Azelias are giants. Timber is King.
God has a house on every corner.
Banjos are banging. The mandolins sing.
Seems mother nature has nearly torn her

Skirt on a blackberry bush and the figs
Hang heavy out where the blueberry hedge
Finally gives way. Pecan tree grows big,
And I ain’t seen a peach grow but on the ledge

That cobbler smells great. But why let it cool?
It’ll melt ice cream like the sun melts snow
It’ll sweet you hard. It’ll make you drool.
Now don’t go saying I didn’t say so.

Low country outland, shrimp swim in the grits.
Fish stew, witches’ brew, give a taste bud fits.

Every waltz has three beats to the measure.
All Rock n Roll has four beats to the bar.
A sonnet, be it trash, be it treasure,
Has 10 syllables per line, not to star

Because it won’t set to music without
Stretching the syntax to maintain the rhyme.
The Bard was a half-decent playwrite, no doubt,
But hardly a lyricist of his time.

So what shall I do? Shift gears and formats?
Return to limericks fitting four-four?
I write the songs that fall flat as doormats,
Sing to the sky as I lie on the floor.

I wrote fifty rhymes that were set to song.
When I’ve writ fifty sonnets, I’ll move on.

All those telephones contain cameras.
Everyone can be an Ansel Adams.
Special effects make us look glamorous.
Everyone’s a star, messrs. and madams.

There’s no tech to keep bees out of bonnets.
A spellcheck, yes, but that is not the same.
Naught to translate prose into a sonnet.
Naught to render sarcasm soft and tame.

Photos fly a thousand frames a minute.
But typing, writing makes us stop and think.
Photos fly, survive if something’s in it.
Essays crawl, you miss nothing if you blink.

So watch your words. Be careful what you say.
Your careless words will give your heart away.

It looks like such a bargain, worth far more
Than its price tag implies, at least to me.
I see these sell for double in the store.
And such as this is just my cup of tea.

I think there’s just enough left on my card.
The last one nearly maxed out my account
Until I sold the one before at yard
Sale. I recovered half of the amount

I spent on the one before that, you know,
That one I thought was the be all to end
All of my cravings to sell out and go
Buy another. That one on which I spend

Every dime to cover interest payments.
The new one makes the old ones my laments.

Cats? I just don’t find them entertaining.
I guess I prefer them to rats, but barely.
That’s when I’m in my right mind, restraining
That urge to consider cats unfairly

Included as members of the village
That humans constructed with other beasts,
Who, left undomesticated, pillage
Other creatures, banquet of death, a feast.

Hiding behind her cute face and whiskers.
Pretending innocence, blood on her teeth.
Feasting on life, yet never to risk her
Own. Sword of justice remains in the sheath.

“Don’t blame her for killing. She’s just a cat.”
You see, that’s the problem. I don’t like that.

 

 

Orchids in Florida wedged in a tree.
Leave them alone. Walk away. Forget ‘em.
Once a year blooming, they live wild and free,
You do not own them after you set ‘em.

Orchids in Georgia languish in a pot,
Solemn, looking out a kitchen window.
Keeping them safe, not too cold, not too hot.
Not too much water, make sure you spend no

Emotional capital on a plant
That lives in a bubble, in a building,
Out of its element. You know it can’t
Survive on its own. No sense guilding

The lilly, nor orchid, nor knock-off rose.
In azalea land, the pet orchid grows.

You think you have it bad. Perhaps you do.
You think that you know sad, and don’t we all?
You wish that you were glad, and made brand new.
I bet it made you mad to miss that call.

You think you’ve had it rough, but I forget,
Weren’t you the one whose tough skin wouldn’t bleed?
I’m sure you’ve had enough. Your core is set
To cut through all the fluff to reach the need.

You think you see the point, but really, do you?
Your nose goes out of joint to find the truth.
There’s nothing there, it’s only rhythm voodoo
From one who’s dim of sight and long of tooth.

By line thirteen the punch line should be clear.
The joke’s on me; no point; there’s nothing here.

Good Morning, World. I don’t have much to say.
Just want to get a quick rhyme off my chest.
Ham-handed, nerves of steel and feet of clay,
And not afraid to give my second-best.

Good Morning, World. One sonnet, over easy
For breakfast. Save the sermon for my lunch.
I like my Bacon crispy, helping me see
How simple words will do me in a crunch.

Good Morning, World. Five sonnets in two days
So far, but this day isn’t over yet.
Obsessive manic poesy he plays
Off-key, and in public! But still I bet

Soon enough, he’s ending this obsession.
Later, sending ego to confession.

My friend said he would need that stuff some day.
Those bottles, blankets, buckets, belts and cars.
And buried in that stuff were things that pay
Like watches, antique dolls and old guitars.

At every opportunity he bought
More stuff that he might need another day.
I dared to say he owned more than he ought.
“Let’s skip this sale,” but he just said, “No way.”

His personality was super-sized.
His body was a bent and fragile frame.
His treasure and his junk were his demise.
The avalanche left nothing but his name.

I’d say it wasn’t true; instead I say,
To live for stuff will snuff your life away.

That was some rain! And now, it’s only steam.
But such a harvest! Trouble made it grow.
A nightmare! It was quite a fever dream.
A fear, a doubt, becomes a thing to know.

I meant no harm, but somehow, people say,
They’ve never seen another who could stir
Such anger! One who held so little sway,
But I did not imply what they infer.

The power of the shower isn’t held
In every drop of rain, but in them all.
Not even there, but in the crops they swelled.
The crowd is louder up against the wall.

Within the noise and madness, understood
Is how God, even here, works all for good.