Cynical Sonnets

Seeing as people are quite liking these, I'll continue to add poems into the thread and update this post as contents/index.

Thanks for the interest; enjoy
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Yet Another Lazy Sonnet

I'll write that our love compares to a rose:
so delicate and fresh on a Spring day.
I'll speak of how deeply the bud conveys
our maturing emotions as it grows.

I'll add in a stanza about petals
and how the stem in the morning breeze sways
after surviving the gardener's blade
to represent our unified mettle.

I'll write myself as a hovering bee
and speak of pollination tenderly.

I'll mention a few thorns for completeness
but deftly display intended balance
by the mention of your feisty semblance
and a closing verse about your sweetness.


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Index

For Loving You
Thirty Minutes
Curtailed
Where You Can
The Bitch

Not in this thread:

Words Can Harm
Once Upon a Rainy Tuesday Morning
En Route
A Corona for Love's Dusk
Witching the Setting Sun
This Could Have Been a Love Poem
This Is NOT a sonnet
Another Year Together

Thanks zach & mags!

Zach, the sonnet is my 'goto' verse form too. Well, madrigal, sonnet, quatorzain <-- that little group of sister forms. To do a sonnet right, with all the trimmings + volta/peripety, there's nothing lazy in that. The sonnet is still a complex and highly logical verse form that demands a degree of effort from the poet; even this lazy one: lazy by theme but not by composing . It also lends itself extremely well to experimentation.

For Loving You

I can't count the moments lost for loving you
between the lies and jagged smiles we've shared
when hiding worms in our forbidden fruit;
how many bites we subsequently spewed
when pulpy rot beneath the skin was bared,
or were contently crushed beneath our boots.

Yet still, by them we are now tethered
and, dare I say it, will be forever—

an enduring love that shows 'real vigour'
while we dress with sweetness those fruits anew.
When I consider where else to gather,
a guilt-wrapped promise always keeps me true
(just like that resin re-fleshed with sugar);
I forget those moments lost for loving you.

Thirty Minutes

"She is light enough on her feet to waltz
her dark hair and piercing eyes between beds;
fair skin, lips pinched by a promised sunrise
that for tonight, is too great a request."

Thirty minutes have passed since the taxi.
Thirty minutes of the preacher's pulpit—
and endless shamed hours await her return
because they "just make good sense" together.

Forget that young boy with clueless fingers;
he's grown since then—he's a man now, knowing
where those fingers should caress, and longing
for a minute or thirty to show her.

But what about him? He can wait at home,
and count out his thirty minutes that pass
after she catches a taxi to mine—
thirty minutes of blissful ignorance

when uncounted hours await her return
because we "make better sense" together.

"A quick step to match the fluttering beat
of moments wrong yet drumming out as right."

Curtailed

Yet again I find the notion of love
floating with similar 'special' movements,
odorous in all the admiration
as the gut its butterflies flew out of—
waiting to be wrapped in paper garments
and sent to distant affectations;
forced and hackney with every new song
sung when squatting to implement,
and repeatedly curl the same thing off.
Yes, love will hit the pan like a gong,
and be flushed.

Where You Can

I knew we'd never been past-life lovers—
no foundation for first-sight paradigms;
yet somewhere in a moments stare, a bell
from across the night-club dance floor chimed
and drew me in to awkwardly hover.
With wobbly words I tried to lure you close,
but of course you'd heard all the lines before.
You presented me your palm, and spoke
rejections I've heard a hundred times or more.
Gangly arms... your friend with the red hair
winked at me—told me with her eye to know
you and I would never kiss, but before
the night was through I could at least be sure
my bed would not remain empty that night.

The Bitch

You call me up just to complain and bitch;
you say I'm numb and my life's humdrum—
you ask to pop around to scratch your itch,
and leave me naked when you are done.

It doesn't matter that I'm not OK,
nor that the distance keeps on growing
from that little bit of space you craved;
you pocket emotion, never owing.

I'm happy for you and our separate ways,
it suits you to dress them well with a grin;
we were readily broken from beginning,
never mind the stain from sour grapes...

so, you call me up just to scratch your itch
because you know I'll always be your bitch.

Thank you for reading

For You, My Dear

For you, my dear, I compose these words,
this verse within which I wish to show
how evenly from my fingers flow
rhymes that marry to a love conversed.
I will your eyes scan each stanza true
and reflect upon their every line,
that in these clean rows your heart divines
how achingly mine beats just for you.

But our breasts with bated breath alive
which take in promised futures deep
and ignore present reality
still withhold our emotions behind
what only poets can type or seed
or falsely passioned poems can mean.