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[Dogslandia] Sonnet #111

Experts will say he only portrays a third
of what the party wants and needs, the racist ones
the true believers in crazy theories. How come
we have to not throw out the appeasing two-thirds
over what one third stands and negotiates and delivers?
At what percentage point of racist, sexist madness
do we call those who appease a tribe of badness?
To negotiate with madmen, racists, true believers
in the wickedness of science, in race wars
A third of them still demand segregation,
A third demand to be appeased with Christianity
as an official state religion, the meanest version
where gay kids kill themselves. What sanity
is this? If a third of the club cast such aspersions?

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #110

There's just one book, apparently, we need
The only one to read and study, about humanity

It's a good book, and I enjoy it, when I read

this book, I feel connected to some kind of infinity

But, the connection I feel is just as strong

When I stand in a forest and hear the birds

The crickets and rustling leaves, a peace song

played with the gentlest breath of cosmic words

That construct galaxies, fortify the stars, black holes,

And blow a little breeze through autumn leaves

There's other books I know where I feel the souls

All those histories and mysteries burning and free

So, there is just one book, for some of us to read

But don't pretend to me it's the only one we need

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #109

Sometimes in the woods, while walking, I picture
Life the way it was a few days back, just a few

When naked, born into the woods, one with nature

Our weak hands, weak legs, we had to make do

No schools and grocery stores, no job but fill

Whatever doesn't make us sick, we eat

Whatever we can reach and snatch we kill

And everything feels the same to us, all meat

All trees and spiny thorns out there, all struggle

in the dark to live, imagine what it took to build

a single piece of land into an orchard, learn to juggle

all the different seasons so we never starve, our guilds

preserving all we know so others will not suffer

We are specialized creatures, now, communities that buffer

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #108

Make sacrifices to the spirit, if you like
But, the body will demand a sacrifice
And claim the sacrifice, and when it strikes
It will be sudden, another day, then twice
a thing is lost, three times, all in an explosion
Getting older means watching what we think
what is our self is stripped away like an erosion
and sudden sacrifices come, big and small, we sink
Below the tides of what is truly us, what never leaves
Fight it if you wish, shout at doctors, weep and howl
There is no way to bring back the dead, the free
Will never fly home, the bones don't heal proud,
We are bent, and all our great splans are taken away
Our loved ones, our vanities, all sacrificed to stay

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #107

I planted seeds of Jujube, I kept exactly one
I grew her in a pot a while, The spiny spires rose

It demanded little care, just placement in the sun

When she became too big, I chopped down dead cenizos

She's in a desert spot, rarely watered, never fed

I merely mulch the base of her and pray for rain

Which rarely comes. By all rights she should be dead

A foreign, spindly trunk, a tough thorny palm of pain

Of beautiful yellow flowers twice a season for the bees

Of grape-sized little dumplings green, at first

Tart and sweet, when ripened into a deep mahogany

No named cultivar, just a wild seedling, worst

of all the fruits to grow, but tenacious and strong

I pluck the drying fruits for tea and sing a grateful song.

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #106

The storytellers are to blame for all
The failures in this world of pain and shame
For politicians only do the voters' calls
And justice is defined by tribal lines that name
Responsibilities of the heroic one, how heroes must
Defeat the wicked sinfulness of this trajectory
of life unto death. Fiction is a sinful trust
For conflict and sin are children of a territory
Also shared by myths and fear of death
And shame and guilt and voyeuristic gossip --
Is it any wonder there is injustice in this place
When every story's hero must embrace the tip
of misery to become a great soul, we need to face
the demons, then, to be interesting, all our stories
Must include them, all our best imagined histories

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #105

Lay the burdens down upon the grass
Where ants may pick upon them from below

And eventually the rain will unmask

The wilted pieces of the load away from stones

Bury stones of burden without memorials

Except the scrape where dirt was pulled away

Eventually the weeds will get territorial

And leave no other marker on the grave

These burdens, now, the stones of them

Will sink through soil in time to join with lime

The weight and press of all the stones, the hem

of crust at edges of the rock, the lines of time

Will merge with all the burdens buried by us all

And we will wake from up the grass, renewed, full.

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #104

I'm pro-life, but I'm serious when I say that
I want to end the death penalty, end all war

I want to embrace all refugees suffering so that

A man in a castle can be fat with power

I want to end the drilling, end strip mining

I want to recycle, preserve the wild places

Against encroachment, No more polluting

No more decaying plastics, Intelligent races

Never live in fear of the knife and hook

Even the mindmute suffer nothing industrial

And the universe is to be explored, look up! Look!

We should be spreading life to the extra-terrestrial!

I don't think the label works with choice and women

Best make a system that's pro-life, not punish one sin.

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #103

Try to imagine the very first square,
I mean the perfect one that could build
A perfect room, a set of cabinets, a chair
Who is the man who brought this out of skill
alone? To build with a hand a perfect tool
Is the beginning of building a human world
We are not the only creatures that use tools
We are the only ones who use tools to build
more tools, that we use again to build tools
And all of them began with a skilled hand
A perfect eye, a narrow piece of stone true
on each side in neat, careful clips, a man
Holding up what he imagined, thinking more
of tools, of futures, of building houses and cellars

[Dogslandia] Sonnet #102

Physical space is relative for ghosts, I fear
They do not seem to wander far from home
For they come back to haunt us every year
But if they are incorporeal, they should roam
For the planet on which we walk is spinning
And the it spins around the sun, which spins
Around the arm of the Milky Way galaxy
Which hurls away from the place we all begin
So ghosts, they are tied not to a place,
but to a relativity, a proximity to energy
The microbiotic life that carries the trace
Of the host they knew. We carry the memory
In relationship to what we touch, to what we know
Unless most ghosts are in the void, above, below