Here’s a random assortment of sonnets I’ve been writing lately. Love, — Adam Powers
When Time Is Unlike a Sonnet
being Queer feels dangerous. I dread back to 14 (still dancing, winsome wincing smiles, still queer) when I found the fear. Being here, however, even in this liberal bubble popping shot through near familiar street corners turning memorials, haunts me, through the lineages of queer kin that existed we who exist, despite deferrals claiming that's enough. To be smudged our color explodes twisted — like great turning jellyfish swarms thrive catastrophic in the depth and diversity of deepsea oceans weird beauty. Neon frills and fins swim whirlpooling in volta formation found within found family herds I want to spin and grind, to catch all careening. A love so dangerous. With every queer being. On this dancefloor from the seafloor in a world/time on fire.
CLASSIFIED TEMPLATE
I'm a spy. Undercover. Living life like uncovering my ulterior motive to save some world or kill spirit strife comes hidden in active hope's gift yes, let me try. Yes. I confess, light filaments like eyelashes lightbulb like lightning bugs. Biomimicry bright brimming with waves like wood pulp. But plenty of parasitic fungi disguise taking lives justified for rooted coding while the dying soil dries and denies doing anything, denies even knowing how to get away with matter— I'm not hiding from you, I'm hiding time's rot.
Blech Sonnet
What's Up? It's a Blech day. Cloudy gray Oh Right remember to check the forecast remember to write before casting the gay spell to entrance amorous and amorphous more mixed than they're used to. To state the state (that's the [overarching] metaphor in the air) of things plainly, climate's chang- in the air not only phenomena but also future rearrangement of places within environment reidentification of the sacred forcing the questions, what's sacred in this? From sacred creatures, sacred aid sacred in community shared not as secrets but socialized even amid the Blech we keep it.
False Forecast Sonnet
The Forecast tomorrow groans, this isn't me I'm a chance of clouds, chance of rain, chance of sun. The Forecast looks partly paltry pitter patter of frontal energy advancing The breeze creeps get me out of here many miles per hour. Faster than sunrise The Forecast dawns and dusks in fear slinking in and along the horizon flying The Forecast isn't accurate, it's not based On the latest data, I'm trying to get a reading I'm trying something new old on my face weathered eyes roll, what's really misleading you know— the spell before cast by the world, delivering in your enchanted lines and words.
Love, Fluid, and Form Sonnet
I love how fluid- and form-filling poetry flowers Over and so far high above towering bright sun Casting shadows of reflection. Trauma powers Generators of grief and rage electricity from Recognizing when roots are intertwined by Being tied up, too busy, working, EXHAUSTED, Extracted. And I love we have every way To put on the page worlds better adjusted To caring for gardens greater than gray Skies and drought times. Era yeses ands But nods not capturing thoughts. She's arrayed Across far too much, and yet your hands? Offer up. Praise everything. Bright smile wide write it in poetry, Love. Pour in me your wild.
[There's a video game in my newspaper]
There's a video game in my newspaper The article is laser-firing particles at space Debris and I consider the waste fertilizer Like Death I'm dancing ellipses in place On Life, I'm trying to blast through, but I keep getting blasted. My blasted basket Case full of Self Care Products somewhat Do something. Act as metaphor, a jacket For the everyday— partly cloudy hearts Of palm slap in a mixed salad of horizon Parts of this, this world, won't shoot sparks Don't make sense. But I look to enliven To sing a plan, in plight, reflect us in ritual, The world's weird and the feelings mutual.
Preoccupied Pastoral Sonnet
I bounced a memory I was carving in a cloud Wisp traced around curls of my curls. Cirrus Smiles waiting with the delayed bus crowd Shuffle towards another life. A moss mound Growing over the sidewalk spot right across The old post office (now a bank) stretches In spirit. There was a ghost and change lost In a pocket stomach full of monarchs. A mess The cost of which never greater than busfare. Fair. Though unlike butterflies. Price is rising. Yet it doesn't include the cocoon atmosphere Of heated fossil fueled ghost clouds supplied By the extraction twisted within pure thrust Against. At least together— we rode the bus.
— Adam Powers