The Young Man’s Reply

Dear Will, these pretty sonnets that you sent
Were ordered and created all in vain;
I’m of a downcast, melancholy bent—
All thoughts of procreation I disdain.
Though some do say I’m blessed with looks and wit,
The dullest blade might bear a burnished hilt;
Within me, there’s a gloom I can’t remit,
That swamps the praise of those who prize mere gilt.
I’ll not supply another girl or boy
To brave life’s ceaseless turmoils and deceits,
To struggle in a world I don’t enjoy,
Whose fruits are shallow triumphs, deep defeats.
Let’s leave the risks and toils of screeching birth
To those more prone to nurture hope and mirth.

Peace of Mind

Though peace of mind is everyone’s desire,
With calm and cool reflection it would seem
That hope of its attainment must require
A basis of sufficient self-esteem,
And this in turn on character must rest—
On wisdom, kindness, fortitude, restraint—
So, those who view contentment as their quest,
Should try to keep their conduct free of taint.
Wherever in this lifetime you might go,
There’s just one simple precept to employ:
The honest life’s the only way we know
Of nurturing a lasting sense of joy.
At any cost, stay faithful to your virtue—
Your dignity, in that case, can’t desert you.

Maturity

She tries to live her life beyond reproof
And never act from turpitude or spite,
But angry rains still pound upon her roof
And voices still accuse her in the night.
She offers up her reasons, not contrition,
As if her good intentions could purport
To strike out self-judged failure and omission,
But still she feels she’s fallen somehow short
When, buttressing her conscience's complaints,
The triumphs and ripe fruits that might have been,
Fill out a better life her mind’s eye paints
In colors bright as day upon its screen.
She turns though, lets them fade into a haze,
And treasures her full belly and warm days.

The Dandelions

The dandelions are laughing in the grass,
But soon I’ll be along to mow them down.
I bend to ape the customs of my class,
And such displays aren’t welcome in this town.
We’ve deemed that all our lawns must look alike,
Bereft of giddy-headed yellow charms;
The place for flowering things is on a hike,
With rippling streams and wholesome, oblong farms.
To stop and stare there is a place and time,
But don’t pretend it might be here and now:
The workweek does not yield to the sublime;
The lapwing’s nest is nothing to the plough.
No, we’re resolved to hasten, strain and strive,
To squeeze on through like earthworms, not to thrive.

On the Sluggishness of Mother Nature

I have a strong suspicion, truth be told,
That tyrants had a role in days gone by,
When fearsome wolves pursued us through the cold
And gods made dreadful thunder in the sky;
In perils, hardnosed leaders were a must;
We had no time to glibly question why?
Was this command imprudent, that unjust?
Close-lurking death demanded we comply.
Submission then most likely had its place,
But now it’s just a need we long outgrew,
And those who shout in everybody’s face
Just blight and bungle everything we do:
When boorish brutes beset each institution,
How slothful seems the pace of evolution!

A Pain You Should Not Try to End

There is a pain you should not try to end,
Not even if it slices to the core,
Carves wounds that unskilled time can never mend
And remedies just seem to strengthen more.
This sorrow for misfortunes of another
Engenders all that gives us pride and hope;
Without it, what is sister? What is brother?
What keeps us from the razor, or the rope?
Some say such common anguish should be tamed,
That nobler souls transcend its worldly grasp;
But I say no, embrace it unashamed
And feel the widow’s tears, the victim’s gasp:
Don’t try to quench with water, or with wine,
The fire that lights the light that makes you shine.