C.B. Anderson, US

 

 

Shakespearean Sonnet   Let It Slide   Whenever friction lets its guard down, words slip off the glossy page to disappear beyond the margins, like migrating birds that flee from rumored winter through a clear bright sky. When complex sentences evade the grasp of simple minds, and meaning floats above a dark infarcted everglade, there is no cure; there are no antidotes where fulcrums haven’t been established yet and traction’s a convenience long ago abandoned. Blest are they who never let their lack of skills deter them from a show of earnest effort. Also, bless the fools who build a world without the proper tools.     Petrarchan Sonnet   To Wealth and Privilege   May your entitlements prove no mirage. May all your dreams come true in every way Imagined—not tomorrow, but today— And let there be no need to camouflage The trappings of success: Let proles massage Your ego with their envy, sans delay. Should you desire a serving of pâté, Let geese come flocking to their meet gavage. Reserve your lodging in a five-star Hilton You travel to inside your new Mercedes. Regale your guests with vintage Port and Stilton, And proposition all the comely ladies. Recite a passage cribbed from Pope or Milton…, Then board a chartered ferry bound for Hades.     Iambic Trimeter Quatrains   Rededication   The sullen days of winter Remain a galling splinter Within my thickened skin, So let the games begin! Though I’m inclined to focus Upon the blooming crocus, The loom of April fills My mind with daffodils. With every spring, an Easter, But will it bring me feast or Famine, as here I stand Examining the land? A blizzard of narcissus Is Christmas to my missus, And as she fares, so I, A mirror to her sky.     Heroic Couplets   According to Plan   A thief, caught napping in his private prison, Recalls a pauper from the grave arisen Who tried to beg for alms but could not find The proper words. A doctor, very kind But not the least bit smart, looks long and hard At patients so obese he thinks of lard, And wonders whether they would like it rendered Or simply cubed for stew, or maybe blendered Into purée. A former chief of staff, Without a pencil, signs his autograph On icy sidewalks with his fingernail. Some men are born to win, and some to fail Abjectly. Days fall into categories As well: the ones reserved for happy stories And others saved for tragedy. It’s good To know the layout of the neighborhood— The roads to joy, the alleys filled with sorrow— Though maps that chart Today are void tomorrow.     About C.B. Anderson, US   C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Since 2003, hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Australia and India. His e-chapbook, A Walk in the Dark, can be found on the website of The New Formalist Press. This is C.B. Anderson's first Sketchbook appearance.