Proust kept a log of his  untidy mind
inviting readers in to sink, or swim
some find their thoughts are much of the same kind
some feel it's all particular to him
great literature ought to resonate
but still meets a diversity of taste
those hawthorn blossoms of his endless prate
some readers find a shapeless verbose waste
a shorter form fits my attention span
of seventy iambs in rhyming verse
within a reader's mind I dare hope can
evoke a self-consistent universe
a monument to years spent pent in bed
Marcel's rich life was mostly in his head

within a sonnet's lines, a world's contained
the arbitrary form gives shape to Art
expressing, through a medium constrained
the metaphoric language of the heart
through rhyme and meter building up effects
that resonate within a reader's mind
like dance that intimates the joy of ***
or painting sunset's glory for the blind
the poet can't know what his words evoke
the reader's lexicon might be in Dutch
interp'retting what's written, or was spoke
the leap of faith required would seem too much
a language fraught with ambiguity
aspires to sketch what others' eyes will see

pink clouds of cherry-blossoms float within a sky of green
as if I've misinterpreted the frequencies of light
as sweet a harbinger of Spring as any I have seen
a Through the LookingGlass effect that some say can't be right
convention links one spectral band to one specific word
but other languages define a wholly diff'rent map
my expectation that you'll understand must seem absurd
between two minds, I can't presume to ever bridge the gap
yet still, I feel compelled to share this vernal scene with you
and trust your inner lexicon to correspond to mine
a vision of such loveliness I must believe is true
what can't be proved deductively must hint at the divine
a sky of green, a cloud of pink, on earth as up above
a poet's faculties deranged when seasons turn to love

the setting sun gilds wave-crests on the Bay
a regal foot-path into the far West
a fleeting vision at the close of day
of Phaeton putting his horse-team to rest
imagination treads where feet can't go
in liminal states verging on our dreams
conflating what's above with life below
what's tangible with what--at most--just seems
before us, in its glory sprawls the night
ere rosy-fingered Dawn lights up the East
where touch and sound must take the place of sight
until two backs conjoin to form one beast
each moment, possibilities abound
if we'd but lift our eyes above the ground

the Swedish terror fiction spewed by Fox
confirmed Trump's expectation of the place
unchallenged, 'cause it fit  his  mental box
about how civic virtue tracks with race
the echo chamber in between Trump's ears
will resonate if struck by the right note
strange orange champion of the  White men's fears
at least that class that register, and vote
American democracy's decline
won't be reversed if not by a free press
but Breitbart's blaring out the Party line
an eager partner in the fascist mess
while Bannon slanders Muslims, Gays, and Jews
Trump face-plants in his own mire of fake-news

I dreamed that you could understand the code that I'd devised
devoid of ambiguity as plain as broad daylight
and anyone who heard or read could look out through my eyes
a sweet, seductive fantasy that helped me sleep at night
I rushed to put it down in ink the moment I awoke
but trains of baggage came along with every word I chose
the clarity was the mirage, and all I clutched was smoke
that through my fingers oozed away and to the stars arose
Retreat!Retrench! at least in math, we share communion pure
that isn't just conventional, transparent to us all
but Gödel interjects to say I must not be so sure
an edifice on such a base in time may also fall
self-organized dream-words conform to heptametric verse
so somewhere, entropy must grow within my universe

I dreamed that you could understand the code that I'd devised
devoid of ambiguity as plain as broad daylight
and anyone who heard or read could look out through my eyes
a sweet, seductive fantasy that helped me sleep at night
I rushed to put it down in ink the moment I awoke
but trains of baggage came along with every word I chose
the clarity was the mirage, and all I clutched was smoke
that through my fingers oozed away and to the stars arose
Retreat!Retrench! at least in math, we share communion pure
that isn't just conventional, transparent to us all
but Gödel interjects to say I must not be so sure
an edifice on such a base in time may also fall
I hammer language 'til it fits in heptametric verse
then launch it on its Viking pyre into the universe

confronted with his lies, Trump doubles down
as if the truth will bend to suit his will
and now we've handed power to this clown
to execute our laws, make war, and ****
the demagogue our Founding Fathers feared
in their minds, would rise from the toiling class
we got blindsided by something so weird
a military-schooled gold-plated ***
the 25th amendment shows a way
that Donald could be ousted by Mike Pence
the cabinet must find the spine to say
that they're convinced of his incompetence
I fear for our republic in this age
when facts are less important than brute rage

while still a teen, the Bard of Avon wed
the mother of his too-untimely child
to whom--in death--he left his less-loved bed
in memory of their days young, and wild
if with maturity they'd grown apart
inevitably, she--at least--got hurt
the poet so attuned to pluck the heart-
strings spent his time in London chasing skirt
for English poets, he still sets the mark
but whom he's wooing isn't ever clear
the sonnets idolize a lady dark
whom--second to his Muse--he holds most dear
they're all long dead, yet still his art remains
evoking timeless joys, and loves, and pains