Sonnet CCLXX

My mind is partly put at fault for arson’s crime,
although the world provides the fuel and grime.

Sequestered in a quiet room, the world’s alight:
surrounding winds destroy the silence with their games
and thoughts ignite my barren walls with tarnished flames.
My windows bring the sun in, seat him at my right,
his bars of light as gracious as a gentle dame’s.
My pencil flying, unaware, preparing, aims,
then picks the marks and sends me soaring, off to write.

Sprayed on the page, one never sees the criminal;
the Inspiration’s hidden; so’s Identity.
Perhaps the only thing you’ll see is memory,
collected here, a souvenir of short ago.

Sonnet CCIV

Like Mr. Thomas Alva Edison perhaps,
I’ll build some great and cool invention, like a stick
that reaches to the distant, tiny, stupid switch
that operates the lights. The stick would gently tap
the switch and all the lights would turn right off, like that.
I wouldn’t have to leave my comfy bed to switch
the lights, in darkness, off. I’d take my handy stick
and switch the switch. What fun I’d have with things like that!

Alas, the use for such a stick is limited
and wouldn’t market very well, despite my bid.

However, writing like a nutty madman here,
my thoughts, ideas, and such are never limited.
And many buy my thoughts, although I have no bid,
for poetry can move the public all to tears.