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Tag: curtal sonnet

Spare Change: curtal sonnet

Published on May 7, 2025

When you begin to want to make a change,
you may have no idea how to start.
In fact, your mind may feel lost and confused;
your friends may think you weird or just deranged,
and you’ll keep your own counsel, if you’re smart,
to keep yourself from being too abused.
Once your decision to proceed is made,
don’t take all their derision much to heart;
they will not understand the path you choose,
and you’ll be, when at last the hurting fades,
amused.

For you to change the world, you start within;
‘though some may see the need, so few will try,
and most will laugh and see what you become
as strange and most usual, a whim.
You may not even know them, by and by,
those who when you feel different, still seem numb,
and not as close to you as they now seem.
Still, you must find the rhythm of your drum,
and seek the source inside where your own dreams
come from.

07 MAY 2025

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The Great Lies: curtal sonnet

Published on February 14, 2017

When all at once the world decides to fail,
on such and such a day, when pundits claim
to clearly see our leaders in the ooze
of mad careening chaos, and then rail,

without a single scrap or crumb of shame,
that all exclusive blame for the great ruse
lies with our high command, not you and I,
what prize can that debate’s proud winner claim?

When of our fictions we are disabused,
what does it matter which of the great lies
we choose?

14 FEB 2017

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The ears have it: a curtal sonnet

Published on May 3, 2011

From eyesight, there are half a dozen words
that represent a myriad of lies.
The surface, then, is never proof enough;

relying on appearance is absurd.
It puts us in a world of slick disguise,
transmitting second-hand its show and bluff.

There are no such illusions from the ear:
with sound, we gather in, and become wise.
Discerning what is real is never tough;
the undertone is always sharp and clear
enough.

03 MAY 2011

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Saturday’s Child: a curtal sonnet

Published on April 10, 2004

This morning, when I rose from bed, the street
was all abustle with the weekend’s chores.
Fresh coffee brewed, I filled my favorite mug
and sipping slowly, found the flavor sweet.

The cat was chasing lizards ’round the floor;
I shook my head and gave my wife a hug.
Outside, the sounds of lawn and garden tools
and stereos blended in a dull roar;

I shuffled, still half sleeping, ‘cross the rug,
whispered silent curses at these fools
and shrugged.

10 APR 2004

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Thoughts on Armed Conflict: a curtal sonnet

Published on May 23, 2003

If there exists a cause to take up arms,
while breath survives some live to find it just,
and seek to purify themselves in blood,
forsaking for the fray their fields and farms
to wage war on their brothers; for they must,
to raise themselves, throw others in the mud.
Then when their deeds of heroism fade,
and victory’s bread is devoured to crust,
when time has dried to dust the victor’s flood
of rhetoric, what’s left of the charade
is crud.

19 MAY 2003

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Being Poetic

Published on May 20, 2003

To be quoted by a thousand scholars,
used as a prop for some hopeless causes,
while earning enough to feed my old cat
bringing in those endless stipend dollars;
the rewards of my royalty clauses
helping me to grow sassy, sleek and fat,
outgrowing these cheap artistic collars –
the mind tends to boggle, as it pauses
to contemplate success so great as that.
And yet, I would rather be known as one,
who despite my many fatal flaws, is
trying to listen and join in the scat
of each new day and moment that’s begun,
than that.

20 MAY 2003

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