THE BRICK sonnet
The Wee Elf wants this mundane, "LIke a Brick".
My heart sinks, should I give my muse a rest?
Can mundane still be novel? That's some trick.
It's not just words in poems that may get stressed.
Although I'm slow, I'll try to write them down-
Those lines that flow unbidden from my gob,
I'll try to get them bouncing, metric, sound
If really good give up my daytime job.
Here in my hand I hold two common bricks,
Their purpose, to be part of someone's home.

Lacking their integrity and,
credibility-less,

what can start as a summer rain
can leave one's heart, a mess.

It's taking quite a toll on me
and left my heart in disrepair,

it's really such an evil curse
this damned ability to care.

My own knowledge of some truths, of late
have hurt me to my "core",

it's so difficult to comprehend
folks I care for being so morally poor.

I received an accommodation
a "badge" of merit, if you will;

It's time I rake the leaves outside
so now I'll go and get the rake
at the insistence of my bride
and for propriety's sole sake

I'll rake leaves into small piles about
under the swing and old grape vine arbor
working beneath warm autumn sunshine
a yearly necessary labor

Soon wiping sweat from wrinkled brow
muscles loosened from the work
I survey a job well done
and get a drink of tea

dream trickles down
like the damp wood
of the raceway

above the dark embrace
of the day we can hear
the birds

the soft mute rot of leaves
the silver backbone of
the glacial scar stone

and light falls down on
her face and eyes
the shadows easing
like camaflouge

beautiful and intense