#Shakespeare400

It's Shakespeare's 400th deathday! Here is a small collection of sonnets.

I wrote the first one today.
The second is from when our cat Daisy died.
The third is one I wrote in college for a poetry class.


Words, Words, Words
In days of youth when dreams were fledgling still
and fortune smiled not on my face or hair,
when those that dared to gaze would scowl until
their judgement they pronounced: more plain than fair.
Within that selfsame time when I did doubt
that all my qualities would ever sum
to any meat amount, I learned about
how Shakespeare wrangled language, made it hum
with sparks and passion ere I had not known.
This man was not renowned for strength he showed
or comely brow. No! From his pen had grown
his peers' respect amid the words he sowed.
From his example, I - dear reader - claim:
if one can write, all else is but a game.

Bicycle Built for Two
You were my present back before it all
became about string cheese and potty time,
a furry mewing skittish scuttling ball.
We welcomed you, feline partner in crime.

And with the passage of the months, the years
steadfast and so aloof you did remain
in that November week when Princess fears
ripped through the house, a cliche brake-less train.
You cared not for human propriety
and chose to poop and pee where you did want,
raising a civil notoriety
each rebel yell a kind of loving taunt.
Each flower in the field can claim the prize,
but other than our Daisy, all are lies.

When half asleep 

When half asleep in sheep pajamas, late

at night or just before sunrise, you turn

and toss my hand from off your breast, create

inside my head some inkling of concern.

As I begin to ask myself what dreams

are cooking in your subconscious stewpot,

my own bubbles over with panicked screams

of woe, anguish, and others I’ve forgot.

But then you push your body back against

mine, like two twins together again at

last.  From your mouth a whisper of nonsense

about Jell-O kittens and that is that.

I realize, as I drift off to slumber

that two and one can be the same number.

It's Hard to Say No When Jesus Wants to Hang Out

"Do not be afraid," Jesus says as he plops himself
down on the couch, an exhausted sigh floating up
toward heaven but catching itself on the stucco ceiling,
"for I bring you multiple bags of Bugles."
He tosses them, one two three four -
probably two bags more than necessary
but who am I to tell Jesus how many
bags of Bugles are too many -
onto the coffee table.
He reaches for the remote, pushes a few buttons
ineffectively, realizes his mistake and picks up
the PS4 controller, muttering his annoyance.
"I'm going to put on an episode of Jessica Jones,
OK?" he asks then starts the episode
without waiting for my response.
It's fine, of course.

"It's Easter tomorrow," I say
making small talk
making any talk I can
but Jesus just grunts, rolls his eyes
like he's heard it all before.
"I don't believe in you," I say
and I regret it or maybe I don't but it's too late.
I want to leap forward and catch my words but they're gone.
"I don't need you here," I say
"I don't want you here," I say
and things are getting real
because Jesus pauses Jessica Jones
and I shout - when did I start shouting -
"why did you buy so many bags of Bugles?"

He touches my shoulder and I'm suddenly
aware of how much sadness he contains,
how his ocean so completely engulfs my thimble
and I want to apologize but I can't
because Jesus is talking.
"Sometimes shitty things happen
and the only thing I can do
is show that I know you like Bugles.
You don't need to understand.
You don't want to understand.
That's why I'm here."

And Jesus is crying now
so ugly and so beautiful
and I kind of want to lick his face
because what do his tears taste like?
But that's creepy, that's super weird
so I smile and nod and unpause Jessica Jones
and open a bag of Bugles.

Soliloquy

The necessary training of our lives comes not from the teachers

of our youth nor the extended speech of our fathers,

noble in their causes yet ultimately forgotten.

No! It comes oft too late or too slowly

from the simple passage of time, that fickle friend.

And so I find myself these few days as a man torn

between heaven and hell, limbs attached to a collection

of carriages, growing unintentionally taller each hour.

I cannot deny that I am filled with a great melancholy

that finds root in the inevitable losses humans bear,

but never comprehend 'til faced with a mirror'd countenance

so unlike our own that sadness's nature is revealed.

And yet, am I not blessed with the love of angels

in form not unlike my own?

Do I not yet have my own health and fortune

and the promise of the sun yet returning?

For a man may wish his time astride this earth be easy,

banishing every frowning rain cloud that dares appear.

Is not such a life fraught with the peril of the first snowfall?

Would not one stray flake undo such a man?

'Tis better then to face our troubles and answer

blow for blow when the winds of strife do come our way.

Undone (Part 3)

The squad car pulled into the station and the pair walked into the station.  It had been a little over a  month since Sebastian had been at the station, although life had continued there - as it had everywhere else - seemingly oblivious to his absence.

As Sebastian headed toward the front doors of the station, his babysitter quickly corrected him.  "Incorrect building, Detective Ford.  We'll be meeting in the auxiliary office building."  He directed Sebastian to the smaller structure with a quick point.

Sebastian turned to head toward the auxiliary offices and wondered who he was meeting with.  He had originally thought he'd be talking to the Captain, but Slater's offices were in the main building and there was little reason for him to ever leave it.  The auxiliary offices were used for R&D, bureaucratic overflow, and...interrogations.

"Wait," interjected Sebastian as he grabbed his companion's arm. "What kind of meeting is this, exactly?"

"I'm uncertain what you mean, sir. It is a meeting in that you will be sitting down with a active member of the force and talking about the new assignment you've been given. It is the very definition of a meeting, but I cannot give you further details on the content of your assignment, if that is what you are looking to obtain."

"No, of course not," responded Sebastian. "Let's just go in and find out what this is all about."

The auxiliary offices were used for auxiliary purposes for a reason.  As they stepped into the conference room of the building, Sebastian was reminded of how roomy and brightly lit the rooms in the other building were.  No wonder they conducted interrogations here.  One could get depressed being left alone in this room for too long, let alone working here day after day.

A few minutes passed and Sebastian noticed that the messenger was still sitting beside him with a blank expression.  Sebastian turned to him with a friendly smile.  "You don't have to keep me company, you know.  I'm sure you have other business you need to get to.  I'm not going to run away."

"No, there is no reason for you to run, Detective Ford.  But my instructions were to be present at the meeting with you should you choose to accept the assignment."  The man returned Sebastian's smile, ever so briefly.  "For the time being, it appears, " he continued, "you are my business."

Sebastian's brow crinkled.  He was about to figure out exactly what that might mean when a thin pale man walked into the room.

"Ah!  Detective Ford!  So glad to see you."  The man took his place across the table, extending his hand.  Sebastian shook it slowly, attempting to find that place in his brain where he had stored this man's identity.  His face looked familiar and Sebastian was certain he had seen him around the station before.

"I'm Andrew Sullivan, the chief scientific officer here.  I'm sure we've seen each other around the station before but I didn't really know your name either before the suspension.  No offense."  Sullivan blurted out the last sentence as he realized how callous he had sounded.

Sebastion shook his head dismissively.  He was sure everyone at the station knew about his outburst and suspension.  It was hardly news that it had even reached the ears of the lab geeks.

Sullivan continued.  "I'm glad you decided to come in.  We have an exciting assignment for both you and our Messenger Unit here."

Sebastian held up his hand.  "Wait...Messenger Unit?"

Sullivan gestured toward the man sitting beside Sebastian.  "The man we sent to pick you up.  He's a robot - one of the newest prototypes based on human appearance, behavior, and social patterns."  The scientist smiled broadly.  "Didn't you notice?"

Sonnet for Simon

With Cheerios stuffed in your tiny mouth
and shrieks that call your pterodactyl friends,
your manner would on grown-ups be uncouth
but that your face and smile make all amends.

Can I believe that from my form came thee?
A babe who knows nothing but smiles and screams
now sits upon his throne and looks at me
for all his needs, his hopes, his wildest dreams.

Now when I hold you up, I hold myself
in smaller size and younger look, it's true,
yet somewhere deep we share that sense of self
that bonds such that no power can undo.

In time your perfection may fade a tad
but 'til that time - and long beyond - love, dad.

Undone (Part 2)

As the car pulled onto I-208, Sebastian sighed.  The traffic was immense, as it was nearing the afternoon rush hour and everyone seemed to have decided to leave work a bit early today.  The car crawled along the rightmost lane in silence.

Sebastian didn't feel like engaging in a conversation and the messenger simply sat there, watching the road.  After what had been nearly a half hour, Sebastian swung the wheel of the car sharply to the right and roared it onto the shoulder.  He hit the siren, floated past a few dozen cars, and took the next exit.

Suddenly, his passenger spoke up.  "Sir, this isn't the exit for the main office."

Roar

I didn't grow up with a true tiger mother.  I was allowed to visit friend's houses and participate in theatre.  I was allowed to choose which instrument to play and how much I wanted to practice.  If you follow the news, or listen to NPR, or even read Entertainment Weekly, you've heard of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by now.  Perhaps you've even read the Wall Street Journal excerpt that got such a polarizing response.  To recap: it's a memoir about being a parent and about driving your kids to perfection through strict control and demanding routine.

Reading the excerpt made me think about my childhood and about my role as a father to Simon.  Like I said, I wasn't a child of super-strict parenting, though I believe that my parents, having had a Chinese upbringing themselves, were stricter than those of most of my schoolmates and friends.