Thursday Sonnets
Domestic Poems...
Dear Reader,
These poems come from the everyday corners of my life—pens on the desk, a cup of tea handed to me when I’m sick, a child refusing sleep. Nothing dramatic. Just the small, familiar moments that quietly shape a home. I write them because this is where most of life actually happens, and paying attention to it feels worthwhile.
When I call these pieces “sonnets,” I mean that they follow the bones of the form: fourteen lines, a sense of movement, and a turn—some shift in thought or feeling that arrives near the end. I’m not following traditional rhyme or meter. Instead, I’m working with the sonnet’s basic idea: focus the moment, apply a little pressure, and see what changes.
Enjoy!
-RD
Thursday Sonnets
I.
A Pilot G-2 leaves thin
delicate lines. No effort.
Not like Bics, where you
press and maim. Cut and scratch.
Your paper POW begging
for relief—your poetry be damned.
Of course, there’s better pens
but better ain’t me.
The poetry I write,
the kind you scribble
on bits and scraps.
Keats can keep his ink and quill.
I’ll pen my lines just fine
with this G-2 pen.
II.
I’ve never been one for tea,
save for when I’m sick
and stubborn as a mule,
settle for a cup:
my wife’s herbal blend
(the one with the bear
sitting in his chair).
“Drink,” she says,
the rumble of demand
shaking the room,
and when I do,
she sits back and smiles—
what is love but this,
a cup of chamomile.
III.
I can see you, waltzing across your crib,
bottle in hand like a tired, old drunk,
fighting the sleep you know you need—
like your father you’re restless and don’t know how to dream.
There’ll be plenty time for wild nights
(you’ll spend your twenties breaking dawn).
Come thirty, you’ll regret those nights ill spent.
By forty you’ll forget, tired nights and all.
I don’t know how to tell you.
I just wish you’d go to sleep.
Your tired eyes say everything
but still you linger on.
Don’t forget your dreams.
They vanish with the dawn.