Sonnet #393

 If He returned back then just after

He ascended, they’d have crucified Him twice

Or thrown Him to the lions while the emperor

Pretended to watch. A little later they’d slice

His belly open slowly and wind His parts

Before they chopped His head and arms

And four horses to the ends of the earth

Or maybe burn the witch, crush Him 

With rocks until He relented His own truth

Inquisitors would rip His teeth out,

Break His legs and back upon the rack

Or chain Him to the keel and cast Him out

Or hang Him, firing squads, lethal injections, 

It’s not time, yet. We’re not ready for inspection.

Sonnet #392

 The universe is vast and lives forever

But I do not. My brief visit in this place

Will be forgotten soon, I’ll leave no trace

And when my meager work mumbles lovers

In the dark, it will not be so different from

The love of animals or kings, just variations

On the same old thing. stories build nations

And people live all their little lives inside them

The endless sky calls endless dreams to play

But every dream we have is not so lost

We can only dream what sounds like what we say

What shapes we see, what hopes we have, we’ve lost

The endless void inside that swirls, the holy sway

Of stories beyond the sound. Our flesh is always lost.

Sonnet #391

 What tools we have are shaped by human hands

And we measure whether tools are working by 

the eye — a master craftsman gazes on the bands

That demarcate all the edges and decides if or why

The measure works. How to measure birds as birds?

To track their songs and languages with their

Unbroken consciousness, their mastery of song

The way the trill warbles just so, and what shared

Memory is evoked among the trees who long

For each other underground, holding root to root

And shoving branch to branch, a way of seeing

Sky without a memory. Let us measure soot

Among the wildfires where the mothers weeping

For all their lost saplings reconsumed, remade, a seed

To build a tool that has no human hands, no human needs

Buying books is good, but…

We are predisposed as authors to ask you to buy our books for others for Xmas, but gifting others books is deciding what you think they should be doing for hours of their time and that is high risk. Gift cards to bookstores are safer. The way to be sure you get the book you want for Channikuh/Xmas is to physically ask for it specifically, or just to buy it yourself.

And as the library is also a place to get lots and lots of books at almost no cost, why not just give them your book buying money and write the librarians to purchase the books you want, and donations to libraries are awesome.

Instead of giving my books to someone else this season, donate a little to your library, and write in a request for one of my books with it.

Thanks!

Sonnet #389

People who dream of kingdoms should not

Have them. Yet, those who dream

Of kingdoms go and get them, it seems

The conundrum of kingdoms, the blot

Against all empires, and eventually 

The doom: to own the world requires

Someone who would gladly unsire

To their own vine, their own fig tree

Otherwise what comes is someone

Who thinks they would own it better

And they desire to save the kingdom

By taking it over, and they want your

Blood to mingle in the soil, their kingdom

Will be better, but by night a thief comes

Sonnet #390

 She shouted that I wasn’t listening but I was

I was just disagreeing and that’s not

The same thing she shouted I was not

Doing it right but she kept changing what was

I made a different way of doing the same thing

She screamed she couldn’t find anything 

But nothing had moved, and she wasn’t 

putting anything away she tried

To tell all my friends I was going to hurt her

But I was only asking her not to hurt me

While lying on the floor outside our child’s bedroom

Begging for a night without getting pushed

Slapped things thrown around screamed at

And they believed her 

Sonnet #388

Early to bed and early to rise

Makes the worm early to demise

Judging books by covers is exactly what

The cover is designed to do, so that

A thousand words are saved for someone better

Suited to the innards. Bite no bullets where

One is best avoiding bullets, with guns: go around!

And what’s the deal with killing birds? I found

A stone and I would never hurt a bird

I need two birds to eat two worms and heard

A lovely song upon my window open

What psychopath tries to bounce their stones?

A life well lived is not a life of hurry and production

Instead consider beauty, joy, and holy contemplation

Sonnet #387

 Go back to sleep my angry child

And when you do dip your beak

Into the holy water and fly wild

In clouds that can never be

These shadow plays will soothe you

Or at least confuse you, and pondering

The narrative will cut through you

Oh angry child, daylight break is sundering

And all lost ghosts will find their roost

Among the rafters of the houses left

When all the birds return to cut them loose

And my little bird, you are still bereft

But in these long nights the holy water comes

Wake in spurts, sweating, hearts like beating drums