Sonnet #1
by A Ton of Bricks
At times when in this world we find ourselves
Attached to things we know not how to use
I imagine that they were built by elves
Who even now are mending all my shoes
I look on them and then, bestill my heart
I cannot comprehend their work ethic
Because although I wish to do my part
I cannot bring myself to sew or prick
Or hammer into soles those tiny nails
And delicately then undo the knots
That seal my feet and keep them from the trails
Prevent my socks from getting damp in spots
I want to think that all these things are real
But lying to myself is wrong, I feel.
Sonnet #2
by Us
A book in hand is worth two on the shelf
Its words leap off the page like tiny sprites
And gambol in my ears and on my self
And in them all my heart of heart's delights
I hope that I shall never see the day
When things turn sour for the literati
And books are tossed on piles of fiery hay
And ashes rise as far as eyes can see
The end is near my friends I would beweep
And now ‘tis much too late for us to act
To alter the trajectory we keep
And save ourselves and our beloved tracts
We’ll lose them all to be replaced by blogs
The best minds of our generation’s dogs.
Those are some pretty atrocious sonnets. Thank God I’m not Shakespeare. But speaking of Shakespeare, and trying to get the bad poetry out of our heads, let’s look at one more poem. This one is not written by me, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to run the regular “Poetry Thursday” banner again. You know, just in case this dude ever Googles his own name and is directed to A Ton of Bricks, I want him to know that I think this is good poetry, not bad.
An Infinite Number Of Monkeys
By Ronald Koertge
After all the Shakespeare, the book
of poems they type is the saddest
in history.
But before they can finish it,
they have to wait for that Someone
who is always
looking to look away. Only then
can they strike the million
keys that spell
humiliation and grief, which are
the great subjects of Monkey
Literature
and not, as some people still
believe, the banana
and the tire.
Man, would I love to get my hands on some monkey literature. I am very interested in their lives of quiet desperation. Or in the case of those dang howler monkeys their lives of obnoxiously loud desperation.
