings! And what has brought you to see me, Mr. Dawson?

You see, I’ve found a small lump that has amassed mass distress

And would you say from day to day that you feel mad depressed?

A curveball, but yes, I confess feeling less than awesome.

 

Do you drink too much? Feel out-of-touch? And if so, how often?

Maybe… Yes… I guess the process has me viewing my own coffin.

Do you feel like a let-down to all who love you in life?

Is your med-degree in poetry? Why yeah, I bear that strife.

 

And how often would you say that you indulge in marijuana?

What? I’m here for my lump. Kindly address that instead.

Evading the question? But why on earth would you wanna?

 

No answer? Let’s refocus. My prognosis is something you’ll dread.

How much time do I have left? I know that I am a goner.

There is no lump, Mr. Dawson. It is all inside your head.

** *

Inspired by dVerse MTB – Neruda and the free verse sonnet, hosted by Bjorn, but not shared there, as this is not quite what he was looking for in a Petrarchan sonnet. The subject matter is inspired by actual events. When I saw Bjorn’s post, it gave me the idea to create a conversation in sonnet form. [EDITED: Bjorn suggested that I share it on his prompt anyway, so I did! I also tightened a few lines in my poem. The flow was bugging me.]

Did I just invent a new form? Surely someone has already done this. Meh. It was a good de-stressing exercise anyways.

If you’re curious about Petrarchan sonnets, head over to dVerse. Also check out some examples here.

 

Muses – Collaboration with Tre

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Muses – Collaboration with Tre

In the presence of yellow,

I bury my tears.

A great act of solitude follows shortly

After I rid myself of

A belly full of worries.

I embrace beauty.

It is the one thing sharing itself

In its most pure state and we

Have the opportunity

To swim as long and as hard

As we need to.

We usually drown, though.

 

Regrets crouch, obscuring dusk

Whispering in fitful sleeps

Quilted cotton repels them all

Invulnerable, for now

I rest

 

The average person cannot

Hold three gallons of

Water without bursting

From the inside out.

I see blue and think of Dory.

I hear her optimism in the

Face of clownfish adversity

And I wonder, “Is swimming

All we have to do?”

The pessimist in me is alive

And gearing up for the days

Of tarred and feathered.

History repeats itself.

 

There are days

Usually deceptively overcast ones

When I feel an ocean of worry

Settling upon my neck and shoulders

Days like these are when I desperately

Seek out the dividing line

Where the land melts into the sea

Briny air becomes my totem

Lifting my wings while grounding me

In the reality of nature’s bosom

Everything is as it should be and

Not as upside-down as my doubts

 

Muses come in the middle

Of the night, sweaty boxers

Covered under thick comforters.

The only thing naked are

My dreams.

 

Some flowers have prickly stems

Self-preservation against those

Who would drain their nectar and essence

Offering nothing in trade

An elegant solution

To nature’s vulgar crime

Against itself

I am made of thorns

Nourished by dried tears

In the presence of yellow

I swim on currents of light

Unbound by barbed uncertainties.

** *

I love collaborating with my talented friend Tre. Our styles mesh so well together!

You can find some her solo work here.

Tre is also an Editor and writer for This Glorious Mess on Medium. She is also Resident Writer via The Scene & Heard Journal of Artistic Expressions.

In her spare time (haha! Yeah right!) Tre contributes nearly every month to Visual Verse Anthology You can find her work here.

Sadly, Tre shut down her WordPress blog, as she needed to streamline her online presence, making room for her personal site, https://www.simplesoulsister.org/.

If I wasn’t such a fan of hers, I might be envious of Tre’s prolific work ethic!

Sunset Hunting for Two

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Photo by Gary Lopater on Unsplash

Sunset Hunting for Two

Her sky aflame, chasing sunsets

Horizon frets

We try to grasp

Her song’s last rasp

 

Her blush remains, shadows unfurl

Cirrus spit curl

Red dusk’s deplore

Billows ashore

 

Her heart exclaims, pulsing twilight

Sky night’s calcite

She blends me in

Obsidian

** *

Written for dVerse’s MTB–The Minute Poem, hosted by Frank Hubeny. Go read about it because this form is freaking bonkers! The moment I read about it, I knew I had to give it a go.

While you’re there, check out other poets’ take on this tight, tight form!

Bowling for Fireflies

bjphil

Bowling for Fireflies

Dad looked cool as hell throwing his first strike, shocking absolutely no one. I expected no different as I tried emulating his movements during my turn. I got a split and left a pin on the spare.

Then it was Lil Phil’s turn.

The lightest ball they had seemed to weigh more than his tiny ass. We watched him struggle, wind up, throw the bowling ball like a shot put, and fall flat on his ass. The ball sounded like it would go through the floor when it landed about a foot from Phil’s Pocket-Herculean toss, before creeping towards the pins at an obscenely leisurely pace.

 

spring becomes summer

sunlight stretched to horizon

I shall keep this day

 

Dad and I fell over each other laughing hysterically in spite of ourselves. After a moment, Phil started laughing too. The ball was almost halfway to the pins as we helped the little guy to his feet. Phil was grinning; always with that grin that seemed to know where mom hid the last of the cookies. Dad reassured Phil that one day he would be bigger and strong enough to handle a bowling ball instead of it handling him. The ball was nearing the end of its journey as I playfully ruffled his hair.

Then we all turned our attention to Phil’s ball as it slowly, painstakingly nudged each and every pin out of its way; an uncanny microcosm of Phil’s unhurried, determined, free-spirited personal philosophy.

My brother had thrown a strike. The heavy ball made a mockery of him, but per usual, Phil got the last laugh.

 

starlight blinks awake

they salute the setting sun

gently, fades the dusk

 

We laughed even harder at the absurd luck as we all high-fived.

I’m certain we had other moments, but I will cherish that instant forever as my favorite mental snapshot; the three Dawson men just kickin’ it in the bowling alley, smiling, laughing, and politely debating whether rap music was actually music (Phil and I were absolutely hooked, but Dad held back, thinking it was just another fad, like disco.) We genuinely enjoyed ourselves and each other in a transcendent night at the bowling alley.

A little over one and a half score later finds Lil Phil a grown man, a devoted husband, amazing father, and wise far beyond his 38 years. But in many ways, he’s still that determined little guy throwing strikes with a grin while laughing at the idiocy of fate.

 

fireflies dance with stars

I cup them with my mind’s hands

captured memories

***

big Phil

Big Phil with his son, my nephew, “Thundercat”

Happy birthday, Big Phil, my plucky little brother.