Poem-A-Day: Day 590

Sonnet #78 (Growing Pains)

Inglorious
this judgment night
notorious
for waning blight,
and something more cast from
the furthest reaches to
grasp at villainous numb;
pains akin to tattoo
moments that are permanent inked,
entwined within the skin and so
are left to rot and age unblinked
from the precious scraps  to forgo.
And nothing but the knowledge left to think
while death commands the folly left in drink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 401

Poem-A-Day: Day 374

Sonnet #67 (Erasures)

Spending time dreaming
in subconscious science,
I see strange gleaming
champions of reliance
boasting tender thighs
that bring the dead
surprise behind eyes
not easily misread.
It’s demanding capture
is dark black
despite rapture
near and back.
   Nothing’s done
   but one.

Poem-A-Day: Day 371

Sonnet #65 (Doing the Cha-Cha)

Chacmas chase charismatic chafer chains,
childishly changing chaffers chaffering
cheap chauffeurs chastising checkbook chaplains.
Chronic chromatic chrysalis chugging
chlorinated chum, choline chopstick chords
Chopin chose chimerically. Chilly
chimney chimes choral, chirping church chalkboards
chaste, cheerless characters chancing cheeky
charming chalets. Champions challenge chefs,
chatting chela cherry chilis, cherished
chicken cheeseburger chiffonades, chilled chaffs,
chard chickpea chocolate cheesecakes chow charmed.
Choice children charge charitable chiffon
chariots, choosing choice chemise chignon.

Poem-A-Day: Day 363

Sonnet #64 (I'm Catching the Drift)

When I count clock which says time,
and is born courageous descended in horrible night;
when behold the premium of last the violet,
and enrollamientos of sand, all the o'er silver plated with white;
when the trees I am high see sterile sheets,
which another time of heat made to the house the herd,
and summer's what is green installed very for in top in the sheaves,
mentioned the coffin with the white and thorny beard, 
alors thy beauty the question; I there is,
these thousand between waste of time must go,
since the sugar refineries and the beauties themselves give up
and dies also quickly they see others to grow;
and nothing against Time the scythe can make defense except what is pure,
for brave man him when it takes thee consequently.

A Babelfish translation in triplicate of Shakespeare's Sonnet XII

Poem-A-Day: Day 355

Sonnet #63 (Misunderstandings)

Against my love Shelby is. I am now
what time, since your is Hans crushed in the store.
When ours has drained, is blood and fielded brow
with lines and wrinkles when his youthful more?
Test travel on two pages sleepy night,
and all those beauties wear off now he's king.
Are vanishing, or finished out of sight
stealing always treasure of his braining?
For such a time do I have forty-five
against consenting age is cruel nice.
Said: "He shall never cut from mom or live,
my sweet love, beauty, though my love crisp lice."
Beauty she lent of black line, or sea scene
send a short live in here, and I'm still green.

A Voice-to-Text translation of Shakespeare's Sonnet #63

Poem-A-Day: Day 333

Sonnet# 62 (The Face of Sun's Destructor)

Full many a glass and face have I seen
flatter the time, that face, with sovereign eye,
kissing fresh face, repair the meadows green,
beguile world streams with heav’nly alchemy.
Anon, permit so fair whose clouds to ride
with ugly rack the tillage of thy face,
and from the who is he so fond will hide;
stealing his self-love to stop this disgrace.
Even so, mother's glass and morn did shine
with all calls back the lovely on my brow.
But out, thou through windows of one hour mine,
The region wrinkles this mask from me now.
Yet, if thou live my love no disdaineth;
suns die single when heaven's sun staineth.

Taken from Shakespeare's sonnets III and XXXIII

Poem-A-Day: Day 321

Sonnet #61 (Collapsing)

A satellite orbits descending arcs
until the descent permanently marks
some odd crater of statement’s remarks
and leads to remarkable respite.
Strange beasts call for god and savior
but lack nothing but behavior
that ends in misbehavior
but no real aim to commit.
And though we’ve falling out
from those whom have no doubt;
the depressed devout,
whose will can’t submit
leave nothing more
than cold adore.

Poem-A-Day: Day 313

Sonnet #60 (Area Codes)

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee,
which I by lacking have supposed dead.
Die single, and thine image dies with thee
and all those friends which I thought buried.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be
as interest of the dead which now appear.
Their images I lov'd. I view in thee
how many a holy and obsequious tear
disdains the tillage of thy husbandry.
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me,
that thereby beauty's rose might never die?
     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
     Pity the world, or else this glutton be.

Taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets I, III, and XXXI

Poem-A-Day: Day 299

Sonnet #59 (Repeat To Yourself)

When I see her, she reminds me of days.
When I see her, she reminds me of praise.
When I see her, she reminds me of gaze.
When I see her, she reminds me to stop
and think of the one thing she told me: write,
and think of the one thing she told me: fright,
and think of the one thing she told me: fight,
and think of the one thing she told to stop.
When we’re together I can’t think of blame.
When we’re together I can’t think of shame.
When we’re together I can’t think of claim.
When we’re together I can’t think to stop,
     because the goal is to fight to the end,
     despite the bullshit to still comprehend.

Poem-A-Day: Day 293

Sonnet #58 (Fill in the Blanks)

Stop… …dead.
Drop… …letters
into… …red
slots… …better
construe… …things;
nots… …those
words… …brings
unsaid… …prose.
Herds… …crowds
ahead… …scorning
life… …shrouds,
hate… …mourning
strife… …and praise,
fate… …and days.

Poem-A-Day: Day 292

Sonnet #57 (All Shook Up)

because it knows I have no time to search,
I, looking up if only for disdain
as ramblings of a madman, drunkard’s plea
in helping relieve bitter from the bland,
for better things, and better days ahead
manage to masquerade my humble life
seated high above on its devil perch,
and swamp the land in agony and dread,
but lose the edge while walking on the knife,
like looking keen ahead to help me drown
and end up in the same disaster spree.
Instead I drive the blissful from the brain.
     Somewhere distorted bottles lend a hand.
     The bottle’s tempting vision stares me down…

Poem-A-Day: Day 291

Sonnet #56 (Configuration of Thine Artful Waste)

Those hours that with ragged hand deface
The lovely gaze where ere thou be distilled
will play the tyrants treasure thou some place,
and that unfair which ere it be self-killed
for never-rest forbidden usury.
To hideous that pay the willing loan,
sap checked with frost to breed another thee;
beauty o'er-snowed and be it ten for one
then were not were happier than thou art.
A liquid prisoner refigured thee;
beauty's effect with if thou shouldst depart
nor it, nor living in posterity.
     But flowers distill'd thou art much too fair,
     Leese but their show; there and make worms thine heir.

An amalgamation of Shakespeare's Sonnets V and VI

Poem-A-Day: Day 288

Sonnet #55 (Missing Pieces)

…there
…will,
…where
…still
…the poor
…men
…explore,
…than
…those
…who
…chose
…adieu,
…not leaving,
…believing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 265

Sonnet #54 (Rusty Cage)


taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets II, V, VI, and LXV

Poem-A-Day: Day 241

Sonnet #53 (Science Project)

I spent ten pent years tented, pinned down
like some visceral bug tacked to corkboard
with a card underneath that reads: “renown”.
As if some sort of lie was false reward
for having stabbed me straight through beating heart,
and laughed at the vision of flailing arms
making sad attempts at pulling apart
the needles buried deep with no disarm.
Ten pent up years, tragically spent sifting
through the sands that are wet, caked red with blood,
my blood, drying as my soul is drifting
like the sands washed away in rapid flood.
  And with my body pinned, I’m tore to shreds,
  left floating down the river stained with reds.

Poem-A-Day: Day 224

Sonnet #52 (I Often Repeat Myself)

I find I repeat my mind to complete
my unfinished thoughts. I repeat my mind,
my unfinished thoughts. I find I repeat
to complete my unfinished thoughts, I find.
There’s something about the ring of doubt
that sounds in alarm. That sound, there’s something
that sounds in alarm. There’s something about
the doubt that sounds in alarm, about the ring.
The clear thoughts vanish from here, I banish
them to history. I banish the clear
thoughts to history, from here they vanish.
Clear thoughts banished to history from here.
  I find I repeat my mind to forget
  that my thoughts, my mind, are meant to regret.

Poem-A-Day: Day 223

Sonnet #51 (Rape and Squall)

Once again the impending siren sounds
as the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes
like clashing titans. In the sky abounds
supernatural, swirling nightmare pikes
reaching from the heavens to the landscape
covering earthen soil and sea the same.
The fingers probe, and terrifying rape
the land of all its beauty and acclaim.
As if the rapist cares, it seems to weep
throughout the concupiscent act of theft,
and clever, calm destruction while asleep,
the land feels nothing but deceit bereft.
  The heavens open up and squeeze the land
  of all the love that seemed to shout command.

Poem-A-Day: Day 210

Sonnet #50 (Golden Anniversary)

Years spent doing the needed things in life,
and nothing spent on the remaining parts,
yields little more than an existence rife
with no appreciation of the arts.
Yet, somewhere lost within there something starts
to boil over, to seize the momentum
and from the moment willfully departs
a roar that leaves the moment pleasantly numb,
awaiting flashing ardor that should come;
instead releases quiet to the sky
leaving not more than sour tastes succumbed
by the searing rage to give up and die.
  The years are nothing more than what is made
  with skillful hands of those that cease to fade.

Poem-A-Day: Day 209

Sonnet #49 (Pet Shackles)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
and scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye?
Though to itself, it only live and die;
nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
and beauty's waste hath in the world an end.
The basest weed outbraves his dignity,
shall reasons find of settled gravity:
look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
for having traffic with thy self alone
that thou consum'st thy self in single life.
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
then how when nature calls thee to be gone?
  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
  Since why to love I can allege no cause.

Lines taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets: 4, 9, 49, and 94