Thursday, May 15, 2003
a Shakesperean sonnet When in disgrace with software engineers, I all alone beweep the redesign, Of interface and face the deadline fears, Foreknowing that the blame will be all mine. To move each menu item every day, To satisfy some ill thought change of spec, And shuffle all the tabs as if to play A game of cards, with just a partial deck. Each tiny tweak betokens a cascade, Of faults, like moths that relays have entrapped, Until production schedules are delayed, And with a crown of scorn my brow is capped. I wait to hear the knock upon the door, To tell me that they've changed the thing once more.
A RondelI sit here thinking in my room, Monitor glowing in the dark. The white expanse awaits the spark Of inspiration from the gloom.My poetry has lost its bloom, The images are far too stark, The shadows darken, then they loom, Monitor glowing in the dark.Electronically I see my doom, The static pun, the brain's dull spark. Again I see I've missed the mark, And trapped inside a poet's tomb I sit here thinking in my room, Monitor glowing in the dark.
A Sonnet in the Italian FormThe pasta's gone, I've eaten all the bread. The waitress comes to take the plates away, And bring espresso to me so I'll stay. Tonight I need to write, not go to bed. The bitter brew will work up to my head, And help me when I set my words to play, In scribbles on the napkins. Like a jay I stuff them in my pockets to be read.But when I find my shirt upon a hanger, The pockets full of paper, pulped and massed, The inked words gone, diluted and dispersed, Upon whom can I vent my anger, The laundress who upon the ocean cast, My poems? I cannot, yet still she's cursed.