Watching the News

Two lungs to swell in the moment
Two hands to ball up or raise
depending how I feel.
Two feet to carry me to the front lines.
Two eyes to witness interesting times.
Two ears to listen for a battle cry
or the storm that’ll carry us all to sea.
Ten fingers to count transgressions.
One heart that pumps.
It’s pumping.

Two watering eyes.
Two ears tuned to the right channel.
Two nostrils flaring like a bull.
One drummer boys heart.
Lips, open! Open up!
It’s me! Do something!
Silence and my heart
slows to a deadly march.

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A Sonnet on the First Senator

How can a senator not be a working man?
Can he work for the people to fulfill,
without working hands, that which the
farm hands demand? Oh he must be a man
of men, a man of many. Who else can he be?
No the senator is a working man.
Yet something in his tone makes me laugh.
Forgive me if he is beloved, I, an iconoclast,
should know where he is from. His father
was the son of a son of some great other son.
He has never worked in anything less than a tie,
and won’t give but the best to his foreign bride.
Oh now I’m sure he is a working man, but a different
type of work, with smoother ale and hands.

A Sonnet on a Crescent Moon

The moon, with its crescent hook dangling above us
catches my absent gaze. Yes, that is it, a hook
in an eye. A hook to pull my eyes so that I look
on open waters. We were once fisherman,
and caught big catches, with rainbow gils
and thin long whiskers. It was beautiful,
when hooks and nets were casts
and the oceans teemed with life ready
to wrestle with our god-like hooks.
All fish prey the same way and a frenzy
is a revival. Come out on the water,
and cast your nets alongside mine.
We will cook and eat and pray at noon,
and at nightfall admire a crescent moon.

A Scholar’s Sonnet

We measure our life in half empty beakers
and drain pipets of our worth into deep, awaiting
test tubes. Like Jesus, a weightless insect, oil
on water we float atop the plains of unending and uprising
seas; we are holy, disgusting, and dangerous.
It stirs below us. Whirlpools drain us to their depths.
Riptides drag us to their conclusions. And yet we float.
And yet there are those of full glasses, who drink
sea water, in hopes to go mad. Those who turn their heads
and grin at a cave-sentenced puppeteer. They do not fall next
behind Alexander in the line of students, but they are greater
than Glaucon. They elucidate life with nothing more than glowing
eyes. Look you learned man who cannot live! Erudite starver!
How noble is a noble when compared to this carver?