SESTINA SATURDAY: Looking Foreward

I could be on the cusp of major change
Or just a false alarm again. One step
Could easily decide it all. I'm brave,
But there is much to lose if I let fly
My words and deeds and wishes. Much has gone
Untried already, though. I will know soon

If what I contemplate is true. How soon
Is relative. One thing that e'er does change
Is how long moments feel before they're gone.
Some times a lifetime floods our ev'ry step;
At others days and weeks just seem to fly
Fast past us. Just the powerful and brave

Can seize them each and hold them in a brave,
Unflinching grasp, examine them ere soon
Their spines emerge. We drop them, then. A fly
Might lap the blood they draw or, for a change
We might let go in time. Each one's a step
Towards an e'er receding end that's gone

Before we realize it. I have gone
A-chasing wisps before, put on a brave,
Disguising face to mask me when I step
Into the mire I thought was golden. Soon
I'll stride again, all in the hopes I'll change
Myself and others' fates. Too late to fly

Now from this challenge. Gleefully we fly
Into the face of disapproval, gone
To madness, some say, for to seek out change
Is folly. Fortune does not love the brave
As much as the wise planner. I'd as soon
Be foolish, though. One life is mine. I step

Into an unknown world each day; each step
Could lead to death or danger. Why not fly
To where I've never been; my end is soon
In grander terms, and when I'm dead and gone
The dangers that I never dared to brave
Will still be there. Decay will be my change.

Too soon all chances lost. I'll take the step
And risk. I'm bored, crave change, am bound to fly
To somewhere new. While gone, I will be brave.
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SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which I Muse On FREE, Copyright, And Work

A weekend? Not for me; I go to work
As though it were a weekday. I'm not free
As others are. This obligation's mine:
To be here when I'm needed. It's their right,
Those who do pay my wages so to choose.
I sell my time, exchange it for my pay.

But what I do, the toil for which they pay
Is not what I regard as my life's work.
My livelihood is separate; I choose
To keep my purpose clear and my mind free
Pursuing what I love, as is my right,
But never treating my soul as a mine.

While others' paths are diff'rent, quite, from mine:
They trade direct their musings for their pay,
I do not find, for me, that this is right.
My job allows me to pursue my work
As I see fit, and thus I write care-free,
When, what and how thus just for me to choose.

And there is this, too, in just how I choose
To publish and to share this work of mine:
You, reader, see this poetry for free.
I don't depend on willingness to pay
And make a gift of my improving work
Which you accept, or don't, as is your right.

In honesty, the thought of copyright
On this is really not something I choose
Or else I would not blog; I'd hoard my work
Until I found a way to profit. Mine!
I'd cry, you cannot read until you pay!
And this diminishes what should be free.

We once believed that all mankind was free,
And born that way, each endowed with his rights.
Now more and more it seems we're asked to pay
In various coins, surrenders. Do we choose
This actively? I think not. Friends of mine,
You let things slide 'cause stopping them is work.

I gladly pay for good stuff that was free,
In gratitude for work that's been done right.
But still insist the right to choose is mine.

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which It Happens Again

(Digital painting by Jose Anibal Gonzales)

Two fragile, slender twins entered my dream
Again last night, ghosts from another time
Or universe, determined so to haunt
Me through this period. It's passing strange,
That nephews I don't have perturb my sleep
And all my waking hours with the sound

Of plaintive cries. Their fear's a painful sound,
They're stalked by death, these two, within my dream,
A death that is their heritage. To sleep
Is to commune with this pair across time
And wonder what they need from me. Their strange,
Uncanny claim on me's an endless haunt.

Meanwhile, conjured a friend of mine a haunt,
That comes among us without sight or sound,
A program or a virus that eats time,
Attacking clocks and spreading, like a strange
Intelligence, man-made, whose only dream
Is robbing from us hours in which we sleep

Or work, but I suspect it's really sleep
That we would lose by losing. That would haunt
Us all, forced to be conscious all the time
And doubting our reality, each sound,
Each thought resembling something from a dream,
Experience, each one, beyond just strange...

What are these tales for? What could be the strange
Intent of these blond boys, this program? Sleep
Brings questions but no answers as each dream
Spins and careens; we go from haunt to haunt
Of memory and unknown worlds of sound
And sight, familiar and yet not, each time.

Awake, too, in my bed, I watch the time
When Morpheus avoids me, when my strange
Immersions cough me up and ev'ry sound
Is alien, each shadow lack of sleep
Will magnify, another curious haunt.
Exploding head's as weird as any dream.

I love to dream, and do it all the time,
And welcome, yes, the haunt and all the strange
Ideas, but wish my sleep could be more sound.

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which I Try To Answer @IsoBan's Question

So far as we know well, we've just one life
Apiece, and while there's room for lots of change,
And impetus for more out in the stars,
We're somewhat governed, still, by what our past
Has made of us. That's not to say a plan
Cannot be radical; just takes resolve.

Excited as I am by your resolve
(It's something I have shared), I think your life
May have a shape unlike that which you plan
In thinking once again of school. A change
Is good but not for its own sake. Your past
Mayhap has shown your own path to the stars.

We want to take our people to the stars
In one form or another. We resolve
A future for our species, though its past
Persuades some it's unworthy. Still, for life
As Earth has made it to go on and change
Beyond the Sun's lifespan, we need a plan.

As Constellation was quite a flawed plan,
But was the one we had beneath these stars,
And hasn't been replaced so much by change
As for some place-held promises, resolve
To keep to NASA's mission's threatened. Life
Demands that we who want more, shed the past.

But much of who we are comes from that past,
Our talents and our strengths -- surely our plan
Must needs incorporate these; one's whole life
Informs one's mission, whether to the stars
Or to a city park as ash. Resolve
With me to stay true to this through this change.

Is what you do now not of value? Change
Perhaps its focus, but respect your past,
What you have done and longed for. Your resolve
Will stay strong if you honor that. I plan
As you do, too, to redirect; the stars
Call to us with a strength beyond mere life.

But know as life calls on you now to change
And chase the stars directly, that your past,
Your friends, support your plan and your resolve.

Sestinator's note: To hear the other end of this conversation, check out this AudioBoo of my friend Chris Butler's (aka @IsoBan).

SESTINA SATURDAY: On Matthew B. Crawford's SHOP CLASS AS SOUL CRAFT

I've finished, just right now, a book on work,
But more than that, in every respect.
It's Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soul Craft,
One that has made me ponder how a trade
Can really differ from a job. I care
To make clear this distinction. What result

Will come of this? I hope it will result
In helping you, my readers, think of work
In new ways, and to contemplate the care
It takes to fix and build things, and respect
The shrewd and thoughtful men who chose a trade
Like fixing motors and make it a craft.

What really, though, makes of a job a craft?
The way it does engage one? The result
That something functions well? Who'd trade
That proof of effort for just busy work
And social nebulosity? Respect
Is given wrongly to those who don't care.

What's college for, if not to learn to care
About things quite beyond oneself? The craft
Of learning, though, is lost in this respect:
Mere training for a cubicle results
When students go to school, an eye on work
That better pays than mere ungenteel trade.

But find a man who truly knows his trade,
His engines and his wires and parts, whose care
Is given to what truly makes things work,
And you might find more wisdom in that craft
Than shown by office stooges, real result
Subsumed in process and unreal respect.

Divided souls who work but don't respect
Or realize real things would often trade
For jobs that have some tangible result,
Says Crawford; might again begin to care
About just why they're here, and thus to craft
Anew their souls while eyes and hands do work.

But it's not just about work and respect:
While craftsmanship in trade is fine itself,
One taught to care is his own good result.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Insomnia And Her Aftermath

I wake up in the night; the urge to write
Implacable, that or the urge to draw.
And at their bidding I answer the call,
As ever I'm an abject slave to hope
That I'll produce something to match the thought
I had on waking, and not what I fear.

Futility and poor work, these I fear,
Twin demons sit my shoulders as I write
And torment me, disturb my ev'ry thought.
To banish them I grab a pencil, draw
An insect or a friend, all in the hope
That I will placate that creative call.

Sometimes, though, what I want to do is call
Out to someone I'm thinking of. I fear
Disturbing him or her; this trumps my hope
That I am in those thoughts as well. I write
Long letters that I never send to draw
Myself from my paralysis of thought.

My life is nothing like what I once thought
It would be at this age. I would not call
Me old, though it is true that I do draw
Near to the middle-age. I do not fear
What it will bring, that stage. I bow and write
Like always, still a-chase after my hope.

That I can do this still renews my hope
That something yet may come of all I've thought,
That one day something that I yet may write
Will place at last that longed-for, unknown call
For peace and calm to quiet all my fear
Before it all must end and I withdraw.

So by the lamplight, late, I sit and draw,
My totem creatures, in each line a hope
And in each empty space a kind of fear --
Of what? I dare not entertain the thought
Through darkest watches. One day it will call
And I will answer, though. Till then, I write.

When sleep eludes me, then I write and draw.
My heart still makes the call to what I hope
Will justify my thought or prove my fear.

SESTINA SATURDAY: A Sketchy Offering

Sing gaudeamus; notice them and watch
Their movements and their natures when they're still.
There's much they can reveal; and careful eyes
May linger long on details. Just those wings
May fascinate with their venation, form
And color, all together in one line.

A kind of prayer it is, within my line,
Observing insects is. I keep a watch
For them where'er I go and form
A judgment of a place based on what still
Is there, take my delight in what takes wing
Around me, an intruder in their eyes.

Minute and captivating, how my eyes
Are strained to take in each and ev'ry line
Of these small aliens among us. Wing
And tarsa, spiracle, cerci - just watch
Each tiny miracle emerge, and still
There's more to see within this strange life form.

My love for them takes on, now, this new form:
I sketch one ev'ry day. Before my eyes
My pencil conjures them, though I am still
A duffer at this art. Each shaky line
That firms up is an offering. I watch
This happen e'en as all my thoughts take wing.

That entropy increases, says this wing
Beneath my gaze, must be a lie. This form
So intricate and tiny; the innards of a watch
Are not more orderly. These compound eyes
Assembled of mere proteins, all in line
Embody order. Hush now, and hold still.

As yet I still must work from just a still,
Unchanging photograph. Gone are the wings,
Just eggs and nymphs sleep underground. Each line
I make is secondhand, but soon each form
Will be there right before my own two eyes
In nature; all I'll have to do is watch.

Till then I must keep watch through the long, still
And wintry chill. My eyes long for those wings.
For now I am content to form these lines.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Ass On Cushion

To write sestinas, first I have to sit
And ponder on a topic. As I think
I take strange journeys deep within my mind
And memories, until at last I stop.
Ideas are tricky to pluck from the dark,
But till I do I really have no peace.

This one is all about my search for peace.
Twice daily I take time out and I sit -
Ere sunrise, a quick shower in the dark,
While eve'nings, it's my living room, I think
That is best for my effort to just stop
And tame the monkeys rambling in my mind.

For many years, I've given little mind
To anything that you'd call inner peace.
Too much to do; the chore list doesn't stop
Because I'd like to take the chance to sit
Without having to talk or write or think.
Lights out? I'd still be toiling in the dark.

But now I'm stumbling blindly in the dark
Most of the time, just trying to calm my mind.
Just for a little while, just not to think
About what's pressing me, a bit of peace
Is all I want. Still mostly when I sit,
My ass on cushion, I can't seem to stop.

But one day soon, I know that I will stop,
That I will find there waiting in the dark
Some things I need. Until then I still will sit,
And treat with patience all that plagues my mind.
(I'm sure among them is a thought of peace
That's way off base). That's what I hope and think.

I've spent a lifetime learning how to think,
'Twill take a long time, too, to learn to stop
My dwelling on the things that threaten peace
And quiet. But it's quite good to go dark
For its own sake meanwhile, and I don't mind
A little space and time to simply sit.

This poem was my chance to sit and think
About how much my mind just needs to stop
And let the dark sink in and bring some peace.

SESTINA SATURDAY: A Superwoman's Farewell

Sestinator's note: I wrote this to enter Hilobrow's flash fiction contest, thinking surely I could squeeze a sestina down to 250 words. I was wrong, wrong, wrong, but couldn't just forget about the thing, so here it is: flash fiction in sestina form on a troubled golden-age-style Superwoman.

A teenager, I first learned that I might
Be more than merely human. How my mind
Did roil with thoughts of power! Then, the weight,
Responsibility was nil. I will
Tell you now, though, of all the cost, the loss
That came with power. Listen, for all love!

My first thought was "I can compel the love
Of Darryl Green!" I wished with all my might,
And he was mine forever. At a loss
I am sometimes - he dogs me still. I mind
This very much, and think I always will.
He's on my conscience daily, a dead weight.

My powers grew. I could lift any weight,
Could bring back from the dead whate'er my love
Could not abide to be without. My will
Was law to all who heard me speak. My might
Could overpower any, and my mind
Retain all knowledge without e'er a loss.

As I outlived them all, each single loss
Piled on my heart with ever greater weight.
I did my best to put them from my mind;
The planet's needs came first, and soon my love
Was like a distant goddess's. You might
Find this a cruelty. I'm sure you will.

I tired of all the strife and with my will
Alone I built a fortress, far from loss
And those who would contend with all their might
With law and order's forces, throw their weight
Around in quest for power. I still love
Humanity in abstract, out of mind.

Now as I beam this story to your mind,
O feeble scribe, let this be my last will
And testament. I cannot die for love
Nor money, but I'll soon pack up my loss
And migrate to some other world, where weight
And mere survival challenges my might.

Plead as you might, you cannot change my mind.
The weight of years you must bear, if you will
All on your own. Please bear this loss with love.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Performing Art

"The Smoking Chap" - speed painting by Chris Butler, aka Isoban

I watch it all begin with just a line,

Then more, from which will soon emerge a shape.

A face appears! Then as he adds some shade

And fine detail, there bubbles up a word,

Perhaps a name: The Smoking Chap! What verse

Can I create to catch this painting's tone?

An ugly face, say all, which sets the tone

As this chap comes to life. With ev'ry line

More tufts of hair and wrinkles show (in verse:

The flow of time is speeded on). My shade

Is there to follow Chris's hand; the word

I want is "telepresence." More takes shape.

O that a world like ours now holds its shape,

So real, though so much of it has the tone

Of fantasy! The ether bears my word

To he who draws; he answers. A new line

Appears upon his screen and there's a shade

Of character there now to haunt my verse.

We live now in a wholly sci-fi 'verse.

Our daily world has taken on a shape

Which leaves both Verne and Wells off in the shade.

No one imagined one day that his tone

Of voice as he makes ev'ry brand-new line

Could be shared with so many, and each word.

Some still believe it started with a Word,

This world; they quote in turn each Bible verse

As though it had that power. Not my line,

Such thinking, though I watched as Chris did shape

A Fremen next by my request. In tone

It owed much to Leone's cowboy shade...

Now migraine-haunted I lie in the shade

Of my cool room; unbidden comes the word

"Sestina," all-commanding in the tone

Of this, my smoking muse, demanding verse

To celebrate his strange birth, taking shape

From Chris's hand to my uncertain line.

A line and then another, thought and shade

Bring forth a shape and then a hail of word

To form a verse whose tone is veiled in smoke.

Sestinator's note: Today's sestina was largely inspired by a most unusual experience I shared with a few friends earlier this week. The creator of the speed painting which appears above executed it live via his Ustream channel. He -- and we -- enjoyed it so much that we're going to do it all again sometime this weekend. If you would like to join us, keep an eye on Isoban's Twitter feed for the announcement and follow the link. Join our painting peanut gallery!

SESTINA SATURDAY: Mac Tonnies: The Alchemy of Time

Like my "new look"? ;-), originally uploaded by Mac Tonnies.

October started fine; dissolved in loss.
My hopes had soared but crashed down into grief.
Mac Tonnies, much adored - surprise - was gone.
In pain I shut down badly, and my friends
Were helpless to console me. In their love
I took some comfort but did not taste joy.

Mac and his blog were sources for rare joy.
I'd read them each day, always at a loss
For words. Always, there, something new to love,
Always surprises. I would say "Good grief!"
And rush to show his finds to all my friends.
I missed him right away when he was gone.

I feared my inspiration, too, had gone
For one great project that had brought us joy,
A project for which many of my friends
Were waiting eagerly. But in my loss
Each time I took it up I felt the grief
Like new, and let it swallow up my love.

Mac's quality's reflected by the love
That poured out at the news that he was gone.
I knew I suffered not alone in grief,
And started swapping stories of the joy
I had in knowing him with those whose loss
Was just as keen as mine; we became friends.

Some of these people already were friends
Of Mac's and mine; through him I'd come to love
A whole new set of people. In this loss
We pulled together, missing what was gone,
Determined though, to keep alive the joy
He'd brought us all, and to assuage our grief.

But more were new, discovered in my grief.
A bittersweet way to acquire new friends,
But nonetheless, I find in them new joy.
There will not be another Mac, but love
Wears many faces; just because one's gone
Does not mean recompense won't come for loss.

Such alchemy! A time of loss and grief
For one now gone, made bearable by friends
Both new and old; their love has brought me joy.

SESTINA SATURDAY: A Duffer's Grasp Of Chess

Sonneteer's note: just to keep on challenging myself I've gotten the crack-brained idea to attempt a sestina a week in 2010 in addition to continuing with a sonnet a day. I make no promises and have made no firm resolution. We'll just have to see!

An early menace may come from a knight.
The canny player puts a well-placed pawn
Athwart, to drive him off, perhaps a priest
May close to him diagonals. The rook
Stays home most games 'till late and lets the queen
Rampage a bit in defense of the king.

Oh, let not stray your sights, though, from the king.
Yes, gladly you may stalk him with a knight
And subterfuge. Or bully with your queen;
He'll run like a white rabbit. But a pawn,
If kept alive in numbers, with a rook
Or two can make the kill without a priest.

I've one dear friend who ill-esteems the priest,
Dislikes the zigzags, mayhap (and his king
Gets caught betimes 'twixt scissor blades); the rook
He strives to bring out soon. Meanwhile his knight
Sneaks all about. I chase it with a pawn,
Distracted, till at last it rapes my queen.

When starting out I liked to use the queen
More as a bugaboo than threat. The priest
I'd set on outer files; I'd treat a pawn
As cannon-fodder, and castle my king
With haste unseemly, poorly use the knight
To try and seize the center; and the rook?

He'd sit there, fat and ready, my poor rook
To fall before the weakest siege. My queen
I'd tend to swap with his quite soon. His knight --
I've learned to fear his knight. Many a priest
Has fallen to his sneaky ways. My king,
Oft forced to move ere I would, like a pawn.

How best to start a game? To move a pawn
Right up into the center? Free a rook,
A partially cleared file for it? The king
One leaves alone of course; his queen
Close by his side will guard him, sure. The priest?
O fianchetto, take control! The knight?

He's in the way of castling. Knight and pawn
Go forth at first, right? Then the priest and rook
Can take command. No: lose the queen, then king.