crumbled and rolled

Stalemate 04/28/2015

Filed under: poetry,sonnet — paperslightertext @ 5:18 pm
Tags: , , ,

Holly tried to teach me the rules of the game.
A cruel competition, merit-based, laced with shame,
Like chess, where you must think three steps ahead
Is your opponent the goal, the person, or the chessboard instead?

You seem to play by your own set of rules.
Every time I make a move, I end up looking a fool
Are we playing a different game altogether?
I thought this was chess, but maybe it’s checkers,

Mancala, War, Clue, Guess Who? Possibly Risk
You’ve conquered me with an iron fist
What recourse is left for my foolish heart
But to transform my failures into art?

All art aside, I realize to my chagrin:
The rules are rigged and I will never win.


Forest Fire 04/23/2014

Filed under: sonnet — paperslightertext @ 4:37 pm

Thanks for the burn.
It’s not a brand,
It’s not who I am.
The letter is a lesson learned.

My silence had a name.
I never spoke it aloud
My self wasn’t allowed
To name it- my shame.

Then the time for testimony came.
I was anointed
No fingers were pointed,
It wasn’t about blame.

Cut the thicket then set it aflame-
From fertile ashes, I became.

Inspired by this excellent TEDtalk about vulnerability by Brene Brown.


Lumpy Space Sonnet 02/05/2014

Filed under: adventure time,gender trouble,sonnet — paperslightertext @ 1:22 am

I tried to punch out these lumps
To satisfy a Nice King- I’m a chump
Smoothness wasn’t his bag
(Turns out he’s not a fag.)

Neither am I, it turns out.
This little teapot, short and stout,
Lacks the stature and the spout
It’s all news to me- I just found out

That I need a man more than a fish needs a bike
Never could get the hang of being a dyke
I’m doing dual duty, a double gay double bind,
What if lumpy fag hags are smooth on the inside?

Perhaps if I keep searching inward I’ll find
The True Meaning of Gender for all Lumpy kind.


Regarding the Bard 11/28/2013

Filed under: sonnet — paperslightertext @ 4:22 am

My mistress’ thighs are nothing like a pun,
Jokes are far more droll than jokes she’s said,
If wit be toil, why then her breasts are fun,
If desires be fires, fires burn in her head.

I have scrawled quatrains, couplets wry and tight,
But no such verse I seek upon her cheek,
And in some sonnets is there more delight
Than in the words my mistress deigns to speak.

I love to hear her muse, yet well I know
How educated men are thought profound,
I grant I never sought a scholar, no,
My mistress when she talks does not talk down.

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as bright
As any soul that’s lit by inner light.


dual sonnet 2 10/06/2013

Filed under: sloppy sonnet,sonnet — paperslightertext @ 11:33 pm

You like me despite my star sign, Leo
My tendency toward displays of inflated ego
Despite my resemblance to Michael Cera
Or my penchant for smiling at you from afar

Insinuated tidbits, a series of little hints,
Subtle signals unique as fingerprints.
All the while, a swift and silent tension
Built upon until upended by confession

Resulting in an expression of reciprocation
Followed up with an addendum of hesitation
“I think I have a crush on you too, maybe,
But I can’t do anything about it.” Lady,

If you decide that something must be done
I’m open to whatever you think is fun.


dual sonnet 1 10/05/2013

Filed under: sloppy sonnet,sonnet — paperslightertext @ 1:21 pm

Teenaged prophecies coming true
A celestial showdown to ensue,
Stars that eventually aligned,
To spell a name now maligned

In memories altered
At Science’s altar
Parallels emerging clear,
The intersect of hope and fear

Along a marker graph drawn on an arm
Your arm I’d come to love then harm
Luminosity divided by area
When sober you were wary of

Pseudoscience, false dichotomies, astrology,
Evolutionary psychology– preferring astronomy.


A Sonnet for Sol 10/04/2013

Filed under: sonnet — paperslightertext @ 12:46 pm

Sol said, “Set these words to song,”
As though a melody would stroll along
And park its walker in the café
Then hum 12 bars without delay.

Alas, my musical muse rarely visits me.
Melodies don’t compose themselves, see
So how could I write a sonnet or a song for a
Man who dislikes jazz and prefers the opera?

You ask if I’m familiar with the Bard,
His sonnets with some fondness I regard.
Prolific poet emboldened by your age,
Are we not merely players on life’s stage?

Our words have power we cannot comprehend:
When wielded wrongly, wound; when well, they mend.