Another sonnet

For the past few weeks, I've been really into sonnet form - both reading and writing. I'll post some of my favorites soon, but here's one that I wrote recently:

**********

Streets

--------

I walked an unlit street that had no fences

but carefully stayed inside the concrete curb.

Although the silence never was disturbed,

it seemed unsafe to lower one's defenses.

And, having none for me to beg or borrow,

the stars each kept their light to just themselves.

The bells by the town square were chiming twelve;

I chose to tactfully contain my sorrows.

I asked my brother, and we changed our route.

The wind caught, and tossed, and lost a feather

wild and free, into that vapid darkness;

ominous, virulent, the night now starless:

we unraveled our thoughts together

cloistered on a balcony, looking out.

Also, watch this.

"Our Neighbor, Don"

I know I just posted a poem, but here's a sonnet that I wrote fairly recently.

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Our Neighbor, Don
------------------------
Our Neighbor, Don, could talk about the earth
as if the only problem was the weather,
and though he scarcely sends two thoughts together
on their way to subtle, aged truths,
Our Neighbor, Don, could talk about the worth
of simple things, as if there's nothing better
than sitting out on porches, just together,
forgetting - or not knowing - things uncouth.
I hoped I would not see him when I found
a certain word upon the wall we shared.
Some prophet scrawled his piece, and unprepared,
I tried to hide the things that he unwound:
Apathy and malice, wanton pride,
but mostly that these, too, were mine to hide.

Hello, internets - musings and poetry

So here we are. It has been about a year since the release of The Turing Test and this website has played almost no part whatsoever in aiding that along - anyone who has read the book will find that simple fact funny on multiple levels. Or, so I hope.

I find myself scratching my head, half-amused. What does one write in a blog of this sort? It seemed like such a forward thinking thing to do at the time that I made it. The book is out. Purchase a copy. Any questions?

Since finishing The Turing Test, my focus as a writer has shifted towards much shorter works, primarily poetry. So then, the question stands as follows: as a writer continues to write in such a manner, how does he move forward as an artist while giving due credence to his more robust past work? 

I'll be honest, and hopefully this comes as no surprise: I'm awful with computers. I don't like them, despite their obvious utility. One of my goals in life is to forget how to use them altogether. If, on my deathbed, I can legitimately say that I have learned to live in the 21st century without constantly consulting the glowing screen and tap-tap-tap of the keyboard for every little thing, then some remnant of primal humanity in me will have won out over the times, and I'll know that I've done something right. That kind of environment - the sting of fluorescent lighting while hooked up to some sort of life-support apparatus - should be reserved for those who are actually dying, rather than those who sit idly by letting life slip away from them. But then, maybe there's little difference. (The Onion posted an interesting story about that very topic, as a matter of fact.) However, and yes I realize the irony of it, I like the way this site looks. I think I'll keep it for now.

By the way, I still don't own a smart phone, and I use road maps on all my road trips. But, I digress.

For the time being at least, I intend to use this page as a platform for some of my poetry. If you like what you read, please consider supporting my work by purchasing a copy of The Turing Test.

The following is a poem about Emily Dickinson, one of my all-time favorite poets.

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Emily

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Eternity is always now (time

is just the future:

the top of Dad's bookshelf,

a thousand weathered silver-

trimmed pages we'll never read -

or maybe someday) do you see it?

It's hard to reach.

I know a thousand amazing graces

at the top of (anyone can sing

them) notes laced in silver,

echoing backward to before the

setting sun Death

hides behind,

growing mushrooms.

She prays naked,

locked away,

dressed in white

before God and Death.