briefly on the recent hwa drama (I'm not a member, despite qualifying for it)

 Volunteer-run Writers orgs do more than just shoot themself in the face in public with regularity, and those missions are worth continuing, (SFWA Emergency Medical Fund, community outreach, Awards, etc.) but the thing about writers orgs is 50 years ago there was no distribution monopoly and no internet book sales and no viable self publishing and no major competition in media creativity for the written word in books. Everyone was sort of playing the same game at the same scale, and it made sense to form a kind of semi-union.

Unless any writing organization is large and powerful enough to hold Amazon in check, to break Penguin/Putnam, to command the market share of a genre’s talent pool… The good things the writing orgs do need to continue, but the organizational volunteer run structure that does them is obsolete, and full of very distracting problems over and over and over.

It’s not really clear, yet, how to reconcile the good things with the obsolescence and the distractions, for me.

Join or not. Try to reform or not. But the time I spent typing this came out of time I could spend producing new work, and it seems like not the best use of my time.

Sonnet #419

There will come a day when you hold a baby

for the last time: someone's errant crawler and a stair

too close, so pick the baby up and hold it there

and speak softly too it, the soft and lovely baby

will lean into your neck as if it knows you

and maybe the last baby does, maybe not

but it will be the last time you feel the knot

in your stomach of trying to be so gentle, coo

sweet nothings to the lost sheep of this flock

your children past the age, perhaps, grandchildren, too

and no more little ones underfoot, grabbing at socks

in the dark, wanting to be held up to see at the zoo

there will be a last one, a very last one, and your soul

will reach and feel their head and your arms full

Sonnet #418

 To the spider on my side view mirror

Whose web was made in three days rest

If I were kinder I’d have moved your nest

Before I drove upon the highway, nearer

To the winds and cosmic horror of a transit

I expect eight eyes can’t fathom, web blasted

Hard and road and mirror blurring past

Clutch into the gap between the glass and plastic

I don’t apologize for the abduction of your home

Your instinct to remain is your undoing

To curl into the place you built, to stay at all costs

If you survive the road, I don’t advise rebuilding

Accept that life is change, and when the lost

Silk dissipates, don’t sneak back, don’t rebuild in hiding

Sonnet #417

 Old men: no one will love you enough to save you

Even god, himself, reserves his salvation for

the time beyond when all needs fade, your

endless sorrows will have no hero, no true

balm in gilead awaits, just one misery stacked

upon another, as the world sees a wallet with feet

and tries to sell your legs out from under you, beat

them all back alone, if you can, because the deck's stacked

and when you're young you can be forgiven

your mistakes and made whole, and hope for new

shoes to be granted to you, maybe someone stricken

with guilt will give back what they took, the few

with a conscience might turn around and unhand you

but now that you should know better, only you can save you

Sonnet #416

 A strong man icefishing in a large house pulls up

a golden koi from the hole in the floor

his child meanders to see, a toddling poorly

bloated thing in big boots, stumbles over the top

and down, down, down, heavy red coat, thick pants

all swollen, can't swim, and down

the man quickly reaches in to grab the child

throws his clothes away reaches it's not deep

but cannot reach and tries to jump in

and the water is already solid down low

it's too late, it's already too late

the water will not let the father in

a still thing in clear water; the fish, on land, 

a golden, perfect thing, like an ornament of flesh

To trade without knowing, paid for in death

Sonnet #415

 to stand, if must, among the stacks of books

in old books, the kind that smell like something

whose smell is known to you, and feel shook

all minds among the centuries, grasping

in their passions and their villains, 

a story must be told, a poem burns 

a hole into the vellum, here, a million

pages of the texts and codices spurn

all efforts at well-read,  the weight of time

is measured in the tombs of paper

all these melting words, all these rhymes

that must find every corner, every scraper

into mindflesh make a mark, make a mark

oh, arrogant you, write, too, make a mark

Not trying to start shit but...

 I'm sort of amazed at how self-professed lovers of science fiction and fantasy on-line always seem to roll up with the same ten or twelve book recommendations, the same handful of authors.

Are they so busy being an expert on-line that they don't have time to read new books?

Why do all the on-line articles have the same few things?

I mean, I know that one is because of clickbait monetization, but still... For shame.

Get off the internet. Go to a library. Find someone you don't know and read a book by them.

Sonnet #414

The devil cannot be the devil all the time

How can anyone sustain a hate without 

a little sweetness in the kindling, without

A little cozy moment with the fire, a time

For the knife to clean before it stabs 

And twists and all the guns must oil

And wash away the hint of rust and toil

Like this is always homely, optimistic

Though the tools will hurt there is a joy

For devils in laying traps, antagonistic

Moments are precise, there must be toys

To practice with, there is a ritualistic

Pleasure in the work of anything, even evil

Do not confuse who is good with who is gleeful 

Sonnet #413

 In the morning, what drags me from my bed

Are the creatures that demand my care: the fish

In their prison awaiting the warden’s blessed dish

The dog in her eternal restless need for sky and fed

A bit of meat. The plants in all their reaching, 

I baptize daily in the heat, and check  jewels

For disease or defeat. Just me, alone, how cruel

Would I move at all? Would I care to be teaching

Anyone the mysteries of time and ruins

Hide in a single bedroom, a single kitchen, alone

Swelling in a sadness that demands pills to go on

Leave eventually if I must to miserly atone

For what use is a man granted earth as dominion 

Without the work of it, the moving of bones and stones?

Sonnet #412

 I had a dream again about the bad times

I was playing with my son in his room

Laughter, telling stories to kids at home

Is one of the great joys of life, and the slime

poured into the room and wedged me back

to the wall and hit me hard and formed a skin

to charm the kid without letting me in

I politely asked the thing to share, but the slack

of the ooze wouldn't let me through 

the screaming never stopped, so in the hall

where people could see it, the ooze formed into

the shape of a person who will lie to you all

why are we all pretending? Mute, all words stolen

i sat, waiting forever for anyone to listen

Sonnet #411

 The bear will take your heartbeat and there's nothing

you or I can do about it, not because they're bears

Huge, hulking things with claw and teeth, there's

nothing to fear from them because the city is watching

Right? We know they aren't supposed to have our hearts

We know that bears cannot be trusted not to rage

a passing blow, a scrape, a bite, and even in the age

where bears know better, they can only keep their smarts

for so long before the training breaks, so shouldn't we

take the heartbeats somewhere else? Somewhere

with no constant threat of claw and teeth, shouldn't we

take the children where there are no bears?

The rules are clear: wait for the bears to hurt them,

Before your heartbeats can be taken from them.

Sonnet #410

 To live with a bear is to live with teeth

Jaws strong enough to crush a coconut

And a smell like death where it breathes

The scratches on the walls where it

Marks possession, and curl down in 

All that furry flesh at night, I guess, and hope

It is sleepier than it is hungry, let it in

Your bed and feel the heavy arms rope

You into the warm belly. At first, it’s nice

To be comfortable and warm when night

Falls and danger lurks in the snow and ice

All right, you think, that’s all right, and all right

Okay, we can do this, just don’t shriek

Stay calm, stay cool, and don’t shriek

Sonnet #409

 There is a bear in the house with us

It goes where it will, growls and ambles

We must be quiet, and stay calm, don’t stumble

The bear will ignore us if we don’t discuss

The bear, or anything it likes: no honey

No berries, no elk, no fish, and never bother

The bear when it is busy, lest it bother

To be busy upon you. Set aside some money

And the bear will go to the store for bones

And you can find some peace, for now

Pretend everything is fine, it’s gone

And we can quickly be ourselves, sing, throw,

Remember how to dance or laugh, the phone

Rings, and it’s the bear, goodbye, we say, we love you

Sonnet #408

A village of protagonists, all on quests, assemble:

I have to explain, sometimes, to a person grown,

That when they are no longer in the room,

The people, there, continue. They don't resemble

Furniture, and do not wait in place for your behind

Since life is not meant for stillness, we get some coffee

go to work, make friends, and make our happy posses

But these protagonists assemble, seek rewards in kind

How strange to be a person in a world of heroes

To watch them being watched, being seen, building up

their little kingdoms, the genius of them rose

upon us all so suddenly, always looking outward, never up

In church, I sit in back and wonder why I must be anything

If this can't be enough, just a little life, a little time; I sing