A sign is planted bravely on your grass
Informing those of us who live as brutes
That tolerance abounds within your class
And that we don’t possess your virtuous fruits.
But whether you proclaim by sign or flag
Or misbegotten sticker on your car,
We note you fail to notice that you brag;
And make yourself a moral commissar.
Pride is prideful—all arrogance conceit.
Projecting your neurosis has grown old . . .
We laugh at you, not with you. Your deceit,
Ungrasped by you, is easy to behold.
The barren tree you planted in your pride
Informs the world you’ve failed to take God’s side.

PROMPT 26:

A traditional sonnet has a strict meter and rhyme scheme.
Try your hand at a sonnet – or at least something “sonnet-shaped.”

That silly sign in your yard with the pastel colors proclaiming who you are, what you are against, and why you are a loving tolerant inclusive progressive etc. etc. Yeah that sign. Guess what: it’s a cheap virtue signal ignored by over half of us who pass your lawn, and it has an opposite reinforcing effect on us. When we see that sign, it causes us to cultivate in ourselves all that you neurotically project on us. We just check all the category boxes and keep on driving. As if you had a monopoly on virtue… what a joke you are.

Is that you / Your eyes slowly fading?

After the stereo (flip that vinyl over)
After the bong hits (burbleburbleburble)
After the subway (next stop Bwahstan Gahden, Bwahstan Gahden)
After bolting down Burger King  (♪ Have it your way… ♫)
We entered the garden.

Is that you / Your mind full of tears?
Is that you / Searching for a good time?
Is that you / Waiting for all these years?

Santana looked so small way down there on stage from our upper balcony seats, especially Chepito, lit by lurid 70’s arena-lights. They seemed disproportionate to the ear-splitting amplification from towering walls of matte-black speakers, amidst  sparklers, firecrackers, with weed wafting over legions of high school  students. I can’t recall the songs, just the rhythm. When the smoke cleared, ears dazed and ringing, the harsh lights flooded several hundred young persons exiting the garden for the subway.

Is that you / Looking ‘cross the ocean
Is that you / Thinking nothing’s really there?

J. was still sitting in his seat. Come on. We gotta go.
But my friend J. looked lost, vacant.
Come on J, the trains stop running soon let’s go!   J. did not respond.
He leaned forward and vomited on the cement floor between his feet.

Is that you / Waiting for the sunshine?
Is that you / When all you see is glare?

PROMPT 25: write a poem that recounts an experience of your own
in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you.
It needs to be something meaningful to you.