Sonnet Sunday: “A Poem for You on Your 65th Birthday”

Thirteen times five—a monumental year,
Multiply that product by two and you
Get 130—Shakespeare’s best sonnet. Here
We see the beauty in numbers. It’s true
That some believe math is invented, not
Discovered, like lab diamonds juxtaposed
With those that are naturally mined. Hot
Days in a lab, in the earth, let’s suppose
It matters not the quality of stone
Where it comes from but who gives and who
Gets it. I care not the rock of my home
If her birthday’s a construct of time to
Mark how we organize our life’s sweet span
But that most was spent making me a man…

Sonnet Sunday: “A Sonnet for My Mother on This Day”

May’s second Sunday is but one day and

Yet, we gather ‘round our flower shops, our

Restaurants, one fortnight before the sand

Of pools and beaches mark the summer hour

To pay homage to the giver of life,

Earthly hub of human spring, from you springs

Forth the fruit of birth, the flow’r of right

And wrong is first known, as we grow, life sings

Through the notes of childhood, adolescence

Then finally, adulthood—the chorus

Constant refrain is, go forth life’s essence

Continue that which was begun in us

So although it’s but only one May day,

Thank you Giver, Singer, this Mother’s Day.

Sonnet Sunday: “Run More Day”

Achilles the runner, Pheidippides
the marathon’s first participant and
casualty. Wrestler’s strength, swimmer’s high seas
but the runner needs only open land
to practice the craft: breath controlled, posture
straight, arms relaxed, back kick steady, watch the
road. Sounds of birds (or iPod playlist) cure
malaise of winter’s fog. Days without a
clock get longer, legs without a lunge grow
stronger. (Though squats and lunges help to cross-
train). Run consistent, switch it up, ‘cause though
running stills, the mind and will, your thoughts ought
know that burn-out’s real. That’s true in all things–
keep your pace, peace’ll find your mind and heart strings.

Sonnet Sunday: “Broken Brackets”

The swish of hoops, the squeak of swoosh, Nikes
Reeboks, ‘Didas, Armour, run down hardwood
An’ fly through air. Tourney dreams turn dream-like
State as kids storm courts and screams and hugs could
Be like speech—understood. But games must end
And losers named. Brackets busted upsets
Reign. Seasons over, college seniors send
Résumés—twenty-two—retir’ment met
Final quatrain of the season, epics
Played with steel-rimed goals, leather hopes, but now
Games nearly done, two teams left: set picks,
Defense, plays are run. Five month poem, how
Will it end? Blow out win that’s heaven sent?
Or a buzzer beater’s shining moment?

 Bracket Flames   Villanova Piccolo Player

Coach K, Cutting Down the Nets

Sonnet Sunday: “Spring Forth From Winter”

The snow is gone, the ice dispersed, but cold—
Remains like echoed sound: no place to sled,
No snowball fights to start, nor b’hold,
Waiting on spring with its bright flowers red
Spring break is too chilly, Christmas too warm,
Our weather’s so nice but so untimely,
Dependable, yet fitting not our form
Like a well metered sonnet, yet unrhymely
Change our thought to enjoy things we possess
SoCal may feel good but lacks autumn and
Summer, fine to complain but do not obsess,
Warmth comes soon. With it—tees, shorts, and fans
Next thing you know, we’ll be wondering where
Relief from heat will come and snow so fair.

Sonnet Sunday: Daylight Wastings?

The dreams of Einstein touch us still, we play
With light and space and time. And time
The one we toy with most, but what we say
Won’t change its route, slow its speed, dim its chime.
Calendars, Swiss-made watch, Daylight savings
We give it names, we track it well, we try
To save it, no avail, we’re playing–taking
Finite sources. Infinite? Humor dry,
Our tries at slowing, jokes in th’making,
An hour here, an hour there, are not
Ours. Though fun to act like ours for taking
Art and heaven give some rest. If we stop
Our work, our heirlooms, our spirits live on
So us moving clocks is just us moving on.

#sonnetsunday #daylightsavings #daylightwastings