love - the sonnet

i learned love at home with my family
we were good at it, and we had much fun.
Mom and Pop, Brad, Kristin, and Casey,
the tree we're from is the same one you're on.

Somehow that love turned hard; we talk no more,
but love is rugged - deeper than vain pride.
We are leaves learning where sun will hit floor,
for love, like light, moves; it cannot be tied.

I use light without permission
making life interesting but lonely.
Some want to make love into a mission
which feels the same hearing, " if he'd only .  .  . "

i love whether it comes this way or no,
because to have fun, ya' do what you know .

30 March 2014, its
more @ http://stoneartist.com 

civilization - the sonnet

A generation of fake excitement

making end days is rich irony,

unless you are buried in excrement.

it's hard to laugh in that reality.

Funny though - closer we get, farther we are;

far from being one - barely know how many - 

the flaw being this: many can't see that far,

most picking a nose, waiting for mommy .  .

And we all know that you can pick your friends

and your nose, but cannot pick your friend's nose.

At collapse we'll see how far our being bends,

where if noble, seen by the one who knows.

My guess is our cosmic hiccup, while grand,

is best seen from what we do when we stand.

jts 19 March 2014

more @ http://stoneartist.com

India - the sonnet

I made weapons to kill for Mir Ali;

though Muslim, he came from India

and dotted every "i"; crossed every "t"

his name approved my deadly media.

Now i don't want his job or the lucre

but empty my soul through hammer and chisel.

Knowing it's gone, what's left of my life,

grateful for what i find, big and little.

Little is what i need, big would be stone -

and paying much for a hovel makes no sense,

so if for drawings that kill, i must atone

i'll bring money to those carving for cents.

To have - one gives; so i'll give what i want

bringing aid for carving comrades more gaunt.

jts 10 March 2014